_The Mountain Adventure._
LET us return to the army, which we left near Lebanon. The main force
was to continue its march onward toward Rolla, while a battalion of
infantry, a section of artillery, and a company of cavalry struck to the
west of the main road, and started for the point from which the
messenger had arrived. It was a weary march, as the troops already had
proceeded twenty miles that day. But the dreadful atrocities related as
having been committed by the guerrillas fired the hearts of the brave
soldiers, and they pressed forward with a will.
The troops at last reached the scene of the outrages, in the place known
as “Bohannan Mills Valley.” The deeds of blood and horror had not been
exaggerated by the messenger. Women had been murdered in their beds, old
men were lying stiff and cold, with their brains beaten out, and
children, helpless and weeping, were clinging to their dead bodies or
wandering distractedly around.
The battalion which had been sent to this valley was the one to which
Lieutenant Wells and Adjutant Hinton belonged. Wells was still suffering
from the terrible anxiety of mind which he had recently undergone, but
did not permit his own troubles to interfere with his discharge of duty.
The troops camped in the little valley, to collect the scattered
families, whose remaining members it was determined to take along with
the army in its retreat. Soon word was brought by a mountaineer that the
guerrillas still were infesting the mountain, while the flames of a
burning mill, seen below, seemed to give evidence that the miscreants
still were at their work of blood. This decided the officers to scour
the mountain, if possible, to force the rebels to a fight, for there was
not a man in the Union ranks who did not pant for a chance to meet those
dastards, who, under the protecting folds of the Confederate flag,
committed atrocities at which humanity stood aghast. Wells was soon at
the head of a strong party of dismounted dragoons, and with them struck
off for the hills back of the burning mill. A weary march was brought to
a sudden halt by a deep water gully, over which no perceptible ford
offered a passage. Up and down it Wells passed to reconnoiter. It was an
ugly spot to be caught in by a wily foe, and the troops were so disposed
as to guard against a surprise. The men kept close under cover of the
dense undergrowth, so as not to betray their position should the
guerrillas come upon them. Lieutenant Wells and Adjutant Hinton were
proceeding up the watercourse, when a rattle of fire-arms arrested their
attention. It was evident some kind of a conflict was taking place over
the stream. The volley was not, however, answered by a return; only a
single shot was heard, and then a wild, frenzied shout, as if of
maddened men. After a brief interval, another shot was heard, and a
second paralyzed howl was followed by shouts and curses, plainly heard
by the two anxious senior officers.
“It must be the guerrillas after the poor Unionists who have fled to the
mountain,” said Hinton. “Our men must not be idle when such work is
going on. You stay here, Wells, to watch further, while I go back to
bring up our boys.”
Hinton hurried away, while Wells crept forward to the very edge of the
deep but narrow gully beyond which the sounds of conflict were heard.
Hardly had he secured a spot for observation, ere he was startled by the
crash of the undergrowth and the voices of men not ten rods away. On
toward the lieutenant’s place of concealment came the pursued and
pursuers. The first was but a single man, whom Wells several times
detected gliding along from tree to tree, keeping “under cover” like an
experienced woodsman. He was closely pursued by a band of the
guerrillas, all dismounted, who were making the hills echo with their
demoniac yells. Slowly the fugitive retired, holding his foes at bay by
his sagacious maneuvers. Wells became intensely excited over the scene,
and resolved to rush at once to the brave fellow’s aid, but there lay
before him the impassable gulf over which few men could bound. Finally
the hunted man struck the gully, and saw at a glance that his retreat
was cut off. The enemy saw it, too, for they set up a shout of
commingled derision and pleasure, which so maddened the fugitive that he
yelled:
“Laugh away, you darn skunks. I’ll make more than one of your dirty
carcasses food for the crows before I go under.” And suiting the words
to action, he fired two successive shots from what, apparently, was a
double-barrel fowling-piece. Two of the guerrillas must have fallen, for
ferocious shrieks of agony followed.
Wells could endure no more. There stood before him his brave friend
William Nettleton, hunted by a dozen fiends who must soon overpower him
if aid was not quickly given. He started backward for a couple of rods,
then rushed with almost flying swiftness up to the gully, and bounded
over its sharply-cut edge. For a moment his desperate leap arrested all
attention. Nettleton deemed it a new adversary coming upon him from an
unexpected quarter, and turned, knife in hand, to close in with his
antagonist. What was his astonishment to welcome Lieutenant Wells to his
arms! What a shout followed! The guerrillas quickly sought cover, not
knowing how many others might be lurking on the opposite side of the
ravine to give them a bloody welcome.
“Wells, by the jumping jingo! Where _did_ you come from and where _is_
you going to? Give us yer hand and lend us yer revolver. Ah, got two of
’em. _Hooray!_ Down on yer knees quicker’n lightnin’, for the
woman-murderers are after us, sharp!”
Down the two men fell, just in time to escape a volley from the carbines
of a squad of the murderers. With the dexterity of a squirrel, Nettleton
rushed forward to a friendly tree, and fired quickly three shots from
the revolver. It was a surprise to the enemy, for two of their number
fell, so true had the aim been. The squad retreated to reload, but
Nettleton had no idea of permitting that, and was about to press his
advantage, when a powerfully-built rebel came rushing upon him, knife in
hand, from the right side of the tree, unseen by the undaunted man until
it was too late for the use of his fire-arm. In a moment they were
clasped in the death-struggle. Three or four of the guerrillas rushed to
the spot, only to be shot down by Wells’ deliberate aim. No more
appeared, and the two combatants were left to their fearful work. Each
had seized the knife-hand of the other. Then followed the strain of
muscle for the mastery. The guerrilla, counting upon his tremendous
strength, doubtless hoped for an easy victory; but in that ungainly form
he found a bundle of nerves tough as whale-bone—a human frame elastic as
india-rubber but as invincible as steel.
Down toward the gully the combatants pressed. In vain did the rebel try
to force his antagonist to the earth. The supple form of Nettleton bent
under his adversary’s pressure, but his frame at length rebounded with a
force which bore the guerrilla to his knees. He drew the Federal down
with him, and on their knees the frightful combat was continued. Wells
would have advanced from his concealment to the rescue, but knew that a
rebel carbine would surely bring him down, and thus place it out of his
power to aid his friend at all. Slowly toward the chasm the men worked
their way, struggling like two serpents striving for the death-triumph.
It was an exciting but appalling spectacle, which the sudden roar of
fire-arms on the left did not serve to arrest. A shout followed, which
Wells recognized as that of his own men, who must have discovered a
crossing below, and have come upon the band of cut-throats unawares.
There was a sudden scattering of those concealed in the immediate
vicinity of the hand-to-hand contest, but one villain rushed from his
cover upon the writhing forms of the bleeding men, with the design of
dispatching the unconquered Federal. Wells was upon him like a tiger,
and in a moment cut him down with his sword. Hinton beheld the stroke,
and came rushing up to the spot just in time to behold the struggling
men go over the gully’s bank together.
The two officers hurried to the bank. Some twenty feet below they could
distinguish the forms of the combatants, both apparently lifeless.
Without a moment’s hesitancy, Wells dropped from the brink, and fell
crashing through the dense jungle lining the water’s edge, to the bed of
the stream. He was stunned but not injured, and arose to his feet to
find Nettleton in a sitting posture. Beside him lay the big guerrilla,
silent in death.
“I’ll be danged if that wan’t the ugliest cuss as ever I tusseled with,
breeches-holt, back-holt or rough-and-tumble.” This was his first
ejaculation.
“Are you injured?” anxiously inquired Wells.
“Wal, let’s take a reconnoissance. Here’s a hole in this arm, that’s
sp’iled the only good coat I ever had, dang it! Here’s a rip, too, in
the collar, whar that critter’s knife tried to cut my windpipe. He _did_
scratch me thar, I believe,” he said, fingering his neck, down which the
blood flowed freely. “By Jemima, ef I haven’t lost a finger!” he added,
suddenly holding up his hand. “Now, that’s too bad, ef it is on the left
hand. I rayther think the reb got a mouthful when he chawed that off!”
And thus he would have continued for another ten minutes had not shouts
from above aroused him.
“Who’s come?” he asked.
“Hinton and the battalion.”
“Glory! And have the rebs been caught in a trap?”
“I don’t know how many, but from the shots and shouts I don’t think many
will be permitted to escape.”
“All right. Now jist give us a lift, to see if my shanks is all right.
There, that’s the juniper. Jist look at my back, and see if you find any
holes that want plugging.”
No “holes” were found, and the good-natured fellow came out of the
combat with only flesh-wounds, save the loss of one finger from the left
hand, which the guerrilla had bitten off. Nettleton was much exhausted,
and was finally drawn up out of the gully with no little difficulty,
when the men set up a shout which made the hills ring.
“There, boys, that’ll pay for the bruises; and now I guess you’ll have
to do me another favor—jist rub my shanks and the hinges in my back with
a little whisky, if you can spare it.”
In a moment a dozen pocket-flasks were produced and willing hands gave
him a good rubbing, which gave his limbs new strength. It was evident
that his muscles had been severely overtasked, for he was languid and
incapable of exertion.
Nettleton now narrated the particulars of his and Fall-leaf’s
adventures. Soon the troops were out on the search for Captain Hayward,
while, assisted by a couple of comrades, the wounded hero of the hour
made his way down to the cabin of old Madge. The old creature received
him kindly and at once bestirred herself to make him strong again. The
air was soon odoriferous with the smell of distilling herbs.
A prolonged shout, ere long, came rolling down the hill. Nettleton was
aroused from a sleep into which he had fallen. His two comrades at once
hurried out to ascertain its cause. Old Madge paused in her toil and
said:
“The captain’s found, I s’pose.”
“Hooray!” yelled the invalid, now an invalid no longer. Springing from
his bed he rushed out, and away he went up the hills in the direction of
the still continuing noise. His companions, astonished at his sudden
recovery, followed, and all were soon lost to sight.
Harry Hayward was indeed found, and the cavalcade, bearing him on a rude
litter, after a half-hour’s time, made its appearance coming down the
mountain. Nettleton was at his side, crying like a baby. Wells held the
sick man’s hand, while his face, still expressing anxiety, beamed with
joy. Hayward was discovered hidden in a quiet, cool nook, where he lay
in a very exhausted condition. He had, in his fever-delirium, broken
away from Madge’s custody, but, no sooner was he out in the cool shade
of the trees and rocks than his mind became clear and composed. Weak and
ill as he was he still had strength to seek a place of safety from
pursuit, should it be attempted, as he supposed it would be. At
nightfall he had determined to seek out some respectable looking
farm-house, and on the morrow to cast himself upon the mercy of
strangers, knowing that even though that stranger might be a foe he
could not be more inhuman than men wearing the uniform of Confederate
officers. But the sufferer was spared further efforts. The shouts and
reports of fire-arms Hayward distinctly heard, and at once surmised that
a Union force was at hand. When the men scattered in squads for the
search through the mountain, the captain beheld one of the parties
passing before his hiding-place. It was his moment of deliverance. He
stepped out before the astonished soldiers, who, not recognizing the
apparition, did not at once welcome him.
“My men, don’t you know me?”
“Captain Hayward!” they shouted, as they rushed upon him, and clasped
him in their arms.
He was borne toward Madge’s cabin, to be welcomed on the way by the
gathering men. Wells now appeared. The joy of that meeting can be
surmised. The welkin was made to ring with the glad notes of the
jubilant soldiers. These notes it was which aroused the sleeper in the
cabin, and when at length he appeared, struggling wearily up the hill,
the cavalcade paused to permit the overjoyed parties a few minutes of
undisturbed greeting. Nettleton was not even talkative—a circumstance
indicative of the depth of his feelings—and it was not until the captain
was fully domiciled in the cabin, that he could consent to talk of the
past and its painful incidents. He then narrated the events of Walker’s
plot, as we have here recorded them, ending with the tragedy of the
mill. It was a revelation of intense but most painful interest to the
sick man; but he bore the affliction of his sister’s loss with great
resolution, sustained by the conviction that He who doeth all things
well would not permit the evil one to triumph.