A MISSION FOR BEELZEBUB
AS we picked our way slowly forward through the gloom I gleaned from
Caton all he knew regarding the situation before us. My own knowledge of
the environments of the Minor house helped me greatly to appreciate the
difficulties to be surmounted. He had succeeded in his escape by dodging
among the negro cabins where the attacking line appeared weakest, but
expressed the conviction that even this slight gap would be securely
closed long before we reached there.
“Have they sufficient men, then, to cover thoroughly all four sides?” I
asked.
“To the best of my judgment there must be fully two hundred and fifty in
the gang, and apparently they operate under strict military discipline.
It is a revelation to me, Wayne, of the growing power of these desperate
fellows. I knew they were becoming numerous and bold, but this surpasses
anything I could imagine. More, they are being constantly recruited by
new arrivals. A party of at least a dozen came in while I was hiding
behind the stables. I heard them asking for the leader.”
“What did they call him?”
“Lory, or Laurie, something like that. They claimed to be deserters from
Lee's army, but two or three of them wore our uniforms.”
“It's Red Lowrie,” I said gravely, more impressed than ever with the
seriousness of the situation. “I heard of him two years ago--he killed
a man in the Sixth North Carolina, and took to the hills. Since then he
has developed into quite a leader for such scum, and has proven himself
a merciless monster. You have no suggestion to offer as to how we had
better attempt to get in?”
He shook his head despondingly.
“What station does Brennan defend?” I asked.
“The front of the house; the main point of attack has been there.”
We could distinguish the sound of firing by this time, and its
continuous volume convinced me that Caton's estimate of the number
engaged was not greatly overdrawn. As we topped the summit of the hill a
great burst of red fire leaped suddenly high into the sky.
“Great God, Wayne! we are too late!” he cried wildly. “Those devils have
fired the house.”
With fiercely throbbing heart I gazed down at the flames far below in
the black valley.
“No,” I said with eager relief. “It is the stable which is ablaze. See,
the light falls full upon the white sides of the house. Thank Heaven, we
are not too late.”
As I sat my horse there, gazing down upon that scene of black rapine,
unwilling to venture into its midst until I could formulate some
definite plan of action, fully a dozen wild schemes thronged into
my brain, only to be cast aside, one after another, as thoroughly
impracticable.
“We shall have to make a dash for it, and trust in God,” said Caton,
guessing at my dilemma.
“No,” I answered firmly, “there would be no possibility of success in
such a course. Those fellows are old hands, and have pickets out. See,
Caton, that is certainly a picket-fire yonder where the road dips. Every
man of us would be shot down before we penetrated those guard lines
and attained the house. We have got to reach their inner line someway
through strategy, and even then must risk being fired upon by our own
people before we get within cover.”
Even as I was speaking I evolved a plan of action--desperate it
certainly was, yet nothing better occurred to me, and time was golden.
“Ebers,” I said, “didn't I see an extra jacket strapped back of your
saddle?”
“It is no good,” he protested vehemently. “It vos for der rain come.”
“All right; hand it over to the Lieutenant here. Caton, throw that
uniform coat of yours into the ditch, and don honest gray for once.
Sands, come here. Take your knife and cut away every symbol of rank on
my jacket; tear it off, any way you can.”
In another moment these necessary changes had been accomplished.
“Now,” I ordered, “pile your sabres there with mine beside the road;
then hobble your horses, all but the mule; I shall want him.”
“Does we go der rest of der vay on foot?” questioned the Sergeant,
anxiously.
“Certainly; and I desire you to remember one important thing: let me
do the talking, but if any of you are asked questions, we are deserters
from Hills's corps, tired of the war.”
“Mein Gott!” muttered the German, disconsolately. “I hope it vos not
long off, Captain; I am no good on foot in der dark, by Chiminy.”
“You had better manage to keep up to-night, unless you are seeking to
commit suicide. Now, men, mark me carefully! Load your carbines. Are you
all ready? Sergeant, see that each man has his gun properly charged and
capped. You are to carry your arms as thoroughly concealed as possible;
keep close to me always; obey my orders instantly, and to the letter. We
are but twenty men pitted against over two hundred, remember, and when
we strike, it must be both quick and hard.”
I mounted the mule, counted the dim figures in the darkness, and then
gave the order to march. As we moved slowly down the hill I was aware
that Caton walked upon one side of me, while Bungay plodded along
upon the other; but my mind was so filled with the excitement of our
adventure and all that depended upon its successful culmination, as
scarcely to realize anything other than the part I must personally play.
Good fortune and audacity alone could combine to win the game we were
now engaged upon.
A tall, heavily bearded mountaineer stood squarely in the middle of the
road to the north of the picket-fire. I could make but little of him as
the light shone, excepting that he wore a high coonskin cap and bore a
long rifle.
“Stop right thar!” he called out hoarsely, upon hearing us. “Who are you
uns?”
As he challenged, a dozen others sprang up from about the flame and,
guns in hand, came toward us on a run.
“We uns are doggoned tired o' soldierin', an' a gittin' nuthin' fer it,”
I said in the slow Southern drawl, “an' wanter jine yer gang, pervidin'
thar's any show fer it.”
“How many are ye?” asked one of the newcomers, striding forward between
us and the sentry.
“A right smart heap o' a bunch; bin a pickin' o' 'em up ever since we
left Charlotte,” I returned evasively.
“They be dandies ter fight, an' I reckon as how ye kin use 'em, can't
ye?”
“Maybe; who did ye want ter see?”
“Wal, they sed as how a feller named Lowrie wus a runnin' this yere
gang, an' if thet 's ther way o' it, I reckon as how it's Lowrie we 're
after. Be you Lowrie?”
“Naw.”
The answer was so gruff and short, and the fellow hesitated so long in
adding anything to it, I began to think it was all off.
“Wal,” he consented to say at last, ungraciously, “thar 's a blame
pile o' ye kim in lately, an' I calcalate we got 'bout 'nough fer our
business, but I reckon as how Red will use ye somewhar. Anyhow you uns
kin come 'long with me an' find out, but ye'll diskiver him 'bout ther
ornerest man jist now ever ye run up agin. He 's plum mad, Red is, fer
sartain.”
He turned and strode off, without so much as giving us a backward
glance, and, with a hearty congratulatory kick to the mule, I and my
company followed him. A hundred yards further in we passed through the
fringe of trees and emerged into an open space from whence we could
see plainly the great white house still illumined by the flames which
continued to consume the stables. Shots were flashing like fireflies out
of the darkness on every side of us, the smell of burning powder scented
the air, and I could distinguish the black forms of men lying prone on
the grass in something resembling a skirmish line.
“Makin' a fight o' it, ain't they?” I asked of our taciturn guide, as we
picked our way carefully among the recumbent forms.
“Damn 'em, yes; a hell o' a fight,” he admitted bitterly. “Reckoned we
hed a soft job yere, an' lots o' ther stuff fer ther boys. They've got
some Yanks in thar with repeatin' rifles, but I reckon as whin Red once
gits hold on 'em, they'll dance ter another tune.”
“Ye mean ter stick it out, then?”
“Stick it out? I reckon ye don't know Red, er ye wouldn't be askin' sich
a fule question. He'll hev them Yanks now, if it wur ter cost every man
he's got. He ain't no quitter, Red ain't.”
Just beyond musket-shot from the house, and nearly opposite the front
entrance, quite a group of men were standing beneath the black shadows
of a grove of trees. In spite of the gleam from the fire I could make
little of them, but as we approached from the direction of the rear, one
of them exclaimed suddenly:
“Who comes thar? What body o' men is thet?”
“It's 'nother party o' deserters, as wants ter jine us,” said the guide,
sourly. “They's Johnnies from Lee's army.”
“Oh, they dew, dew they? Hain't got 'nough o' fightin' yit, I reckon,”
and the speaker strode forward, with a rough, mirthless laugh. “Wal,
damn 'em, they will yere 'fore I 'm done. We 're a goin' ter rush thet
thar house 'fore long, an' hang 'bout a dozen Yanks, an' these yere lads
will come in right handy ter go in first. If you uns like fightin' so
durn well we'll give ye your bellies full. Who's ther boss o' this yere
crowd?”
I swung down from my seat on the mule's back, and stood facing him.
“We uns hain't got no boss,” I answered, “but they sorter fell in ahind
o' me 'cause I wus astraddle o' this muel. Be you named Lowrie?”
“I reckon; I'm Red Lowrie,” proudly. “'Spect, maybe, ye've heerd tell o'
me, an' if ye hev, ye know ye 've got ter step damn lively whin I howl.
Whut wus ye in ther army?”
“Corporal.”
The flames of the burning barn leaped suddenly upward, as if fed by
some fresh combustion, and flung a brighter glare over the rough faces
clustered about us. I saw Red Lowrie plainly enough now, as he peered
eagerly forward to scan my face, a heavy-set, coarse-featured man, with
prominent nose, and thick, matted red beard. He wore a wide-brimmed soft
army hat, under which his eyes shone maliciously, and he grasped a long
rifle in one big, hairy hand. As I gazed at him curiously, some one
hastily pushed a way through the group at his back, and the next instant
a tall figure stood at his side. I recognized the newcomer at a single
glance, and for the moment my heart fairly choked me--it was Craig.
“Lowrie,” he said, pointing straight at me, “thar's somethin' wrong
yere. That feller thar is Captain Wayne, o' my ol' reg'ment.”
All that occurred next was but the impulse of a second. I stood with
hand resting lightly upon the mule's neck, his long head drooping
sleepily beside my shoulder. I saw Red Lowrie throw up his gun, all his
evil nature written in his face, his cruel eyes instantly aflame with
anger, and, inspired by the desperation of our case, I stooped suddenly,
and blew with all my force into that long, pendant ear. Beelzebub
gave vent to one snort of mingled rage and terror, and then let drive,
backing into that cluster of choice rascals like a very thunderbolt of
wrath, cleaving his way by every lightning blow of those nimble legs,
and tumbling men to right and left.
There was a yell of fright, a wild scramble for safety, a perfect volley
of cursing--I saw Red Lowrie go tumbling backward, a heel planted fairly
in the pit of his stomach, and the next instant Craig, swearing like a
pirate, was jammed down on top of him, a red gash across his forehead.
It was all accomplished so speedily, that it seemed but a medley of
heels, of wildly cavorting mule, of scrambling, falling men.
“Fire!” I cried excitedly. “Sock it into them, lads, and follow me!”
There was a quick outburst of flame, a thunderous report, and, without
waiting to see or hear more, I sprang forward through the dense smoke,
and raced madly toward the front door. Caton panted at my side, and I
could hear the heavy feet of a score of men pounding the turf behind
us. The rush was so rapid, the noise so great and confusing, I could not
distinguish whether we were even fired upon from the rear, but I marked
a red flash at one of the windows in our front, and heard behind me a
sharp wail of agony.
“If any man drops, pick him up!” I called, and at that moment we sprang
up the steps, and began pounding loudly against the door.
“Open up!” shouted the Lieutenant, anxiously. “Brennan, open up, quick!
It's Caton with help.”
I thought it never would open. A volley crashed into us, and Sands
pitched down upon his face, clutching at the man next him as he fell. I
glanced back anxiously--a dark, confused mass of men, without military
formation, were running across the open space toward us.
“'Bout face!” I shouted. “Load at will--fire!”
We poured one scattering volley into them. It halted their movement for
a moment, and then the door opened a scant crack.
“Is this you, Caton?”
“Yes; for God's sake, open up!”
The heavy door swung slowly inward, and with a wild rush to be first, we
surged headlong into the hall.