THE SHARPSHOOTER IN THE WOODS
Somers found the picket guard nearer the rebel line than he had
anticipated; but the exhibition of his pass, which had been prepared with
special reference to this purpose, prevented any long detention, though a
sergeant had to be called who was scholar enough to read the mysterious
document.
"I reckon you haven't got the best place to go through," said the
sergeant, after he had examined the pass, and satisfied himself of its
correctness.
"Why not?"
"There's a whole squad of Yankees a good piece in there," he replied,
pointing in the direction of the Federal lines. "They've been there all
day watching for something."
"What do they want?"
"There was a man run through the line this forenoon from their side, and
I reckon they are trying to find him."
"Was he a Yank?" asked Somers, desirous of obtaining their idea of the
fugitive.
"Dunno what he was. We didn't see him till he got a good piece behind us.
We were chasing the Yanks who run away when they saw us."
This was satisfactory to our scout; for the sergeant appeared to have no
knowledge that would be dangerous to him, and none of the graybacks
recognized the pants he wore. He advanced cautiously, as though he was
afraid of stumbling upon the squad of Yankees described by the sergeant,
till he could no longer be seen by the pickets. The last obstacle seemed
to be overcome; and he hastened to the place where he had concealed his
uniform, which he wished to put on before he approached the pickets on
the other side. It was now nearly dark, and he had no time to spare; for,
if he approached his own men in the darkness, he would be in danger of
being shot before they discovered who he was, though he had full
confidence in the discretion of Hapgood.
Without difficulty, he found the place where he had concealed his
clothes; and, after assuring himself that none of the rebel pickets were
in sight, he hastily put them on. To prevent any unpleasant suspicions,
he took the precaution to hide the gray pants he had worn, in the long
grass of the swamp, so that they need not attract the attention of any
stroller who might pass in that direction. Though we have frequently held
our hero up as a model of modesty, we are compelled to acknowledge that
he felt exceedingly well satisfied with himself on the present occasion.
He felt that he had done what, in the homely vocabulary of the boys of
Pinchbrook, might well be called "a big thing."
He had fully and successfully accomplished the arduous purposes of his
mission. He had examined the positions, and counted the forces of the
rebels. He had received very valuable information from Mr. Raynes, and
from others whom he had encountered in his walk through the enemy's
lines. He was satisfied that he should receive a warm welcome from those
who had sent him upon the perilous tour. He had earned the first bar to
his shoulder-straps, and was proud of his achievement.
The work had been done, and he was within a short distance of the Union
lines--within a short distance of the devoted Hapgood, who was patiently
but anxiously waiting to give him a soldier's reception. Above all, he
was safe; and he trembled when he thought of the perils through which he
had passed, of the consequences which must have followed the discovery of
his real character. As he thanked God for the boon of life after the
battle was over, so now he thanked Him for the signal success which had
crowned his labors in the good cause. The last article of his raiment was
put on and adjusted; he rose from the ground to walk towards the Union
lines.
"I say, Yank, you look better'n you did 'fore yer changed your clothes,"
said a voice, which struck his ear with startling distinctness.
Somers looked in the direction from which the voice came, and discovered
a villainous-looking countenance, that had just risen from the tall
swamp-grass, within a couple of rods of the spot where he stood. The man
was unmistakably a rebel--one of the most savage and implacable of rebels
at that; such a character as we read of in connection with slave-hunts in
Mississippi, or "free fights" in Arkansas. He wore a long, tangled beard;
and his hair had probably never known the use of a comb. The grayback
looked as cool and impudent as though he was perfectly assured of his
prey, and intended to torture his victim with his tongue, as he would
with his knife or his rifle if occasion required.
"I say, Yank, you look better'n yer did 'fore yer changed your colors,"
repeated the rebel, as he received no reply to his first salutation.
Somers looked at him again; indeed, he had hardly taken his eyes off the
savage-looking fellow, who would have made a very good representative of
Orson in the fairy story. He held a rifle in his hand, the muzzle of
which could easily be brought to bear upon his victim. Our lieutenant at
once understood the humor of the fellow; and, having recovered his
self-possession in the momentary pause, he determined not to be behind
his foe either in word or in deed.
"I say, reb, when did you shave last?" demanded Somers, with something as
near akin to a laugh as he could manufacture for the occasion.
"'Fore you was born, I reckon, Yank," replied the rebel; "and I sha'n't
shave ag'in till after you're dead. But I reckon I sha'n't hev ter wait
long nuther."
"I suppose you don't know what a comb is for, do you?" continued Somers,
who was, however, thinking of some method by which he might get out of
this scrape.
"I reckon I've heerd about such things; but Joe Bagbone ain't a woman,
and don't waste his time no such way. I say, stranger, you've got about
three minutes more to live."
"How long?"
"Three minutes, stranger, I've sat here by them clothes, like a dog at a
'possum's nest, all the arternoon. Now I've treed the critter, and I'm
gwine to shoot him."
"Is that so?"
"That's so, stranger."
"Do you usually shoot any man you happen to meet in the woods?"
"Well, I don't reckon we do, every man; but some on 'em we does. I
calkilate you got on Tom Myers's clothes now, and yer shot the man 'fore
you took the rags."
"I didn't shoot him."
"No matter for that, stranger; he was shot by a Yank, and you've got to
settle the account."
Somers began to be of the same opinion himself. The grayback had
evidently found the clothes, and suspected the purpose for which they
were concealed. It was possible he had even more definite information
than this; for he seemed to be prepared for precisely what had taken
place.
"My friend----"
"I'm not your friend, stranger. You kin say anything you like, if yer
don't insult me; Joe Bagbone don't take an insult from any live man."
"Well, Joe Bagbone," continued Somers, who was disposed to parley with
the fellow to gain time, if nothing else, "if you shoot me, you will make
the worst mistake you ever made in your life; and I can prove it to you
in less than five minutes."
"No, yer can't, stranger. Don't waste yer time no such way. If yer want
ter say yer prayers, blaze away lively, 'cause three minutes aren't long
for a man to repent of all his sins."
"I have a pass from General M----, which permits me to go in safety
through these lines," persisted Somers. "The sergeant above just examined
it, and passed me through."
"Don't keer nothing about yer pass. I respects Jeff Davis just as much as
the best man in Mississip'. If yer had a pass from him, you mought as
well not have it as have it. Tom Myers was killed, and somebody's gwine
up for him."
"But I have important business on the other side."
"I knows that, stranger," replied the imperturbable Joe Bagbone. "It
don't make no difference."
"I am sent over by General M----. I belong to the Fourth Alabama."
"Shet up! Don't tell no lies, 'cause yer hain't got no time ter repent on
'em."
"Then, if I understand it, you mean to murder one of your own men in cold
blood."
"Nothin' of the sort; only gwine to shoot a Yank."
Somers looked into that hard, relentless eye; but there was not the
slightest indication of any change of purpose. He felt that he stood in
the presence of his executioner. All the errors of his past life crowded
upon him, and the grave seemed to yawn before him.
"Call the sergeant above, and he will satisfy you that I am all right,"
said he, making one more effort to move the villain from his wicked
purpose.
"Don't want the sergeant. Yer time's out, stranger."
"Let me call him, then."
"If yer do, I'll fire. Say yer prayers now, if yer mean ter; but I reckon
the prayers of a Yank ain't of much account," replied Joe with a sneer.
Somers stood within a few feet of a large tree. Joe had several times
raised his rifle to his shoulder; but, when he magnanimously offered his
victim the last moment of grace, he dropped it again; and our lieutenant,
taking advantage of this interval, darted behind the tree. Joe raised his
piece quicker than a flash; but he did not fire, for the reason that he
could not secure a perfect aim, and because he was sure of a better
opportunity. Our lieutenant, who had carefully preserved his revolver
during the various changes he had made in his dress, now took it from his
pocket, and prepared to contest the field like a man.
The grayback, chagrined at this movement on the part of his victim, whom
he had evidently intended to intimidate by his coolness and his ferocious
words, rose from his seat in the long grass, and moved towards the tree
behind which Somers had taken refuge. Probably he was not aware that the
Yankee was armed; for he adopted none of the precautions which such a
knowledge would have imposed upon any reasonable man.
"Come out from that tree, stranger, or you shall die like a hog, with a
knife; not like a man, with a rifle-ball."
"I intend to die by neither," said Somers resolutely, as he discharged
his pistol in the direction from which the voice of the grayback came;
for he dared not take aim, lest the bullet of the ruffian should pierce
his skull.
He might as well have fired into the air, so far as any injury to his
enemy was concerned; but the report had the effect to assure the rebel
that he was armed, and thus put an end to his farther advance in that
direction. Somers listened with intense anxiety to discover the next
movement of his wily persecutor. He had only checked, not defeated him;
and an exciting game was commenced, which promised to terminate only in
the death of one of the belligerents. Somers hoped that the discharge of
his pistol would bring the sergeant down to his relief; but then to be
discovered in Federal uniform was about equivalent to being shot by his
relentless foe, burning to revenge the death of Tom Myers.
The report of pistols and muskets was so common an occurrence on the
picket-lines as to occasion nothing more than a momentary inquiry. No one
came for his relief, or his ruin, as the case might be; and he was left
to play out the exciting game by himself. The grayback, with a wholesome
regard for the pistol, had retired beyond the reach of its ball, while he
was still a long way within rifle-range of his doomed enemy. Somers dared
not look out from the tree to obtain even a single glance at the foe; for
he knew how accurate is the aim of some of these Southern woodsmen. He
had nothing to guide him but the rustling of the dried branches beneath
his tread, or the occasional snapping of a twig under his feet.
Joe Bagbone, after retreating beyond pistol-shot from the tree, had
commenced describing a circle which would bring him into a position that
commanded a view of his concealed victim. It must be confessed that Joe's
tactics were singularly deficient in range; for nothing but a surprise
could make them successful. While he was moving a hundred rods to secure
his position, Somers could defeat his purpose by taking a single step. As
soon as he determined in what direction his persecutor was going, he
changed his position; and Joe discovered the folly of his strategy, and
sat down on a stump to await a demonstration on the part of his victim.
The game promised to be prolonged to a most unreasonable length; and
Somers, now in a measure secure of his life, was impatient to join his
anxious companions, with whom he had parted in the forenoon. He was
satisfied that Joe would never abandon the chase, and the slightest
indiscretion on his own part would result in instant death. It was a
fearful position, and one which was calculated to wear terribly upon his
nerves. He was anxious to bring the contest to a conclusion; and, while
he was debating in his own mind the chances of escaping by a sudden dash
in the direction of the Union lines, a happy thought in the way of
strategy occurred to him.
He had determined as nearly as he could the situation of his bull-dog
opponent, and thought that, if he could draw his fire, he might get out
of range of his rifle before it could be reloaded. Placing his cap on the
barrel of his pistol, he cautiously moved it over, just as it would have
appeared to the rebel if his head had been inside of it, and projected it
a little beyond the tree. He withdrew it suddenly two or three times to
increase the delusion in the mind of his enemy. He could not see the
effect of the stratagem; but he was hopeful of a satisfactory result. He
continued to repeat the operation with the cap, till he was confident Joe
was not to be fooled in this way. He was probably one of the
sharpshooters, and had too often fired at empty caps to be caught in this
manner when success depended upon the single charge of his rifle.
Somers did not despair, but slipped off his coat; and, rolling it up so
as to form the semblance of a head, he placed the cap upon the top of the
bundle, and cautiously exposed the "dummy" on the opposite side of the
tree. The crack of Joe's rifle instantly followed this exhibition, and
Somers felt the blow of the ball when it struck the cap. The critical
moment had come; and, without the loss of a second, our lieutenant darted
towards the Union lines. This movement was followed by a shrill yell from
the Mississippian, which might have been a howl of disappointment at his
failure; or it might have been intended to startle, and thus delay the
fugitive.
Somers had listened to that battle yell too many times to be moved by it,
especially when uttered by a single voice; and, with all the speed of
which his limbs were capable, he fled to the arms of his friends. Joe was
not content to give up the battle; and, dropping his rifle, he drew his
long knife, and gave chase. They made a long run of it; and it was only
ended when Tom heard the demand of his faithful sergeant--
"Who goes there?"
"Friend," gasped Somers, utterly exhausted by his exertions.
"Lieutenant Somers? God be praised!" replied Hapgood, instantly
recognizing his voice.