THE HUNTED SOLDIER.
The sun was just rising, and his red beams gilded the summits of the
Alleghany Mountains, which in the glory of the early morning seemed as
calm and peaceful as if their lofty heights had never looked down upon
scenes of carnage and strife, or their tangled passes and dark ravines
sheltered poor, starving, frightened wretches, fleeing for their lives,
and braving death in any form rather than be recaptured by their
merciless pursuers. There were several of these miserable men hiding in
the mountain passes now, prisoners escaped from Salisbury and other
points, but our story now has to do with but one, and that a young man,
with a look of determination in his eye, and the courage of a Samson in
his heart. He had suffered incredible hardships since the day of his
capture. He had been stripped at once of his handsome uniform by the
brutal Texans, who found him upon the field. His gold, which he carried
about his person into every battle, had been taken from him, and in this
condition he had been sent from one prison to another, until Salisbury
received him. At first he had suffered but little mentally, for the ball
which struck him down had left him with his reason impaired, and to him
it was all the same whether friend or foe had him in keeping. Deprived
of everything which could mark his rank as an officer, and always
insisting that his name was “Rose,” he passed for a demented creature,
whom the brutal soldiery delighted to torment. Gradually, however, his
reason came back, and he woke to the full horrors of his condition.
Then, like a caged lion he chafed and fumed, and resolved to be free. He
could not die there, knowing that far away there was a blithesome little
woman waiting for his coming, if, indeed, she had not ceased to think of
him as among the living,—a state of things which he thought very
probable, as he became aware of the fact that no one of his companions
was acquainted with his real name. Rose was the only cognomen by which
he was known, and the proud man shivered every time he heard that dear
name uttered by the coarse, jesting lips around him. A horrid suit of
dirty grey had been given him in place of the stolen uniform, and though
at first he rebelled against the filthy garments, he began ere long to
think now they might aid him in his escape, inasmuch as they were the
garb of the Confederates. Day and night he studied the best means of
escape, until at last the attempt was made and he stood one dark, rainy
night, out on the highway a free man, breathing the pure breath of
heaven, and ready to sell his life at any cost rather than go back again
to the prison he had left. He had put his trust in God, and God had
raised him up a friend at once, who had seen him leave the prison, and
greatly aided him in his escape, just as he had aided others, knowing
the while that by so doing he was putting his own life in jeopardy. But
a staunch Unionist at heart, he was willing to brave everything for the
cause, and it was through his instrumentality and minute directions that
Will Mather had finally reached the shelter of the mountains which
separate North Carolina from Tennessee. He had found friends all along
the route, true, loyal men, who had periled their lives for him; brave
tender women, whose hands had ministered so kindly to his wants, and who
had so cheerfully divided with him their scanty meals, even though
hunger was written upon their thin, haggard faces, and stared in their
sunken eyes. And Will had taken down each name, and registered a vow
that if ever he reached the North, these noble self-denying people
should be rewarded, and if possible removed from a neighborhood where
they suffered so much from privation and from the hands of their former
friends, who, suspecting their sentiments, heaped upon them every
possible abuse. Ragged, bareheaded, footsore and worn, he came at last,
at the close of a June day, to the entrance of a cave in the hills to
which he had been directed, and where, on the damp earth, he slept so
soundly from fatigue and exhaustion that the morning sun was shining
through the entrance to the cave, and a robin, on a shrub growing near,
was trilling its morning song ere he awoke. The air, though damp from
the water which trickled through the rocks, was close and stifling, and
Will crept cautiously out from his hiding-place, and sitting down upon
the ground drank in the beauty and stillness of the summer morning.
Exactly where he was he did not know, but he felt certain that his face
was toward the land where the Stars and Stripes were waving, and a
thrill of joy ran through his veins as he thought of home and Rose,
whose eyes by this time had grown so dim with looking for him. “God take
me safely to her,” he whispered, when up the mountain side came the
sound of voices and the tramp of feet. Creeping to the farthest side of
the cave, and crawling down beneath the shelving rock where the cool
waters were dripping, he hoped to avoid being seen. Up to this moment
Will’s courage had never flagged, but now, when the Federal lines were
not many miles away, and Rose and home seemed certain, he felt a great
pang of fear, and his white lips whispered, “God pity me! God help me,
God save me, for his own glory, if not for Rose’s sake,” then, knee-deep
in the pool of water, he stood with his body nearly double, while the
voices and the feet came nearer, and at last stopped directly in front
of his hiding-place.
There were terrible oaths outside, and bitter denunciations were
breathed against any luckless Union man who might be lurking near, and
then the light from the entrance of the cave was wholly obscured, and
Will saw that a man’s back was against the opening, as if some one were
sitting there. _Did_ they know of the cave? Would they come in there,
and if they did would they find him? Will kept asking himself these
questions and his breath came gaspingly as he knew that the man whose
back barred the entrance to his hiding-place was the bitterest in his
invectives against the Yankees, and the most anxious to find them.
Something in his voice and language indicated both education and
position superior to his companions, who evidently looked up to him as
their leader, calling him “_Square_,” and acquiescing readily when,
after the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, he suggested that they go
higher up the mountain to a gorge where some of the fugitives had
heretofore taken refuge.
Five minutes more and the footsteps and voices were heard far up the
mountain, and Will breathed more freely again, and kneeling down in the
pool of water, thanked God who had turned the danger aside, and kept him
a little longer. He did not dare leave the cave, but he came out from
under the rock, and stretching himself upon the ground tried to wring
and dry the tatters which hung so loosely upon him.
It was two days since he had tasted food, and the long fast began to
make itself felt in the keen pangs of hunger. Surely he could venture
out toward the close of the day, he thought, and see if there were not
berries growing in the ledges, and when the sun was setting he crawled
to the mouth of the cavern, where just in the best place for him to see
it lay a huge corn-cake and slice of bacon, wrapped nicely in a bit of
paper.
How it came there he did not stop to ask. That it was there was
sufficient for him then, and never had the costliest dinner, served on
massive silver, tasted to him half so well as did that bit of bacon with
the coarse corn bread.
Refreshed and encouraged he went back to his hiding-place, intending to
start again on his perilous journey when the mountain path grew dark
enough to warrant him in doing so. But soon after the sunsetting a
fearful storm came up, and in the pitchy darkness of the cave Will
listened to the bellowing thunder roaring through the mountain gorges,
and saw from the opening the forked lightning which struck more than one
tall tree near the place of his concealment. Fed by the rain which had
fallen in torrents, the stream under the projecting rock was beginning
to rise and spread itself over the surface of the cave. It was up to his
ankles now, and it rose so rapidly that Will was thinking of leaving the
cave and groping his way as well as he could to the westward, when his
quick ear caught the sound as of two or more persons coming stealthily
up the mountain side. Whoever they were they seemed to move with the
utmost caution, and Will’s heart beat high as he hoped it might be some
brother fugitives seeking the shelter of the cave. The gleam of a
lantern, however, and the same voice he had heard in the morning cursing
the Yankees so bitterly dispelled that illusion, and in a tremor of
terror he drew back in his watery quarters, crawling in the darkness to
the farthest end of the cavern, and feeling the rising water flow over
his knees as he waited for what might come next.
“Stay here, Charlie, while I go in. I know he must be here, and if he
isn’t drowned by this time it’s just a special Providence, that’s all I
have to say.”
Surely that was no unfriendly voice, notwithstanding the oaths of the
morning, but still Will did not move until the stranger, who evidently
knew every turn and nook of the cavern, was so near to him that the
light from the dark lantern fell full upon his face and betrayed him at
once. There was a thought of Rose, and the freedom he had almost
regained, and then forgetting the friendly tones, Will gave a low,
bitter moan and stretching out his hands, said imploringly,
“Kill me here as well as anywhere, and let the suspense be ended.”
“Kill you, my boy?” and the stranger spoke cheerily as he bent over poor
Will and rubbed his clammy hands. “What should I kill _you_ for? I’ve
had my eyes on you ever since yesterday evening, when I saw you creeping
under the brushwood, and knew you were hunting for this cave. The
‘Refuge of Safety,’ I call it, and it has proved so to many a poor devil
who like yourself has taken shelter here. I have never known one to fail
of reaching the happy land when once they got so far as this, so cheer
up, my man. Paul Haverill can swear a string of swears about the Yanks
which will reach from here to Richmond, if necessary, and then when the
hounds are thrown off the track he can turn round and save the poor
hunted rascal’s life. You are among your friends, so come out from this
puddle. You must be wetter than a rat. There’s a spring under the rocks,
and it rises in a rain so as to fill the cave sometimes. Here, Charlie,
give us that shawl, his teeth are fairly chattering.”
Thus talking, the stranger, who had announced himself as Paul Haverill,
led Will out to where the boy Charlie stood, holding a bright plaid
shawl in his hand, and looking curiously at the worn, drooping, sorry
figure emerging from the cave. It was a woman’s shawl, Will knew, but it
was very soft and warm, and he wrapt it closely round him, for he was
shaking with cold, and his tattered garments were wringing wet. Very few
words were spoken, and those in a whisper, as they went cautiously down
the mountain until they reached what seemed to be a road winding among
the hills. This they did not follow, but, striking into the field or
pasture land beside it, kept to the right, and at a safe distance from
it, lest some straggler might be abroad, and meet them face to face.
Will Mather was enough acquainted with Southern customs not to be
surprised to find here in the mountain wilds a substantial and even
handsome-looking building, which, with its white walls and green blinds,
seemed much like the farm-houses in New England. There was a light
shining from the windows, and a woman’s brisk step was heard as they
went toward the door; Paul Haverill coughing, to give warning of his
approach.
“All right!” was the pass-word by which they entered, and Will soon
stood in the wide hall which ran through the entire building, and opened
in the rear upon a broad piazza.
“Better take him to Miss Maude’s room,” the woman said, and Will
followed on to an upper chamber, which, he would have known at once
belonged to a young lady.
It was not as elegantly furnished as his own sleeping apartment at home,
but it bore unmistakable marks of taste and refinement; while the air of
pure gentle womanhood, which pervaded it, brought Rose very vividly
before him.
“This is my niece’s room, Maude De Vere,” Mr. Haverill explained, when
they were alone, and Will was drying himself before the fire, kindled by
the woman who had admitted them, and who, Will saw, was a mulatto. “My
niece is not at home now,” he continued. “She is in South Carolina; has
been gone several months on a visit to old Judge Tunbridge, her mother’s
uncle. I’m her mother’s brother, and she and the boy Charlie have lived
with me since the first year of the war. Their father was Captain De
Vere, from North Carolina, and was killed at the first Bull Run. Nelly,
their mother, never held up her head after that. I was with her when she
died, and brought the children home. Maude is twenty now, and Charlie
fourteen. I am their guardian. Maude is Union, Charlie secesh, but safe.
They have a great deal of property here and there, though how it will
come through the war, the Lord only knows.”
Will was glad to see that his host was inclined to talk on without
waiting for answers, and he kept quiet, while Mr. Haverill continued:
“I dare say you wonder to find a chap like me among people who are so
bitter against you Yankees, and I sometimes wonder at myself. I am South
Carolina born, and ought to be foremost in the rebellion; but hanged if
I can see that it is right. Why, _I_ might as well set up a government
of my own, here on the Oak Plantation, and refuse to come under any
civilized laws. Mind, though, I don’t think the South all wrong,—not a
bit of it. The North _did_ bully us, and the election of Mr. Lincoln was
particularly obnoxious to the majority here, but we had no right to
secede, and you did your duty trying to drive us back. For a spell I
kept quiet,—didn’t take either side; or if I did, I wanted the South to
beat, as all my interests are here. But when our folks got to abusing
their prisoners so shamefully, and told so many lies by way of deceiving
us fellows who live among the hills and only get the news once or twice
a week, I changed my politics, and after the day when I found one of my
neighbors, and the best man that ever breathed, too, _hung_ to a tree
like a dog, with the word ‘Abolitionist’ pinned to his coat, I made a
vow that every energy I had should be given to caring for and helping;
just such wretches as you, and if I’ve helped one I’ve helped a
thousand. Why, at least a hundred have slept in this very room,—Maude’s
room; for, as I told you, she is Union to the backbone, and led one chap
across the mountain herself. She is a regular Di Vernon, and is not
afraid of the very de’il. When she went away she bade me put them in
here, as the room least liable to suspicion. To the folks around me I am
the roughest kind of a Secessionist, and I suppose nobody can beat me
swearing about the Yankees, just to hoodwink ’em, you know. I suppose
that’s wrong; my wife would say so; she was a saint when she was
here,—she is an angel now. She died five years ago,—before the war broke
out; and _Lois_, the woman you saw, has been my housekeeper since. I
shouldn’t like the North to take her from me. They tried it once,—when a
squad of ’em ransacked my house,—and I was sick in bed. Maude threatened
to blow their brains out: and, sir, she would have done it, too, if the
scamps hadn’t let Lois alone.
“I don’t agree with your folks on the nigger question, though none of
mine has run away since the Proclamation, which I did not like. They
know, too, they are free, or will be when the Yankees come, for I took
pains to tell them, and gave them liberty to cut stick for the Federal
lines as soon as they pleased; but they staid, and great help I find
them in the business I’m carrying on. They are constantly on the lookout
for runaways or refugees, and are quite as good as bloodhounds to scent
one. They told me about _you_, and I watched and saw you go into that
cave, which is on my land, and which few know about, or if they do they
think it a springhole, and never dream that anybody can hide in there.
Somebody else must have seen you, too, for word came that a man was
hiding in the mountains, and as the acknowledged leader of as hard a set
as ever hunted a Yankee, I went with ’em to find you, and carried in my
pocket that bacon and corn bread which I managed to drop into the cave
when I sat with my back against it. I knew you must be hungry, and it
might be some time before I could come to your aid. We didn’t find the
chap; but to-morrow they’ll be at it again, and so, while I help ’em
hunt for a man about your build, you will stay in the room in Lois’s
charge. Maude has a good many gimcracks here, such as books and things,
which may amuse you. She is coming home by and by. The house is very
different then. You ought to see Maude. We are very proud of her. That’s
her picture, only not half so good-looking,” and he pointed to a small
oil painting hanging above the mantel.
It was a splendid head, and the glossy black hair bound about it in
heavy braids gave it a still more regal look. The eyes, too, were black,
but very soft and gentle in their expression, though something about
them gave the impression that they might flash and blaze brilliantly
under excitement. It was a beautiful face, and Will did not wonder that
his host was proud of his niece,—prouder even than of the pale-faced,
delicate boy, who next day, while the hunt for the runaway went on among
the mountains, tried to entertain Will Mather by telling him of his old
home in North Carolina, and how happy they were there before the war
came and took his father away.
“I don’t see it in the light Uncle Paul and sister do,” Charlie said. “I
don’t want them to catch and torment the prisoners, or murder folks who
don’t think as they do; but I _do_ want our side to succeed, and when I
hear of a victory I say ‘Hurrah for the Confederacy!’ I can’t help it
when I think of father, who was killed by the Yankees, and all the
trouble the war has brought. I’m willing to work like a dog for the
refugees and prisoners, and I’d die sooner than betray one, but if I was
a man I’d join Mr. Davis’s army sure.”
The pale face of the boy was flushed all over, and his dark eyes burned
with Southern fire as he frankly avowed his sentiments, and Will Mather
could not repress a smile at this noble specimen of a Southern rebel.
“I like you, my boy, for your frankness,” he said, “and when the war is
over, I shall have to send for you to come North and be cured of your
treason.”
“It is not _treason_,” and the boy stamped his girlish foot. “It is not
treason any more than the views held by the Revolutionary soldiers.
Didn’t the colonies secede from England, and does anybody call
Washington a traitor now? I tell you it is _success_ which decides the
nature of the thing. If we succeed, future historians will speak of us
as patriots, as a persecuted people, who gave our lives in defence of
our homes and firesides.”
“You won’t succeed, my poor boy. The Confederacy is gasping its last
breath. You will be conquered at the last, and then what have you
gained?”
“Nothing,—nothing but ruin!” and the tears poured over the white face of
this defender of Southern rights.
Soon recovering himself, however, he exclaimed, proudly:
“We may be conquered, but not subjugated. You can’t do that with all
your countless hordes of men, and your millions of money. The North can
never subjugate the South. We may lay down our arms because we have no
other alternative, but we shall still think the same, and feel the same
as we do now.”
Here was a curious study for Will Mather, who was surprised to find such
maturity of thought and so strong determination in one so young and
frail.
“No wonder it is hard to conquer a people composed of such elements,” he
thought, and he was about to continue the conversation when he was
startled by a loud blast from a horn among the hills.
“They’ve caught some one. They always do that as a kind of exultation,”
the boy exclaimed, wringing his hands, and evincing as much distress as
he had heretofore shown bitterness against the opposing party.
It was a poor refugee from a neighboring county, whom, in spite of Paul
Haverill’s precautions, they had found in a hollow tree, and whom they
brought more dead than alive down to the Oak Plantation, amid vociferous
cries of “Tar and feather him!” “Hang him to a sour-apple tree!” “Give
him a taste of the halter!” “Make him an example to all other sneaking
Yankee sympathizers!”
With his face as white as marble, and his lips set firmly together, Paul
Haverill stood in the midst of the noisy group which he tried to quiet.
“Let us try him by jury,” he said, and something in his voice reassured
the frightened, haggard wretch, who had seen his house burned down and
his son shot before his very eyes, and of course expected no mercy.
The trial by jury proved popular, and then Paul Haverill suggested that
a judge be chosen in the person of some one who had lost a near friend
in the war, and was of course competent to mete out full justice to the
criminal—“Charlie, for instance,” and his eye fell on the boy, who had
joined the crowd and was standing close by the prisoner. The boy caught
his uncle’s meaning at once, and exclaimed:
“Yes, let _me_ be the judge. My father was killed at Bull Run. My mother
died of grief. Surely I may decide.”
Charlie De Vere was a favorite with the men, who knew how staunch a
Confederate he was, and, waiving the trial for want of time, they said:
“Charlie shall decide whether we hang, drown, whip, or tar and feather
the prisoner at the bar.”
Then, with far more energy and fire than had characterized his
vindication of the South, Charlie De Vere pleaded for the criminal, that
they would _let him go_. “Just this once, for father’s sake, and mine,
and Maude’s,” he said; and, at the mention of Maude, the dark brows
began to clear, and the scowling faces grew more lenient in their
expression, for Maude De Vere was worshiped by the rough men of the
mountains, who, though they knew her sympathies were on the Union side,
made an exception in her favor, and held her person and opinions sacred.
For _her_ sake, they would let their captive go, giving him warning to
leave the neighborhood at once, nor let himself be seen again in their
midst while the war lasted.
And thus it chanced that Will Mather had a companion in his wanderings,
which were renewed the following day; the boy Charlie acting as guide
through the most dangerous part of the way, and at last bidding him
good-bye, with great tears in his eyes, as he said:
“I hope you won’t be caught; but I don’t know, the woods are full of our
soldiers. Travel at night, and hide through the day. Trust no one, but
the negroes; and if you are captured, ask for mercy in sister’s name.
Everybody knows Maude De Vere.”