Produced by David Widger
SI KLEGG
The Deacon's Adventures At Chattanooga In Caring For The Boys
By John McElroy
Book Five
Published By
The National Tribune Company,
Washington, D. C.
Second Edition
Copyright 1912
By The National Tribune Company.
Contents:
CHAPTER I. THE DEACON PROVIDES
CHAPTER II. THE DEACON ATTEMPTED RESTITUTION
CHAPTER III. A COW IN CAMP
CHAPTER IV. THE DEACON'S PLAN
CHAPTER V. TROUBLE ENCOUNTERED
CHAPTER VI. THE BOYS IN THE OLD HOME ON BEAN BLOSSOM CREEK
CHAPTER VII. WEEKS OF CONVALESCENCE
CHAPTER VIII. SI IS PROMOTED
CHAPTER IX. SHORTY IN TROUBLE
CHAPTER X. SHORTY AS ORDERLY
CHAPTER XI. SHORTY RUNS HEADQUARTERS
CHAPTER XII. SHORTY ON A HUNT
CHAPTER XIII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
CHAPTER XIV. GUARDING THE KNIGHTS
CHAPTER XV. OFF FOR THE FRONT
CHAPTER XVI. THE TROUBLESOME BOYS
CHAPTER XVII. THE FRIGHTENED SURGEON
CHAPTER XVIII. NO PEACE FOR SI AND SHORTY
CHAPTER XIX. THE FIRST SCRAPE
CHAPTER XX. AFTER THE SKIRMISH
CHAPTER XXI. CHATTANOOGA AT LAST
PREFACE
"Si Klegg, of the 200th Ind., and Shorty, his Partner," were born years
ago in the brain of John McElroy, Editor of The National Tribune.
These sketches are the original ones published in The National Tribune,
revised and enlarged somewhat by the author. How true they are to nature
every veteran can abundantly testify from his own service. Really, only
the name of the regiment was invented. There is no doubt that there were
several men of the name of Josiah Klegg in the Union Army, and who did
valiant service for the Government. They had experiences akin to, if
not identical with, those narrated here, and substantially every man
who faithfully and bravely carried a musket in defense of the best
Government on earth had sometimes, if not often, experiences of which
those of Si Klegg are a strong reminder.'
The Publishers.
THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
TO THE RANK AND FILE
OF THE GRANDEST ARMY EVER MUSTERED FOR WAR.
THIS IS NUMBER FIVE
OF THE
SI KLEGG SERIES.
SI KLEGG
CHAPTER I. THE DEACON PROVIDES
RESORTS TO HIGHWAY ROBBERY AND HORSE STEALING.
THE Deacon was repaid seventyfold by Si's and Shorty's enjoyment of the
stew he had prepared for them, and the extraordinary good it had seemed
to do them as they lay wounded in the hospital at Chattanooga, to which
place the Deacon had gone as soon as he learned that Si was hurt in the
battle.
"I won't go back on mother for a minute," said Si, with brightened eyes
and stronger voice, after he had drained the last precious drop of the
broth, and was sucking luxuriously on the bones; "she kin cook chickens
better'n any woman that ever lived. All the same, I never knowed how
good chicken could taste before."
"Jehosephat, the way that does take the wrinkles out down here," said
Shorty, rubbing appreciatively the front of his pantaloons. "I feel as
smooth as if I'd bin starched and ironed, and there's new life clear
down to my toe-nails. If me and Si could only have a chicken a day for
the next 10 days we'd feel like goin' up there on the Ridge and bootin'
old Bragg off the hill. Wouldn't we, Si?"
"Guess so," acceded Si cheerily, "if every one made us feel as much
better as this one has. How in the world did you git the chicken, Pap?"
"Little boys should eat what's set before 'em, and ask no questions,"
said the father, coloring. "It's bad manners to be pryin' around the
kitchen to find out where the vittles come from."
"Well, I've got to take off my hat to you as a forager," said Shorty. "A
man that kin find a chicken in Chattenoogy now, and hold on to it long
enough to git it in the pot, kin give me lessons in the art. When I git
strong enough to travel agin I want you to learn me the trick."
The Deacon did not reply to the raillery. He was pondering anxiously
about the preservation of his four remaining chickens. The good results
manifest from cooking the first only made him more solicitous about the
others. Several half-famished dogs had come prowling around, from no one
knew where. He dared not kill them in daylight. He knew that probably
some, if not all, of them had masters, and the worse and more dangerous
a dog is the more bitterly his owner resents any attack upon him. Then,
even hungrier looking men with keen eyes and alert noses wandered near,
with inquiry in every motion. He would have liked to take Shorty
into his confidence, but he feared that the ravenous appetite of
convalescence would prove too much for that gentleman's continence.
He kept thinking about it while engaged in what he called "doin' up the
chores," that is, making Si and Shorty comfortable for the day, before
he lay down to take a much-needed rest. He had never been so puzzled in
all his life. He thought of burying them in the ground, but dismissed
that because he would be seen digging the hole and putting them in, and
if he should escape observation, the dogs would be pretty certain to
nose them out and dig them up. Sinking them in the creek suggested
itself, but had to be dismissed for various reasons, one being fear that
the ravenous catfish would devour them.
"If I only had a balloon," he murmured to himself, "I might send 'em up
in that. That's the only safe way I kin think of. Yes, there's another
way. I've intended to put a stone foundation under that crib, and daub
it well, so's to stop the drafts. It orter be done, but it's a hard
day's work, even with help, and I'm mortal tired. But I s'pose it's the
only way, and I've got to put in stones so big that a dog can't pull 'em
out."
He secured a couple of negroes, at prices which would have paid for
highly-skilled labor in Indiana, to roll up enough large stones to fill
in the space under the crib, and then he filled all the crevices with
smaller ones, and daubed over the whole with clay.
"There," he said, as he washed the clay from his hands, "I think them
chickens are safe for to-night from the dogs, and probably from the men.
Think of all that trouble for four footy chickens not worth more'n four
bits in Injianny. They're as much bother as a drove o' steer'd be. I
think I kin now lay down and take a wink o' sleep."
He was soon sleeping as soundly as only a thoroughly-tired man can,
and would have slept no one knows how long, had not Shorty succeeded in
waking him towards morning, after a shaking which exhausted the latter's
strength.
"Wake up, Mister Klegg," said Shorty; "it must 've bin rainin' dogs, and
they're tryin' to tear the shanty down."
The Deacon rubbed his eyes and hastened a moment to the clamor outside.
It seemed as if there were a thousand curs surrounding them, barking,
howling, snarling, fighting, and scratching. He snatched up a club and
sprang out, while Shorty tottered after. He ran into the midst of the
pack, and began laying about with his strong arms. He broke the backs of
some, brained others, and sent the others yelping with pain and fright,
except two particularly vicious ones, who were so frenzied with hunger
that they attacked him, and bit him pretty severely before he succeeded
in killing them. Then he went around to the end of the crib nearest his
precious hoard, and found that the hungry brutes had torn away his clay
and even the larger of the stones, and nothing but their fighting among
themselves had prevented the loss of his chickens. "What in tarnation
set the beasts onto us," inquired Shorty wonderingly. "They were wuss'n
cats around catnip, rats after aniseed, or cattle about a spot o' blood.
I've felt that me and Si wuz in shape to bring the crows and buzzards
around, but didn't expect to start the dogs up this way."
"I've got four chickens hid under the underpinnin' there for you and
Si," confessed the Deacon. "The dogs seemed to 've smelled 'em out and
wuz after 'em."
He went to the hiding place and pulled out the fowls one after another.
"They are all here," he said; "but how in the world am I goin' to keep
'em through another night?"
"You ain't a-goin' to keep 'em through another night, are you?" asked
Shorty anxiously, as he gloated over the sight. "Le's eat 'em to-day."
"And starve to-morrer?" said the thrifty Deacon rebukingly. "I don't
know where any more is comin' from. It was hard enough work gittin'
these. I had calculated on cookin' one a day for you and Si. That'd
make 'em provide for four more days. After that only the Lord knows what
we'll do."
"Inasmuch as we'll have to trust to the Lord at last, anyway," said
Shorty, with a return of his old spirit, "why not go the whole gamut? A
day or two more or less won't make no difference to Him. I feel as if I
could eat 'em all myself without Si's help."
"I tell you what I'll do," said the Deacon, after a little
consideration. "I feel as if both Si and you kin stand a little more'n
you had yesterday. I'll cook two to-day. We'll send a big cupful over to
Capt. McGillicuddy. That'll leave us two for to-morrer. After that we'll
have to trust to Providence."
"If ever there was a time when He could use His ravens to advantage,"
said the irreverent Shorty, "it's about now. They carried bread and meat
to that old prophet. There's a lot o' mighty good men down here in this
valley now in terrible want of grub, and nothin' but birds kin git over
the roads to the rear very well."
"Don't speak lightly o' the Lord and His ways, Shorty," said the Deacon
severely.
"'Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace.
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smilin' face,'
as the hymn says. Here, take these chickens in one hand and this pistol
in the other, and guard 'em while I go down to the branch and wash and
git some water. Then I'll cook your breakfast."
Again the savory smell of the boiling chickens attracted sick boys, who
begged for a little of the precious food. Having double the quantity,
the Deacon was a little more liberal, but he had to restrain Shorty,
who, despite his own great and gnawing hunger, would have given away the
bigger part of the broth to those who so desperately needed it.
"No, Shorty," said the prudent Deacon. "Our first duty is to ourselves.
We kin help them by gittin' you and Si on your feet. We can't feed the
whole Army o' the Cumberland, though I'd like to."
A generous cupful was set aside for Capt. McGillicuddy, which his
servant received with gratitude and glowing reports of the good the
former supply had done him.
With the daylight came the usual shells from the rebel guns on Lookout
Mountain. Even the Deacon was getting used to this noisy salutation to
the morn, and he watched the shells strike harmlessly in the distance
with little tremor of his nerves. As the firing ceased, amid the
derisive yells of the army, he said quietly:
[Illustration: GIT DOWN FROM THERE! COMMANDED THE DEACON 21]
"That last shell's saved me a good deal o' work diggin'. It, tore out a
hole that'll just do to bury the carcasses of these dogs."
Accordingly, he dragged the carcasses over after breakfast, and threw
the dirt back in the hole upon them.
The two remaining chickens were stowed in a haversack, and during
the day hung outside from the ridge-pole of the crib, where they were
constantly under the eye of either the Deacon or Shorty, who took turns
watching them. That night the Deacon slept with them under his head,
though they were beginning to turn a little, and their increasing
gameness brought a still larger herd of dogs about. But the Deacon had
securely fastened the door, and he let them rage around as they pleased.
When they were cooked and eaten the next morning the Deacon became
oppressed with anxious thought. Where were the next to come from? The
boys had improved so remarkably that he was doubly anxious to continue
the nourishing diet, which he felt was necessary to secure their speedy
recovery. Without it they would probably relapse.
He could think of nothing but to go back again to the valley where
he got the chickens, and this seemed a most desperate chance, for the
moment that either of the old couple set eyes on him he or she would
give the alarm. He went to sleep thinking about the matter, and when he
rose up in the morning, and had nothing to offer his boys but the coarse
and uninviting hardtack, pork and coffee, he made up his mind to take
the chances, whatever they might be. He set out again immediately after
breakfast, and by cutting across the mountain came to the entrance to
the valley a little after noon. Keeping close under cover of the woods,
he approached within sight of the house, and carefully scanned it. What
to do he had scarcely planned. He was only determined to have some fresh
meat to take back to camp. He was going to get it as honestly and fairly
as he could, but fresh meat he must have.
He could see no other house anywhere in the distance, and probably if
he went farther he would run into rebel bushwhackers and guerrillas, who
were watching from the high ridges. So long as he kept under cover of
the woods he would feel all right, for he was as skilled in woodcraft as
any of them, and could take care of himself. But if he should come out
into the open fields and road to cross the valley they would have him
at an advantage. He was confirmed in this fear by seeing several little
clouds of smoke rise up above the tops of the trees on the ridge.
"There's a gang of rebels in camp over there," said he to himself, with
a woodman's quick reading of every sign. "That smoke's from their fires.
'Tain't enough of it to be clearin' ground; people ain't clearin' up at
this time o' year; that ground over there ain't the kind they'd clear
up for anything. 'Twouldn't raise white beans if it was cleared; and you
don't hear nobody choppin'."
He looked again at the house. Everything was very quiet and peaceful
around it. There was no stock in the barnyard or fields, and the
only signs of life were the smoke rising from one of the great stone
chimneys, the chickens picking and scratching in the garden, a couple of
negresses, who occasionlly passed back and forth between the main house
and another cabin apparently used as a kitchen.
The Deacon had almost made up his mind to march boldly down to the
house, snatch up a few of the chickens, and make his way back to the
woods again, before the old couple could summon assistance. Suddenly his
quick eyes caught a glimpse of something at a point where the road from
the ridge came down out of the woods. Then that something developed
into a man on horseback, who rode forward to a little rise, stopped,
and surveyed the landscape cautiously, and then rode forward toward the
house.
He dismounted and entered the house. In a few minutes there appeared
unusual bustle and activity, during which the man rode back again,
munching as he went at a piece of cornpone and one of meat, which he had
gotten at the house, and held in either hand, while his reins lay on his
horse's neck.
The old woman came out into the yard with some meat in her hand, and the
shrill note of her orders to the negresses reached the Deacon's ears,
though he could not make out the words. But he saw one of them go to the
spring and bring water, which she poured in a wash-kettle set up in the
yard, while the old woman prepared the beef and put it in, the other
negress started a fire, and the old man chopped and split wood to put
around the kettle and fill the stone oven near by.
"They're cookin' vittels for them rebels on the ridge." The Deacon
correctly diagnosed the situation. "By-and-by they'll come for 'em, or
take 'em to 'em. Mebbe I kin find some way to collar some of 'em. It's
a slim chance, but no other seems to show up just now. If no more'n one
man comes for that grub I'm goin' to jump him."
The Deacon looked at the caps on his revolver and began laying plans for
a strategic advance under the cover of the sumachs to a point where he
could command the road to the house.
His cheek paled for an instant as the thought obtruded that the man
might resist and he have to really shoot him.
"I don't want to shoot nobody," he communed with himself, "and it won't
'be necessary if the other fellow is only sensible and sees, that I've
got the drop on him, which I will have before I say a word. Anyway, I
want that grub for a work of necessity and mercy, which justifies many
things, and as a loyal man I ought to keep it from goin' to rebels. If
I've got to put a bullet into another feller, why, the Lord'll hold me
guiltless and blame the other feller. I ain't no Free Will Baptist.
I believe things 've bin foreordained. Wisht I knowed that it was
foreordained that I was to git that grub back to Si and Shorty."
Presently he saw the old man come out and take a path into the woods. He
cautiously circled around to where he could follow and watch him. He saw
him make his way to a secluded little cove, where there was a corn-crib
partially filled and a rude shelter, under which were a buckboard and
fairly-good young horse. The old man began putting the clumsy harness of
ropes, chains and patched leather on the horse and hitching him to the
buckboard.
"Good, the old man's goin' to take the grub out to 'em himself," thought
the Deacon with relief. "He'll be easy to manage. No need o' shootin'
him."
He hurried back to his covert, and then shpped unseen down to where he
had selected for his ambush. The old man drove the buckboard around to
the front of the house, and the negresses, obeying the shrill orders of
the old woman, brought out pones of smoking cornbread, and buckets, tin
pans and crocks containing the meat, potatoes, turnips and other food,
and loaded them on to the buckboard. The fragrance of the food reached
the Deacon's nostrils, and made his mouth water and fond anticipations
rise as to the good it would do the boys.
"I'll have that grub, and the boys shall have it," he determined, "or
there'll be an Injianny Deacon pretty badly used up."
The old man mounted into the seat, gathered up the rope lines, and
chirruped to the horse to start.
When he came opposite, the Deacon jumped out, seized the reins, and
pointing his revolver at him, commanded sternly:
"Git down from there, and git down quick."
The old man dropped the lines, and for an instant gazed at him with
scared eyes.
"Why, yo' robber, what d'yo' mean?" he gasped.
"Git down from there, and git down quick!" repeated the Deacon.
"Why, this is highway robbery, threats, puttin' in bodily fear,
attempted murder, hoss-stealin'."
"Hain't no time to argy law with you," said the Deacon impatiently.
"This ain't no court-room. You ain't in session now. Git down, and git
down quick!"
"Help! help! murder! robbery! thieves!" shouted the old man, at the top
of his voice.
The negresses, who had been watching their master depart, set to
screaming, and the old woman rushed back into the house and blew the
horn. The Deacon thrust his revolver back into the holster, caught the
old man with his sinewy hand, tore him from the seat, and flung him
into the fence-corner. He sprang into the seat, turned the horse's head
toward Chattanooga, and hit him a sharp cut with a switch that lay in
the wagon.
"I've got about three miles the start," he said as he rattled off. "This
horse's young and fresh, while their's probably run down. The road
from here to the main road's tollably good, and I think I kin git there
before they kin overtake me."
At the top of the hill he looked back, and saw the rebels coming out.
Apparently they had not understood what had happened. They had seen no
Yankees and could not have seen the Deacon's tussle with the old man.
They supposed that the holler simply meant for them to come in and get
their dinner, instead of having it taken out to them. All this passed
through the Deacon's mind, and he chuckled over the additional start it
would give him.
"They won't find out nothin' till they git clean to the house," he said.
"By that time I'll be mighty nigh the main road. My, but wouldn't I
like to have as many dollars as they'll be mad when they find the Yankee
trick that's bin played on 'em, with their dinner hauled off into the
Union camp."
He rattled ahead sharply for some time, looking back at each top of a
hill for his pursuers. They did not come in sight, but the main road to
Chattanooga did, and then a new trouble suggested itself.
"I won't never dare haul this load uncovered through camp," he said to
himself. "The first gang o' roustabout teamsters that I meet'll take
every spoonful of the vittles, and I'd be lucky if I have the horse and
wagon left. I must hide it some way. How? That's a puzzler."
At length a happy idea occurred to him. He stopped by a cedar thicket,
and with his jack-knife cut a big load of cedar boughs, which he piled
on until every bit of food was thoroughly concealed. This took much
time, and as he was finishing he heard a yell on the hill behind, and
saw a squad of rebels riding down toward him. He sprang to the seat,
whipped up his horse, and as he reached the main road was rejoiced to
see a squad of Union cavalry approaching.
"Here, old man," said the Lieutenant in command; "who are you, and what
are you doing here?"
"I'm a nurse in the hospital," answered the Deacon unhesitatingly. "I
was sent out here to get some cedar boughs to make beds in the hospital.
Say, there's some rebels out there, comin' down the hill. They saw me
and tuk after me. You'll find 'em right over the hill."
"That's a pretty slick horse you're driving," said the Lieutenant.
"Looks entirely too slick to belong to Chattanooga. It's a much better
horse than mine. I've a notion--"
"Say, them rebels are just over the hill, I tell you," said the Deacon
in a fever of apprehension of losing his steed. "They'll be on top of
you in a minute if you don't look out."
"Right over the hill, did you say?" said the Lieutenant, forgetting for
the moment the horse. "Attention, there, boys. Look out for the rebels.
Advance carbines--Forward--trot! I'll come back directly and take
another look at that horse."
The squad trotted up the hill in the direction the Deacon had pointed,
and as he drove off as fast as he could he heard the spatter of
exchanging shots.
Late in the evening, as he drove off the pontoon into Chattanooga and
turned to the right toward his corn-crib he muttered over to himself:
"They say that when a man starts down the path of sin and crime the road
seems greased for his swift progress. The other day I begun with
petty larceny and chicken stealin'. To-day it's bin highway robbery,
premeditated murder, horse stealin', grand larceny, and tellin' a
deliberate lie. What'll I be doin' this time next week? I must git that
old man's horse and buckboard back to him somehow, and pay him for his
vittles. But how'm I goin' to do it? The army's terribly demoralizin'. I
must git Si back home soon, or I won't be fit to associate with anybody
outside the penitentiary. How kin I ever go to the communion table
agin?"