It was the very next afternoon that Joe Maxwell received the expected
summons from Mr. Deometari. The message was brought by a negro on a
mule, and the mule seemed to be very tired, although it had come only
nine miles.
“I never is see no mule like dis,” said the negro, indignantly, as he
took a soiled letter from his hat and handed it to Joe. “I start from
town at two o'tlocks, an' here 'tis mos' night. I got me a stick an' I
hit 'er on one side, an' den she'd shy on t'er side de road, an' when I
hit 'er on dat side, she'd shy on dis side. She been gwine slonchways de
whole blessed way.”
[Illustration: 0224]
Mr. Deomatari's note had neither address nor signature, and it was very
brief. “Come at once,” it said. “You remember the retreat from Laurel
Hill and the otter? Come in by the jail and around by the Branham place.
If some one cries, 'Who goes there?' say, 'It is the Relief.'”
Joe turned the note over and studied it. “Who gave you this?” he asked
the negro.
“Dat chuffy-lookin' white man what stay dar at de tavern. He say you
mustn't wait for me, but des push on. Dem wuz his ve'y words--des push
on.”
Joe had some trouble in getting away. The editor had gone off somewhere
in the plantation; and Butterfly, the horse he proposed to ride--the
horse he always rode--was in the pasture, and a colt in a plantation
pasture is as big a problem as a hard sum in arithmetic. The colt is
like the answer. It is there somewhere; but how are you going to get it,
and when? Harbert solved the problem after a while by cornering the colt
and catching him; but the sun was nearly down when Joe started, and
he then had nine miles to ride. Harbert, who was a sort of plantation
almanac, said there would be no moon until after midnight, and a mighty
small one then; but this made no difference to Joe Maxwell. Every
foot of the road was as familiar to him as it was to old Mr. Wall, the
hatter, who was in the habit of remarking that, if anybody would bring
him a hatful of gravel from the big road that led to Hillsborough, he'd
“up an' tell 'em right whar they scooped it up at.” Joe not only knew
the road well, but he was well mounted. Butterfly had all the faults Of
a colt except fear. He was high-spirited and nervous, but nothing seemed
to frighten him. When the lad started, Harbert ran on ahead to unlatch
the big plantation gate that opened on the public-road.
“Good-night, Marse Joe,” said the negro. “I wish you mighty well.”
“Good-night, Harbert,” responded Joe, as he went cantering into the
darkness.
There was something more than a touch of fall in the evening air, and
Butterfly sprang forward eagerly, and chafed at the bit that held him
back. The short, sharp snorts that came from his quivering nostrils
showed the tremendous energy he had in reserve, and it was not until
he had gone a mile or more that he settled down into the long, swift,
sweeping gallop that seemed in the dim light to throw the trees and
fences behind him. At a cross-road Joe heard the tramp of horses and the
jingling of spurs and bridle-bits, but he never paused, and it was
not until long afterward he learned that he had come near forming the
acquaintance of Wilson's raiders, who were making their way back to
Atlanta.
By the time the stars had come out, Joe could see the lights of
Hillsborough twinkling in the distance, and in a short time he had
turned into the back street that led by the jail and made way across the
town until he reached the square below the tavern. Then he turned to
the left, and was soon in front of Mr. Deometari's room. Boy-like, he was
secretly sorry that some sentinel had not challenged him on the way,
so that he could give the countersign. A muffled figure, sitting on the
edge of the veranda, roused itself as Joe rode up.
“Where is Mr. Deometari?” the lad asked.
“He in dar,” replied the figure. “Is you fum de plantation, sah?”
“Yes.”
“Den I'm to take yo' hoss,” the negro said.
“Well, you must be careful with him,” said the lad.
“Dat I will, suh, kaze Marse Deo say he gwine pay me, an' 'sides dat, I
stays at de liberty stable.”
Joe saw his horse led away, and then he knocked at Mr. Deometari's door.
“Come in!” cried that genial gentleman.
“I'm here, sir,” said Joe, as he entered.
“Why, my dear boy! so you are! and glad I am to see you. And you are on
time. I had just pulled out my watch, and said to myself, 'In one short
quarter of an hour the boy should be here, and I shall have his supper
ready for him.' And just then you knocked, and here is my watch still in
my hand. My dear boy, sit down and rest your bones. I feel better.”
Mr. Deomatari had supper for Joe and himself brought to his room, and as
he ate he talked.
“You are a clever chap,” said Mr. Deome-tari. “You don't know how clever
you are. No,” he went on, seeing a curious smile on Joe's face--“no, I'm
not making fun of you. I mean just what I say. Where is the boy in this
town who would have galloped through the dark on an errand that he knew
nothing of? I tell you, he is not to be found. But suppose he could be
found, wouldn't he bother me with ten thousand questions about what he
was expected to do, and how he was going to do it, and when, and which,
and what not? Now, I want to ask you why you came?”
“Because you sent for me,” said Joe buttering another biscuit. “And
because I wanted to find out all about--”
“All about what?” asked Mr. Deometari.
“About Mr. Pruitt, and--everything.”
“Well,” said Mr. Deometari, “I won't tell you precisely why I sent for
you--you'll find out for yourself; but one of the reasons is that I want
you to go with a little party of us to a point not far from your home.
You know the roads, and you know what the negroes call the short cuts.”
“To-night?” asked Joe.
“Yes, to-night. Not now, but a little later.”
Joe ate his supper, and then sat gazing into the fire that had been
kindled on the hearth.
“I was just thinking, Mr. Deo,” he said, after a while, “whether I ought
to go and see mother.”
“Now that is the question.” Mr. Deometari drew his chair closer to the
lad, as if preparing to argue the matter. “Of course, you feel as if you
ought to go. That is natural. But, if you go, you will have to give your
mother some reason for being here. You could only tell her that I had
sent for you. This is such a poor reason that she would be uneasy. Don't
you think so?”
“Well,” said Joe, after a pause, “I can come to see her next Sunday.”
Rubbing his fat hands together, Mr. Deome-tari looked at Joe a long
time. He seemed to be meditating. The ring on his finger glistened like
a ray of sunlight that had been captured and was trying to escape.
“I want to take you around,” he said to Joe after a while, “and
introduce you to Captain Johnson, our worthy provost-marshal.”
“Me?” asked the lad, in a tone of astonishment.
“Yes,” said Mr. Deometari. “Why not? A bright boy like you should be
acquainted with all our great military men. Our noble captain would be
very glad to see you if he knew as much about your visit as I do.”
“But as it is,” said Joe, quickly, “he doesn't know any more about it
than I do.”
“My dear boy,” exclaimed Mr. Deometari, in a bantering tone, “don't get
impatient. It is so very simple that all our plans might be spoiled if
I told you. Now, then,” he continued, looking at his watch, “if you are
ready, we will go. You have no overcoat, but my shawl here will answer
just as well.”
Joe protested that he never wore an overcoat, even in the coldest
weather; but his protest had no effect on Mr. Deometari, who gave the
shawl a dexterous turn and wrapped Joe in it from head to heels. Then he
fastened it at the lad's throat with a long steel pin that had a handle
like a dagger.
“Why, I look just like a girl,” said Joe, glancing down at his feet.
“Very well, Miss Josephine,” laughed Mr. Deometari; “just take my arm.”
The provost-marshal's office was on the opposite side of the public
square from the tavern, and Mr. Deometari, instead of following
the sidewalk, went through the court-house yard. There was not much
formality observed around the office. There was no sentinel stationed at
the door, which was opened (in response to Mr. Deometari's knock) by a
small negro boy.
[Illustration: 0232]
Down a little passage-way, or hall, Mr. Deometari went, followed by Joe.
A light shone from a door at the end of a passage on the left, and
into this door Mr. Deometari went without ceremony. There was not much
furniture in the room--four chairs, a lounge, and a table. A sword hung
on the wall, between lithograph portraits of General Lee and Stonewall
Jackson; and on one side was a long array of pigeonholes full of papers.
A man sat at the table, and he was so busily engaged in writing that he
nodded without looking up from his work.
“Henderson,” said Mr. Deometari, “I have company to-night. I want you to
know this young man. His name is Joe Maxwell. He is an honorary member
of the Relief Committee.”
At this Henderson wiped his pen on his head and laid it down. Then he
peered across the table at Joe. The two candles that gave him light were
so close to his eyes that they blinded him when he lifted his face.
“Maxwell, did you say?--All right, Mr. Maxwell; I am glad to see you.
Excuse my hand; it is full of ink.”
Mr. Henderson had a soft, gentle voice, and his hand, although it was
splashed with ink, was as delicate as that of a woman.
“Is this the Mr. Henderson you were telling me about some time ago?”
asked Joe, turning to Mr. Deometari. “I mean the Mr. Henderson who was
sick when you retreated from Laurel Hill?”
“The same,” said Mr. Deometari.
Mr. Henderson laughed softly to hide his surprise, pushed his chair
back, and rose from his seat. Whatever he was going to say was left
unsaid. At that moment a knock that echoed down the hallway came on
the outer door, and it was followed almost immediately by the firm and
measured tread of some newcomer. Then there appeared in the doorway
the serene face of Mr. Archie Blandford. He glanced around the room
half-smiling until his eyes fell on Joe, and then the shadowy smile gave
place to an unmistakable frown. Joe saw it, and for the first time felt
that his position was a peculiar one, to say the least. He began to feel
very uncomfortable, and this feeling was not relieved by the curt nod of
recognition that Mr. Blandford gave him. He was a sensitive lad, and
it was not pleasant to realize that he was regarded as an intruder. He
looked at Mr. Deometari, but that gentleman seemed to be absorbed in a
study of the portraits on the wall. Mr. Blandford advanced a few steps
into the room, hesitated, and then said, abruptly:
“Deo! let me see you a moment.”
The two men went into the hall and as far as the outer door, and,
although they talked in subdued tones, the passage took the place of a
speaking-tube, and every word they uttered could be heard by Joe Maxwell
and Mr. Henderson.
“Deo,” said Mr. Blandford, “what under the sun is Maxwell doing here? He
ought to be at home in bed.”
“He is here,” Mr. Deometari explained, “at my invitation.”
“But your reason must tell you, Deo, that that child ought not to be
mixed up in this night's business. It is almost certain to be serious.”
“That is precisely the reason he is here,” said Mr. Deometari. “I might
preach to you from now until doomsday, and you'd never lis-ten to me.
But, with that boy looking at you, you'll keep your temper. I know you
better than you know yourself. You came here tonight with your mind made
up to do something rash. I read it in your face last night; I saw it in
your eyes this morning; I hear it in your voice now. My dear fellow, it
will never do in the world. You would ruin everything. What you intended
to do, you won't dare to do with that boy looking at you. And there's
another reason: if this man Johnson is to be taken out of the county,
the best route is by Armour's Ferry, and Maxwell knows every foot of the
road.”
Then there was a pause, and Mr. Henderson went to the door and said;
“You two might as well come in here and have it out. We can hear every
word you say.”
They came back into the room, Mr. Bland-ford smiling, and Mr. Deometari
a little flushed.
“I forgot to shake hands with you just now,” said Mr. Blandford, going
over to Joe and seizing the lad's hand. “It wasn't because I don't like
you.”
“Thank you,” replied Joe. “I don't understand what you and Mr. Deo were
talking about, but I don't wan't to be in the way.”
“You are not in the way at all,” said Mr. Deometari, emphatically.
“I should say not,” exclaimed Mr. Blandford, heartily. “Deo is right and
I was wrong. I'd be happy if I wasn't in anybody's way any more than you
are. You'll find out when you grow bigger that a man never gets too old
to be a fool.” With that he reached under his overcoat and unbuckled a
heavy pistol, and placed it on the mantel.--“You see,” he said to Mr.
Deometari, “I am making a complete surrender. I don't want to have
that gun where I can get my hands on it when I see our friend Captain
Johnson.”
“You may buckle on your pistol,” remarked Mr. Henderson, softly. “You
won't see the captain to-night.”
“Thunderation!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari, springing to his feet. “We must
see him! Pruitt is in the guard-house. Sick or well, Captain Johnson
must travel with us this night. I don't want him killed or hurt, but the
scoundrel shall strut around this town no more.”
“It's just as I tell you,” said Henderson, in his gentle way; “you'll
not see him to-night.”
Mr. Blandford laughed, as though he regarded the matter as a joke,
while Mr. Henderson began to fumble among some papers on the table. He
selected from these three little documents, which he spread out before
him, one on the other. Then he looked at the other two men and smiled.
“Tom,” said Mr. Deometari, “this is a very serious matter. You know this
man Johnson as well as we do, and you know that the time has come to get
rid of him.”
“I know him a great deal better than either of you,” said Mr. Henderson,
still smiling, “and that is the reason he's not here to-night. That is
the reason you won't see him.”
Mr. Deometari paced back and forth on the floor, pulling his whiskers,
while Mr. Blandford drummed impatiently on the table.
“The trouble is,” Mr. Henderson went on, still addressing Mr. Deometari,
“that we are both afraid of Archie Blandford's temper.”
“Now, just listen at that!” exclaimed Mr. Blandford. “Why, you'll make
this chap here think I'm vicious. He'll believe I'm a man-eater.”
“We both know how he feels toward Captain Johnson,” Mr. Henderson
continued, not heeding the interruption, “and we have both been trying
to prevent him from doing anything he might regret. I think your plan
would have succeeded; and I'm glad you brought Maxwell, anyhow, because
I like to meet a bright boy once in a while; but my plan is the best,
after all, for Captain Johnson is gone.”
Mr. Deometari stopped walking the floor, and sat down. “Tell us about
it.”
“Well,” said Mr. Henderson, “here is some correspondence that came to
Captain Johnson through the post-office. There are three letters. We
will call this number one:
“'Sir: It has been noticed that you have refused to forward supplies
intended for the wives and children of Confederate soldiers.
This refers especially to the wife and children of one John Pruitt.'”
“There is no signature,” said Mr. Henderson. “This”--taking up another
document--“we will call number two.”
“'Sir: It is known that no supplies have left this post for the wife and
children of one John Pruitt. Will the Relief Committee have to act?
“Here,” continued Mr. Henderson, “is the last. It is number three:
“'Sir: John Pruitt is in jail, where he can not help himself. The Relief
Committee will meet to-morrow night. Hold yourself in readiness to hear
again the story of the retreat from Laurel Hill.'”
“Well?” said Mr. Deometari, as Mr. Henderson paused.
“Well, the man was worried nearly to death. He was in a continual
fidget. At last he came to me and talked the matter over. That was
yesterday. We went over the Laurel Hill incidents together, and I used
Archie Blandford's name pretty freely. The upshot of it was that I
advised Captain Johnson to report to the commander of the post in Macon,
and he took my advice.”
“Do I look like a dangerous man?” asked Mr. Blandford, turning to Joe.
“Not now,” replied Joe. “But your eyes are very bright.”
“I wish to goodness they were as bright as yours!” said Mr. Blandford,
laughing.
“So we've had all our trouble for nothing,” Mr. Deometari suggested.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Henderson; “we've been saved a great deal of trouble.
Johnson is gone, and I have here an order for Pruitt's release.”
“If we had known all this,” remarked Mr. Deometari, “Maxwell would be
safe in bed, where I suspect he ought to be.--My son,” he went on, “it
is a pity to have you riding back and forth in the night.”
“Just to please a fat man with the whimsies,” Mr. Blandford observed.
“Oh, it is no trouble to me,” Joe protested. “It is almost like a book,
only I don't exactly understand it all. What were you going to do with
Captain Johnson?”
“Me? oh, I--well, the fact is, Deo was commanding my regiment to-night,”
replied Mr. Blandford. He seemed to be embarrassed.
“It is all very simple,” said Mr. Deometari.
“When you get a little older you'll find a great many people like
Captain Johnson. He had a little power, and he has used it so as to turn
all the people here against him. Another trouble is, that he used to
belong to the regulars, where the discipline is as strict as it can be.
He has tried to be too strict here, and these Confederate people won't
stand it. The private soldier thinks he is as good as a commissioned
officer, and sometimes better. A provost-marshal is a sort of military
chief of police, and, when his commander is as far away as Macon, he
can do a good deal of harm, especially if he has a streak of meanness
running through him. Johnson has made enemies here by the hundred. Worst
of all, he has treated the wives of soldiers very badly. You know all
about his spite at John Pruitt. We were going to take him to-night to
Armour's Ferry, put him across the river, and give him to understand
that we could get along without him.”
“And he would never come back?” asked Joe.
“No,” said Mr. Deometari, “he would never come back.”
“Was Mr. Blandford very mad with him?” inquired the lad.
“Yes, I was,” that gentleman admitted, laughing a little and looking
uncomfortable. “He had me arrested once, and tried to make me shovel
sand into a barrel that was open at both ends. What do you think of
that?”
“I think it must have been very funny,” said Joe, laughing heartily.
“I reckon it was funny,” observed Mr. Bland-ford, grimly, “but the
rascal wouldn't have enjoyed the fun if it hadn't been for this big fat
man here.”
“You are not referring to me, I hope,” said Mr. Henderson, so seriously
that the rest burst out laughing.
“Come, now,” Mr. Deometari suggested. “Let's let in some fresh air on
poor John Pruitt.”
There was nothing more to be done after Mr. Pruitt was released from
the guard-house, and so Joe mounted his horse and cantered off to the
plantation. Butterfly was very glad to have his head turned in that
direction, and he went so swiftly that in the course of an hour Joe was
at home and in bed. His mind was so full of what he had seen and heard
that he went over it all in his slumber. Mr. Deometari, chunky as he
was, took the place of Porthos, the big musketeer; Mr. Blandford was
D'Artagnan; Mr. Henderson was the sleek and slender one (Aramis) whose
name Joe could not remember in his dreams; and even Mr. Pruitt grew into
a romantic figure.