“Some have greatness thrust upon them.” -- Twelfth Night.
The unexpected volley probably disturbed private Jacob Alspaugh's
mind more than that of any other man in the regiment. It produced
there an effect akin to the sensation of nauseous emetic in his
stomach.
He had long enjoyed the enviable distinction of being the “best
man” among combative youths of Sardis, and his zeal and invariable
success in the fistic tournaments which form so large a part of
the interest in life of a certain class of young men in villages,
had led his townsmen to entertain extravagant hopes as to his
achievements in the field.
But, like most of his class, his courage was purely physical, and
a low order of that type. He was bold in those encounters where
he knew that his superior strength and agility rendered small the
chances of his receiving any serious bodily harm, but of that high
pride and mounting spirit which lead to soldierly deeds he had
none.
The sight of the dying men on each side shriveled his heart with
a deadly panic.
“O, Kent,” he groaned, “Lemme go, and let's git out o' here. This's
just awful, and it'll be ten times wuss in another minnit. Let's
git behind that big rock there, as quick as the Lord'll let us.”
He turned to pull away from Kent's detaining hand, when he heard
Captain Bennett's order to the regiment to charge, and the hand
relaxed its hold. Jake faced to the front again and saw Kent and
Abe Bolton, and the rest of the boys rush forward, leaving him and
a score of other weak-kneed irresolutes standing alone behind.
Again he thought he would seek the refuge of the rock, but at that
moment the Union line swept up to the Rebels, scattering them as
a wave does dry sand.
Jake's mental motions were reasonably rapid. Now he was not long
in realizing that all the danger was past, and that he had an
opportunity of gaining credit cheaply. He acted promptly. Fixing
his bayonet, he gave a fearful yell and started forward on a run
for the position which the regiment had gained.
He was soon in the lead of the pursuers, and appeared, by his
later zeal, to be making amends for his earlier tardiness. As he
ran ahead he shouted savagely:
“Run down the hellions! Shoot 'em! Stab 'em! Bay'net 'em! Don't
let one of 'em git away.”
There is an excitement in a man-chase that is not even approached
by any other kind of hunting, and Jake soon became fairly intoxicated
with it.
He quickly overtook one or two of the slower-paced Rebels, who
surrendered quietly, and were handed by him over to the other boys
as they came up, and conducted by them to the rear.
Becoming more excited he sped on, entirely unmindful of how far he
was outstripping his comrades.
A hundred yards ahead of him was a tall, gaunt Virginian, clad
in butternut-colored jeans of queer cut and pattern, and a great
bell-crowned hat of rough, gray beaver. Though his gait was shambling
and his huge splay feet rose and fell in the most awkward way, he
went over the ground with a swiftness that made it rather doubtful
whether Jake was gaining on him at all. But the latter was encouraged
by the sings of his chase's distress. First the bell-crowned hat
flew off and rolled behind, and Jake could not resist the temptation
to give it a kick which sent it spinning into a clump of honeysuckles.
Then the Rebel flung off a haversack, whose flapping interfered
with his speed, and this was followed by a clumsily-constructed
cedar canteen. The thought flashed into Jake's mind that this was
probably filled with the much-vaunted peach-brandy of that section;
and as ardent sprits were one of his weaknesses, the temptation to
stop and pick up the canteen was very strong, but he conquered it
and hurried on after his prey. Next followed the fugitive's belt,
loaded down with an antique cartridge-box, a savage knife made from
a rasp and handled with buckhorn, and a fierce-looking horse-pistol
with a flint-lock.
“I seemed to be bustin' up a moosyum o' revolutionary relics,” said
Jake afterward, in describing the incident. “The feller dropped
keepsakes from his forefathers like a bird moltin' its feathers
on a windy day. I begun to think that if I kep up the chase purty
soon he'd begin to shed Continental money and knee-britches.”
The fugitive turned off to the right into a narrow path that wound
through the laurel thickets. Jake followed with all the energy
that remained in him, confident that a short distance more would
bring him so close to his game that he could force his surrender
by a threat of bayoneting. He caught up to within a rod of the
Rebel, and was already foreshortening his gun for a lunge in case
of refusal to surrender on demand, when he was amazed to see the
Rebel whirl around, level his gun at him, and order HIS surrender.
Jake was so astonished that he stumbled, fell forward and dropped
his gun. As he raised his eyes he saw three or four other Rebels
step out from behind a rock, and level their guns upon him with an
expression of bloodthirstiness that seemed simply fiendish.
Then it flashed upon him how far away he was from all his comrades,
and that the labyrinth of laurel made them even more remote. With
this realization came the involuntary groan:
“O, Lordy! it's all up with me. I'm a goner, sure!”
His courage did not ooze out of his fingers, like the historic Bob
Acres's; it vanished like gas from a rent balloon. He clasped his
hands and tried to think of some prayer.
“Now I lay me,” he murmured.
“Shan't we shoot the varmint?” said one of the Rebels, with a motion
of his gun in harmony with that idea.
“O, mister--mister--GOOD mister, DON'T! PLEASE don't! I swear I
didn't mean to do no harm to you.”
“Wall, ye acted monty quare fur a man that didn't mean no harm,”
said the pursued man, regaining his breath with some difficulty.
“A-chasin' me down with thet ar prod on yer gun, an' a-threatenin'
to stick hit inter me at every jump. Only wanted ter see me run,
did yer?”
“O, mister, I only done it because I wuz ordered to. I couldn't
help myself; I swear I couldn't.”
“Whar's the ossifers thet wuz a-orderin' ye? Whar's the captins
that wuz puttin' ye up ter hit? Thar wan't no one in a mile of
ye. Guess we'd better shoot ye.”
Again Jake raised his voice in abject appeal for mercy. There was
nothing he was not willing to promise if only his life were only
spared.
“Wouldn't hit be better ter bay'net him?” suggested one of the
Rebels, entirely unmoved, as his comrades were, by Jake's piteous
pleadings. “Ef we go ter shootin' 'round yere hit'll liekly bring
the Yankees right onter us.”
“I 'spect hit would be better ter take him back a little ways, any
way,” said the man whom Jake had pursued. “Pick up his gun thar,
Eph. Come along, you, an' be monty peart about hit, fur we're in
a powerful bad frame o' mind ter be fooled with. I wouldn't gin a
fi'-penny-bit fur all yer blue-bellied life's worth. The boys ar
jest pizen mad from seein' so many o' thar kin and folks killed by
yer crowd o' thievin' Hessians.”
Grateful for even a momentary respite, Jake rose from his knees
with alacrity and humbly followed one of the Rebels along the path.
The others strode behind, and occasionally spurred him into a more
rapid pace with a prick from their bayonets.
“O,---ough, mister, don't do that! Don't, PLEASE! You don't know
how it hurts. I ain't got no rhinoceros skin to stand such jabs
as that. That came purty nigh goin' clean through to my heart.”
“Skeet ahead faster, then, or the next punch'll go righ smack through
ye, fur sartin. Ef yer skin's so tender what are ye doin' in the
army?”
They climbed the mountain laboriously, and started down on the
other side. About midway in the descent they came upon a deserted
cabin standing near the side of the road.
“By the Lord Harry,” said one of the Rebels, “I'm a'most done clean
gin out, so I am. I'm tireder nor a claybank hoss arter a hard
day's plowin', an' I'm ez dry ez a lime-kiln. I motion that we
stop yere an' take a rest. We kin put our Yank in the house thar,
an' keep him. I wonder whar the spring is that the folks thet
lived yere got thar water from?”
“Ef I don't disremember,” said another, “this is the house where
little Pete Higgenbottom lived afore the country got ruther onhelthy
fur him on account of his partiality for other people's hosses. I
made a little trip up yere the time I loss thet little white-faced
bay mar of pap's, an I'm purty sure the spring's over thar in the
holler.”
“Lordy, how they must 've hankered arter the fun o' totin' water to
've lugged hit clar from over tha. I'd've moved the house nigher
the spring afore I'd've stood thet ere a month, so I would.”
“The distance to the water ortent to bother a feller thet gets
along with usin' ez little ez you do,” growled the first speaker.
“A man whose nose looks like a red-pepper pod in August, and his
shirt like a section o' rich bottom land, hain't no great reason
ter make remarks on other folks's use o' water.”
Jake plucked up some courage from the relaxation in the savage grimness
of his captors, which seemed implied by this rough pleasantry, and
with him such recuperation of spirits naturally took the form of
brassy self-assertion.
“Don't you fellers know,” he began with a manner and tone intended
to be placating, but instead was rasping and irritating, “don't you
fellers know that the best thing you can do with me is to take me
back to our people, and trade me off for one of your fellers that
they've ketched?”
“An' don't ye know thet the best thing ye kin do is to keep thet
gapin' mouth o' your'n shet, so thet the flies won't git no chance
to blow yer throat?” said the man whose nose had been aptly likened
to a ripe red-pepper pod, “an' the next best thing's fur ye to git
inter that cabin thar quicker'n blazes 'll scorch a feather, an'
stay thar without makin' a motion toward gittin' away. Git!” and
he made a bayonet thrust at Jake that tore open his blouse and shirt,
and laid a great gaping wound along his breast. Jake leaped into
the cabin and threw himself down upon the puncheon floor.
“Thar war none of our crowd taken,” said another of the squad, who
had looked on approvingly. “They wuz all killed, an' the only way
to git even is ter send ye whar they are.”
Jake made another earnest effort to recall one of the prayers he
had derided in his bad boyhood.
Leaving the red-nosed man to guard the prisoner, the rest of the
Rebels started for the hollow, in search of water to cool their
burning thirst.
They had gained such a distance from the scene of the fight, and
were in such an out-of-the-way place, that the thought of being
overtaken did not obtrude itself for an instant, either upon their
minds or Jake's.
But as they came back up the hill, with a gourd full of spring water
for their companion, they were amazed to see a party of blue-coats
appear around the bend of the road at a little distance. They
dropped the gourd of water, and yelled to the man on guard:
“Kill the Yank, an' run for yer life!” and disappeared themselves,
in the direction of the spring.
The guard comprehended the situation and the order. He fired his
gun at Jake, but with such nervous haste as to destroy the aim,
and send the charge into the puncheon a foot beyond his intended
victim, and then ran off with all speed to join his companions.
the Union boys sent a few dropping shots after him, all of which
missed their mark.
Jake managed to recover his nerves and wits sufficiently to stagger
to the door as his comrades came up, and grasp one of the guns the
Rebels had left.
Questions and congratulations were showered upon him, but he
replied incoherently, and gasped a request for water, as if he were
perishing from thirst. While some hunted for this, others sought
for traces of the Rebels; so he gained time to fix up a fairly
presentable story of a desperate and long-continued bayonet struggle
in which he was behaving with the greatest gallantry, although
nearly hopeless of success, when the arrival of help changed the
aspect of matters. He had so many gaping wounds to confirm the
truth of this story, that it was implicitly believed, and he was
taken back to camp as on e of the foremost heroes of that eventful
day. The Colonel made him a Sergeant as soon as he heard the
tale, and regretted much that he could not imitate the example of
the great Napoleon, and raise him to a commission, on the scene of
his valiant exploits. His cot at the hospital was daily visited
by numbers of admiring comrades, to whom he repeated his glowing
account of the fight, with marked improvements in manner and detail
accompanying every repetition.
He had no desire to leave the hospital during his term of service,
but his hurts were all superficial and healed rapidly, so that
in a fortnight's time the Surgeon pronounced him fit to return to
duty. He cursed inwardly tha officer's zeal in keeping the ranks
as full as possible, and went back to his company to find it
preparing to go into another fight.
“Hello, Jake,” said his comrades, “awful glad to see you back. Now
you'll have a chance to get your revenge on those fellows. There'll
be enough of us with you to see that you get a fair fight.”
“To the devil with their revenge and a fair fight,” said Jake to
himself. That evening he strolled around to the headquarters tent,
and said to the commander of the regiment:
“Colonel, the doctor seems to think that I'm fit to return to duty,
but I don't feel all right yet. I've a numbness in my legs, so
that I kin hardly walk sometims. It's my old rheumatics, stirred
up by sleeping out in the night air. I hear that the man who's
been drivin' the headquarters wagin has had to go to the hospital.
I want to be at something, even if I can't do duty in the ranks,
and I'd like to take his place till him and me gets well.”
“All right, Sergeant. You can have the place as long as you wish,
or any other that I can give you. I can't do too much for so brave
a man.”
So it happened that in the next fight the regiment was not gratified
by any thrilling episodes of sanguinary, single-handed combats,
between the indomitable Jake and bloodthirsty Rebels.
He had deferred his “revenge” indefinitely.