WAR IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
It was a Sabbath morning in the latter part of October, clear and
frosty. The sun had risen in a cloudless sky, the wind blew northward in
rolling columns, the smoke from the village chimneys, and the leaves on
the magnificent forest trees, which surrounded the village on the north,
east, and south, had grown brown and sear, but the great plantations of
the level valley on the west were still verdant. While on the west,
faintly outlined in the distance, rose the Cumberland mountains.
An old man, with a basket on his arm, was walking down the broad
sidewalk past the cottages, from which came the fragrant odor of
coffee, a sure indication that breakfast was preparing. The old man
chanced to cast his eyes towards the eastern part of the town, and
paused in amazement.
In a field of about twenty acres, as if they had risen by magic, were
scores of snowy tents. Sentries were on duty, their burnished arms
glittering in the sun, and hundreds of gray-coated soldiers were passing
and repassing, white clouds of smoke from their camp-fires rose in the
frosty air.
While the old man was looking beyond the streets and houses at the
encampment on the hill, a neighbor, walking up the other side of the
street, hailed him with:
"Rather sudden appearance ain't it?" pointing to the camp, over which
the Confederate flag was floating.
"When did they come, Mr. Williams?" said the first old man.
"Last night," replied Mr. Williams, crossing over to where the other
stood. "Can't you guess what's in the wind?"
"No," was the answer.
Mr. Williams, a corpulent, smooth-faced man of sixty, smiled.
"Why, you see, the boys are strong enough now to take the Junction, and
they are on their way."
"How many are they?" asked the first old man, who was tall and thin,
with long, gray beard. He spoke evidently with some concern.
"About three thousand in all, with five pieces of artillery."
The cannon and the ammunition wagons were plainly to be seen from the
street.
"And so they are on their way to fight the Abolitionists at the
Junction?" said the first old man thoughtfully.
"Yes, Mr. Jones, and your son, Hiram, is in that crowd and my son, Seth.
They'll make it quite lively for old Colonel Holdfast," replied Mr.
Williams.
"Yes, they will," said Mr. Jones, stroking his gray beard.
The sun rose higher in the heavens, and the frosty air grew warm and
genial. By nine o'clock the forces were in motion, the long lines of
cavalry and infantry proceeding slowly and cautiously towards the
Junction.
The good citizens of Snagtown had recovered from the excitement, into
which the appearance of the troops had thrown them, and the church bells
were calling them to worship, when the boom of the cannon shook the
hills.
All was instant excitement. The cannon shot came from the direction in
which the troops had gone. It was followed by another and another, until
the roar of artillery shook the hills and valleys for miles around, and
then the rattle of grape and canister was borne to the ears of the
villagers. Plainly a fight was going on. The firing lasted about half an
hour, then it began to slacken, and at last, ceased, excepting an
occasional dropping musket shot.
The villagers were gathered about in anxious groups, when a single
horseman, dressed in gray, galloped furiously into the village. The men
crowded eagerly about him to inquire how the battle had gone.
"There had been no battle," he said, "but their advance guard had met
the advance guard of the Union troops, and a skirmish had ensued, a
battery on either side having opened.
"We are falling back to more advantageous ground," he added, "and will
be in the village in fifteen minutes."
The excitement, of course, redoubled. There was no service in the
church, but the women and children were hurried away from the village,
and the stern-faced who remained, locked and barred their homes and
gathered, armed and resolute, in the streets. Stragglers from the army
came in first, then followed the infantry and artillery. There was a
long embankment on the north side of the village, where the earth had
been partly washed and partly cut away. This embankment was nearly as
high as a man's breast, and a fence ran along its top for a quarter of a
mile to the east of the village. Behind this natural fortification the
principal part of the infantry formed in lines. The artillery was placed
in an orchard, where there was a dense growth of trees to mask it.
The advance of the Union forces came on slowly, and it was an hour after
the entrance of the Confederates into the village before the deployed
skirmishers came in sight. The crack of a rifle announced their
approach, another and another burst on the air at once, and then the
balls came rattling rapidly against the houses.
The engagement became general, and the roar of artillery and the rattle
of musketry was deafening. The Sabbath morning, dawning so serene and
calm, had been followed by a noon of bloodshed, terror and strife. The
neat village cottages were shattered and balls had crashed through
window lights and shutters. The little stone church had been struck by
cannon shot and shell, and one building had caught fire and burned to
the ground.
Finally the Confederate lines began to waver and give way, and the bugle
sounded the retreat. They fell back, column behind column, in regular
order, passing through the village, closely followed by the victorious
troops.
No sooner had the last column left the village than the frightened
inhabitants, who had been hiding in the woods at some distance away,
began to peep forth upon the terrible scene.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith, returning, found occasionally, here and there,
in the street a ghastly form. A man lay dead at the gate of Mr. Jones;
some were even in the houses, while one was lying across the sidewalk in
front of the church. Their houses had been struck with balls, but not
near so badly shattered as might have been expected. Two or three cannon
balls were lying in the street and fragments of exploded shells strewn
on the ground.
The occasional dropping shots in the distance told that both armies were
moving. Colonel Holdfast seemed determined to hold fast to Colonel
Scramble this time.
The struggle we have described in this chapter is not recorded by most
historians, and, if mentioned at all, is only considered a skirmish, yet
the citizens of Snagtown thought it the most terrible battle of the war.
No one of the Tompkins family had left their home. During the night
Irene had been awakened by the rumble of wheels and the tramp of hoofs,
and, looking from her bedroom window down the broad road, saw long lines
of dark, silent figures marching in the direction of Snagtown. For more
than an hour those silent dark figures, with their bristling bayonets
glittering in the cold moonlight, marched on and on past her window in
seemingly never-ending procession--horsemen, artillery and baggage
wagons rolling by. Then the line was less solid and finally broken--an
occasional group galloping by to join the army in advance. When daylight
came not a soldier was to be seen on the hard beaten road.
Irene knew well what was the intention of the Confederates. She had
recognized one form among those hosts that marched by in the moonlight,
and, at sight of him, had crouched by in the window recess with a
strange pain at her heart.
The whole family was aroused by the passing troops, and all rightly
guessed their object. Through the long morning they sat watching on the
veranda, Irene, pale and beautiful, leaning against one of the columns
of the great porch running about the northeast side of the house, heard
the first roar of the artillery, that ushered in the day's strife, and,
during the long two hours that the battle raged, she stood motionless,
except that her white lips moved in silent prayer. She saw the advance
of the column in rapid retreat coming down the great road from Snagtown.
"Defeated!" she murmured. "O, Heaven, is he among the dead? Both may be
slain!"
Little did she dream how close were the pursuers. One vast retreating
mass of troops in gray poured down the hill, and, among the last of the
Confederates, she saw the dark face of Oleah. His company was the last
to descend the hill, and the rear was not half way from the summit when
a line of blue coats appeared on the brow of the hill and quickly fell
in line.
White puffs of smoke filled the air, and a rattling discharge of
fire-arms followed.
Irene, forgetful of danger or too horrified to fly, stood motionless as
a statue. She saw one or two of Oleah's company fall, and saw their
captain wheel his horse and dash back among his panic-stricken troops.
He reformed them almost instantly and returned the volley, driving back
the advance of the Union troops, who immediately rallied and came on
again to the conflict.
"Come, Irene, come in for Heaven's sake! You may be struck dead at any
moment," cried Mrs. Tompkins, seizing the poor girl around the waist.
"Come, come to the cellar; it is the only safe place."
"But, mother, see, he, they both, are there, in danger of being killed.
I can not go until I see him safe."
But Mrs. Tompkins drew her away from the porch.
Contrary to the expectations of Mr. Tompkins and of the whole family,
the house was not used as a fortification, and a running fight followed;
then the bulk of the Union army swept on down the road in pursuit of the
retreating Confederates.
Irene hastened from the house down the driveway. A dead horse lay on the
hill, and two soldiers, one in blue and one in gray, lay motionless in
the road, but their forms were stark and stiff, no earthly aid could
reach them. As she turned away she heard a groan, and, hastening to the
spot, she saw lying in a little hazel copse, which had before concealed
him from her view, a Confederate soldier with a shattered leg, almost
unconscious from loss of blood. One glance, and Irene recognized those
pale haggard features. It was Henry Smith. She saw that he was badly
wounded and flew back to the house for help.
The troops under Colonel Holdfast followed up the Confederates closely,
harrassing them by repeated dashes on their rear guard, thus keeping up
a continual skirmish. It so happened that Captain Abner Tompkins
commanded the advance of Colonel Holdfast, while Captain Oleah Tompkins
the rear guard of Colonel Scrabble. The men, under each, were from the
immediate neighborhood of Snagtown, and, consequently, many in these
hostile ranks were former acquaintances or friends. As the advance under
Abner was approaching a farm-house, he threw out skirmishers, among whom
was one Jim Moore, who had formerly lived in Snagtown. The house stood
back from the road, surrounded by giant oaks, and the skirmishers,
fifteen in number, led by Sergeant Swords, approached slowly and
cautiously, warned by the crack of rifles behind the trees. The trees
being plenty, each man concealed himself behind one of them, they
commenced an Indian warfare. Jim Moore, who was behind a large oak, had
been watching his chance to get a shot at a Confederate, behind a
similar tree, about one hundred yards away. The Confederate was watching
Jim the same time.
"I say," called out Jim, during a lull in the attack, "give a fellow a
chance for a pop."
The Confederate thrust out his head for a brief second, and Jim blazed
away; the bullet passed two inches over the reckless head.
"Too high!" cried the Confederate; now give me a chance.
Jim, not to be outdone, thrust out his head and shoulders, and a ball
whizzed beneath his arm.
"Too low!" he cried; "but now, I'll bet a quart o' whiskey you and I
have shot together before."
"Your voice is familiar," answered the man, reloading. "Who are you, any
way?"
"Jim Moore, from Snagtown, and, if I aint mistaken, you are Seth
Williams?"
"Right, old boy. We've shot ducks together many a time. How d'ye do?"
"Pretty well," said Jim. "How are yerself and all the rest of the boys?"
"Excellent. What are you fellows following us for?"
"To keep you out o' mischief."
"How many you got?"
"Not quite seventy thousand."
"You're lying, Jim."
"Well, I'll take that from an old friend, Seth, but don't repeat it too
often, or I'll come over there and thrash you."
This dialogue attracted the attention of all the skirmishers, and not a
shot for the last two minutes had been fired.
Re-inforcements now came up to the aid of the Union skirmishers, and the
Confederates retired through the farmyard and across the pasture, into
the woods beyond. A cackling and a squalling of hens told that they had
made a raid, in passing, on the barn-yard fowls.
The Union soldiers ran forward and fired at the retreating rebels. The
only reply was a chorus of voices, singing "Chich-a-my, chick-a-my,
crany crow," followed by reckless yells and peals of laughter.
In the hurry and confusion of the pursuit, Abner became separated from
his company, and eager to rejoin it, dashed down a woodland path. Both
forces were now between Snagtown and Twin Mountains, in the forest,
which spread out for miles on either side of Wolf and Briar creeks, and
the constant popping of guns told that the sharpshooters were at work.
Not a human being was to be seen on the forest path Captain Tompkins had
taken, but he could hear shooting on all sides. Suddenly he came upon a
man standing by the side of a dead horse. In his headlong gallop, Abner
would have run over him, had not the man seized the former's horse by
the bit with an iron grasp and hurled it on its haunches.
A glance told Abner that it was a Confederate officer, and that he held
a naked sword in his hand. In an instant he had drawn his own weapon and
leaped from the saddle, to discover that he was confronted by his
brother.
"So, we meet again," cried Oleah, his eyes flashing fire. "You are my
prisoner, sir."
"Release my horse, and remember that we are brothers," returning his
sword to its scabbard. "We shall find other foes to fight. Loose my
horse and go."
"When I go you will go a prisoner with me. Brothers!" exclaimed Oleah,
sneeringly. "In all things you oppose me. You are joined now with my
enemies, fighting to rob me of country and home; you have tried to take
from me more than my life--why not my life? Defend yourself."
Again the brothers' blades clashed together, but a tall, powerful form
sprang from the thicket into the road and hurled them apart, as though
they were children.
"Brothers seeking each other's blood?" cried the new comer in a ringing
voice. "Shame! oh, shame! There are enemies enough for both your swords
without drawing them on each other."
The new comer was the mysterious negro, Yellow Steve.
"I know you," cried Oleah; "you have something to tell me--"
"But it is not to slay your brother," interrupted Yellow Steve. "Shame
on you both! Put up your swords, lest I take them from you and break
them on my knee. You, Oleah, go, and go quickly. Your enemies are all
around you."
"Hilloa!" cried another voice, "what does all this mean?" and Uncle Dan
Martin, the scout, stepped out of the woods, with his rifle, ready
cocked, in his hand.
Oleah, hearing others advancing, sprang into the bushes and made good
his escape. Abner looked after him for a single moment, and when he
turned to speak to Yellow Steve, that mysterious person had disappeared.
"Who was them uns?" asked Uncle Dan, hastening forward to where his
bewildered captain stood.
"One was my brother Oleah, the other was that strange negro, who calls
himself Yellow Steve."
"Where did he go?" asked the scout.
"I don't know," answered Abner. "His ways of appearing and disappearing
are quite beyond my comprehension."
"I'll catch him," replied Uncle Dan. "I know the tricks of the fox and
mink, and others, and I'll set a trap, which will get him yet."
"Will you?" cried a mocking voice some distance up the path, and looking
up, they saw the mysterious black, standing by the trunk of a tree his
arms folded on his breast, a look of defiance in his gleaming eyes.
Almost simultaneously with the discovery came the crack of Uncle Dan's
rifle. When the smoke had cleared away the black had again disappeared.
The place all about was searched, but no trace of him could be found.
"I believe he is the devil," said Uncle Dan. "I never missed a
squirrel's head at that distance in my life."
"He is certainly a very extraordinary person," said Abner.