The Englishman lost his coolness. Again he rushed savagely at Shorty,

with less care in his guard. Shorty evaded his mighty blow, and reaching

up under his guard struck him on the chin so hard that the Englishman

fell like an ox.

Shorty took him by the hand and helped him to his feet. "Do you want any

more? Have you got enough?" he asked.

"Yes, Hi've got enough," answered the English man. "I'm too groggy to go

on. Hi've been drink-in' a bit too much to 'andle myself wi' a first-

class man like yerself. Y've downed me, and y've downed me fair, for

Hi'm not the man to whimper about not being fit. There's my hand. We're

friends. We'll try hit again some day, when Hi've got the likker out o'

me; won't we?"

"Certainly, whenever you like," said Shorty, shak ing hands with him.

"Say, cul," said the Englishman, in the friendliest sort of way, "w'at

was ye wantin' around among my men?"

"To tell you the truth," answered Shorty, "I was after them to enlist

with us. We lost five men in the shuffle at Nashville, and I was lookin'

out for some to take their places.

"That's w'at I thort," said the Englishman. "That's w'at I was afraid

of. The 'ead bridge man 'as bin preachin' to me ever since 'e 'ired me,

hand we made hup the gang in New York, to look hout hand keep my men

from bein' enlisted. Say, youngster, his yours a good regiment?"

"The very best in the army," unhesitatingly as serted Shorty. "All free-

born American citizens, and high-toned gentlemen. I tell you, they're

daisies, they are."

"Hi don't 'know," said the Englishman meditatively, "but Hi'd like to

see a little bit o' fightin' myself. Bridge buildin's 'eavy, 'ard work,

and Hi wouldn' mind sojerin' a little while for a change."

"Come right along with me and this man," said Shorty catching on.

"You'll see the purtiest fighting to be found anywhere in the army, for

the 200th Injianny kin do it up to the Queen's taste. And we'll treat

you white. A better set o' boys never lived."

"Hi'll do hit," said the Englishman decidedly.

"Mebbe," suggested Shorty, remembering that this would still leave them

four short, "some o' your gang'd like to come along with you."

"Some o' them," said the Englishman earnestly. "Hevery bloomin' one o'

them 'as got to go. They've got to volunteer. Hif Hi find hany cowardly

bloke that'd rather be a beastly bridge-builder than a gentleman and a

sojer, I'll pound 'is 'ead offen 'im. They'll all volunteer, I tell ye,

w'en Hi speak to 'em."

Si had been quietly talking to the rest of the gang while this

conversation was going on, and discovered a general willingness to

exchange mechanical pursuits for those of a more martial character, and

so when they left the train at Chattanooga, Lieut. Bowersox marched at

the head of 130 recruits, instead of the 103 with whom he had crossed

the Ohio River.

CHAPTER XV. KEYED UP FOR ACTION MARCHING INTO THE BATTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA.

ALL of that eventful 19th of September, 1864, the men of Lieut.

Bowersox's detachment were keyed up with the knowledge that they were

heading straight for a desperate battle, and the main fear with Si,

Shorty and the great majority was that they would not reach the field in

time to take a hand in the affray. It seemed that never ran a locomotive

at such a snail's pace as their engine was compelled to do over the

wretched road bed and improvised bridges. The engineer, stimulated by

the excitement and the urgent messages at every station, was doing his

very best, but his engine was ditched once and narrowly escaped it a

hundred times. The only curb to their impatience was the absolute

knowledge that an attempt at faster running would result in not getting

there in time at all.

At every stopping place news from the front was eagerly sought for and

canvassed. It was at all times aggressively meager. All that could be

learned was that the whole rebel army was out on the Chickamauga some

miles from Chattanooga, and savagely attacking the Union army to drive

it away and recapture the town.

The news was generally very encouraging. Every attack of the rebels had

been repulsed, though our own loss had been heavy. But every man was

needed. The rebel lines extended far beyond those of the Union army in

each direction, and still they had enough for heavy assaulting columns.

Everybody in the neighborhood of Chattanooga had been ordered up,

leaving only the meagerest possible guards for the trains and

communications.

This increased the burning impatience of the boys to get where they

could be of service. But it was far into the night when they finally

skirted the frowning palisades of Lookout Mountain, and went into

bivouac on the banks of Chattanooga Creek. All of the squad wanted guns,

and Si and Shorty had been desperately anxious to get them for them.

At the stopping places were squads of guards, men more or less sick, and

men on detached duty. Whereever Si or Shorty's sharp search could find a

gun not actually in use, or not likely to be, it was pretty sure, by

some means or other, either openly or surreptitiously, to be gotten into

the hands of one of the squad. In this way, by the time they arrived at

Chattanooga, they had nearly half their men armed, and had given them

some preliminary instruction in handling their guns. The Indianians

needed little so far as loading and firing, for they were all natural

marksmen, but to the Englishman and his Irish squad the musket was a

thing of mystery and dread.

"An' is that the goon for me?" said one of the Irishmen contemptuously,

as Si proudly handed him a trusty Springfield he had found unwatched

some where. "That fool thing wid a bore no bigger'n a gimlet hole? Fwhy,

out in the ould country, when we go man-hunting, we take a goon wid a

mouth like a funnel, that ye can put a hat full av balls inter. To the

divil wid such a goon as this."

"Fix your mind on learnin' the kinks o' that gun, Barney," advised

Shorty. "One ball from it put in the right place 'll do more than a hat

full from your old Irish blunderbuss. A man that gits only one from it

won't need nothin' more'n a head stone and his name crossed offen the

roster. Git a good squint at him through them sights, jest be low his

belt, hold stiddy while you pull the trigger, and his name 'll be mud."

"But fwhere is the powdher to make the ball go?" persisted Barney,

looking at the cartridge which Shorty had put in his hand.

"The powder is behind the ball in that paper bag," explained Shorty.

"You tear the paper with your teeth this way, and pour the powder into

the muzzle."

"Fhat," said Barney contemptuously, surveying the cartridge. "There

isn't enough powdher there to throw a ball as far as Oi can a pebble.

Fwhy, Oi used to put a whole handful o' powdher in the old blunderbuss.

Oi wud do betther to whack a man wid a shillelah. And fwhere is the

flint to stroike foire?"

"O, the flintlock's played out, you flannel-mouthed Irishman," said

Shorty irritably. "It's as out-of-date as a bow and arrer. This's a

percussion-lock; don't you understand? This is a cap. You stick it right

on this nipple, an' when the hammer goes down off goes your gun. Don't

you see?"

"Well, you can say, maybe, an' maybe you can't But Oi can't. Take your

old goon. Oi'll none avit.

"May the divil fly away wid it, an' wid you, too. Oi'd rather have a

good shtick. Wid a shtick in me fist Oi'll take care of ony spalpeen

fwhat'll stand up in front av me. But wid a fool goon loike that Oi'd be

kilt at wance."

While Si and Shorty were still worrying about what to do for arms for

the remainder of their men, they heard what seemed to be about a company

marching toward them through the darkness.

"I suppose we had better stop here and stack our arms out of the way,"

they heard the officer say who seemed to be in command. "We've got an

all-night's job before us, fixing up that bridge, and getting those

wagons across. Stack arms, boys, and leave your belts and traps with

them. There's lots of work down there for us."

They could see dimly the men obeying the orders, and going down the bank

of the creek, where they started large fires to light them at their

work.

"They have got a job ahead of 'em," remarked Shorty, looking in the

direction of the fires.

"It'll take 'em all night and a large part o' tomorrow," said Si,

significantly, as a thought entered his mind.

"Indeed it will," accorded Shorty, as the same idea occurred to him.

"An' they won't need their guns. They're only pioneers, anyway."

"If they do," chimed in Si, "they kin pick up plenty more just as good

around somewhere, when daylight comes. That's what pioneers is for."

"Si, you ketch on like a he snappin' turtle," said Shorty joyfully.

"We'll jest help ourselves to them guns and cartridge-boxes, and then

move our camp over a little ways, and skeet out airly in the mornin' for

the front, and we'll be all right. Don't say nothin' to the Lieutenant

about it. He'll be all right, and approve of it, but he mustn't know

anything of it officially. You git the men up and I'll go over and give

the Lieutenant the wink and tell him that we've found a much better

bivouac about a mile further on."

While the pioneers were struggling with their task, and the air down by

the creek was filled with shouts and commands, Si and Shorty, with some

of the others, quietly appropriated enough stands of arms to complete

the equipment of their squad.

Shorty took much credit for his honesty and forbearance that he did not

touch a single one of the pioneers' belongings but their arms. A little

later the squad was in bivouac a mile away.

At the earliest dawn of Sept. 20 they were awake, and after a hasty

breakfast moving out the Rossville road for the battlefield. Only an

occasional shot from a nervous picket, peering into the deep fog, or

angry spatter from a squad of scouting cavalry disturbed the stillness

of the beautiful Autumn morning. The bright rays of the level sun were

bringing out the rich tints of the maples and dog woods on the mountain-

sides in all their gorgeous richness. Nature was smiling so benignantly

on every side that it needed the turmoil and rush in the winding roads

to remind one that somewhere near men were in bitter contrast with her

divine serenity. But the roads were crowded with ammunition and ration

wagons pushing out to the front, and with mounted officers and Orderlies

making their way as rapidly as possible back and for ward with orders

and messages.

Lieut. Bowersox left the road with his detachment and made his way

across the fields, over ditches, ravines and creeks, through the

thickets and the brush, and at last came out on top of Missionary Ridge

at the north side of Rossville Gap.

With eager eyes they scanned the landscape of billowy mountains and

hills to the east and south.

A fog obscured all the lowlands, but far out columns of thin smoke

rising lazily on the still air showed where 150,000 men were marshaling

for bloody conflict.

"That Major I spoke to," said Lieut. Bowersox, as Si and Shorty looked

anxiously in his face, "is on the corps staff, and he says the whole

infernal Southern Confederacy is out there for blood. They jumped us

yesterday like a pack of famished wolves. But Rosecrans had just got his

army together in time, though some of the divisions had to march till

their tongues were hanging out. All the boys were dead game, though, and

they stood the rebels off everywhere in great shape. He hasn't the

faintest idea where the 200th Ind. is. The divisions and brigades have

been jumped around from one end of the line to the other till he has but

little more idea where any regiment is than if it was in the moon. The

only way for us is to make our way as fast as we can to the front, where

they need every man, and trust to luck to find the regiment. We'll

probably not find it, but we'll find a place where they need us badly."

"Le's go ahead, then," said Si firmly, "as fast as we can. We'd much

rather be with the regiment, but we'll take whatever comes wherever it

comes, and do our level best."

"I know you will, Sergeant," answered the Lieutenant. "Take another look

over your men. See that they've all cartridges, and caution them to keep

cool, stay together, whatever happens, and listen to orders."

Si felt a new and keener solicitude than he had ever before experienced.

Hitherto his only thoughts were as to his own safety and to do himself

credit in the discharge of his duty. Now he felt a heavy responsibility

for every man in the detachment.

He walked slowly down the front of the line, and looked into every man's

face. They appeared anxious but resolute. The face of Wat Burnham, the

Englishman, had settled into more of a bull-dog look than ever. The

Irishmen seemed eager. Abel Waite, the boy on the left, was as excited

as if a game of foot-ball was to come off. He called out:

"Say, Sergeant, I hain't got but 10 cartridges. Will that be enough?"

"It'll have to be enough for the present," answered Si. "Be careful of

'em. Don't waste none. Be sure o' your man, aim low, git under his belt,

an' be careful to ketch your hind-sight before you pull the trigger. If

we need more cartridges we'll have to find more somewhere."

From away beyond the green and yellow waves of hills came the crash of

the reopened battle. The ripping noise of regiments firing by volley was

hoarsely punctuated by the deep boom of the field-pieces.

"Attention, company! Forward March!" shout ed Lieut. Bowersox.

They swept down the mountain-side, over the next eminence, and so

onward. At every crest that they raised the uproar of the battle became

louder, the crash of musketry and the thunder of the can non more

continuous. The roads were so filled with teams being urged forward or

backward that they could not follow them, but had to make their way

through the woods and occasional fields, only keeping such direction as

would bring them quickest to some part of the stormy firing-line.

The Lieutenant and Si and Shorty tried to make themselves believe that

the noise was receding, showing that the rebels were being driven. At

times it certainly was so, and then again it would burst out,

"Nearer, clearer, deadlier than before," and their hearts would sink

again. A little past noon they came upon a hight, and there met a sight

which, for the moment, froze their blood. To their right front the whole

country was filled with men flying in the wildest confusion. All

semblance of regimental order was lost in the awful turmoil. Cannon,

sometimes drawn by two or three horses, sometimes by only one, were

plunging around amid the mob of infantrymen. Mounted officers were

wildly galloping in all directions. Colors were carried to crests and

ridges, and for a moment groups of men would gather around them, only to

melt again into the mob of fugitives. From far behind came the yells of

the exultant rebels, and a storm of shot and shell into the disorganized

mass.

The boys' hearts sickened with the thought that the whole army was in

utter rout. For a minute or two they surveyed the appalling sight in

speech less despair. Then a gleam of hope shot into Si's mind.

"Listen," he said; "the firing is heavier than ever over there toward

the center and left, and you can see that men are goin' up instid o'

runnin' away. It's Stone River over again. McCook's bin knocked to

pieces, just as he always is, but old Pap Thomas is standing there like

a lion, just as he did at Stone River, and he's holding Crittenden with

him."

"You're right, Si," shouted the Lieutenant and Shorty. "Hip, hip, hooray

for the Army o' the Cumberland and old Pap Thomas!"

They deflected to the left, so as to avoid being tangled up in the mass

of fugitives, and pushed forward more determinedly, if possible, than

ever. They kept edging to the right, for they wanted to reach Thomas's

right as nearly as possible, as that was the natural position of their

regiment.

Presently, on mounting a roll of the ground, they saw sloping down from

them a few rods away, and running obliquely to their right, a small

"deadening," made by the shiftless farmer for his scanty corn crop. A

mob of fugitives flying through had trampled the stalks to the ground.

Si and Shorty had seen some of them and yelled at them to come up and

form on them, but the skedaddlers either would not or could not hear.

Beyond the "deadening" came a horde of pursuing rebels, firing and

yelling like demons. The sight and sound swelled the boys' hearts with

the rage of battle.

"Lieutenant," suggested Si, "there's no need o' goin' any further just

now for a fight. We can have just as nice a one right here as we can

find anywhere. I move that we line up back here and wait for them rebels

to come on, an' then git 'em on the flank with an enfilade that'll

salivate 'em in a holy minute."

"The same idea has occurred to me," said the Lieutenant; "though I've

felt all along that we should not be diverted by anything from making

our way as fast as possible up to the main line. What do you think,

Shorty?"

"My idee is to down a rebel whenever you git a good chance," said

Shorty. "'Do the work nearest thy hand,' I once heard an old preacher

say. Le's jump these hounds right here."

"All right," assented the Lieutenant quite willingly. "Form the men just

back of the edge of the woods. Keep them out of sight, and caution them

not to shoot till they get the order. We must wait till we get the

rebels just right."

They Posted the Men Behind The Trees. 197

Si and Shorty hurriedly posted the men behind trees and rocks, cautioned

them to wait for orders, and fire low, and then stationed themselves,

one at the right, and the other at the left of the irregular line. They

had scarcely done so when the rebels came surging through the

"deadening" in a torrent. They were urged on by two mounted officers

wear ing respectively the silver stars of a Colonel and a Major.

"The feller on the bay hoss's my meat," shouted Shorty from the left.

"All right," answered Si. "I'll take the chap on the roan."

"Wait a little," cautioned the Lieutenant. "We'll get more of them if

you do. Now, let them have it. Ready Aim FIRE!"

Down went the Colonel and Major and fully 50 of their men. The Indiana

recruits might be green as to tactics, but they knew how to level a gun.

The startled rebels ceased yelling, and looked around in amazement in

the direction whence the unexpected fire came. A few began firing that

way, but the majority started to run back across the "deadening" to the

sheltering woods. Groups gathered around the fallen officers to carry

them back.

"Load as fast as you can, boys," commanded the Lieutenant. "That was a

good one. Give them an other."

The young Irishmen were wild with excitement, and wanted to rush down

and club the rebels, but the Lieutenant restrained them, though he could

not get them to reload their guns. As Si was bringing down his gun he

noticed the Englishman aiming at the groups about the officers.

"Don't shoot them. Fire at the others," Si called out, while he himself

aimed at a man who was try ing to rally his comrades.

"W'y the bloody 'ell shouldn't Hi shoot them the same has the hothers?"

snarled the Englishman, firing into the group. "They're all bloody

rebels."

By the time the second round was fired the "deadening" was clear of all

the rebels but those who had been struck. The others were re-forming on

the knoll beyond, and a field-piece was hurried up to their assistance,

which threw a shell over at the line.

"We had better move off," said the Lieutenant. "They're forming out

there to take us in flank, and we can't hold them back. We have done all

that we can here, and a mighty good job, too. We have saved a lot of our

men and salted a good bagful of rebels. Attention! File left March!"

"That was a mighty good introduction for the boys," said Si to Shorty as

they moved on through the woods. "They begin to see how the thing's

done; and didn't they act splendidly? I'm proud of Injianny."

"Sergeant, didn't I do well?" asked Abel Waite, in the tone that he

would have inquired of his teacher about a recitation. "I done just as

you told me. I kep' my eye on the tall feller in front, who was wavin'

his gun and yellin' at the rest to come on. I aimed just below his belt,

an' he went down just like I've seen a beef when pap shot him."

"Good boy," said Si, patting him on the shoul der. "You're a soldier

already."

CHAPTER XVI. THE TERRIFIC STRUGGLE THE END OF THE BATTLE OF CHICKAMAUGA.

LIEUT. Bowersox, Si, Shorty and the recruits left the woods and entered

a large clearing, in the midst of which was a log cabin, with a few rude

outbuildings. Over it flew the yellow flag of the hospital service, and

beyond could be seen the parked trains and other evidences of the line-

of-battle.

The roar of the battle would have told them as much, for it was now

deafening. The earth seemed to throb and the trees shake with the awful

shocks. As they passed the hospital they saw a grewsome pile of

amputated legs and arms, while the ground around about was filled with

wounded, whose groans pierced through the roar of battle.

James Bradshaw and Simeon Wheelwright, the two tall, stalwart men who

had stood on the right and who had shown great coolness during the

fight, gave one look at the dismembered limbs, turned pale as death,

gasped, and fell in a faint.

"Forward! Can't stop to pay attention to them," commanded the

Lieutenant, in whom the battle-fever was burning.

Though still more than two miles from the low crest of Snodgrass Hill,

where Gen. Thomas, with the remainder of the Army of the Cumberland, was

standing savagely at bay against the fierce assaults of Bragg's and

Longstreet's overwhelming numbers, they were soon in the midst of the

wild ruck and confusion of the rear of a great battle. Miles of wagons

were being urged hither and yon, some times in accordance with

intelligent orders by officers, more often from the panicky fears of

wagon-masters and teamsters; riderless horses with saddles under their

bellies were galloping frantically around; squads of artillerymen in

search of ammunition were storming about, cursing cowardly teamsters,

whom they could not find; streams of wounded men were trying to make

their way to the hospitals; officers were yelling and swearing in their

attempts to rally shirks and cowards who had fled from the front; men

from regiments which had been broken and scattered by the fierce

assaults were trying to find their colors; Colonels whose regiments had

been ordered up from the rear were fiercely forcing their way forward,

with many dire objurgations on all who impeded their progress.

It was a scene to discourage any but the stoutest heart, yet it only

wrought up the boys to greater eagerness to get through to the firing-

line.

The smoke-crowned crest of Snodgrass Hill was seen but half a mile away.

They could make out the ragged, irregular line of blue constantly

vailing itself in sulphurous vapor as it poured murderous volleys into

the enemy. The shrill yell of the rebels as they renewed the charge, and

the deep-toned cheer of the Union soldiers as they repulsed it, reached

their ears in the momentary lulls of the firing.

So far, in spite of all deterrents, they had brought every man through

except the two who had fainted at the hospital. Everyone had shown true

metal. Little Abel Waite had particularly distinguished him self by

skillful dodging under wagons and past flanks, in order to keep up with

the swift pace of the longer-legged men.

They had as yet found no one in all the throng to give them the least

information as to their regiment, when Si spied a member of Co. Q

walking deliberately back, holding the wrist of his shattered left hand

in his right, with his fingers compressing the artery to restrain the

flow of blood.

"There's Silas Peckham," exclaimed Si, running up to him. "Badly hurt,

Sile?"

"No," answered Silas, more coolly than if he had stubbed his toe. "Left

hand's gone on a strike. That's all. Wisht I could find a doctor to fix

it up so I could git back to the boys. They're havin' an awful tussle up

there, an' need me bad. Better hurry up, Si. Don't waste no time on me.

I'll find a doctor soon an' be back with you."

"Where's the regiment, Sile?" asked the Lieutenant.

"Right up there to the left o' them tall hickories," answered Silas,

pointing with his bloody hand. "To the right o' that battery, you see

there. That's our bully old battery at work. Greatest battery in the

army. I've kept my eye on the place, because I want to git back as

soon's I kin find the Surgeon. Ain't much left o' the regiment, or

battery either, for that matter; but they're raisin' hell with the

Johnnies every time, and don't you forgit it. Capt. McGillicuddy's in

command."

"Capt. McGillicuddy?" said the Lieutenant. "Why, he's the junior Captain

in the regiment."

"He was yisterday mornin', but he's now senior to everybody that's

alive," answered Silas. "The Kunnel wuz killed yisterday forenoon. The

Lootenant-Kunnell held out about three hours an' then he got it for

keeps, an' the Major tuck command an' stuck out till nigh evenin', when

they knocked him.

"This mornin' the Captains 's bin going down so fast that I couldn't

keep track of 'em, till Capt. McGillicuddy was the only one left, an'

he's swearin' that the rebels never run no bullet that could hit him.

The Adjutant's acting Lootenant-Kunnel an' Major both to-wunst, and

shootin' a gun when he hain't nothin' else to do. But the boys that's

left 's stayers, I tell you. They've jest stuck their toenails into that

hilltop there, an' every time them howlin' rebels come yippin' an' ki-

yi-in' out o' the woods they send 'em back on the dead run. But they

want you up there bad. You've got more than's left in the regiment.

Hurry up. I'll be back with you jest as soon's I kin find a doctor to

cooper me up a little."

"Forward Quick time March!" shouted the Lieutenant. "Guide on those tall

hickories."

Onward they rushed full into the smoke that drifted backward down the

hill. As they gained the crest the air became clearer, and they saw the

sadly-shrunken remnant of their regiment strung in an irregular line

along the forward edge. Some were binding up wounds more or less severe,

some were searching the boxes of the dead and wounded for cartridges,

some were leaning on their hot guns, looking curiously into the woods at

the foot of the slope into which the rebels had fled.

Every face was blackened with powder almost beyond recognition. The

artillerymen to the left were feverishly swabbing out their guns and

trying to cool them off, and bringing up everything in the shape of

ammunition from the limbers in the rear.

Capt. McGillicuddy was leaning on his sword at the right of the line,

intently watching everything. He looked sharply around, when the men

raised a cheer on recognizing Si and the rest, and coming back shook

Lieut. Bowersox warmly by the hand, saying:

"Great God, Lieutenant, I've always been glad to see you, but I never

was so glad to see a man in my life as I am you this minute. How many

men did you bring?"

"I've got 128 with me," answered the Lieutenant. "What's the situation?"

"You have? Well, you've got more than we have left. You'll act as Major.

Poor Wilkinson just got his dose. You can see him lying down there in

the rear of the left. Put your men in anywhere. Mix them up with the

others.. It don't matter much about formation. The main thing's to stand

and shoot. The rebels have been charging us all after noon, but we have

whipped them back every time.

"You can see our work out there (pointing to the slope in front, which

was literally covered with dead and wounded). I've thought every time

that they couldn't stand another such a slaughter, but they've rallied

in those woods there and come out again with their infernal yell, just

as before. The last time it seemed to me that we just swept them off the

face of the earth, and I don't see how in God's name they can stand any

more of that sort of thing. It's worse killing than we gave them at

Stone River. It seems to me that hell has let out for noon, and sent all

its devils to reinforce them. But it will soon be night now, when

they'll have to stop. If they won't we'll have to depend on the bayonet,

for we haven't five rounds apiece left, and I can't get more anywhere."

Si and Shorty had been distributing the detachment along the line, and

had posted the Englishman and his squad of Irishmen, with themselves,

around the tattered colors, which were now in the hands of the last

survivor of the color guard, who was himself wounded.

Dusk was fast coming on, when the woods beyond the foot of the slope

began to darken again with masses of men arraying in column of assault.

"They're coming again," called out Capt. McGillicuddy. "Lieut. Bowersox,

look out there for the left. Men, if we haven't stopped them when we've

fired out last shot, we'll fix bayonets and charge them. We must keep

them off this hill or die right here."

He was answered with cheers. A demoniac yell from 10,000 fierce throats

rang through the woods, and the next instant thunder and flames burst

from the sweeping crescent of rebel cannon, and the ground in front of

the foot of the hill was hidden from view by the tide of men rushing

over it.

A fierce storm of cannon and musketry answered from the crest of the

hill. As they reloaded, Si and Shorty saw in quick glances that the

rebel line to the right and left seemed beaten to a standstill by the

terrific storm which fell upon them, but in their immediate front a body

of men, apparently a regiment, kept stubbornly forging forward. Upon

their flag, held gallantly aloft, could be made out the let ters "Miss."

By the time every shot in the cartridge-boxes had been fired at them

they had forced their way half-up the slope.

"Attention, 200th Indiana," shouted Capt. McGillicuddy. "Dress on the

colors. Fix bayonets."

"They'uns 's Injiannians," shouted the rebel Color-Sergeant, waving his

flag defiantly. "Come on, you Hoosiers. We'uns 's Mississippians.

Remember Buny Visty. Injiannians 's cowards."

"Shorty, le's have that 'ere flag," said Si.

"Le's," said Shorty, pushing around the ring that locked his bayonet on.

"Forward March Charge!" shouted Capt. McGillicuddy.

They Had a Delirious Remembrance of the Mad Whirl. 211

Of the mad whirl of an eternity of events in the next few minutes

neither Si nor Shorty had anything but a delirious remembrance. They

could only recollect the fierce rush of the lightning-like play of

bayonet and gun-barrel in the storm-center around the rebel colors. Each

after an instant's savage fencing had sent his bayonet home in his

opponent's body. Si had sprung at and seized the rebel colors, only to

fall, as he grasped them, from a bullet out of the revolver of a rebel

Captain, whom Shorty instantly bayoneted, and fell himself from a blow

across the head with a musket-barrel.

The man who struck him was bayoneted by Abel Waite, who was dancing

around the edges of the melee like a malignant little fiend, prodding

wherever he could get a chance at a rebel body. The Irishmen, yelling

like demons, were using their guns like shilelahs, and crushing heads in

every direction, while Wat Burnham had thrown his musket aside, and was

rushing at everybody with his mighty fists.

At length the rebels fled, leaving the Indianians in possession of their

colors and the hillside.

"Some of you find Lieut. Bowersox, and bring him here," said Capt.

McGillicuddy, sitting up, and beginning to twist a handkerchief around

his thigh, to form a tourniquet. "Lieutenant, you all right?"

"Nothing more than a mere scratch on the side of my head," said the

Lieutenant, wiping away the blood.

"Well, Lieutenant, you'll have to take command of the regiment. I had a

personal altercation with that Mississippi Colonel lying over there, and

he put a bullet through my thigh. Get the men together, pick up our

wounded, and fall back to the top of the hill again."

"I'm afraid there's no use of picking up Corp'l Klegg and Shorty," said

the Lieutenant, with tears in his eyes. "They got the rebel flag, but

they're lying there stiff and cold."

"Well, bring them back, anyway, so we can lay them beside the other

gallant boys who have fallen to-day."

CHAPTER XVII. IN THE HOSPITAL REMOVED FROM THE BATTLEFIELD TO THE

HOSPITAL AT CHATTANOOGA.

FOR a short time a silence that seemed oppressive followed the fierce

turmoil of the last charge of the rebels upon Snodgrass Hill and its

repulse. Both sides had exhausted themselves in the awful grapple, and

had to regain breath and thought. Then the night was pierced by the

agonizing groans of the innumerable wounded, the stern commands of

officers to their men to re-form, the calls of scattered men seeking

their regiments and companies.

The sadly-shrunken remnant of the unconquer able 200th Ind. gathered

around its regimental colors, on the front of the crest of Snodgrass

Hill, and grimly, silently prepared for the next event, whatever it

might be. The wounds of those still able to fight were bound up, and

they resumed their places in line. The worst hurt were helped or carried

back to the busy Surgeon under the shelter of the hill. The newly-dead

were brought up and added to the row of those who had already fought

their last battle. Cartridge-boxes of both dead and wounded were

carefully searched for remaining cartridges. Si and Shorty were laid at

the end of the long row.

The chill air of the evening began to revive Si and Shorty. Si's brain

responded long before any of his muscles. At first it seemed the vaguest

and most shadowy of dreams. There was a dim consciousness of lying

somewhere. Where it was, how he came there, what was going on around he

had not the slightest idea nor desire to know. There was just the

feeling of being there, without any sensation of comfort or discomfort,

wish or longing.

One by one, and very slowly, other nerves awoke. He became conscious

that there was a sharp stone or knot under his head, which hurt, and he

tried to move it, but queerly his head would not move, and then he found

that neither would his hands. This was faintly puzzling, as things are

in dreams. Then his throat became on fire with thirst, and somehow there

came a dream of the deliciously cool well on the farm at home, the

bucket covered with green moss swinging over it, the splash of cool

water when it was lowered, the trough by the side, where they used to

pour water for the fowls to drink, the muddy spot around, where water

plants grew on the splashings and drippings. Then were visions of the

eternal, parching thirst of the damned, which he had often heard

preachers describe, and he was conscious of a faint curiosity as to

whether he had died and waked up in the home of the lost.

Still not a muscle waked up to obey his will, and he seemed indifferent

whether it did or not. Then he forgot everything again, until presently

his burning throat recalled his consciousness.

He felt the cold, bracing air in his nostrils, and slowly, very slowly

at first, he began to hear and understand the sounds around him. The

shriek of a wounded comrade carried past, whose leg had been shattered,

first sounded like the hum of bees, and finally translated itself into

something like its true meaning, but he had no comprehension or sympathy

for its misery.

He tried to make some sound himself, but his tongue was as hypnotized as

his other muscles, and refused to obey his will. Yet at the moment he

did not seem to care much. His wishes were as numb as his tendons and

sinews. He became shadowly conscious of his comrades gathering around

him, picking him up, carrying him back up the hill, and laying him down

again. This relieved the sharp pain from the stone under his head; but

when they laid him down again his head fell too low. He heard the murmur

of their voices, and felt their hands searching his pockets for

cartridges.

Consciousness began returning more swiftly, though the muscles were yet

paralyzed. He could feel to the tips of his fingers, yet he could not

move them. He began to understand the words spoken about him, and

comprehend their meaning. The first sentence that filtered its way to

his brain was Lieut. Bowersox's order to the regiment:

"The orders are to fall back quietly. We'll follow the 1st Oshkosh, on

our right. As soon as it is well down the hill we'll move by the right

flank, and fall in behind it. Our wagon is right at the bottom of the

hill. Those that are not able to march will start now, and get in it. It

will move right after the regiment. Don't anybody say a word of this

above his breath. The rebels are listening sharply for our movements. We

dare not even cheer, for fear they'll find out how few are left of us.

All of you keep a lookout, and follow right after me when I start, for I

won't give any order."

Then all his consciousness seemed to wake up at once into an agony of

fear of being left behind to fall into the hands of the rebels. He made

a desperate effort to call out, but his tongue seemed dry and useless as

a cornhusk in his parched mouth, and his throat too burning hot to

perform its office. Nor could he lift a finger nor move a toe.

He found room for anger at Shorty that he did not look him up, and

satisfy himself as to his condition, and Lieut. Bowersox and the rest

seemed selfishly thoughtful of their own safety and neglectful of his.

He listened in agony to the regiment on the right marching off, to the

cautions and admonitions given those who were carrying off the badly-

wounded, and then to Lieut. Bowersox starting off with the right of the

200th Ind.

Then he heard little Abel Waite say:

"I know that Si Klegg has some things on him that his folks' d like to

have. I know where they live. I'm goin' to git 'em, and send 'em to

'em."

"Make haste, then, young feller," he heard Wat Burnham growl. "Don't let

the rebels ketch yer. We're movin' now."

He heard Abel Waite's steps running toward him, and felt his hands

thrust into his blouse pocket over his breast. Then the boy said with a

start of surprise:

"Why, he's alive yet. Come here, Wat."

Wat and the Irishmen hastened to him. He felt

Wat's hand laid on his breast, and then held over his mouth.

"'E's certainly warm yet. Hand 'e breathes."

Shorty made a violent effort, and summoned enough strength to reach over

and touch the Englishman's foot.

"The tall feller's alive, too," said Wat.

"We must take 'em along with us," said Abel Waite excitedly.

"Yes, but 'ow?" growled the Englishman. "Don't speak so loud, you young

brat. Do you want to hopen hup that 'ell's kitchen hagin?"

"The Liftinant's far down the hill wid the regiment," said Barney

McGrath. "There's no toime to sind for him. Here, lit's pick thim up an'

carry thim down to the wagon."

He put his hand under Si's shoulder. The others did the same, Wat

lifting Shorty's feet.

"Halt, there, you Yanks, and surrender," said a stern voice just behind

Wat.

Wat looked back over his shoulder and saw a single adventurous rebel

who, divining what was going on, had slipped forward in the darkness,

with his gun leveled on the squad bearing Si. Wat realized instantly

that the rebel must be suppressed with out alarm to others that might be

behind him. He dropped Shorty's foot, and with a backward sweep of his

mighty right took the rebel in the stomach with such force as to double

him up. The next instant Wat had his throat in his terrific grip, and

tried to tear the windpipe from him. Then he flung the rebel forward

down the hill, gathered up Shorty's feet again, and gave the command:

"Hall right. Go a'ead, boys, quick has you can."

With great difficulty they made their way over the wreckage of battle

down the hill toward where they expected to find the regimental wagon.

But it had received all that it could hold of its ghastly freight and

moved off.

They were is despair for a few minutes, until Abel Waite discovered an

abandoned wagon near by, with one mule still hitched to it. Next they

found a wounded artillery horse which had been turned loose from his

battery. He was hitched in, and Si and Shorty were laid on the layer of

ammunition-boxes which still covered the bottom of the bed.

"Who'll drive the bloody team?" growled Wat. "Hi never druv a 'oss hin

my life. 'Ere, Barney, you get hin the saddle."

"Not Oi," answered Barney. "Oi niver could droive ayven a pig, on the

brightest day that shone. Oi'll not fool wid a couple av strange horses,

a wagon-load av foire an' brimstone, an' a brace av dead men, in the

midst av Aygytian darkness. Not Oi."

"Here, I kin drive two horses, anyway," said Abel Waite, climbing into

the saddle. "I've done that much on the farm."

They pushed off into the road marked by the dark line of troops moving

silently toward McFarland's Gap, and after some contest with other

drivers secured a place behind one of the regiments of their brigade.

A couple of miles ahead Forrest's cavalry was making a noisy dispute of

the army's retreat, the woods were on fire, and the fences on either

side of the road were blazing.

The long line was halted in anxious expectation for a little while, as

the storm of battle rose, and the men looked into each other's faces

with sickening apprehension, for it seemed much like defeat and capture.

Then loud cheers, taken up clear down the line', rose as Turchin's

Brigade, by a swift bayonet charge, swept away all opposition, scattered

the rebels to the shelter of the woods, and reopened the way. But the

rebels still continued to fire long distance shots at the road as

outlined by the burn ing fences.

The Dead Being Collected After the Battle. 220

Though one of his team was wounded, Abel Waite had little difficulty in

keeping his place in column until the burning lane was reached. The

regiment ahead had gone through on the double-quick, and teams as fast

as they could be lashed.

"What'll we do now?" he called out to the others in his boyish treble.

"I can't git these plugs out of a walk. If we go ahead the fire'll bust

the ammunition, and send us all sky-huntin'. If we stop here them rebels

'll git us, sure."

"Go a'ead, Habe," growled Wat, after a moment's thought. "We can't 'elp

you, but we'll stay wi' you. Hif she busts, she busts, hand that's hall

there'll be hof hit hor hof us. We'll stick by the wagon, though, till

she busts, hand then nobuddy but the crows 'll hever find hany hof hus.

Go a'ead, you bloody brat."

"Cut me one o' them young hickories for a gad," said Abel, pointing to

the brush by the side of the road, "and I'll git as good time out o'

these poor brutes as they kin make, if I skin 'em alive."

Abel lashed his animals with all the strength of his young arm, and

succeeded in keeping them in something like a trot. The men ran

alongside, and fought the fire as well as they were able. Several times

the wagon-cover caught fire from the intense heat, but it was at once

beaten out by hats and blouses, and blouses were laid over the holes to

protect them against the sparks.

They succeeded at last in getting through the fire-bordered road without

an explosion, but they were all so exhausted that they could not move

another step until they rested. The poor horse lay down and refused to

get up.

Wat and Abel looked in to see how Si and Shorty had fared. The jolting

of the wagon and the cold night air had at first revived them so that

they could speak. Then they swooned again from the effects of the heat

and the stifling smoke, and were speech less and motionless when Wat and

Abel looked in.

"We've 'ad hall hour trouble for nothink," said Wat disconsolately, as

he felt them over. "The 'eat and smoke's killed 'em."

"Not by a durned sight," slowly gasped Shorty. "Seen sicker dogs'n this

git well. Nearly dead for a drink o' water, though. Then I'll be all

right."

Abel snatched a canteen, ran to a branch a little way off, filled it,

and returning, put it to Shorty's lips.

"Jehosephat, how good that tastes," said Shorty, speaking still faintly,

but far more freely than at first, after he had drained the canteen.

"Sonny, run and git some more; and mind you fill the canteen full this

time. I feel as if I could drink up the Mississippi River. Say, boys,

what's happened? Appearintly, I got a sock-dologer on my head from some

feller who thought I was too fresh. I'm afraid I'll have a spell o'

headache. But we got the flag, didn't we?"

"Yo're bloody right we did," said Wat; "hand we wolloped them bloomin'

rebels till they 'unted their 'oles hin the woods."

"That's good enough," said Shorty, sinking back.

"The column's movin' agin," said Abel Waite, turn ing his attention to

his team.

Shortly after daybreak the team limped painfully up the slope of Mission

Ridge, through Rossville Gap, on either side of which stood Thomas's

indomitable army in battle array, sternly defying the rebel hosts of

Bragg and Longstreet, which swarmed over the hills and valleys in front,

but without much apparent appetite for a renewal of the dreadful fray.

"Where do you men belong? What have you got in that wagon? Where are you

going?" demanded the Provost officer in the road.

"We belong to the 200th Hinjianny. We've got two badly-wounded men and

ha lot o' hammynition in the wagon. We want to find our regiment," an

swered Wat Burnham.

"Stop your wagon right there. We need all the ammunition we can get.

Lift your wounded men into that ambulance, and then go up to that side

of the gap. Your division is up there somewhere."

It was late in the afternoon before the overworked Surgeon in the field

hospital at Chattanooga, in which Si and Shorty were finally deposited,

found time to examine them.

"You got a pretty stiff whack on your head, my man," he said to Shorty,

as he finished looking him over; "but so far as I can tell now it has

not fractured your skull. You Hoosiers have mighty hard heads."

"Reglar clay-knob whiteoak," whispered Shorty; "couldn't split it with a

maul and wedge. Don't mind that a mite, since we got that flag. But

how's my pardner over there?"

"I think you'll pull through all right," continued the Surgeon, "if you

don't have concussion of the brain. You'll have to be—"

"No danger o' discussion of the brains," whispered Shorty. "Don't carry

'em up there, where they're liable to get slubbed. Keep 'em in a safer

place, where there's more around 'em. But how's my pardner?"

"You'll come through all right," said the Surgeon smiling. "You're the

right kind to live. You've got grit. I'll look at your partner now."

He went to Si and examined him. Shorty turned on his side and watched

him with eager eyes. His heart sickened as he saw the Surgeon's face

grow graver as he proceeded. The Surgeon probed the bullet's track with

his fingers, and drew out a piece of folded letter paper stained with

blood. Instinctively he unfolded it, and read through the ensanguined

smears, written in a cramped school-girl hand:

"Dear Si: Though I did not have the heart to say it, Ime yours till

death, and Ime sure you feel the same way. Annabel."

"I'm much afraid the end has come too soon to a brave as well as loving

heart," said the Surgeon sadly.

"Doctor, he can't die. He mustn't die," said Shorty in agony. "The

regiment can't spare him. He's the best soldier in it, and he's my

pardner."

"He may live, but it's a very slender chance," said the Surgeon. "Men

live in this war against all science and experience, and it is possible

that he may."

"Major," said Lieut. Bowersox, coming in, "I understand that two of my

men were brought in here wounded. The report which was sent North this

morning gave them as killed. If you have them here I want to correct it

and save their people sorrow."

"One of them," answered the Surgeon, "has no thought of dying, and will,

I'm sure, pull through. I am sorry I cannot say the same for the other.

It he lives it will be a wonder."

"Neither of us is a-going to die till we've put down this damned

rebellion, and got home and married our girls," gasped Shorty with grim

effort. "You can jist telegraph that home, and to ole Abe Lincoln, and

to all whom it may concern."

And he fell back exhausted on his blanket.

CHAPTER XVIII. A DISTURBING MESSAGE THE DEACON HURRIEDLY LEAVES FOR

CHATTANOOGA.

THAT evening Lieut. Bowersox sent a telegram to Deacon Klegg. It had to

be strictly limited to 10 words, and read:

JOSIAH KLEGG, ESQ.,

Somepunkins Station, Ind.:

Josiah not killed. Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded. E. C.

BOWERSOX.

It did not arrive at Sumpunkins Station, three miles from the Deacon's

home, until the next forenoon. The youth who discharged the multifarious

duties of Postmaster, passenger, freight and express-agent, baggage-

master, and telegraph operator at Sumpunkins Station laboriously spelled

out the dots and dashes on the paper strip in the instrument. He had

barely enough mastery of the Morse alphabet to communicate the routine

messages relating to the railroad's business aided by the intelligence

of the conductors and engineers as to what was expected of them. This

was the first outside message that he had ever received, and for a while

it threatened to be too much for him, especially as the absence of

punctuation made it still more enigmatical. He faithfully transcribed

each letter as he made it out and then the agglomeration read:

"Josiamn otkildho spitalat chatano ogabadl ywounded ecbower sox."

"Confound them smart operators at Louisville and Jefferson ville," he

grumbled, scanning the scrawl. "They never make letters plain, and don't

put in half of 'em, just to worrit country operators. I'd like to take a

club to 'em. There's no sort o' sense in sich sending. A Philadelphia

lawyer couldn't make nothing out of it. But I've got to or get a

cussing, and mebbe the bounce. I'll try it over again, and see if I can

separate it into words. Why in thunder can't they learn to put a space

be tween the words, and not jumble the letters all to gether in that

fool fashion?"

The next time he wrote it out:

"J. O. S. I am not kild Hospital at Chattanooga badly wounded E. C.

Bower sox."

"That begins to look like something," said he, wiping the sweat from his

forehead. "But who is J. O. S.? Nobody o' them initials in this neighbor

hood. Nor E. C. Bower. Deacon Klegg can't know any of 'em. Then, how's

the hospital badly wounded Bower? What's that about his socks? I'll have

to try it over again as soon as No. 7, freight, gets by."

After No. 7 had gotten away, he tackled the message again:

"No, that sixth letter's not an m, but an h. H is four dots, and m is

two dashes. It's specks in the paper that makes it look like an h. I'll

put in some letters where they're needed. Now let's see how it'll read:"

228 SI KLEGG.

"Josiah Nott killed Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded E. C. Bower

sox."

"That seems to have more sense in it, but I don't know any Josiah Nott

in this country. Does it mean that he killed a man named Hospital at

Chattanooga, and badly wounded E. C. Bower in the socks? That don't seem

sense. I'll try it again."

The next time he succeeded in making it read:

"Josiah Nott killed. Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded E. C.

Bower's ox."

"There, that's best I can do," he said, surveying the screed. "It'll

have to go that way, and let the Deacon study it out. He's got more time

'n I have, and mebbe knows all about it. I can't spend no more time on

it. No. 3, passenger, from the West 's due in 20 minutes, and I've got

to get ready for it. Good luck; there comes the Deacon's darky now, with

a load of wheat. I'll send it out by him."

The operator wrote out his last version of the message on a telegraph-

blank, inclosed it in a West ern Union envelope, which he addressed to

Deacon Klegg, and gave to Abraham Lincoln, with strong injunctions to

make all haste back home with it.

Impressed with these, Abraham, as soon as he delivered his grain to the

elevator, put his team to a trot, and maintained it until he reached

home.

Everything about the usually cheerful farm-house was shrouded in

palpable gloom. The papers of the day before, with their ghastly lists

of the dead and wounded, had contained Si's and Shorty's names, besides

those of other boys of the neighborhood, in terrific, unmistakable

plainness. There were few homes into which mourning had not come. The

window curtains were drawn down, the front doors closed, no one appeared

on the front porch, and it seemed that even the dogs and the fowls were

op pressed with the general sadness, and forebore their usual cheerful

utterances. Attired in sober black, with eyes red from weeping, and with

camphor bottle near, Mr. Klegg sat in Si's room, and between her fits of

uncontrollable weeping turned over, one after another, the reminders of

her son. There were his bed, his clothes, which she had herself

fashioned in loving toil for him; the well-thumbed school-books which

had cost him so many anxious hours, his gun and fishing rod. All these

were now sacred to her. Elsewhere in the house his teary-eyed sisters

went softly and silently about their daily work.

The father had sought distraction in active work, and was in the

cornfield, long corn-knife in hand, shocking up the tall stalks with a

desperate energy to bring forgetfulness.

Abraham Lincoln burst into the kitchen, and taking the dispatch from his

hat said:

"Hyah am a papeh or sumfin dat de agent down at de station done tole me

to bring hyah jest as quick as I done could. He said hit done come ober

a wire or a telugraph, or sumfin ob dat ere sort, and you must hab hit

right-a-way."

"O, my; it's a telegraph dispatch," screamed Maria with that sickening

apprehension that all women have of telegrams. "It's awful. I can't tech

it. Take it Sophy."

"How can I," groaned poor Sophia, with a fresh outburst of tears. "But I

suppose I must."

The mother heard the scream and the words, and hurried into the room.

"It's a telegraph dispatch, mother," said both the girls as they saw

her.

"Merciful Father," ejaculated Mrs. Klegg, sinking into a chair in so

nearly a faint that Maria ran into the next room for the camphor-bottle,

while Sophy rushed outside and blew the horn for the Deacon. Presently

he entered, his sleeves rolled to the elbow over his brawny arms, and

his shirt and pantaloons covered with the spanish-needles and burrs

which would grow, even in so well-tilled fields as Deacon Klegg's.

"What's the matter, mother? What's the matter, girls?" he asked

anxiously.

Mrs. Klegg could only look at him in speechless misery.

"We've got a telegraph dispatch," finally answered Maria, bursting in a

torrent of tears, into which Sophia joined sympathetically, "and we know

it's about poor Si."

"Yes, it must be about poor Si; nobody else but him," added Sophia with

a wail.

The father's face grew more sorrowful than be fore. "What does it say?"

he nerved himself to ask, after a moment's pause.

"We don't know," sobbed Maria. "We haint opened it. We're afraid to.

Here it is."

The father took it with trembling hand. "Well," he said after a little

hesitation, "it can't tell nothin' no worse than we've already heard.

Let's open it. Bring me my specs."

Maria ran for the spectacles, while her father, making a strong effort

to calm himself, slit open the envelope with a jack-knife, adjusted his

glasses, and read the inclosure over very slowly.

"Josiah Nott killed Hospital at Chattanooga badly wounded E. C. Bower's

ox. What on airth does that mean? I can't for the life o' me make it

out."

"Read it over again, pap," said Maria, suddenly drying her eyes.

The father did so.

"Le' me read it, pap," said Maria, snatching the telegram from his hand.

"Josiah," said she, read ing. "That's Si's right name."

"Certainly it is," said her mother, reviving.

"Certainly; I didn't think o' that before," echoed the father.

"Josiah not killed," continued she. "Good heavens, that's what that

means. They rebels has got hold o' the wires, and shook 'em and tangled

up the rest, but the beginnin's all straight."

"I believe that Sam Elkins down at the station 's mixed it up," said

Sophia, with hope springing in her breast. "He never can get things

straight. He was in the class with me when I went to school, and too

dumb to come in when it rained. He was the worst writer, speller and

reader in the school. Think o' him being a telegraph operator. Why, he

couldn't spell well enough to make tally-marks on a door when you're

measurin' corn. Railroad was mighty hard up for help when it hired him.

Let me read that dispatch. 'Josiah not killed.' That means Si Klegg, as

sure's you're born. It can't mean nothin' else, or it wouldn't be

addressed to you, pap. 'Hospital at Chattanooga.' Chattanooga's near

where the battle was fought. 'Badly wounded.' That means Si's bin shot.

'E. C. Bower's ox.' What in the world can that be?"

"Bowersox?" said her father, catching the sound. "Why, that's the name

o' the Lootenant Si and Shorty was under when they came home. Don't you

remember they told us about him? I remember the name, for a man named

Bowersox used to run a mill down on Bean-Blossom Crick, years ago, and I

wondered if he was his son. He's sent me that dispatch, and signed his

name. The Lord be praised for His never-endin' mercies. Si's alive,

after all. Le' me read that over again."

He took the dispatch with shaking hands, but there was too much mist on

his glasses-, and he had to hand it back to Maria to read over again to

convince himself.

"I'll tell you what let's do: Let's all get in the wagon and ride over

to the station, and get Sam Elkins to read the dispatch over again,"

suggested Sophia. "I'll jest bet he's mummixed it up."

"Don't blame him, Sophy," urged Maria. "I think the rebels has got at

the poles or wires and shook 'em, and mixed the letters up. It's just

like 'em."

Sophy's suggestion was carried out. Abraham Lincoln was directed to get

out the spring wagon, and the Deacon helped hitch up, while the "women

folks" got ready.

While they were at the station getting Sam Elkins to re-examine the dots

and dashes on his strip of paper, the Eastern express arrived, bringing

the morning papers. The Deacon bought one, and the girls nervously

turned to the war news. They gave a scream of exultation when they read

the revised returns of the killed and wounded, and found under head of

"Wounded, in Hospital at Chattanooga":

"Corporal Josiah Klegg, Q, 200th Ind.

"Private Daniel Elliott, Q, 200th Ind."

"Mother and girls, I'm goin' to Chattanoogy on the next train," said the

Deacon.

It was only a few hours until the train from the East would be along,

and grief was measurably forgotten in the joy that Si was still alive

and in the bustle of the Deacon's preparation for the journey.

"No," he said, in response to the innumerable suggestions made by the

mother and daughters. "You kin jest set all them things back. I've bin

down there once, and learned something. I'm goin' to take nothin with me

but my Bible, a couple o' clean shirts, and my razor. A wise man learns

by experience."

Mother and girls were inconsolable, for each had something that they

were sure "Si would like," and would "do him good," but they knew Josiah

Klegg, Sr., well enough to understand what was the condition when he had

once made up his mind.

"If Si and Shorty's able to be moved," he consoled them with, "I'm going

to bring them straight back home with me, and then you kin nuss and

coddle them all you want to."

The news of his prospective journey had flashed through the

neighborhood, so that he met at the station the relatives of most of the

men in Co. Q, each with a burden of messages and comforts for those who

were living, or of tearful inquiries as to those reported dead.

He took charge of the letters and money, refused the other things, and

gave to the kin of the wounded and dead sympathetic assurances of doing

every thing possible.

He had no particular trouble or advanture until he reached Nashville.

There he found that he could go no farther without procuring a pass from

the Provost-Marshal. At the Provosts's office he found a highly

miscellaneous crowd besieging that official for the necessary permission

to travel on the military railroad. There were more or less honest and

loyal speculators in cotton who were ready to take any chances in the

vicissitudes of the military situation to get a few bales of the

precious staple. There were others who were downright smugglers, and

willing to give the rebels anything, from quinine to gun-caps, for

cotton. There were sutlers, pedlers, and gamblers. And there were more

or less loyal citizens of the country south who wanted to get back to

their homes, some to be honest, law-abiding citizens, more to get in

communication with the rebels and aid and abet the rebellion.

Deacon Klegg's heart sank as he surveyed the pushing, eager crowd which

had gotten there before him, and most of whom were being treated very

cavalierly by the Provost-Marshal.

"No," he heard that official say to a man who appeared a plain farmer

like himself; "you not only can have no pass, but you can't stay in

Nashville an other day. I remember you. I've heard you tell that story

of a sick son in the hospital before. I remember all the details. You

haven't changed one. You're a smuggler, and I believe a spy. You've got

mule-loads of quinine somewhere in hiding, and may be gun-caps and other

munitions of war. If you know what's good for you, you'll take the next

train north, and never stop until you are on the other side of the Ohio

River. If you are in town to-morrow morning, I'll put you to work on the

fortifications, and keep you there till the end of the war. Get out of

my office at once."

Others were turned away with similar brusqueness, until the Deacon was

in despair; but the though of Si on a bed of pain nerved him, and he

kept his place in the line that was pushing toward the Provost's desk.

Suddenly the Provost looked over those in front of him, and fixing his

eye on the Deacon, called out:

"Well, my friend, come up here. What can I do for you?"

The Deacon was astonished, but in obedience to a gesture from the

Provost, left the line, and came up.

"What's your name? Where are you from? What are you doing down here?

What do you want?" inquired the Provost, scanning him critically.

The Deacon's eyes met his boldly, and he answered the questions

categorically.

"Well, Mr. Klegg, you shall have a pass at once, and I sincerely hope

that you will find your son recovering. You probably do not remember me,

but I have seen you before, when I was on the circuit in Indiana. My

clerk there is writing out a pass for you. You will have to take the

oath of allegiance, and sign the paper, which I suppose you have no

objection to doing."

"None in the world," answered the Deacon, surprised at the unexpected

turn of events. "I'll be only too glad. I was gittin' very scared about

my pass."

"O, I have hard work here," said the Provost smiling, "in separating the

sheep from the goats, but I'm now getting to know the goats tolerably

well. There's you're pass, Deacon. A pleasant journey, and a happy

termination to it."

The Deacon took out his long calf-skin wallet from his breast, put the

precious pass in it, carefully strapped it up again and replaced it, and

walked out of the office toward the depot.

He had gone but a few steps from the building when he saw the man who

had been ordered out of the city by the Provost, and who seemed to be on

the lookout for the Deacon. He came up, greeted the Deacon effusively

and shook hands.

"You're from Posey County, Ind., I believe? I used to live there myself.

Know Judge Drake?"

"Very well," answered the Deacon a little stiffly, for he was on his

guard against cordial strangers.

"You do;" said the stranger warmly. "Splendid man. Great lawyer. Fine

judge. I had a great deal to do with him at one time."

"Probably he had a great deal to do with you," thought the Deacon. "He

was a terror to evil-doers."

"Say, my friend," said the stranger abruptly, "you got a pass. I

couldn't. That old rascal of a Provost-Marshal's down on me because I

wouldn't let him into a speculation with me. He's on the make every

time, and wants to hog everything. Say, you're a sly one. You worked him

fine on that wounded son racket. I think I'd like to tie to you. I'll

make it worth your while to turn over that pass to me. It'll fit me just

as well as it does you. I'll give you $50 to let me use that pass just

two days, and then I'll return it to you."

"Why, you're crazy," gasped the Deacon.

"O, come off, now," said the other impatiently. "Business is business. I

haint no time to waste. It's more'n it's worth to me, but I'll make it

$100, and agree to be back on this spot to-morrow night with your pass.

You can't make $100 as easy any other way."

"I tell you, you're crazy," said the Deacon with rising indignation.

"You can't have that pass for no amount o' money. I'm goin' to see my

wounded son."

"That's a good enough gag for the Provost, but I understand you, in

spite of your hayseed airs. Say, I'll make it $250."

"I tell you, you old fool," said the Deacon angrily, "I won't sell that

pass for a mint o' money. Even if I wasn't goin' to see my son I

wouldn't let you have it under any circumstances, to use in your

traitorous business. Let go o' my coat, if you know what's good for

you."

"Now, look here," said the stranger; "I've made you a mighty fair

proposition more'n the pass's worth to you. If you don't accept it

you'll wish you had. I'm onto you. I'll go right back to the Provost and

let out on you. I know enough to settle your hash mighty sudden. Do you

hear me?"

It was very near train time, and the Deacon was desperately anxious to

not miss the train. He had already wasted more words on this man than he

usually did on those he didn't like, and he simply ended the colloquy

with a shove that sent the impertinent stranger into the gutter as if a

mule had kicked him there, hurried on to the depot, and managed to get

on just as the train was moving out.

It was night, and he dozed in his seat until the train reached

Bridgeport, Ala., when everybody was turned out of the train, and a

general inspection of the passengers made.

"Very sorry for you, sir," said the Lieutenant; "but we can't let you go

on. Your pass is all right up to this point, but the Commandant at

Nashville has no authority here. Orders are very strict against any more

civilians coming to Chattanooga under any pretext. Rations are very

short, and there is danger of their being much shorter, with the rebel

cavalry slashing around everywhere at our cracker-line. We only saved

two bridges to-night by the greatest luck. You'll have to go back to

Nashville by the next train."

"O, Mister Lootenant," pleaded the Deacon, with drops of sweat on his

brow. "Please let me go on. My only son lays there in Chattanooga, a-

dyin' for all I know. He's bin a good soldier. Ask anybody that knows

the 200th Injianny, and they'll tell you that there ain't no better

soldier in the regiment than Corporal Si Klegg. You've a father

yourself. Think how he'd feel if you was layin' in a hospital at the

pint o' death, and him not able to git to you. You'll let me go on, I

know you will. It aint in you to re fuse."

"I feel awful sorry for you sir," said the Lieutenant, much moved. "And

if I had it in my power you should go. But I have got my orders, and I

must obey them. I musn't allow anybody not actually be longing to the

army to pass on across the river on the train."

"I'll walk every step o' the way, if you'll let me go on," said the

Deacon.

"I tell you what you might do," said the Lieutenant suggestively. "It

isn't a great ways over the mountains to Chattanooga. There's a herd of

cattle starting over there. The Lieutenant in charge is a friend of

mine. I'll speak to him to let you go along as a helper. It'll be

something of a walk for you, but it's the best I can do. You'll get in

there some time to-morrow."

"P'int out your friend to me, and let me go as quick as I kin."

"All right," said the Lieutenant in charge of the herd, when the

circumstances were explained to him. "Free passes over my road to

Chattanooga are barred. Everybody has to work his way. But I'll see that

you get there, if Joe Wheeler's cavalry don't interfere. We are going

over in the dark to avoid them. You can put your carpet-bag in that

wagon there. Report to the Herd-Boss there."

"You look like a man of sense," said the Herd-Boss, looking him over,

and handing him a hickory gad. "And I believe you're all right. I'm

goin' to put you at the head, just behind the guide. Keep your eye

peeled for rebel cavalry and bushwhackers, and stop and whistle for me

if you see anything suspicious."

It was slow, toilsome work urging the lumbering cattle along over the

steep, tortuous mountain paths. Naturally, the nimblest, friskiest

steers got in the front, and they were a sore trial to the Deacon, to

restrain them to the line of march, and keep them from straying off and

getting lost. Of course, a Deacon in the Baptist Church could not swear

under any provocation, but the way he remarked on the conduct of some of

the "critters" as "dumbed," "confounded," and "tormented," had almost as

vicious a ring as the profuse profanity of his fellow-herders.

Late in the afternoon the tired-out herd was halted in a creek bottom

near Chattanooga. The patient animals lay down, and the weary, footsore

Deacon, his clothes covered with burs, his hands and face seamed with

bloody scratches, leaned on his frayed gad and looked around over the

wilderness of tents, cabins, trains and interminable lines of

breastworks and forts.

"Mr. Klegg," said the Herd-Boss, coming toward him, "you've done your

duty, and you've done it well. I don't know how I could've ever got this

lot through but for your help. Here's your carpet-sack, and here's a

haversack o' rations I've put up for you. Take mighty good care of it,

for you'll need every cracker. That lot o' tents you see over there,

with a yaller flag flyin' over 'em, is a general hospital. Mebbe you'll

find your son in there."

The Deacon walked straight to the nearest tent, lifted the flap and

inquired:

"Does anybody here know where there is a boy named Si Klegg, of Co. Q,

200th Injianny Volunteers?"

'pap, is That You?' Said a Weak Voice. 238

"Pap, is that you?" said a weak voice in the far corner.

"Great, jumpin' Jehosephat, the Deacon!" ejaculated a tall skeleton of a

man, who was holding a cup of coffee to Si's lips.

"Great Goodness, Shorty," said the Deacon, "is that you?"

"What's left o' me," answered Shorty.

CHAPTER XIX. TEDIOUS CONVALESCENCE THE DEACON COMMITS A CRIME AGAINST

HIS CONSCIENCE.

"YOU are the father of that boy in the far end of the tent," said the

Surgeon coming up to the Deacon, who had stepped outside of the tent to

get an opportunity to think clearly. "I'm very glad you have come, for

his life hangs by a thread. That thread is his pluck, aided by a superb

constitution. Most men would have died on the field from such a wound.

Medicine can do but little for him; careful nursing much more; but his

own will and your presence and encouragement will do far more than

either."

"How about Shorty?" inquired the Deacon.

"Shorty's all right if he don't get a setback. The danger from the blow

on his head is pretty near past, if something don't come in to make

further complications. He has been pulled down pretty badly by the low

fever which has been epidemic here since we have settled down in camp,

but he seems to be coming out from it all right."

"I've come down here to do all that's possible for these two boys. Now,

how kin I best do it?" asked the Deacon.

"You can do good by helping nurse them. You could do much more good if

there was more to do with, but we lack almost everything for the proper

care of the wounded and sick. We have 15,000 men in hospital here, and

not supplies enough for 3,000. When we will get more depends on just

what luck our cavalry has in keeping the rebels off our line of

supplies."

"Show me what to do, give me what you kin, and I'll trust in the Lord

and my own efforts for the rest."

"Yes, and you kin count on me to assist," chimed in Shorty, who had come

up. "I won't let you play lone hand long, Deacon, for I'm gittin'

chirpier every day. If I could only fill up good and full once more on

hardtack and pork, or some sich luxuries, I'd be as good as new agin."

"You mean you'd be put to bed under three feet of red clay, if you were

allowed to eat all you want to," said the Surgeon. "There's where the

wind is tempered to the shorn lamb. If you could eat as much as you want

to eat, I should speedily have to bid good-by to you. For the present,

Mr. Klegg, do anything that suggests itself to you to make these men

comfortable. I need scarcely caution you to be careful about their food,

for there is nothing that you can get hold of to over-feed them. But

you'd better not let them have anything to eat until I come around again

and talk to you more fully. I put them in your charge."

The Deacon's first thought was for Si, and he bestirred himself to do

what he thought his wife, who was renowned as a nurse, would do were she

there.

He warmed some water, and tenderly as he could command his strong,

stubby hands, washed Si's face, hands and feet, and combed his hair. The

overworked hospital attendants had had no time for this much-needed

ministration. It was all that they could do to get the wounded under

some sort of shelter, to dress their wounds, and prepare food. No well

man could be spared from the trenches for hospital service, for the

sadly-diminished Army of the Cumberland needed every man who could carry

a musket to man the long lines to repel the constantly-threatened

assaults.

The removal of the soil and grime of the march and battle had a

remarkably vivifying effect upon Si. New life seemed to pulse through

his veins and brightness return to his eyes.

"Makes me feel like a new man, Pap," he said faintly. "Feels better than

anything I ever knowed. Do the same to Shorty, Pap."

"Come here, Shorty, you dirty little rascal," said the Deacon, assuming

a severely maternal tone, at which Si laughed feebly but cheerily, "and

let me wash your face and comb your hair."

Shorty demurred a little at being treated like a boy, and protested that

he could wash himself, if the Deacon would get him some warm water; but

he saw that the conceit amused Si, and submitted to having the Deacon

give him a scrubbing with a soapy rag, giving a yell from time to time,

in imitation of an urchin undergoing an unwilling ablution. Si turned

his head so as to witness the operation, and grinned throughout it.

"I think you'd both feel still better if you could have your hair cut,"

said the Deacon, as he finished and looked from one to the other. "Your

hair's too long for sick people, and it makes you look sicker'n you

really are. But I hain't got no shears."

"I know I'd feel better if I was sheared," said Shorty. "Hain't neither

of us had our hair cut since we started on the Tullyhomy campaign, and I

think I look like the Wild Man from Borneo. I think I know a feller that

has a pair o' shears that I kin borry."

The shears were found and borrowed. Then ensued a discussion as to the

style of the cut. The boys wanted their hair taken off close to their

heads, 'but the Deacon demurred to this for fear they would catch cold.

"No, Si," he said; "I'm goin' to cut your hair jest like your mother

used to. She used to tie one of her garters from your forehead down

across your ears, and cut off all the hair that stuck out. I hain't any

garter, but I guess I kin find a string that'll do jest as well."

"There," said the Deacon, as he finished shearing off the superabundant

hair, and surveyed the work. "That ain't as purty a job as if your

mother'd done it, but you'll feel lighter and cleaner, and be healthier.

If hair was only worth as much as wool is now, I'd have enough to pay me

for the job. But I must clean it up keerfully and burn it, that the

birds mayn't git hold of it and give you the headache."

The Deacon had his little superstitions, like a great many other hard-

headed, sensible men.

"Well, Mr. Klegg," said the Surgeon, when he made his next round, "I

must congratulate you on your patients. Both show a remarkable

improvement. You ought to apply for a diploma, and go into the practice

of medicine. You have done more for them in the two or three hours than

I have been able to do in as many weeks. If you could only keep up this

pace awhile I would be able to return them to duty very soon. I have an

idea. Do you see that corn-crib over there?"

"The one built of poles? Yes."

"Well, I have some things stored there, and I have been able to hold it

so far against the soldiers, who are snatching every stick of wood they

can find, for their cabins, or for the breastworks, or firewood. I don't

know how long I'll be able to keep it, unless I have personal

possession. I believe you can make it into a comfortable place for these

two men. That will help them, you can be by yourselves, you can take

care of my things, and it will relieve the crowd in the tent."

"Splendid idea," warmly assented the Deacon. "I'll chink and daub it,

and make it entirely comfortable, and fix up bunks in it for the boys. I

know they'll be delighted at the change. I wonder where Shorty is?"

The Deacon had just remembered that he had not seen that individual for

some little time, and looked around for him with some concern. It was

well that he did. Shorty had come across the haversack that the Deacon

had brought, and it awakened all his old predatory instincts, sharpened,

if anything, by his feebleness. Without saying a word to any body, he

had employed the time while the Surgeon and Deacon were in conversation

in preparing one of his customary gorges after a long, hard march.

He had broken up the crackers into a tin-cup of water which sat by his

side, while he was frying out pieces of fat pork in a half-canteen.

"My goodness, man!" shouted the Deacon, spring ing toward him. "Are you

crazy? If you eat that mess you'll be dead before morning."

He sprang toward him, snatched the half-canteen from his hand, and threw

its contents on the ground.

"That stuff's not fit to put into an ostrich's stomach," he said. "Mr.

Klegg, you will have to watch this man very carefully."

"Can't I have none of it to eat?" said Shorty, dejectedly, with tears of

weakness and longing in his eyes.

"Not a mouthful of that stuff," said the Surgeon; "but you may eat some

of those crackers you have soaked there. Mr. Klegg, let him eat about

half of those crackers no more."

Shorty looked as if the whole world had lost its charms. "Hardtack

without grease's no more taste than chips," he murmured.

"Never mind, Shorty," said the Deacon, pityingly; "I'll manage to find

you something that'll be better for you than that stuff."

The Surgeon had the boys carried over to the corncrib, and the Deacon

went to work to make it as snug as possible. All the old training of his

pioneer days when literally with his own hands, and with the rudest

materials, he had built a comfortable cabin in the wilderness of the

Wabash bottoms for his young wife came back to him. He could not see a

brick, a piece of board, a stick, or a bit of iron anywhere without the

thought that it might be made useful, and carrying it off. As there were

about 40,000 other men around the little village of Chattanooga with

similar inclinations, the Deacon had need of all his shrewdness in

securing coveted materials, but it was rare that anybody got ahead of

him. He rearranged and patched the clapboards on the roof until it was

perfectly rain-tight, chinked up the spaces between the poles with

stones, corncobs and pieces of wood, and plastered over the outside with

clay, until the walls were draft proof. He hung up an old blanket for a

door, and hired a teamster to bring in a load of silky-fine beech leaves

which, when freshly fallen, make a bed that cannot be surpassed. These,

by spreading blankets over them, made very comfort able couches for Si,

Shorty and himself.

Then the great problem became one of proper food for the boys. Daily the

rations were growing shorter in Chattanooga, and if they had been

plentiful they were not suited to the delicate stomachs of those

seriously ill. Si was slowly improving, but the Deacon felt that the

thing necessary to carry him over the breakers and land him safely on

the shores of recovery was nourishing food that he could relish.

He had anxiously sought the entire length of the camp for something of

that kind. He had visited all the sutlers, and canvassed the scanty

stocks in the few stores in Chattanooga. He had bought the sole

remaining can of tomatoes at a price which would have almost bought the

field in which the tomatoes were raised, and he had turned over the

remnant lots of herring, cheese, etc., he found at the sutler's, with

despair at imagining any sort of way in which they could be worked up to

become appetizing and assimilative to Si's stomach.

"What you and Si needs," he would say to Shorty, "is chicken and fresh

'taters. If you could have a good mess of chicken and 'taters every day

you'd come up like Spring shoats. I declare I'd give that crick bottom

medder o' mine, which hasn't it's beat on the Wabash, to have mother's

coopful o' chickens here this minute."

But a chicken was no more to be had in Chattanooga than a Delmonico

banquet. The table of the Major-General commanding the Army of the

Cumberland might have a little more hardtack and pork on it than

appeared in the tents of the privates, and be cooked a little better,

but it had nothing but hardtack and pork.

The Deacon made excursions into the country, and even ran great risks

from the rebel pickets and bushwhackers, in search of chickens. But the

country had been stripped, by one side or the other, of everything

eatable, and the people that remained in their cheerless homes were

dependent upon what they could get from the United States Commissary.

One day he found the Herd-Boss in camp, and poured forth his troubles to

him. The Herd-Boss sympathized deeply with him, and cudgeled his brains

for a way to help.

"I'll tell you what you might do," he said at length, "if you care to

take the risk. We're goin' back with some teams to Bridgeport to-morrow

mornin'. You might git in one of the wagons and ride back 10 or 15 miles

to a little valley that I remember that's there, and which I think looks

like it hain't bin foraged. I was thinkin' as we come through the other

day that I might git something goo'd to eat up there, and I'd try it

some day. No body seems to 've noticed it yit. But it may be chock full

o' rebels, for all I know, and a feller git jumped the moment he sets

foot in it."

"I'll take my chances," said the Deacon. "I'll go along with you to-

morrer mornin'."

The Deacon found that a ride in a wagon was not such an unqualified

favor as he might have thought. The poor, half-fed, overworked mules

went so slowly that the Deacon could make better time walking, and he

was too merciful to allow them to pull him up hill.

The result was that, with helping pry the stalled wagons out and work in

making the roads more passable, the Deacon expended more labor than if

he had started out to walk in the first place.

It was late in the afternoon when the Herd-Boss said:

"There, you take that path to the right, and in a little ways you'll

come out by a purty good house. I hain't seen any Johnnies around in

this neighborhood since I've bin travelin' this route, but you'd better

keep your eye peeled, all the same. If you see any, skip back to the

road here, and wait awhile. Somebody 'll be passin' before long."

Thanking him, the Deacon set out for the house, hoping to be able to

reach it, get some fowls, and be back to Chattanooga before morning. If

he got the chickens, he felt sanguine that he could save Si's life.

He soon came in sight of the house, the only one, apparently, for miles,

and scanned it carefully. There were no men to be seen, though the house

appeared to be inhabited. He took another look at the heavy revolver

which he had borrowed from the Surgeon, and carried ready for use in the

pocket of Si's overcoat, and began a strategic advance, keep ing well

out of sight under the cover of the sumachs lining the fences.

Still he saw no one, and finally he became so bold as to leave his

covert and walk straight to the front door. A dozen dogs charged at him

with a wild hullabaloo, but he had anticipated this, and picked up a

stout hickory switch in the road, which he wielded with his left hand

with so much effect that they ran howling back under the house. He kept

his right hand firmly grasping his revolver.

An old man and his wife appeared at the door; both of them shoved back

their spectacles until they rested on the tops of their heads, and

scanned him searchingly. The old woman had a law-book in her hand, and

the old man a quill pen. She had evidently been reading to him, and he

copying.

The old man called out to him imperiously:

"Heah, stranger, who air yo'? An' what d'yo' want?"

The tone was so harsh and repellant that the Deacon thought that he

would disarm hostility by announcing himself a plain citizen, like

themselves. So he replied:

"I'm a farmer, and a citizen from Injianny, and I want to buy some

chickens for my son, who's sick in the hospital at Chattanoogy."

"Injianny!" sneered the old man. "Meanest people in the world live in

Injianny. Settled by scalawags that we'uns run outen Tennessee bekase

they'uns wuz too onery to live heah."

"Citizen!" echoed the woman. "They'uns heap sight wuss'n the soldjers.

Teamsters, gamblers, camp-followers, thieves, that'll steal the coppers

off en a dead man's eyes. I had a sister that married a man that beat

her, and then run off to Injianny, leavin' her with six children to

support. All the mean men go to Injianny. Cl'ar out. We don't want

nobody 'round heah, and specially no Injiannians. They'uns is a pizun

lot."

"Yes, cl'ar out immejitly," commanded the old man. "I'm a Jestice of the

Peace, and ef you don't go to wunst I'll find a way to make yo'. We've a

law agin able-bodied vagrants. Cl'ar out, now."

"Come, have a little sense," said the Deacon, not a little roiled at the

abuse of his State. "I'm just as respectable a man as you dare be. I

never stole anything. I've bin all my life a regler member o' the

Baptist Church strict, close-communion, total-immersion Baptists. All I

want o' you is to buy some o' them chickens there, and I'll give you a

fair price for 'em. No use o' your flaring up over a little matter o'

bizniss."

"I don't believe a word of hit," said the woman, who yet showed that she

was touched by the allusion to the Baptist Church, as the Deacon had

calculated, for most of the people of that section professed to be of

that denomination. "What'll yo' gi' me for them chickens?"

The bargaining instinct arose in the Deacon's mind, but he repressed it.

He had no time to waste. He would make an offer that at home would be

considered wildly extravagant, close the business at once and get back

to Chattanooga. He said: "I'll give you a dollar apiece for five."

'he Took Another Look at his Heavy Revolver.' 254

"Humph," said the woman contemptuously. "I don't sell them for no dollar

apiece. They'uns 's all we got to live on now. If I sell 'em I must git

somethin' that'll go jest as fur. You kin have 'em at $5 apiece."

"Betsy," remonstrated the old man, "I'm afeard this 's wrong, and as a

Magistrate I shouldn't allow hit. Hit's traffickin' with the inemy."

"No, hit hain't," she asserted. "He's not a soljer. He's a citizen, and

don't belong to the army. Besides, he's a Baptist, and hit hain't so bad

as ef he wuz a Presbyterian, or a shoutin' Methodist. Most of all, I'm

nearly dead for some coffee, and I know whar I kin git a pound o' rayle

coffee for $10."

The Deacon had been pondering. To his thrifty mind it seemed like a

waste to give a crisp, new $5 bill for such an insignificant thing as a

chicken. Like Indiana farmers of his period, he regarded such things as

chickens, eggs, butter, etc., as "too trifling for full-grown men to

bother about. They were wholly women-folks' truck." He fingered the

bills in his bosom, and thought how many bushels of wheat and pounds of

pork they represented. Then he thought of Si in the hospital, and how a

little chicken broth would build him up. Out came five new $5 bills.

"Here's your money," he said, thumbing over the bills clumsily and

regretfully.

The old woman lowered her spectacles from the top of her head, and

scrutinized them.

"What's them?" she asked suspiciously.

"Why, them's greenbacks Government money the very best kind," explained

the Deacon. "You can't have no better'n that."

"Don't tech hit! Don't have nothin' to do with it!" shouted the old man.

"Hit's high treason to take Federal money. Law's awful severe about

that. Not less'n one year, nor more'n 20 in the penitentiary, for a

citizen, and death for a soljer, to be ketched dealin' in the inemy's

money. I kin turn yo' right to the law. Ole man, take yo' money and

cl'ar off the place immejitly. Go out and gather up yo' chickens, Betsy,

and fasten 'em in the coop. Go away, sah, 'or I shell blow the horn for

help."

"I wuz talkin' 'bout Confederit money," said the woman, half

apologetically. "I wouldn't tech that 'ere stuff with a soap-stick. Yo'd

better git away as quick as yo' kin ef yo' know what's good for yo'."

She went into the yard to gather up her flock, and the Deacon walked

back into the road. When out of sight he sat down on a rock to meditate.

There was not another house in sight anywhere, and it was rapidly

growing dark. If he went to an other house he would probably have the

same experience. He had set his heart on having those chickens, and he

was a pretty stubborn man. Somehow, in spite of himself, he parted the

bushes and looked through to see where the woman was housing her fowls,

and noted that it was going to be very dark. Then he blushed vividly,

all to himself, over the thoughts which arose.

"To think of me, a Deacon in the Baptist Church, akchelly meditatin'

about goin' to another man's coop at night and stealin' his chickens?

Could Maria ever be made to believe such a thing? I can't be lieve it

myself."

Then he made himself think of all the other ways in which he might get

chickens. They all seemed impossible. He turned again to those in the

coop.

"Nothin' but measly dunhills, after all dear at a fip-and-a-bit, and yet

I offered her a dollar apiece for 'em. If she'd bin a real Christian

woman she'd bin glad to 've given me the chickens for as sick as man as

Si is. Gracious, mother'd give every chicken on the place, if it'd help

a sick person, and be glad o' the chance. They're both tough old rebels,

anyhow, and their property oughtter be confiscated."

He stopped and considered the morals of the affair a little further, and

somehow the idea of taking the fowls by stealth did not seem so

abhorrent as at first. Then, everything was overslaughed by the thought

of going into camp with the precious birds, of cleaning one and

carefully stewing it, making a delicate, fragrant broth, the very smell

of which would revive Si, and every spoonful bring nourishment and

strength.

"Mebbe the army's demoralizin' me," he said to himself; "but I believe

it's a work o' necessity and mercy, that don't stand on nice

considerations. I'm goin' to have five o' them chickens, or know the

reason why."

As has been before remarked, when Deacon Klegg made up his mind

something had to happen. It was now quite dark. He took one of the $5

bills out of his breast pocket and put it in a pocket where it would be

handy. He looked over at the house, and saw the old man and woman

sitting by the fire smoking. He picked up the hickory withe to keep off

the dogs, and made a circuit to reach the chicken-coop from the rear of

the house. The dogs were quarreling and snarling over their supper, and

paid no attention to him, until he had reached the coop, when they came

at him full tilt.

The Deacon dealt the foremost ones such vicious blows that the beasts

fell as if they had been cut in two, and ran howling under the house.

With a quickness and skill that would have done credit to any veteran in

the army, he snatched five chickens from their roosts, wrung their

necks, and gathered them in his left hand. Alarmed by the noise of the

barking and yelping, the old couple flung open the door and rushed out

on the porch with shouts. The open door threw a long lane of bright

light directly on the Deacon.

"Blow the horn, granddad blow the horn," screamed the woman. Her husband

snatched the tin horn down from the wall, and put all his anger into a

ringing blast. It was immediately answered by a shot from a distant

hill. Still holding his game in his left hand, the Deacon pulled the $5

bill out of his pocket with his right, walked up to the porch, laid it

at the woman's feet and put a stone on it.

"There's full pay for your dumbed old dunghills, you cantankerous

rebel," said he, as he disappeared into the darkness. "Go into the house

and pray that the Lord may soften your heart, which is harder than

Pharaoh's, until you have some Christian grace."

When he reached the road he could hear the sound of hoofs galloping

toward the house. He smiled grimly, but kept under the shadow of the

trees until he reached the main road leading to Chattanooga, where he

was lucky enough to find a train making its slow progress toward the

town, and kept with it until he was within our lines.

CHAPTER XX. STEWED CHICKEN THE DEACON'S CULINARY OPERATIONS BRING HIM

LOTS OF TROUBLE.

THE Deacon reached the corn-crib again be fore daylight, and found Si

and Shorty fast asleep. This relieved him much, for he had been

disturbed with apprehensions of what might happen them while he was

gone. Though he was more tired, it seemed to him, than he had ever been

before in all his life, yet he nerved himself up to clean and cook one

of the chickens, so as to give Si a delightful surprise when he awoke.

The Deacon had grown so wise in the army ways that his first problem was

how to hide the remaining four fowls until he should need them.

"I'd simply be mobbed," he communed with him self, "if daylight should

come, and show me with four chickens in my possession. The whole Army o'

the Cumberland 'd jump me as one man, and I'd be lucky if I got away

with my life. Mebbe even the General himself 'd send a regiment down to

take the things away from me. But what kin I do with 'em? If I hang 'em

up inside the corn-crib they'll spile. The weather is cold enough to

keep 'em outside, but I'd need a burglar-proof safe to hold on to 'em.

It's just awful that morals are so bad in the army, and that men will

take things that don't belong to 'em."

He stopped short, for there arose the disturbing thought as to just how

he himself had come into possession of the birds, and he murmured:

"'Tain't in me to blame 'em. What is 't the Bible says about 'Let him

who is without sin cast the first stone?' Certainly I'm not the man to

be heavin' dornicks just now."

Mindful of past experiences, he took the fowls in one hand, when he went

down to the branch with a camp-kettle to get water. He washed his face

and hands in the cold water, which revived him, and returning, built a

fire and hung the kettle over it, while he carefully picked and cleaned

one of the chickens for cooking. Then he plucked and cleaned the others,

and burned the feathers and entrails in the fire.

"Chicken feathers 's mighty tell-tale things," he said to himself. "I

once knowed a man that was finally landed in the penitentiary because he

didn't look out for chicken feathers. He'd bin stealin' hosses, and was

hidin' with them in the big swamp, where nobody would 've suspicioned he

was, if he hadn't stole chickens from the neighborhood to live on, and

left their feathers layin' around careless like, and some boys, who

thought the foxes was killin' the chickens, followed up the trail and

run onto him."

Then a bright idea occurred to him. He had a piece of board, which he

laid on the stones that formed the foundation of one end of the crib,

immediately under the flooring, and on this shelf he laid the other

chickens.

"I remember that Wash Jenkins that we arrested for counterfeitin' had

hid his pile o' pewter dollars in the underpinnin' of his cabin, and

we'd never found any stuff to convict him, except by the merest

accident. We hunted all through his cabin, below and in the loft, pulled

the clapboards off, and dug up every likely place in the yard, and just

about as we wuz givin' the whole thing up, somebody pulled a board out

o' the underpinnin' to lay in the bed o' his wagon, and the bogus

dollars run out. Wash made shoes for the State down at Jeffersonville

for some years on account of that man wantin' a piece o' board for his

wagon-bed."

But the astute Deacon had overlooked one thing in his calculations. The

crisp morning air was filled with the pungent smell of burning feathers

and flesh, and the fragrance of stewing chicken. It reached hungry men

in every direction, made their mouths water and their minds wonder where

it could come from.

First came a famished dog, sniffing and nosing around. His appearance

filled the Deacon with alarm. Here was danger to his hidden stock that

he had not thought of. He took his resolution at once. Decoying the cur

near him he fastened a sinewy hand upon his neck, cut his throat with

his jack-knife, and dragged the carcass some distance away from the

corn-crib.

"I'll git a mattock and shovel and bury it after awhile," he murmured to

himself, as he returned and washed his hands. "He's settled for good,

any way. He won't be snoopin' around steal in' my chickens. I hope there

hain't no more measly hounds around. Should've thought they wuz all

starved out long ago. My! but that chicken does smell so nice. How Si

and Shorty will enjoy it. It'll build 'em right up. I'd like awfully to

take some of it myself, but they'll need every drop, poor fellows."

He got a spoon, and tested some of the broth appreciatively.

"Mother'd done much better, at home in her own kitchen, or anywhere you

could've put her, than me with my clumsy ways," he continued, "but she

never cooked anything that'll taste better to them boys."

A negro cook appeared, with a tin cup in his hand.

"Afo' de Lawd, Boss, is hit you dat's cookin' dat chicking? I done

smelled hit more'n a miled away, and hab been huntin' foh hit all ober

camp. Say, Boss, foh de Lawd's sake, jist gib me a little teenty, weenty

sup in dis heah tin cup for my boss. He's an ossifer, an' is layin' in

de ossifer's horsepitol ober dar. Hit'll do him a powerful sight ob

good."

"Awful Sorry, my friend," said the Deacon, hardening his heart, "but I

haven't a bit to spare. Hain't got as much as I need for my own son and

his partner. I couldn't spare a mouthful for the General o' the army

even. Let your Colonel or Major sendout men to git chickens for

himself."

"My boss'll be powehful disappunted," said the negro, with his big,

white eyes full of tears. "He's powehful weak, foh sartin. A leetle sup

ob broth'd do him an everlastin' world ob good. He ain't no Kunnel or

Majah. He's only a Cappen Cappen McGillicuddy, ob the 200th Injianny."

"Capt. McGillicuddy, o' the 200th Injianny," said the Deacon, much

moved. "You Bay you're Capt. McGillicuddy's man?"

"Yes, boss."

"And he's layin' very low over in a tent there?"

"Yes, boss. Got shot in de thigh in de battle, an' den had de feber.

He's de very best man in de world, and I'd do ennyt'ing to help him.

He's jest starvin' to def. I can't git nuffin' dat'll lay on his

stummick, and stick to his ribs. I've done ransacked de hull camp and de

country clean up to Jineral Bragg's Headquartehs. De tings dat I

couldn't git wuz eider chained down, or had a man wid a gun ober dem.

Foh Gawd's sake, boss, jist gib me a half a cupful for him."

"There's no man in the world I'd rather help than Capt. McGillicuddy,"

said the Deacon. "He's bin a mighty good friend to my son. I know that

Si and Shorty'd divide their last crumb with him. Look here, Sambo, if I

give you a cupful o' this broth and a piece o' the meat, will you git

down on your knees and swear you'll take every bit straight to him, and

not take even a smidjin of it for your self?"

"De Lawd be praised and magnified foreber, but I will," said the negro,

dropping on his knees and holding up his hand. "Swar me on a pile o'

Bibles big as a haystack. I'd radder go to hell on my knees backward dan

tech de fust drap ob dat. I's too anxious to hab Cappen McGillicuddy git

well, so I is. What'd become ob dis pore niggeh if he should die? No,

indeedy. Hope I'll drap dead in my tracks if I taste de least wee

morssel."

"I'm goin' to trust you," said the Deacon, stirring up the savory mess,

ladling out a generous cupful, adding a drumstick, and covering the cup

with a piece of paper. "Now, carry it carefully. Every drop's worth its

weight in gold."

The Deacon looked a little regretful at the shrinking of the contents of

the kettle, made by taking out the cupful, and said:

"Mebbe I oughtn't 've done it. The boys need every spoonful. But if it'd

bin themselves, I know they'd have given their Captain more'n I did. He

is twice blessed that giveth, and probably they'll git more somehow on

account o' what I've given away. But I mustn't give any more."

"Say, Mister," said a very feeble voice at his elbow, "can't you give me

a cupful o' that? It smells so good. It smells like home. I smelled it

away over there in the tent, and it seemed to me that if I could get

some of it I'd certainly get well, though they all say they think

there's no hope for me. I crawled out of the tent and come while the

nurse was asleep and wasn't watching. They won't let me get upon my feet

when they're watching me, but I fooled them this time."

As he spoke, he sank down from sheer exhaustion, but still held out his

cup imploringly, while an in tense longing filled his great, blue eyes.

The Deacon looked pityingly at him. His wan face was fair and delicate

as a girl's, and even be fore disease had wasted him he had been very

tall and slender. Now his uniform flapped around his shrunken body and

limbs.

The Deacon could not stand the appeal of those great, plaintive eyes and

that wasted form.

"The Lord blesses the giver," he said, taking the cup from the thin

hand, and proceeding to fill it from the kettle. "It may be that my own

son will have the more from what I give this poor sick boy. It may be

bread cast upon the waters. At any rate, I'm goin' to take the chances.

There's still enough left for one meal for Si and Shorty, and I've four

chickens left. After that the Lord'll provide. I'll do this in His name,

and I'll trust Him. There, my boy, let the cup set on the ground till it

cools, and then drink it, and here's a piece o' bread to go with it."

The boy could scarcely wait for the cooling, and his swimming eyes

expressed a gratitude that no words could convey.

"Here, pardner, I'll take a cupful o' that 'ere, too," said a frazzled

and frowsy teamster, shambling up through the half-light of the dawn. "I

smelled it, and follered my nose till it brung me here. My, but it

smells good! Jest fill my cup, and I'll do as much for you some time

when you're hungry."

"Go away, Groundhog," said the Deacon, recognizing him. "I've only got a

little here for Si and Shorty. I hain't a spoonful left for myself, and

none to give away. Go and get your own chickens, and bile 'em yourself."

"Can't have any, eh?" said Groundhog, swagger ing up. "We'll see about

that, old man. I watched you givin' away to that nigger, and this little

dead-beat here, but you hain't none to give me, who is doin' hard work

for the army, and helpin' keep 'em from starvin'. If you've got enough

for that nigger and that whinin' boy you've got enough for me, and I'm

goin' to have it, for I need it."

"You're not goin' to have a dumbed spoonful, Groundhog. Go away. I

hain't enough for Si and Shorty, I tell you. Go away."

"And I tell you I need it more'n they do, for I'm workin' for the whole

army, while they're layin' around, makin' out they're sick. You give me

a cupful o' that and I'll go away and make no trouble.

"If you don't I'll kick the whole kettle over. An old fool citizen like

you 's got no business in camp, any way, and no right to be havin'

things that ought to go to the laborin' men."

And he raised his foot threateningly.

The Deacon laid down the spoon with which he had been stirring the

broth, and doubling up his mighty fist, placed himself between Groundhog

and the kettle, and said:

'if You Don't Skip out O' Here This Minute I'll Bust Your Head As I

Would a Punkin.' 264

"Groundhog, I'm an old man, and always have bin a man o' peace. I don't

believe in no kind o' fightin', nor molestin' no one. I belong to

church, and 've always tried to lead a Christian life. But if you don't

skip out o' here this minute, I'll bust your head as I would a punkin."

Groundhog retreated a few steps, but still kept up a show of

determination.

"What are you foolin' with the ole hayseed for?" said another teamster,

coming up behind Groundhog. "Slap the old hawbuck over, snatch up the

kittle and run with it. I'll do it if you don't."

"Go for 'em, Deacon; I'm with you. We kin lick both of 'em," shouted

Shorty, who had been awakened by the noise of the dispute, and came

tottering out, trying to raise a stick of wood for a club.

At that moment a rebel cannon roared on Lookout Mountain, just over

them, and the wicked screech of a shell cleft the air. Both of the team

sters dropped on the ground in a paralysis of fear.

"The rebels 've got a new battery planted on the mountain," said Shorty,

turning to study the smoke that drifted away, in order to get its

location.

"The shell struck right over there, and hain't bursted yet," said the

sick boy, looking up from sipping his broth, and pointing to a spot a

short distance away. "I can hear the hissing of the fuse."

The teamsters sprang up like jacks-in-the-box, and ran with all the

power of their legs. By the time the explosion came they were hundreds

of yards away.

A column of dirt and stones was thrown up, of which a little sprinkle

reached the fire. Thousands of voices yelled derisively at the rebel

gunner.

"They're shootin' wuss and wuss every day," remarked Shorty, after

judicially considering the shot and making comparison with its

predecessors. "They'll git so after awhile that they can't hit the

Tennessee Valley."

"Shorty," said the Deacon, "take this revolver and watch that kittle

while I wash Si's face, and git him ready for his breakfast. If you let

anybody git away with it you lose your breakfast. If I ever go into

restaurantin' for a bizniss, I'm goin' to find a quieter neighborhood

than Chattanoogy. I ain't exactly grumblin', so to speak, but there's

enough excitement before breakfast every mornin' to last me a full

year."

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

THE SIX VOLUMES SI KLEGG, Book I, Transformation From a Raw Recruit SI

KLEGG, Book II, Through the Stone River Campaign SI KLEGG, Book III,

Meets Mr. Rosenbaum, the Spy SI KLEGG, Book IV, On The Great Tullahoma

Campaign SI KLEGG, Book V, Deacon's Adventures At Chattanooga SI KLEGG,

Book VI, Enter On The Atlanta Campaign

frontispiece (98K)

titlepage (28K)

CONTENTS

PREFACE

SI KLEGG

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

ILLUSTRTIONS

Git Down from There! Commanded the Deacon 21

Well, I'll Be Dumbed, Muttered the Deacon. 35

Purty Good Milker, is She? Inquired the Deacon 51

The Deacon Reconnoitered the Situation 62

In Despair, the Deacon Turned to a Major. 77

"Arabella Curled Her Lip at Seeing Maria Take the Baby." 87

Shorty Went Outside Where There Was More Air. 101

"Sammy," Said Shorty, "I'm Goin' Away Right Off, and I Don't Want the

People to Know Nothin' of It." 113

Why, It's Shorty! Said the General, Recognizing Him At Once 129

"What Do You Think of That?" Said the Gambler. 141

Don't You Know Better Than to Come To Headquarters Like That? 156

How Do You Like the Looks of That, Old Butternut 169

The Prisoners Had Too Much Solicitude About Their Garments to Think of

Anything Else. 185

Have Come, Sir, in the Name of The People Of Indiana To Demand the

Release of Those Men. 199

I'll Send You a Catridge and Cap for Every Word You Write About Maria.

213

Here, You Young Brats, What Are You up to 225

Smallpox, Your Granny, Said si 237

There Was a Chorus of Yells, and then Another Volley. 247

Watching the Bridge Burners at Work 259

Wild Shooting of the Boys Saves The Surprised Colored Man. 273

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.

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."