A Friend in Need.
In the evening, at dark, they resumed their journey. They boldly
followed the road, and met with no opposition until just before
daylight, when a voice directly in front of them shouted, "Halt!"
"Now, boys," whispered the major, "our safety depends upon our nerve.
It is so dark they can't see our faces, so don't be frightened at
any thing that may happen. Captain, take care of that prisoner, and
remember and blow his brains out the moment he makes the least attempt
at escape."
"Who goes there?" shouted the voice again.
"Scouts!" answered the major, promptly.
"Advance, one scout, and give the counter sign."
The Major accordingly advanced to the place where the sentry was
standing, and the captain cautiously cocking his musket, placed its
cold muzzle against the prisoner's head, whispering, between his
clenched teeth:
"I guess you hear what the major did said, ain't it? Well, then, don't
say somethings."
The laconic captain probably thought this warning sufficient, for
he brought his musket to an "order arms," and did not afterward even
deign to cast a single glance at the prisoner.
In the mean time, the major was endeavoring to convince the lieutenant
of the guard that, although they did not have the countersign, they
were in reality Confederate soldiers.
"It may be that you'uns is all right," said the lieutenant, after
reading, by the aid of a dark lantern, the papers which Frank had
captured. "But, you see, thar's so many of these yere Yanks running
away, that we'uns has got to be mighty careful how we let folks go
past."
"I tell you," said the major, speaking as though he considered himself
highly insulted, "I tell you, that I am on special service by order
of General Taylor. I have been out on a scout to recapture the very
prisoners you have just mentioned. I have already caught one of them,"
he added, pointing to their prisoner, who, let it be remembered, was
dressed in Frank's uniform.
"If you'uns is out on a scout," said a soldier, who had been aroused
from his blanket, and pressed up to obtain a glance at the major,
"whar's your hosses?"
"I left them about a mile down the river. I have already been through
your lines once to-night, and I might have gone through this time
without your knowledge, if I had seen fit to do so."
"Maybe it's all right," said the lieutenant, shaking his head
dubiously; "but I'll be dog-gone if I don't think I've seen your face
somewhere before;" and as he said this he raised the lantern, and
allowed the light to shine full upon him. Frank, who had been waiting
impatiently for the interview to be brought to a close, gave himself
up for lost when he saw a smile of triumph light up the rebel's face.
But the major was equal to the emergency. Meeting the lieutenant's
gaze without flinching, he replied, carelessly:
"Very likely you have. I have been in the service ever since the war
broke out. But do you intend to allow us to proceed, or shall I be
obliged to report you at head-quarters? Remember, I can say that you
do not keep a very good watch, seeing I have already passed you once."
This threat seemed to decide the lieutenant, who replied, "I guess
it's all right--you'uns can pass."
When Frank heard this, it seemed as though a heavy load had been
removed from his breast. But the hardest part of the trial, with him,
had yet to come. What if he should be recognized? But he had that
risk to run; so, summoning up all his fortitude, he marched with his
companions by the guards, apparently as unconcerned as though he was
entering a friendly camp.
The moment they got out of hearing of the tread of the sentinel,
the major turned from the road and led the way into the woods. After
walking a short distance, at a rapid pace, he whispered:
"Perhaps we fooled the rascals, but I think not. I didn't like the way
that lieutenant eyed me. I am certain we shall be pursued as soon as
he can send for assistance; and the best thing we can do is to get
away from here. So, forward, double-quick. Don't make too much noise
now. Captain, look out for that prisoner."
It was well that the major had adopted the precaution of leaving the
road and taking to the woods, for, in less than half an hour after
they had passed the guards, a squad of cavalry came up, having a full
and correct description of Frank and his companions. By some means,
the capture of the rebel lieutenant had become known, and a portion of
his own regiment--which had followed Frank from Shreveport, but which
had given up the chase and returned--had again started in pursuit.
The guards were astounded when they learned that the young gun-boat
officer (with whose flight and subsequent almost miraculous escapes
from recapture every scout in the country was acquainted) had been
within their very grasp, and a portion of them joined the cavalry in
pursuit; but, as they kept on down the road, Frank and his companions
again escaped. They had heard their pursuers pass by, and knowing that
the country would be thoroughly alarmed, and that it would be useless
to attempt to reach Red River at present, they directed their course
toward Washita River, which lay about thirty-five miles distant,
hoping to deceive the rebels as to their real intentions, and thus, by
drawing their pursuers into the country, leave their avenue of escape
unobstructed.
One clear, moonlight night they halted, as usual, in the rear of a
plantation, and were debating upon the best means to be employed in
obtaining food, when a man, dressed in a shabby Federal uniform, was
discovered coming slowly toward them, on the opposite side of the
fence that separated the woods from the plantation.
His sudden and wholly unexpected appearance took them completely by
surprise. Frank immediately proposed to challenge him. Perhaps, like
themselves, he was a fugitive from a rebel prison, and in need of
assistance. But the captain strongly opposed this, and was in favor
of shooting the man, who still continued to advance, as if wholly
unconscious of the presence of any one--arguing, in his broken
English, and with good reason, too, that the appearance of a Federal
uniform in that part of the country boded them no good, but was a sure
sign of treachery; and evidently thinking that he had won the day, he
was about to put his plan into execution, when the major struck up his
musket, and shouted:
"Who comes there?"
The stranger, instead of replying, instantly threw himself on the
ground behind the fence, out of sight.
"Gott in himmel, major," exclaimed the disappointed captain, "I
pelieve it's better you shoots that man--purty quick we all gets
ketched again;" and as he said this the captain, who, although a very
brave man on the field of battle, was very much opposed to fighting an
invisible enemy, drew himself behind a tree, as if fully expecting to
see a whole army of rebels rush out of their concealments upon them.
"Be quiet, captain," said the major. "You have grown very suspicious
lately." Then, raising his voice, he called out: "Whoever you are
behind that fence, whether a friend or an enemy to the Union, come out
immediately, or you are a dead man."
A deep silence, which lasted for several seconds, followed his words.
Then came the ominous click of half a dozen gun-locks, which, in the
stillness of the night, could be heard a long distance.
The stranger evidently heard it too, for, without further hesitation,
he arose from behind the fence, and came forward.
The major allowed him to approach within a few yards, and then ordered
him to halt, and inquired:
"Now, sir! who and what are you? Tell the truth, for you have
desperate men to deal with."
"From your language," answered the stranger, in a voice so soft that
it was almost feminine, but which, nevertheless, betrayed not the
slightest trepidation, "I should judge that you are escaped prisoners;
if so, permit me to make one of your number. If not, you will find me
as desperate as yourselves; for I have suffered too much in prison
to ever allow myself to be taken back alive;" and, as he spoke, he
displayed a brace of pistols, which showed that he meant what he said.
"Gott in himmel!" exclaimed the captain, springing out from behind
his tree, and forgetting, in a moment, all his suspicions, "vos you
captured, too? We been mighty glad to see you, any how."
"Yes," answered the man, "I have been a prisoner for twenty-two
months, and it was not until three weeks since that I succeeded in
making my escape."
"We'll take your story for what it is worth, at present," said
the major, "for we can not stop to talk. We must first make some
arrangements about obtaining something to eat, and then we must be
off."
"My haversack has just been replenished," said the stranger, "and we
have sufficient to last us for a day or two, at least."
"Well, let us be moving, then."
The major, as usual, led the way, and Frank walked beside the
stranger, who firmly, but respectfully, repelled every attempt he made
to enter into conversation, a circumstance which Frank regarded with
suspicion.
At length day began to dawn, and the fugitives commenced to cast
sidelong glances at their new companion. He was a tall, slimly-built
youth, apparently but little older than Frank, and his boyish face
wore a look of care and sorrow, which if once seen could never be
forgotten, and which showed that, young as he was, his path through
life had been any thing but a smooth one. His clothing was reduced
almost to tatters; but still there was enough of it left to show that
it was "Uncle Sam's blue;" and, as Frank surveyed him from head to
foot, he discovered something hanging to one of the shreds of his
coat, which immediately interested him in the silent stranger. It was
a navy button. This was enough for Frank, who, forgetting the manner
in which his advances had been received, inquired:
"Are you a naval officer, sir?"
"Yes," answered the youth, in a low voice, "or, rather, I was once."
"So was I. Give us your hand."
The sad, gloomy look gave way to a smile of genuine pleasure, as the
stranger grasped the proffered hand, and shook it heartily.
"What vessel were you attached to, and when and how were you
captured?" inquired Frank.
But his companion had relapsed into his former state of gloominess and
silence, and seemed to be pondering upon something at once painful and
interesting.
Frank made no further attempts to draw him into conversation, and,
just as the sun was rising, the major gave the order to halt. He also
had noticed the sorrowful look of the young stranger, and, attributing
it to a depression of spirits, which any one would feel at finding
himself in such circumstances, addressed him, as he came up, with:
"My friend, you appear to be sorely troubled about something. Cheer
up; it does no good to be despondent. I know our case is desperate,
but it is not altogether hopeless. We do not intend to be recaptured,
as long as one of us has strength to draw a trigger."
"I am not troubled about that, sir," answered the youth, throwing
himself wearily on the ground. "The cause of my sorrow dates further
back than my capture and confinement in prison. I know that I am not
the only one who has suffered during this rebellion; but mine is a
peculiar case. I have not known a happy day since the war commenced.
Every tie that bound me to earth was severed when the first gun was
fired on Fort Sumter."
"Ah!" exclaimed Frank, guessing the truth at once. "Then your
relatives are rebels."
"Yes, they are; and the most bitter kind of rebels, too. I have kept
my secret until I can no longer endure it. I have become
completely discouraged, and am greatly in need of what I at first
shunned--sympathy. If you will bear with me, I will tell you my
circumstances. It will serve to relieve me, and may interest you, and
prove that I am really what I profess to be, an escaped prisoner."
"Certainly, let us hear it. Go on," said the major.
Thus encouraged, the youth proceeded:
"My name is George Le Dell; and I am the youngest son of General
Le Dell, of the Confederate army. My home is, or rather was, on
the Washita River, about ten miles from this very place. When I was
seventeen years of age, I was sent North to complete my education,
at Yale College, and was just about commencing my senior year, when I
received this letter from my father."
Here George paused, and drew from his pocket a bundle of papers,
carefully tied up, and, producing a letter, from which the writing was
almost obliterated, he handed it to Frank, who read aloud as follows:
CATAHOOLA PARISH, _February_ 12, 1861.
MY DEAR GEORGE:
Your letter of the 2d ult. was duly received.
Although your ideas of the civil war, to which you seem to look
forward with such anxiety, are rather crude, you are, in the main,
correct in your conjectures as to our intentions. Secession is a
fixed fact. You know it has often been discussed by our leading
men, and the election of Mr. Lincoln has only served to
precipitate our action. Had he been defeated, it might have been
put off four years longer; but it would be certain to come then.
For years the heaven-sanctioned institution of slavery has been
subjected to all the attacks that the fiendish imaginations of the
Yankee abolitionists could suggest, and we are determined to bear
with them no longer. We intend to establish a confederacy of our
own, whose corner-stone shall be slavery.
I wish you to come home immediately, as I have secured you a first
lieutenant's commission in a cavalry company, which is to be
mustered into my regiment. Your brothers have already accepted
theirs, and are drilling their companies twice every week. Of
course, we do not expect a war, for we have kept the cowardly
Yankees under our thumbs so long that they will not dare to oppose
us. However, we consider it best to be on the safe side.
Inclosed I send you a check for two hundred dollars, which, I
think, will be sufficient to pay all your bills, and to defray
your expenses home.
Your mother and sisters send their love.
Hoping to see you soon, and to join hands with you in destroying
every vestige of the old Union, I remain,
Yours, affectionately, EDWARD LE DELL.
While Frank was reading this letter, George had sat with his face
buried in his hands, not once moving or giving a sign of life: but,
as soon as the letter was finished, he raised his pale face, and
inquired, in a husky voice:
"What do you think of that? It does not seem possible that a father,
who had the least spark of affection for his son, could advise him to
follow such a course, does it? Turn the letter over, and you will see
a copy of my answer written on the back."
It ran as follows:
YALE COLLEGE, _March_ 20, 1861.
MY DEAR FATHER:
You can not imagine with what feelings of astonishment and sorrow
I read your letter of the 12th ult., which was received nearly
three weeks since. The reason for my delay in replying you can
easily divine. Has it, then, come to this? Is it possible that, in
order to do my duty to my country, I must be willing to incur the
displeasure of my father? What would you have me do? Assist in
pulling down the old flag, and in breaking up the best government
the world over saw? Why, father, this is downright madness. I _can
not_ "join hands" with you in so unholy a cause. On the contrary,
as long as that flag needs defenders, you will find me among them.
You are deceiving yourself when you say the "cowardly Yankees"
will not fight. They are a people "slow to wrath," but they are
not cowards, father; and you will find, to your sorrow, that they
will resist, to the death, "any and every attempt to alienate any
portion of this _Union_ from the rest."
Living in the South, as I have, I have long seen this war brewing,
but was unwilling to confess it, even to myself; and I had hoped,
that if it did come, my father would not countenance it. Why will
you do it? You never, never can succeed. The very first attempt
you make to withdraw from your allegiance to the United States
will be the signal for a war, the like of which the world has
never witnessed, and the blood of thousands of men, who will be
sacrificed to glut your ambition, will be upon your own heads.
Inclosed, I respectfully return the check, with many thanks for
your kindness. I can not use it for the purpose you wish.
Hoping and praying that you and my brothers will consider well
before you take the step that will bring you only suffering and
disgrace, and will use all your influence to prevent the effusion
of blood that must necessarily follow the suicidal course you
would pursue, I am, as ever,
Your affectionate son, GEO. LE DELL.
"That was the best I could do at the time," said George, as Frank
finished the letter. "I believe I must have been crazy when I wrote
it. If I could only have known as much as I do now, I think I could
have made a much better plea than that."
"Didn't it have any effect upon your father?" inquired the major.
"Effect!" repeated George. "Yes, it had the effect of making him
disinherit and cast me off. Read that," he continued, handing Frank
another soiled paper, which looked as though it had been read and
thumbed continually. "I felt like one with his death-warrant when I
received that."
It ran thus:
CATAHOOLA PARISH, _March_ 31, 1861.
SIR:
In reply to your scandalous and insulting letter, I have but a few
words to say.
This, then, is the only return you have to make for all the favors
I have showered upon you! I had expected great things of you,
George, for you have the abilities that would have raised you to a
high position in the South; and it seems hard that my fond hopes
should be dashed to the ground, by one fell blow, given, too, by
your own hand. But I know my duty; and now, sir, I have done with
you. I cast you off forever. You will never enter my house again;
and not a cent of my property shall ever be possessed by you--no,
not even if you were starving. I have instructed my family to
forget that such a person as George Le Dell ever existed. Take
part with our oppressors, if you choose, but be assured that the
justly-merited consequences of your folly will be visited upon
you.
In conclusion, I have to say, that if any more letters are
received from you, they shall be returned unopened.
EDWARD LE DELL.
"Now you can see exactly how I am situated," said George, taking the
letter from Frank's hand, and putting it with the others carefully
away in his pocket. "Do you wonder, then, that I am sorrowful, cut off
as I am from all my relatives, with strict orders never to cross the
threshold of my father's house again, not even if I am dying for want
of food? You have, doubtless, heard of the malignity displayed by the
rebel leaders toward any Southerner who dares to differ with them
in opinion, and have looked upon them as idle stories, gotten up
for effect; but I know, by the most bitter experience, that it is a
reality. Does it seem possible that a person can be so blind, and act
with such cruelty toward a son?
"When the war was fairly begun," he continued, "I kept the vow I had
made--that as long as the old flag needed defenders, I should be found
among them, by enlisting as fourth master, in what was then called
the 'Gun-boat Flotilla,' about to commence operations on the Western
waters. I participated in the battle of Island No. 10; was at the
taking of Memphis, and at St. Charles; when the 'Mound City' was blown
up, I barely escaped being scalded to death. I was on the 'Essex,'
when she ran the batteries at Vicksburg, and during the subsequent
fight, which resulted in the defeat of the 'Arkansas' ram. About a
month after that I was captured with a party of men, while on shore
on a foraging expedition. I fought as long as I could, for I knew that
death would be preferable to the treatment I should receive; but I was
overpowered, and finally surrendered to save the lives of my men. The
rebels, of course, immediately commenced crowding about us, and the
very first officer I saw was my brother Henry, who had risen to the
position of adjutant, in father's regiment. He instantly recognized
me, and, after giving strict orders that I should be closely confined,
rode off. I had many acquaintances in the regiment. Some of them had
been my classmates at college; and the story of my _treason_, as they
called it, was given a wide circulation. I fared even worse than I had
expected. My food was of the very worst quality, and barely sufficient
to sustain life. I was never allowed a shelter of any kind, not even
a blanket; and, when my clothing was worn out, I could not obtain
another suit. 'Stick to your dirty blue,' said the officer under whose
charge I had been placed, 'and every time you look at it, think of the
meanness of which you have been guilty.'
"At length, to my relief, the order came for me to be transferred to
the prison at Tyler. When I arrived at that place, I was thrust into
an old slave-pen, where I was contained nearly twenty months before
I succeeded in effecting my escape. I was given to understand that it
had been ordered that I was not to be exchanged, but might expect
to die a traitor's death at no distant day. Whether or not this was
intended to terrify me, I do not know; but, since my escape, I have
thought that there were some good grounds for fear; for, during my
journey from Tyler to Shreveport, I was not once out of hearing of the
blood-hounds that were following my trail. The only support I have had
is the consciousness that I have tried to do my duty. If it were not
for that, I should be the most miserable person in the world; and I
should not care how soon some rebel bullet put an end to my existence.
"Although I am now looked upon by my relatives as a stranger and an
outcast, I have determined to visit once more the place which, long
ago, I used to call _home_. It is only ten miles from here, and not a
step out of our way. Will you accompany me?"
Of course, this strange proposition at first met with strong
opposition, especially from the captain. But George assured them that
there was not the slightest danger, as all the troops in that part
of the country had been ordered to Fort De Russy, and were hourly
expecting an attack; consequently they would find no one at home
except George's mother, sisters, and a few old negroes who were too
feeble to work on the fortifications. Besides as all the troops were
now at Red River, their safest course would be to abandon, for awhile,
at least, the idea of taking it as their guide to the Mississippi.
This silenced their objections, and, after the sentinels for the day
had been selected, the fugitives, stretching themselves out on the
ground, and fell asleep--all except Frank, who leaned back against a
tree. While he kept watch over his sleeping companions, he pondered
upon the history of their new acquaintance, and admired the high
sense of duty and patriotism that had animated him to make so great a
sacrifice for the sake of the "old flag."