A CHASE AND A CAPTURE
“That negro has outwitted me!”
Such were the bitter words which arose to Andy’s lips as he burst into
the shed. He did not remain in the rickety building long. A single
bound took him to the opposite doorway, and looking along the woody
trail beyond, he discerned the shadowy forms of horse and rider not a
hundred yards distant.
Andy was a fair runner, and feeling that he must regain his steed at
any cost, he ran forth at the top of his speed along the trail, which
sloped gradually upward into the State of Maryland. He forgot all about
being in the enemy’s territory. He was going to have Firefly back, or
know the reason why.
At first he had thought to yell to the negro to halt, but prudently
remained silent, feeling the thief would only endeavor to increase
his speed on discovering that he was being followed. On he went over
sticks and stones, until, his foot catching in the exposed root of a
pine-tree, he fell headlong, with a crash.
The noise reached the negro’s ears and he swung around in the saddle.
Catching sight of Andy, he began to urge Firefly on by words and blows,
new to the horse, and which the gentle beast hardly comprehended. In
the meantime, Andy scrambled up as quickly as possible.
“Stop!” he called. “Stop, you thief!”
“Yo’ go on back!” returned the negro. “Doan yo’ know de Yankees is jest
above dis yere trail?”
“I don’t care--you’re not going to steal my mount in this fashion,”
returned Andy, determinedly. “You’re a runaway nigger, and if you don’t
stop I’ll put a bullet through you.”
And as he spoke the young Confederate drew his pistol, which he had
taken from the holster on turning Firefly over to be fed and rubbed
down.
“If yo’ shoot de Yankees will be down on yo’ afo’ yo’ kin turn
yo’self,” answered the negro, but his tones showed that he was much
disturbed. Again he urged Firefly forward, and bent low, to escape the
expected shot.
The pistol was indeed ready for use, freshly loaded, and Andy would
certainly have fired had the chance of hitting his mark been a good
one. But the light was uncertain, the rough road made Firefly bob up
and down continually, and he was afraid he might wound the very animal
he had come to save.
At last a bright idea struck him. Stopping short, he took a deep breath.
“Whoa, Firefly! Whoa, old boy!” he called, with all the strength at his
command.
The faithful horse heard and pricked up his ears. Then, when Andy
called again, he suddenly came to a dead stop.
“Git on, yo’ lazy hoss, git on!” screamed the negro, but in spite of
a beating, Firefly refused to budge, for Andy kept calling to him to
whoa, and ran up closer and closer. At last, seeing he was beaten in
his attempt to steal the animal, the negro slipped from the saddle and
darted off among the trees.
“I’ll git dem Union sodgers after yo’ in no time!” he sang out as he
disappeared. “I dun racken yo’ won’t nebber see Virginy no mo’!” and
then off he crashed; and that was the last Andy saw of him.
Once again in the saddle, Andy did not deem it advisable to remain
in the vicinity long. The Union soldiers, if not close at hand, were
certainly not far off, and it was barely possible the negro might keep
his word and send them down upon him. He turned Firefly on the back
trail and urged the faithful beast on as rapidly as the nature of the
uncertain ground permitted.
Reaching the cabin again, he found the old woman at the doorway, still
smoking her pipe.
“Got back your hoss, eh?” she said. “That nigger is a sly one.”
“I want to cross the river,” returned the young cavalryman. “If you can
furnish me with a flatboat I’ll pay you well for its use.”
“I ain’t got no flatboat. But I’ll tell you where to git one--up to
Lemming’s. There’s a flatboat there--up in the creek.”
Further conversation revealed the fact that Lemming’s was nearly an
eighth of a mile down the Potomac. Lemming was a plantation owner, and
used the flatboat to ferry hay and other commodities from one shore to
the other--or at least he had used it before the war put an end to such
traffic. The old woman was certain that Lemming was off to the war and
nobody was at home but his wife and her two daughters.
Rewarding the elderly female handsomely for her information, Andy
continued on his way, feeling that the darkness of the night would
greatly aid him in escaping from the enemy’s country. A well-defined
trail led along the Potomac, and in a short while he found himself at
the bank of the creek or inlet where the flatboat was supposed to lie.
For some time he could learn nothing of the craft, and he was thinking
seriously of venturing to the distant farmhouse for information, when
he caught sight of the flatboat, drawn up among a number of tall
bushes. To get the craft afloat was no mean task, but finally it was
accomplished, and he moored her where Firefly might readily step on
board. The horse was at first unwilling to do this, and it took loud
and repeated urging to make the animal budge.
To guide the boat across the stream there was a broad oar to be used
as a rudder. Andy had just taken up this oar and was preparing to shove
off from the bank of the inlet when the sharp click of a rifle trigger
caught his ear.
“Halt there!” came the command, and a short, stout Union soldier
stepped into full view from behind a tree. He had a very red face, red
hair, and a red beard, and his tone of voice was unmistakably that of
an Irishman.
“Sthand where yez are,” he went on, as Andy looked at him
crestfallenly. “Have yez the countersign?”
“Potomac,” said Andy, on a venture.
“Wrong, me laddybuck, it’s not Potomac, nor President, nor potatoes,
nor nuthin’ loike it. Yez are my prisoner. Oi was after watchin’ yez
fer tin minutes an’ wondherin’ what yez was up to. Sthep ashure now an’
kape quoit till Oi call the guard.”
“But I’m not an enemy, I’m a friend,” began Andy.
“Yez is a Johnny Reb an’ nuthin’ else; Oi kin see it stickin’ out all
over yez--not to spake of the uniform yez is afther wearin’. Sthep out,
Oi say!” and the rifle was pointed at Andy’s head.
There was nothing to do but to obey. As Andy stepped ashore Firefly
started to follow, but the young Confederate shoved him back. This
caused the flat-bottom boat to wobble, and in a second more she was
adrift and heading for the river.
“Sthop that boat!” roared the Irish picket, but when Andy started to
obey the Union soldier caught him by the shoulder.
“No, yez don’t!” he cried. “You sthay roight here. Corporal of the
guard, it’s Tim Moriarity wants yez! Picket numbher sivin!”
The last words were delivered with all the strength of the Irishman’s
lungs. He was a new recruit, having been mustered in but a week
previous, and he felt he had made a most important capture. He
continued to hold Andy, meanwhile letting his musket fall to the ground.
As soon as the weapon went down, the young Confederate planted his
foot upon it. This accomplished, he pulled out his pistol and aimed it
at the picket’s head.
“Let go--unless you want me to fire,” he said, in a low but earnest
tone.
“Saints preserve us!” howled Tim Moriarity. “Don’t yez shoot me!
don’t!” and releasing Andy he leaped behind the nearest tree for
protection.
The alarm had now sounded, and from across the plantation clearing the
young Confederate saw half a dozen Union soldiers approaching on a run.
They were all armed and one called to the picket to know what was up.
“It’s a Johnny Reb!” yelled the Irishman. “He was afther thryin’ to
murdher me, so he was!”
“There he is; I see him!” cried the under officer, who accompanied the
squad. “Halt, or we fire!” he commanded.
By this time Andy was in the water of the inlet, wading as rapidly as
possible after the fast receding flatboat. He had just clutched the
rudder-lock when several reports rang out and he felt himself struck in
the shoulder: A pain like that of a thousand needles shot through his
body, his grasp relaxed, and then he knew no more.
It was not until several hours later that he came to himself. At first
he knew nothing, but that he was lying on a soft and warm couch in a
dimly-lit room, and that there was a faint murmur of voices around him.
Then he saw the faces of a kindly-looking woman and an elderly man, as
both bent over him.
“Will he live, surgeon?” asked the woman.
“I think so. But the poor fellow has had a narrow escape,” was the
reply of the medical man.
“A narrow escape, indeed, to be shot and then half drowned. And he is
so young, too; why nothing but a boy, one might say.”
“Certainly young for a cavalryman, Mrs. Lemming. But then, you see,
these Southerners are all crazy to fight, boys as well as men. Can I
leave him here for the present, or shall I send down a stretcher and
have him removed?”
“No, no; leave him here for the present. It might prove fatal to move
him. I will do my best for the poor boy.”
“I don’t doubt but that you will, madam. To be sure, he is an enemy,
but in such cases no one with a heart can make any distinction.”
“True, sir, and one must remember also, that, at the end, we are
all God’s creatures,” concluded the woman, solemnly. “On the Day of
Judgment He will judge us by His rule of conduct, and not by our own.”
Andy scarcely heard the last words. But in a dim manner he realized
that he was among friends, even though they were of the enemy, and then
consciousness again forsook him.
It was morning when he opened his eyes once more, and the sunshine was
streaming across the plantation fields and into the window of the room
he occupied. Feeling a trifle stronger he essayed to sit up. Instantly
there was a stir and a girl of fifteen came to him.
“You must remain quiet,” she said sweetly, then turned and called out:
“Mamma, he is awake.”
Mrs. Lemming came instantly into the room. “You must remain quiet, Mr.
Arlington,” she said. “It is the doctor’s order. You are badly wounded
in the shoulder. We will take good care of you.”
“Thank you, madam.” Andy was surprised how weak his voice was. He
tried to say more, but the words would not come, and he felt compelled
to close his eyes again. Later in the day he managed to swallow a
little nourishment, and from that time on he grew stronger, although
his progress was so slow that it was scarcely perceptible.
“I suppose you wonder how we know your name,” said the daughter, who
was assisting her mother in caring for Andy. “I saw it written on a
number of letters which were in your pocket. My name is Viola Lemming.
Mamma and I and my younger sister Flossie are living here, for papa is
off to the war.”
“Your father is a Union man, I suppose?” said Andy.
“Yes. We are all Unionists around here. But you mustn’t mind that. We
will take good care of you.”
“You are more than kind. Will you tell me what happened after I was
shot?”
“There is not much to tell. You fell back into the water and two of the
soldiers fished you out and brought you here, for the nearest hospital
service is five miles away.”
“And did they catch my horse?”
“No. They tried to stop the flatboat, but it got away in the darkness,
and what became of it and the horse none of the men know.”
“I hope he got back into Virginia,” said Andy, with a little sigh; and
then Mrs. Lemming came in and said it would be best for him to remain
quiet.
Day after day went by and Andy remained on the couch. The Lemmings were
as kind and patient with him as though they were his best friends,
and he could not help but reach the conclusion that there were other
good people on the side of the North besides the Rockfords. Viola,
especially, did all she possibly could for his comfort, and one day he
told her about his home and his sister Grace.
“I would like to meet her,” said Viola Lemming. “Who knows but that we
will when this cruel war is over.”
“That when will prove a long one, I am afraid,” answered the young
Confederate. “We are bound to fight to the last, and I presume folks up
North think the same way.”
Once or twice, when Andy was well enough to be moved, it was suggested
by the surgeon who visited him that he be taken to the regular army
quarters. The youth shuddered at this, knowing he would not receive
half the care he was now getting.
“If you will have me, I will stay here, Mrs. Lemming,” he said. “I know
I am a good deal of a burden, but some day I and my family will try to
make it up to you.”
“I shall be glad to have you remain,” said the lady of the house. “But
you must give me one promise--that you will not try to escape so long
as the Union authorities leave you in our care?”
“I’ll promise that,” answered the young Confederate, seriously. “You
have my word of honor as a Virginian.”