THE REBEL SOLDIER.
Tom Somers was not very well satisfied with his situation, for the soldier
who had been left in possession of the house was armed with a musket, and
the prospect of escaping before night was not very flattering. The
patriarch of the family, who had such a horror of recruiting officers, was
approaching, and in a few moments there would be an exciting scene in the
vicinity.
Independent of his promise made to the woman to help her husband, if she
would not betray him, Tom deemed it his duty to prevent the so-called
Confederate States of America from obtaining even a single additional
recruit for the armies of rebellion and treason. Without having any
personal feeling in the matter, therefore, he was disposed to do all he
could to assist his host in "avoiding the draft." What would have been
treason in New England was loyalty in Virginia.
The unfortunate subject of the Virginia militia law was unconsciously
approaching the trap which had been set for him. He had, no doubt, come to
the conclusion, by this time, that the hungry soldier boy was not a
recruiting officer, or even the corporal of a guard sent to apprehend him,
and he was returning with confidence to partake of his noonday meal. Tom,
from his perch at the top of the chimney, watched him as he ambled along
over the rough path with his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was
something rather exciting in the situation of affairs, and he soon found
himself deeply interested in the issue.
The unhappy citizen owing service to the Confederate States climbed over
the zigzag fence that enclosed his garden, and continued to approach the
rude dwelling which the law had defined to be his castle. Tom did not dare
to speak in tones loud enough to be heard by the innocent victim of the
officer's conspiracy, for they would have betrayed his presence to the
enemy. Sitting upon the top stones of the chimney, he gesticulated
violently, hoping to attract his attention; but the man did not look up,
and consequently could not see the signals.
He had approached within ten rods of the back door of the house, when Tom,
fearing his footsteps might attract the attention of the soldier, ventured
to give a low whistle. As this was not heeded, he repeated the signal when
the man was within two or three rods of the house; but even this was not
noticed, and throwing his head forward, so that the sound of his voice
should not descend the chimney, he spoke.
"Halloo!" said he.
The man suddenly stopped, and looked up. Tom made signals with his hands
for him to leave; but this mute language appeared not to be intelligible
to him.
"Consarn yer picter, what are yer doin' up thar?" said the proprietor of
the castle, in tones which seemed to Tom as loud as the roar of the cannon
at Bull Run.
"Hush! Hush!" replied Tom, gesticulating with all his might, and using all
his ingenuity to invent signs that would convey to the militiaman the idea
that he was in imminent danger.
"You be scotched!" snarled the man. "What are yer doin'? What ails yer?"
"They are after you!" added Tom, in a hoarse whisper.
The fellow most provokingly refused to hear him, and Tom thought his skull
was amazingly thick, and his perceptions amazingly blunt.
"Now you come down from thar," said he, as he picked up a couple of
stones. "You act like a monkey, and I s'pose yer be one. Now make tracks
down that chimley."
But instead of doing this, Tom retreated into his shell, as a snail does
when the moment of peril arrives. The soldier in the house was not deaf;
and if he had been, he could hardly have helped hearing the stentorian
tones of his victim. Instead of going out the back door, like a sensible
man, he passed out at the front door, and in a moment more Tom heard his
voice just beneath him.
"Halt!" shouted the soldier, as he brought his musket to his shoulder.
"Your name is Joe Burnap."
"That's my name, but I don't want nothin' o' you," replied the embarrassed
militiaman, as he dropped the stones with which he had intended to assault
Tom's citadel.
"I want something of you," replied the soldier. "You must go with me.
Advance, and give yourself up."
"What fur?" asked poor Joe.
"We want you for the army. You are an enrolled militiaman. You must go
with me."
"Ill be dog derned if I do," answered Joe Burnap, desperately.
"If you attempt to run away, I'll shoot you. You shall go with me, dead or
alive, and hang me if I care much which."
Joe evidently did care. He did not want to go with the soldier; his
southern blood had not been fired by the wrongs of his country; and he was
equally averse to being shot in cold blood by this minion of the
Confederacy. His position was exceedingly embarrassing, for he could
neither run, fight, nor compromise. While matters were in this interesting
and critical condition, Tom ventured to raise his head over the top of the
chimney to obtain a better view of the belligerents. Joe stood where he
had last seen him, and the soldier was standing within three feet of the
foot of the chimney.
"What ye going to do, Joe Burnap?" demanded the latter, after waiting a
reasonable time for the other to make up his mind.
"What am I gwine to do?" repeated Joe, vacantly, as he glanced to the
right and the left, apparently in the hope of obtaining some suggestion
that would enable him to decide the momentous question.
"You needn't look round, Joe; you've got to come or be shot. Just take
your choice between the two, and don't waste my time."
"I s'pose I can't help myself," replied Joe. "I'll tell ye what I'll do. I
want to fix up things about hum a little, and I'll jine ye down to the Gap
to-morrow."
"No you don't, Joe Burnap!" said the soldier, shaking his head.
"Then I'll jine ye to-night," suggested the strategist.
"My orders are not to return without you, and I shall obey them."
Mrs. Burnap, who had followed the soldier out of the house, stood behind
him wringing her hands in an agony of grief. She protested with all a
woman's eloquence against the proceedings of the soldier; but her tears
and her homely rhetoric were equally unavailing. While the parties were
confronting each other, the soldier dropped his piece, and listened to the
arguments of Joe and his wife. When he turned for a moment to listen to
the appeals of the woman, her husband improved the opportunity to commence
a retreat. He moved off steadily for a few paces, when the enemy
discovered the retrograde march, and again brought the gun to his
shoulder.
"None of that, Joe," said the soldier, sternly. "Now march back again, or
I'll shoot you;" and Tom heard the click of the hammer as he cocked the
piece. "I've fooled long enough with you, and we'll end this business
here. Come here, at once, or I'll put a bullet through your head."
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! For mercy's sake don't shoot," cried Mrs.
Burnap.
"I'll give him one minute to obey the order; if he don't do it then, I'll
fire. That's all I've got to say."
Tom saw by the soldier's manner that he intended to execute his threat. He
saw him brace up his nerves, and otherwise prepare himself for the bloody
deed. But Tom did not think that Joe had the stubbornness or the courage,
whichever it might be called, to run the risk of dodging the bullet. He
foresaw, too, that, if Joe gave himself up, his hiding place would be
exposed, and the soldier would have two prisoners to conduct back to his
officer, instead of one. It was therefore high time for him to do
something for his own protection, if not for that of his host.
The necessity of defending himself, or of doing something to cover his
retreat in an emergency, had been anticipated by Tom, and he had made such
preparations as the circumstances would admit. His first suggestion was to
dart his bayonet down at the rebel soldier, as he had seen the fishermen
of Pinchbrook harpoon a horse mackerel; but the chances of hitting the
mark were too uncertain to permit him to risk the loss of his only weapon,
and he rejected the plan. He adopted the method, however, in a modified,
form, deciding to use the material of which the chimney was constructed,
instead of the bayonet. The stones being laid in clay instead of mortar,
were easily detached from the structure, and he had one in his hands ready
for operations.
"Come here, Joe Burnap, or you are a dead man," repeated the soldier, who
evidently had some scruples about depriving the infant Confederacy of an
able-bodied recruit.
Tom Somers, being unembarrassed by any such scruples, lifted himself up
from his hiding place, and hurled the stone upon the soldier, fully
expecting to hit him on the head, and dash out his brains. The best laid
calculations often miscarry, and Tom's did in part, for the missile,
instead of striking the soldier upon the head, hit him on the right arm.
The musket was discharged, either by the blow or by the act of its owner,
and fell out of his hands upon the ground.
Now, a stone as big as a man's head, does not fall from the height of
fifteen feet upon any vulnerable part of the human frame without
inflicting some injury; and in strict conformity with this doctrine of
probabilities, the stone which Tom hurled down upon the rebel, and which
struck him upon the right arm, entirely disabled that useful member. The
hero of this achievement was satisfied with the result, though it had not
realized his anticipations. Concluding that the time had arrived for an
effective charge, he leaped out of the chimney upon the roof of the house,
descended to the eaves, and then jumped down upon the ground.
The soldier, in panic and pain, had not yet recovered from the surprise
occasioned by this sudden and unexpected onslaught. Tom rushed up to him,
and secured the musket before he had time to regain his self-possession.
"Who are you?" demanded the soldier, holding up the injured arm with his
left hand.
"Your most obedient servant," replied Tom, facetiously, as he placed
himself in the attitude of "charge bayonets." "Have you any dangerous
weapons about your person?"
"Yes, I have," replied the soldier, resolutely, as he retreated a few
steps, and attempted to thrust his left hand into the breast pocket of his
coat.
"Hands down!" exclaimed Tom, pricking his arm with the bayonet attached to
the musket. "Here, Joe Burnap!"
"What d' yer want?" replied the proprietor of the house, who was as
completely "demoralized" by the scene as the rebel soldier himself.
"Put your hand into this man's pocket, and take out his pistol. If he
resists, I'll punch him with this," added Tom, demonstrating the movement
by a few vigorous thrusts with the bayonet.
With some hesitation Joe took a revolver from the pocket of the soldier,
and handed it to Tom.
"Examine all his pockets. Take out everything he has in them," added Tom,
cocking the revolver, and pointing it at the head of the prisoner.
Joe took from the pockets of the rebel a quantity of pistol cartridges, a
knife, some letters, and a wallet.
"Who's this fur?" asked Joe, as he proceeded to open the wallet, and take
therefrom a roll of Confederate "shin-plasters."
"Give it back to him."
"But this is money."
"Money!" sneered Tom. "A northern beggar wouldn't thank you for all he
could carry of it. Give it back to him, and every thing else except the
cartridges."
Joe reluctantly restored the wallet, the letters, and the knife, to the
pockets from which he had taken them. Tom then directed him to secure the
cartridge box of the soldier.
"You are my prisoner," said Tom; "but I believe in treating prisoners
well. You may go into the house, and if your arm is much hurt, Mrs. Burnap
may do what she can to help you."
The prisoner sullenly attended the woman into the house, and Tom followed
as far as the front door.
"Now, what am I gwine to do?" said Joe. "You've got me into a right smart
scrape."
"I thought I had got you out of one," replied Tom. "Do you intend to
remain here?"
"Sartin not, now. I must clear."
"So must I; and we have no time to spare. Get what you can to eat, and
come along."
In ten minutes more, Tom and Joe Burnap were travelling towards the
mountains.