MR. TOMPKINS' PERIL.
Since the rebellion had assumed such proportions, and men, who had made
war with pen and tongue had taken up the sword, Mr. Tompkins had been
careful not to allude to the merits of either cause in his family. He
had been made to feel the bitterness of the strife that, in dividing the
Nation, had divided his home. He felt most keenly a parent's agony at
having his two sons in hostile armies. That, at any hour or moment, they
might meet in opposing ranks, was a horrible possibility, which, do what
he would, he could not banish from his mind. He knew, too, that the
companion of his life held views antagonistic to his own on the question
of the war. So he was reticent on questions on which every one else was
eagerly expressing opinions; but in his heart, he was firmly convinced
of the justice of the Union cause. Though Mrs. Tompkins, like her
husband, was silent as to her belief, she was as firmly convinced that
the cause of the South was just. How could she, with all her native
pride and prejudices, look on the subject in any other light? Her sunny
home, the home of her childhood, the pride of her maturer years, was to
be the field of contest. One side must win. On one side were arrayed the
cold, calculating strangers of the North; on the other the warm-hearted,
generous people of the South; but what endeared to her, more than any
other circumstance, the Southern cause, was that it was based on
principles which she believed just and right.
Americans, more than any other Nation on earth, fight from principle.
Other Nations blindly follow king or emperor, regardless of right or
wrong, but the American fights from principle approved by his judgment
and based upon his earnest convictions.
Mr. Tompkins did not reflect on the dangers that might arise to himself
from visiting two hostile armies. It was the day after his visit to the
Junction that he chanced to be at Snagtown. He found the village in a
state of excitement in consequence of "a large army of United States
soldiers" having passed on their way to Wolf Creek. The villagers,
unaccustomed to the sight of large bodies of men, put the number of
Captain Wardle's command at several thousand, when in reality it did not
exceed, including his own company and the others with him, one hundred
and fifty.
"Where were they going?" inquired Mr. Tompkins of the village grocer.
"Dunno," was the reply.
"Which way did they go?"
"Towards the Twin Mountains."
"There is no question as to where they was goin'," said the blacksmith.
"They was takin' a bee line for the camp on Wolf Creek, and they're
going to gobble up our boys along there; but although they outnumber
them twenty to one, they'll find the boys game."
"Where did these troops come from?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"From the Junction."
Mr. Tompkins very well knew that the entire force at the Junction did
not number over four hundred men.
While the loungers and others were attempting to estimate the number of
the troops, and discussing the probable result of their visit to Wolf
Creek, a volley of musketry saluted their astonished ears.
"There, they are at it!" said the blacksmith, smoking his pipe more
vigorously.
The volley was quickly followed by another, another, and another. After
this, for a quarter of an hour, an occasional shot was heard, but no
more regular firing. Various were the conjectures as to the result of
the battle. A frightened farmer, who had been near the camp at the time
of the attack, came galloping in, declaring that the ground was strewn
with dead bodies; that the Confederates were killed to a man, and other
reports almost as wild, increasing the excitement and alarm of the
villagers.
To say that Mr. Tompkins did not share the general anxiety would be to
say he was not human. He knew that his youngest son might be lying in
the woods either dead or dying. And Abner--had he accompanied the troops
sent to the Junction? A thousand conflicting emotions stirred the heart
of the planter, and a double care weighed on his mind. His first impulse
was to go at once to the scene of the conflict; but a moment's
reflection showed him that such a course would be not only dangerous,
but foolish. He resolved to return home and await the development of
facts in regard to the attack at Wolf Creek.
Mr. Tompkins found his wife awaiting him on the piazza, and he knew by
the troubled look on her face that she had learned of the attack. He
said nothing about it, for a single glance from each explained all.
"You look wearied, husband," said the wife as he sank into a chair at
her side.
"I am wearied," he replied, the troubled look deepening on his face.
A moment's silence ensued. Mrs. Tompkins was the first to break it.
"There has been trouble at the camp on Wolf Creek. I heard the firing."
"Yes," said the husband, "a body of Union troops passed through Snagtown
to-day to attack the camp there. There has been some sharp firing, but
nothing definite has been heard of the affair."
An hour or so later there came a clatter of hoofs down the road, and a
dozen horsemen paused in front of the gate, opening into the avenue that
led to the house. Mr. Tompkins sent to ascertain what they wanted. The
leader inquired if Mr. Tompkins lived there, and being answered in the
affirmative, he said, with an oath:
"Well, tell him to come out here."
The speaker was a thick-set, low-browed man, dressed in homespun gray,
and armed with a sword and revolver. His companions, as coarse as
himself, were armed with rifles; each wore the broad-brimmed black hat
then common in the South.
"Does yer want ter see my master?" asked the negro, his black face
turning almost white, and his frame shaking with apprehension.
For answer, the leader snatched a holster from his saddle so vehemently
that the darkey needed no other inducement to return with all speed to
the house.
"What is the matter, Pompey?" asked Mr. Tompkins, as the boy stood
breathless before him.
"Oh, gracious, mars, don't know, 'cept they be's a band o' brigantines
as wants to see you down at the gate."
Mr. Tompkins smiled at Pompey's terror, and rose to go, but Mrs.
Tompkins, who did not like the angry gesticulations of the strangers at
the gate, accompanied her husband.
"Is your name Tompkins" asked the ferocious-looking leader, as the
planter and his wife paused just inside the gate.
"It is, sir. Whom have I the honor of addressing?" returned Mr.
Tompkins.
"I am Sergeant Strong of the Independent Mounted Volunteers of Jeff.
Davis, and I have come here to hang you, sir."
Mrs. Tompkins gave a scream and clung to her husband.
"The men are only joking, Camille; can't you see they are only joking?"
said Mr. Tompkins, to soothe his terrified wife.
"You'll find out that we're not joking," said the leader of the band,
dismounting and fastening his horse to an ornamental tree on the lawn.
Six of his men followed his example, leading their horses inside the
gate, and hitching them to the fence or trees.
"Men what do you mean?" said Mr. Tompkins, who took great pride in his
shrubbery. "I do not allow horses to be tied near my trees."
"We'll tie you to one of your trees soon and see how you like it, with a
dance in the air."
Mrs. Tompkins clung to her husband, half dead with terror, and Irene
came hurrying from the house.
"Go back, Camille; go back with Irene, and wait for me in the house,"
said Mr. Tompkins. "This is nothing serious."
"Ye'll see, sir, if it ain't somethin' serious," said Sergeant Strong,
unstrapping a rope from behind his saddle, and uncoiling it. "The law
says spies shall suffer death, and we're going to make an example of
you, sir."
"I am no spy," returned the planter.
"Don't suppose I saw ye hangin' 'round our camp, and then shootin' off
after sojers at the Junction to come down and lick us! And they just
come to-day an' cleaned us most all out, and you shall hang for it." As
he spoke he threw one end of the rope over the projecting branch of a
large maple tree.
"Those terrible men mean what they say," whispered Irene in Mrs.
Tompkins' ear. She had comprehended all in a moment's time. "I will run
for the overseer and the field hands."
She turned to fly, but her motive was interpreted, and one of the men
seized her around the waist, saying: "No, my purty gal, ye' don't do
nothin' o' the kind jist yit awhile."
In vain she struggled to free herself; she was powerless in the man's
hands.
Mrs. Tompkins, completely overcome, had fainted.
"Now, boys, we are ready; bring him here," said Sergeant Strong.
Three or four men laid hands on the planter, but he felled them
instantly. They did not expect such resistance from a man of his age,
and were not prepared for it. It was not until Mr. Tompkins was stunned
by a blow from the butt of a rifle that he was secured and bound; he was
then led under the tree and the noose thrown over his neck. Mrs.
Tompkins lay still and white on the greensward, and Irene was struggling
with her captor and screaming for help. No one noticed the horseman who
came dashing furiously down the hill.
"Up with him!" cried the Sergeant, and he seized the rope. At this
moment the horseman thundered through the open gate, and just as Strong
cried, "Now pull all!" the butt of a heavy pistol struck him on the
head, and he fell like a beef under the hammer.
Then, with his hand still uplifted, he rode toward Irene's captor, but
the fellow had released her and fled; the horseman fired a shot after
the rapidly retreating figure. Then, turning on the remainder of the
band, he asked in a voice of thunder, "What, in heaven's name, does this
mean?"
Mr. Tompkins, for the first time, saw the horseman's face, and
recognized his son, Oleah.
"Why, it's the Leftenant," stammered one of the men, his teeth
chattering with fear.
"What does this mean, I say?" he again demanded.
"Why, Lieutenant," said one man, who had the rope in his hand when Oleah
came up, "Strong said he was a spy, and he had set the sojers on us
to-day, and ordered us to punish him; be we didn't intend to hang him."
Oleah's hot temper got the better of him, and he would have shot
Sergeant Strong, who was still insensible, and the other ringleaders, on
the spot, had not Irene and his father interfered. All danger being
over, the servants came flocking to the scene, and Mrs. Tompkins was
carried into the house. These men were a part of Oleah's own company. He
ordered them to take the Sergeant, who was beginning to recover, and
retire into the woods until he should join them. They obeyed and rode
over the hill, quite crestfallen, conveying their wounded sergeant.
Oleah briefly told his father of the attack made on their camp. He said
they were taken by surprise, their forces scattered through the woods,
but he believed not one drop of blood had been shed, although Diggs was
missing, as well as several others. It was thought they had been taken
prisoners. Then he again mounted his horse and dashed off, to gather up
his scattered forces.