THE DEACON HURRIEDLY LEAVES FOR CHATTANOOGA.
THAT evening Lieut. Bowersox sent a telegram to Deacon Klegg. It had to
be strictly limited to 10 words, and read:
JOSIAH KLEGG, ESQ.,
Somepunkins Station, Ind.:
Josiah not killed. Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded.
E. C. BOWERSOX.
It did not arrive at Sumpunkins Station, three miles from the Deacon's
home, until the next forenoon. The youth who discharged the
multifarious duties of Postmaster, passenger, freight and express-agent,
baggage-master, and telegraph operator at Sumpunkins Station laboriously
spelled out the dots and dashes on the paper strip in the instrument.
He had barely enough mastery of the Morse alphabet to communicate
the routine messages relating to the railroad's business aided by the
intelligence of the conductors and engineers as to what was expected of
them. This was the first outside message that he had ever received,
and for a while it threatened to be too much for him, especially as the
absence of punctuation made it still more enigmatical. He faithfully
transcribed each letter as he made it out and then the agglomeration
read:
"Josiamn otkildho spitalat chatano ogabadl ywounded ecbower sox."
"Confound them smart operators at Louisville and Jefferson ville," he
grumbled, scanning the scrawl. "They never make letters plain, and don't
put in half of 'em, just to worrit country operators. I'd like to take
a club to 'em. There's no sort o' sense in sich sending. A Philadelphia
lawyer couldn't make nothing out of it. But I've got to or get a
cussing, and mebbe the bounce. I'll try it over again, and see if I can
separate it into words. Why in thunder can't they learn to put a space
be tween the words, and not jumble the letters all to gether in that
fool fashion?"
The next time he wrote it out:
"J. O. S. I am not kild Hospital at Chattanooga badly wounded E. C.
Bower sox."
"That begins to look like something," said he, wiping the sweat from his
forehead. "But who is J. O. S.? Nobody o' them initials in this neighbor
hood. Nor E. C. Bower. Deacon Klegg can't know any of 'em. Then, how's
the hospital badly wounded Bower? What's that about his socks? I'll have
to try it over again as soon as No. 7, freight, gets by."
After No. 7 had gotten away, he tackled the message again:
"No, that sixth letter's not an m, but an h. H is four dots, and m is
two dashes. It's specks in the paper that makes it look like an h. I'll
put in some letters where they're needed. Now let's see how it'll read:"
228 SI KLEGG.
"Josiah Nott killed Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded E. C. Bower
sox."
"That seems to have more sense in it, but I don't know any Josiah Nott
in this country. Does it mean that he killed a man named Hospital at
Chattanooga, and badly wounded E. C. Bower in the socks? That don't seem
sense. I'll try it again."
The next time he succeeded in making it read:
"Josiah Nott killed. Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded E. C.
Bower's ox."
"There, that's best I can do," he said, surveying the screed. "It'll
have to go that way, and let the Deacon study it out. He's got more time
'n I have, and mebbe knows all about it. I can't spend no more time on
it. No. 3, passenger, from the West 's due in 20 minutes, and I've got
to get ready for it. Good luck; there comes the Deacon's darky now, with
a load of wheat. I'll send it out by him."
The operator wrote out his last version of the message on a
telegraph-blank, inclosed it in a West ern Union envelope, which he
addressed to Deacon Klegg, and gave to Abraham Lincoln, with strong
injunctions to make all haste back home with it.
Impressed with these, Abraham, as soon as he delivered his grain to the
elevator, put his team to a trot, and maintained it until he reached
home.
Everything about the usually cheerful farm-house was shrouded in
palpable gloom. The papers of the day before, with their ghastly lists
of the dead and wounded, had contained Si's and Shorty's names, besides
those of other boys of the neighborhood, in terrific, unmistakable
plainness. There were few homes into which mourning had not come. The
window curtains were drawn down, the front doors closed, no one appeared
on the front porch, and it seemed that even the dogs and the fowls were
op pressed with the general sadness, and forebore their usual cheerful
utterances. Attired in sober black, with eyes red from weeping, and with
camphor bottle near, Mr. Klegg sat in Si's room, and between her fits of
uncontrollable weeping turned over, one after another, the reminders
of her son. There were his bed, his clothes, which she had herself
fashioned in loving toil for him; the well-thumbed school-books which
had cost him so many anxious hours, his gun and fishing rod. All these
were now sacred to her. Elsewhere in the house his teary-eyed sisters
went softly and silently about their daily work.
The father had sought distraction in active work, and was in the
cornfield, long corn-knife in hand, shocking up the tall stalks with a
desperate energy to bring forgetfulness.
Abraham Lincoln burst into the kitchen, and taking the dispatch from his
hat said:
"Hyah am a papeh or sumfin dat de agent down at de station done tole me
to bring hyah jest as quick as I done could. He said hit done come ober
a wire or a telugraph, or sumfin ob dat ere sort, and you must hab hit
right-a-way."
"O, my; it's a telegraph dispatch," screamed Maria with that sickening
apprehension that all women have of telegrams. "It's awful. I can't tech
it. Take it Sophy."
"How can I," groaned poor Sophia, with a fresh outburst of tears. "But I
suppose I must."
The mother heard the scream and the words, and hurried into the room.
"It's a telegraph dispatch, mother," said both the girls as they saw
her.
"Merciful Father," ejaculated Mrs. Klegg, sinking into a chair in so
nearly a faint that Maria ran into the next room for the camphor-bottle,
while Sophy rushed outside and blew the horn for the Deacon. Presently
he entered, his sleeves rolled to the elbow over his brawny arms, and
his shirt and pantaloons covered with the spanish-needles and burrs
which would grow, even in so well-tilled fields as Deacon Klegg's.
"What's the matter, mother? What's the matter, girls?" he asked
anxiously.
Mrs. Klegg could only look at him in speechless misery.
"We've got a telegraph dispatch," finally answered Maria, bursting in a
torrent of tears, into which Sophia joined sympathetically, "and we know
it's about poor Si."
"Yes, it must be about poor Si; nobody else but him," added Sophia with
a wail.
The father's face grew more sorrowful than be fore. "What does it say?"
he nerved himself to ask, after a moment's pause.
"We don't know," sobbed Maria. "We haint opened it. We're afraid to.
Here it is."
The father took it with trembling hand. "Well," he said after a little
hesitation, "it can't tell nothin' no worse than we've already heard.
Let's open it. Bring me my specs."
Maria ran for the spectacles, while her father, making a strong effort
to calm himself, slit open the envelope with a jack-knife, adjusted his
glasses, and read the inclosure over very slowly.
"Josiah Nott killed Hospital at Chattanooga badly wounded E. C. Bower's
ox. What on airth does that mean? I can't for the life o' me make it
out."
"Read it over again, pap," said Maria, suddenly drying her eyes.
The father did so.
"Le' me read it, pap," said Maria, snatching the telegram from his hand.
"Josiah," said she, read ing. "That's Si's right name."
"Certainly it is," said her mother, reviving.
"Certainly; I didn't think o' that before," echoed the father.
"Josiah not killed," continued she. "Good heavens, that's what that
means. They rebels has got hold o' the wires, and shook 'em and tangled
up the rest, but the beginnin's all straight."
"I believe that Sam Elkins down at the station 's mixed it up," said
Sophia, with hope springing in her breast. "He never can get things
straight. He was in the class with me when I went to school, and too
dumb to come in when it rained. He was the worst writer, speller and
reader in the school. Think o' him being a telegraph operator. Why, he
couldn't spell well enough to make tally-marks on a door when you're
measurin' corn. Railroad was mighty hard up for help when it hired him.
Let me read that dispatch. 'Josiah not killed.' That means Si Klegg,
as sure's you're born. It can't mean nothin' else, or it wouldn't be
addressed to you, pap. 'Hospital at Chattanooga.' Chattanooga's near
where the battle was fought. 'Badly wounded.' That means Si's bin shot.
'E. C. Bower's ox.' What in the world can that be?"
"Bowersox?" said her father, catching the sound. "Why, that's the name
o' the Lootenant Si and Shorty was under when they came home. Don't you
remember they told us about him? I remember the name, for a man named
Bowersox used to run a mill down on Bean-Blossom Crick, years ago, and
I wondered if he was his son. He's sent me that dispatch, and signed
his name. The Lord be praised for His never-endin' mercies. Si's alive,
after all. Le' me read that over again."
He took the dispatch with shaking hands, but there was too much mist on
his glasses-, and he had to hand it back to Maria to read over again to
convince himself.
"I'll tell you what let's do: Let's all get in the wagon and ride over
to the station, and get Sam Elkins to read the dispatch over again,"
suggested Sophia. "I'll jest bet he's mummixed it up."
"Don't blame him, Sophy," urged Maria. "I think the rebels has got at
the poles or wires and shook 'em, and mixed the letters up. It's just
like 'em."
Sophy's suggestion was carried out. Abraham Lincoln was directed to get
out the spring wagon, and the Deacon helped hitch up, while the "women
folks" got ready.
While they were at the station getting Sam Elkins to re-examine the dots
and dashes on his strip of paper, the Eastern express arrived, bringing
the morning papers. The Deacon bought one, and the girls nervously
turned to the war news. They gave a scream of exultation when they read
the revised returns of the killed and wounded, and found under head of
"Wounded, in Hospital at Chattanooga":
"Corporal Josiah Klegg, Q, 200th Ind.
"Private Daniel Elliott, Q, 200th Ind."
"Mother and girls, I'm goin' to Chattanoogy on the next train," said the
Deacon.
It was only a few hours until the train from the East would be along,
and grief was measurably forgotten in the joy that Si was still alive
and in the bustle of the Deacon's preparation for the journey.
"No," he said, in response to the innumerable suggestions made by the
mother and daughters. "You kin jest set all them things back. I've bin
down there once, and learned something. I'm goin' to take nothin with me
but my Bible, a couple o' clean shirts, and my razor. A wise man learns
by experience."
Mother and girls were inconsolable, for each had something that they
were sure "Si would like," and would "do him good," but they knew Josiah
Klegg, Sr., well enough to understand what was the condition when he had
once made up his mind.
"If Si and Shorty's able to be moved," he consoled them with, "I'm going
to bring them straight back home with me, and then you kin nuss and
coddle them all you want to."
The news of his prospective journey had flashed through the
neighborhood, so that he met at the station the relatives of most of the
men in Co. Q, each with a burden of messages and comforts for those who
were living, or of tearful inquiries as to those reported dead.
He took charge of the letters and money, refused the other things, and
gave to the kin of the wounded and dead sympathetic assurances of doing
every thing possible.
He had no particular trouble or advanture until he reached Nashville.
There he found that he could go no farther without procuring a pass
from the Provost-Marshal. At the Provosts's office he found a highly
miscellaneous crowd besieging that official for the necessary permission
to travel on the military railroad. There were more or less honest and
loyal speculators in cotton who were ready to take any chances in
the vicissitudes of the military situation to get a few bales of the
precious staple. There were others who were downright smugglers, and
willing to give the rebels anything, from quinine to gun-caps, for
cotton. There were sutlers, pedlers, and gamblers. And there were more
or less loyal citizens of the country south who wanted to get back to
their homes, some to be honest, law-abiding citizens, more to get in
communication with the rebels and aid and abet the rebellion.
Deacon Klegg's heart sank as he surveyed the pushing, eager crowd which
had gotten there before him, and most of whom were being treated very
cavalierly by the Provost-Marshal.
"No," he heard that official say to a man who appeared a plain farmer
like himself; "you not only can have no pass, but you can't stay in
Nashville an other day. I remember you. I've heard you tell that story
of a sick son in the hospital before. I remember all the details. You
haven't changed one. You're a smuggler, and I believe a spy. You've got
mule-loads of quinine somewhere in hiding, and may be gun-caps and other
munitions of war. If you know what's good for you, you'll take the next
train north, and never stop until you are on the other side of the Ohio
River. If you are in town to-morrow morning, I'll put you to work on the
fortifications, and keep you there till the end of the war. Get out of
my office at once."
Others were turned away with similar brusqueness, until the Deacon was
in despair; but the though of Si on a bed of pain nerved him, and he
kept his place in the line that was pushing toward the Provost's desk.
Suddenly the Provost looked over those in front of him, and fixing his
eye on the Deacon, called out:
"Well, my friend, come up here. What can I do for you?"
The Deacon was astonished, but in obedience to a gesture from the
Provost, left the line, and came up.
"What's your name? Where are you from? What are you doing down here?
What do you want?" inquired the Provost, scanning him critically.
The Deacon's eyes met his boldly, and he answered the questions
categorically.
"Well, Mr. Klegg, you shall have a pass at once, and I sincerely hope
that you will find your son recovering. You probably do not remember
me, but I have seen you before, when I was on the circuit in Indiana.
My clerk there is writing out a pass for you. You will have to take
the oath of allegiance, and sign the paper, which I suppose you have no
objection to doing."
"None in the world," answered the Deacon, surprised at the unexpected
turn of events. "I'll be only too glad. I was gittin' very scared about
my pass."
"O, I have hard work here," said the Provost smiling, "in separating the
sheep from the goats, but I'm now getting to know the goats tolerably
well. There's you're pass, Deacon. A pleasant journey, and a happy
termination to it."
The Deacon took out his long calf-skin wallet from his breast, put the
precious pass in it, carefully strapped it up again and replaced it, and
walked out of the office toward the depot.
He had gone but a few steps from the building when he saw the man who
had been ordered out of the city by the Provost, and who seemed to be
on the lookout for the Deacon. He came up, greeted the Deacon effusively
and shook hands.
"You're from Posey County, Ind., I believe? I used to live there myself.
Know Judge Drake?"
"Very well," answered the Deacon a little stiffly, for he was on his
guard against cordial strangers.
"You do;" said the stranger warmly. "Splendid man. Great lawyer. Fine
judge. I had a great deal to do with him at one time."
"Probably he had a great deal to do with you," thought the Deacon. "He
was a terror to evil-doers."
"Say, my friend," said the stranger abruptly, "you got a pass. I
couldn't. That old rascal of a Provost-Marshal's down on me because
I wouldn't let him into a speculation with me. He's on the make every
time, and wants to hog everything. Say, you're a sly one. You worked him
fine on that wounded son racket. I think I'd like to tie to you. I'll
make it worth your while to turn over that pass to me. It'll fit me just
as well as it does you. I'll give you $50 to let me use that pass just
two days, and then I'll return it to you."
"Why, you're crazy," gasped the Deacon.
"O, come off, now," said the other impatiently. "Business is business.
I haint no time to waste. It's more'n it's worth to me, but I'll make it
$100, and agree to be back on this spot to-morrow night with your pass.
You can't make $100 as easy any other way."
"I tell you, you're crazy," said the Deacon with rising indignation.
"You can't have that pass for no amount o' money. I'm goin' to see my
wounded son."
"That's a good enough gag for the Provost, but I understand you, in
spite of your hayseed airs. Say, I'll make it $250."
"I tell you, you old fool," said the Deacon angrily, "I won't sell
that pass for a mint o' money. Even if I wasn't goin' to see my son
I wouldn't let you have it under any circumstances, to use in your
traitorous business. Let go o' my coat, if you know what's good for
you."
"Now, look here," said the stranger; "I've made you a mighty fair
proposition more'n the pass's worth to you. If you don't accept it
you'll wish you had. I'm onto you. I'll go right back to the Provost and
let out on you. I know enough to settle your hash mighty sudden. Do you
hear me?"
It was very near train time, and the Deacon was desperately anxious to
not miss the train. He had already wasted more words on this man than
he usually did on those he didn't like, and he simply ended the colloquy
with a shove that sent the impertinent stranger into the gutter as if a
mule had kicked him there, hurried on to the depot, and managed to get
on just as the train was moving out.
It was night, and he dozed in his seat until the train reached
Bridgeport, Ala., when everybody was turned out of the train, and a
general inspection of the passengers made.
"Very sorry for you, sir," said the Lieutenant; "but we can't let you
go on. Your pass is all right up to this point, but the Commandant at
Nashville has no authority here. Orders are very strict against any
more civilians coming to Chattanooga under any pretext. Rations are very
short, and there is danger of their being much shorter, with the rebel
cavalry slashing around everywhere at our cracker-line. We only saved
two bridges to-night by the greatest luck. You'll have to go back to
Nashville by the next train."
"O, Mister Lootenant," pleaded the Deacon, with drops of sweat on his
brow. "Please let me go on. My only son lays there in Chattanooga,
a-dyin' for all I know. He's bin a good soldier. Ask anybody that knows
the 200th Injianny, and they'll tell you that there ain't no better
soldier in the regiment than Corporal Si Klegg. You've a father
yourself. Think how he'd feel if you was layin' in a hospital at the
pint o' death, and him not able to git to you. You'll let me go on, I
know you will. It aint in you to re fuse."
"I feel awful sorry for you sir," said the Lieutenant, much moved. "And
if I had it in my power you should go. But I have got my orders, and I
must obey them. I musn't allow anybody not actually be longing to the
army to pass on across the river on the train."
"I'll walk every step o' the way, if you'll let me go on," said the
Deacon.
"I tell you what you might do," said the Lieutenant suggestively. "It
isn't a great ways over the mountains to Chattanooga. There's a herd
of cattle starting over there. The Lieutenant in charge is a friend
of mine. I'll speak to him to let you go along as a helper. It'll be
something of a walk for you, but it's the best I can do. You'll get in
there some time to-morrow."
"P'int out your friend to me, and let me go as quick as I kin."
"All right," said the Lieutenant in charge of the herd, when the
circumstances were explained to him. "Free passes over my road to
Chattanooga are barred. Everybody has to work his way. But I'll see that
you get there, if Joe Wheeler's cavalry don't interfere. We are going
over in the dark to avoid them. You can put your carpet-bag in that
wagon there. Report to the Herd-Boss there."
"You look like a man of sense," said the Herd-Boss, looking him over,
and handing him a hickory gad. "And I believe you're all right. I'm
goin' to put you at the head, just behind the guide. Keep your eye
peeled for rebel cavalry and bushwhackers, and stop and whistle for me
if you see anything suspicious."
It was slow, toilsome work urging the lumbering cattle along over the
steep, tortuous mountain paths. Naturally, the nimblest, friskiest
steers got in the front, and they were a sore trial to the Deacon, to
restrain them to the line of march, and keep them from straying off and
getting lost. Of course, a Deacon in the Baptist Church could not swear
under any provocation, but the way he remarked on the conduct of some of
the "critters" as "dumbed," "confounded," and "tormented," had almost as
vicious a ring as the profuse profanity of his fellow-herders.
Late in the afternoon the tired-out herd was halted in a creek bottom
near Chattanooga. The patient animals lay down, and the weary, footsore
Deacon, his clothes covered with burs, his hands and face seamed with
bloody scratches, leaned on his frayed gad and looked around over
the wilderness of tents, cabins, trains and interminable lines of
breastworks and forts.
"Mr. Klegg," said the Herd-Boss, coming toward him, "you've done your
duty, and you've done it well. I don't know how I could've ever got this
lot through but for your help. Here's your carpet-sack, and here's a
haversack o' rations I've put up for you. Take mighty good care of it,
for you'll need every cracker. That lot o' tents you see over there,
with a yaller flag flyin' over 'em, is a general hospital. Mebbe you'll
find your son in there."
The Deacon walked straight to the nearest tent, lifted the flap and
inquired:
"Does anybody here know where there is a boy named Si Klegg, of Co. Q,
200th Injianny Volunteers?"
[Illustration: "PAP, IS THAT YOU?" SAID A WEAK VOICE. 238]
"Pap, is that you?" said a weak voice in the far corner.
"Great, jumpin' Jehosephat, the Deacon!" ejaculated a tall skeleton of a
man, who was holding a cup of coffee to Si's lips.
"Great Goodness, Shorty," said the Deacon, "is that you?"
"What's left o' me," answered Shorty.