_A Live Hero—The Retrograde Army Movement._
THE villain Walker was returned to his lonely cell. Lieutenant Wells was
released from all restraint. The soldiers dispersed to talk about the
strange turn events had taken, but the center of attraction was
Nettleton. He was seated in front of the Hinton tent. Close beside him
was Miss Hayward, kneeling, and gazing mournfully into his face, while
Alibamo, Wells, the General, Nettie Morton, Sally Long, the officers who
had composed the court-martial, the especial friends of the parties, and
as many of the soldiers as could get within hearing distance, were
earnestly listening to the narrative of the “body-guard.”
Nettleton went on to relate his meeting the rebel scouts, and the fact
of their having informed him that Hayward had only been wounded and
conveyed toward Wilson’s Creek, by a party attached to the command of
Lieutenant-Colonel Price.
[The reader will mark the distinction between Lieutenant-Colonel Price,
who was a ruffian guerrilla, and had broken his parole three times—an
act repudiated by all honest soldiers of either army—and General
Sterling Price, who, although a rebel, always had acted in a gentlemanly
and humane manner to all prisoners of war.]
After listening to the story of William, the General drew from his
pocket the note which had been found at the Ozark bridge, signed
“Charles Campbell.” This note must have been written but a few moments
before the fight took place. The date would be just two days after
Hayward had received the assassin’s stroke, giving about the proper time
for the wounded man to be carried from Grand Prairie to Ozark, at which
latter place Lieutenant-Colonel Price had formed a temporary camp. The
writer spoke of a wounded man in a boat, and against whom Price had an
especial spite. This confirmed the conviction that Hayward had been
taken thither for the especial gratification of Price’s fiendish
propensities. The note also said that he bore the marks of a captain’s
rank, and, in his delirium, spoke of “Net—” which might have referred to
the young lady, Nettie Morton, whom he possibly might have seen in the
distance, upon the bank, as the boat neared the spot where she was
standing, or, as seemed more probable, that the wounded captain was
calling upon Nettleton. At all events, it was decided that the person of
whom Charles Campbell had written, was no other than Captain Hayward. It
is true, he was still almost insensible from his wounds, and was near
the camp of his most unforgiving enemy, but, there was a friend at
hand—an enemy in arms—but a friend to the wounded and helpless soldier,
as are all true men—and he had written that “he _would_ save him!”
“Why should we not hope?” asked Alibamo, as she clasped her friend Mamie
in her arms.
“And why should we not _act_?” cried Wells, as he clutched the hilt of
his sword.
“Yes, we _will_ act,” yelled Nettleton, as he sprung up, and appeared
ready for instant departure.
“Go, William; follow the stream from Ozark, until you find some trace,
and then return to us,” said Miss Hayward, eagerly.
Nettleton turned his gaze upon Miss Sally, for a moment, and then, as if
ashamed of his hesitation, or of his weakness, in exhibiting _any_
symptoms of love, he started with a bound, exclaiming:
“I’m off. Good-by, all!”
He had proceeded, however, but a few steps when he halted, and,
scratching his head, his countenance assumed a most woful expression,
and his eyes rolled wildly about.
“What is the matter, William?” asked Wells.
“_Got to go t’other way!_” was the melancholy reply.
“Why so?”
“O, just a bit of—fun—that’s all!”
“Well, tell us what it is, Nettleton?”
“I can’t! It will break _her_ heart!” he replied, pointing to Sally.
“So it would, William, if any thing dreadful should happen to you!”
replied Miss Long, as she dropped her eyes to the ground.
“There, didn’t I tell you so?” replied the faithful servant, his mouth
gaping and his eyes expanding.
“William,” asked Wells, “do you really _love_ Miss Long?”
“Love her, lieutenant? That ain’t no name for it. Why, can’t you see
yourself that she’s the sweetest darn sk— no, I mean the nicest critter
in the world—exceptin’ Miss Mamie!”
“And does she love you, William?” asked Alibamo, smiling in spite of
herself at the tableau enacting before her.
“_Of course I do!_” replied Sally, proudly and triumphantly, as if a
victory had been won.
“There—there! Do you hear that? Now, don’t you pity me? I believe I am
the most ugly cuss in the world. I never thought anybody would ever love
_me_, and now I find out the gal as I wants most is just the one as does
love me! Oh Lordy, I’m sick, I do believe!”
“All right!” Wells responded, with a smile.
“All right! Not by a blasted sight, sir! Did _you_ think it all right
when you loved Miss Mamie, and thought you had to swing?”
“What! You talk in riddles. Explain.”
“_I’ve got to be hung!_” he roared, but, whether with pain or delight,
none could tell.
“Why, _you_ didn’t have any thing to do with hurting the captain?” cried
Sally, as she advanced toward her beloved.
Nettleton gazed at her an instant with a most singular expression, and
then replied:
“Miss Long, never let suspicion cross that delicate bo— mind of yours,
but like the true turtle-dove, put your trust in the uprighteousness of
your future lord and master, what is to be hanged all on account of the
first time you wrapped them delicate arms of yourn around my long neck.”
“William, what do you mean by being hanged?” asked the General.
Nettleton then went on to relate the agreement he had made with Price,
to return, and undergo the punishment which was about to be inflicted
upon him when that General interfered. He declared his intention of
returning at once, as his “furlough” had run out, and as a “man of
honor” he must return.
“And do you really intend to return?” asked the General.
“_Of course I do!_” replied William, with something of scorn and much of
pride in his tones.
“William, think for a moment. You are now safe. You are with one who
loves you, and with whom you can be happy. Why will you return?”
“General, don’t argue this point with me. I said I would come back, and
darn me if I don’t!” Nettleton started, after having shook the hand of
his friends.
“Stay a moment, Nettleton,” said the General. “I have a letter from
General Price with regard to you.”
Nettleton paused and listened, as the commander, opening the envelope,
read:
“Camp near Cassville, Nov. 12th, 1861.
“_To General ——, greeting_:
“A prisoner of war was released from our camp, and permitted to return
to Springfield, on the 9th. It was at first thought that he was a spy,
as he had been seen in and near our camp before, and he was about to
suffer death upon the scaffold, when I saw and questioned him. I became
convinced that he was no spy, but a faithful servant and friend,
searching for his captain, whom he loved. I ordered his release. I gave
him a parole of honor. He promised to return that the sentence of the
‘drum-head court’ could be carried into effect upon him, after he had
given the evidence he possessed, which he declared was necessary to save
an innocent man. I admire his truthfulness. Should he be determined to
return, of which I have no doubt, you will read this letter, which
releases William Nettleton from any further obligation. He will remain
with his friends, and be happy.
“Signed by the A. A. A. G.
“For the Commander, PRICE.”
The effect upon the gallant fellow of the reading of this letter, was
somewhat singular. He stood for a moment gaping around upon the
spectators, as if he had been caught in some mean act. Then a smile came
over his face like sunlight creeping over a rugged mountain top. Soon
his countenance looked like a newly risen sun—fairly blazing with
blushes. Then, with a wild _whoop_, which rung out like a signal, he
sprung into air, rattled his feet together, and once on earth again,
bounded off like a great moose, for the nearest thicket, where to
indulge his “feelings” without restraint.
The crowd dispersed in good-humor, to talk over the strange events of an
hour. If one heart was happier than all, it was that of poor Mamie,
whose joy at the proven innocence of her friend and lover was too
intense for words. In her heart a new hope had also arisen, that her
dear brother would again be restored to her arms, and thus fill up the
cup of her blessings to the brim.
It had been decided by the friends of Hayward, that a search for the
captain would be useless, but it was hoped that Charles Campbell would
give some information which would lead to his discovery, or that
Fall-leaf, a celebrated Indian scout, who had now been absent many days
on the very line of the enemy’s march, would return with some tidings,
by which the actions of the captain’s anxious friends should be
governed.
* * * * *
The Army of the Mississippi, having passed from Fremont’s command to
that of General Hunter, had been ordered to fall back from Springfield,
in two columns. The one by the way of the Osage and Warsaw to Tipton,
Mo., on the line of the main Pacific road, and the other by way of
Lebanon, on the main road between Springfield and Rolla, the
south-western branch of the same road. Each place, in distance from
Springfield, was about one hundred and twenty-five miles.
The march of the division to which Captain Hayward’s friends were
attached, which was under the command of the brave Sigel, was commenced
on the morning of November 20th. That division formed the rear of the
entire army. It proceeded by the Rolla turnpike.
Nothing of note transpired until the division was ascending the rolling
hill about two miles before reaching Lebanon, when a horseman, his face
and head streaming with blood, rode rapidly along the lines, exclaiming:
“Fight in front! Fight in front!”
He halted for no one to question him, but kept on his way. No guns were
heard, and many expressed the opinion that it must be a strange fight.
But, as a necessary precaution, the infantry-men were halted, their
pieces loaded, and bayonets fixed. The artillery was charged, and flags
unfurled. As the troops ascended the hill, and looked in vain for a foe,
the question was asked: “Where is the fight?”
This was soon settled, as another messenger rode up and informed the
General that a party or squadron of rebel cavalry, numbering about four
hundred, had attacked a little band of “home guards,” of about thirty,
which had been collected in a valley some twenty miles south of Lebanon,
on the main road, in a place called “Bohannan Mills valley.” Most of the
thirty “home guard” had been killed, wounded or dispersed by the
guerrillas. Then all families in that vicinity known to entertain Union
proclivities, were visited at the dead of night. “Murder and arson” was
the cry. Many poor creatures soon were in the agonies of death.
Husbands, who had rushed from concealment to defend their wives, had
been cloven to the earth; children ran shrieking to and fro, only to be
dashed to pieces by the savages of the Missouri Mountain. It was a
carnival of lust and blood, over which the historian ever must dwell in
horror. And yet, these fiends in human shape were protected by the ægis
of the “Confederate” flag!
Such was the scene depicted by the messenger, when the division was
halted, and a consultation took place. It was decided that, while the
main army went forward, two companies of infantry, a section of
artillery, and a company of cavalry, should be detached to proceed at
once to “Bohannan Mills,” to protect the helpless families, and, if
possible, to punish the rebel horde which had committed such awful
crimes against humanity.