firemen and the police, and a very large crowd of the rag, tag and
bobtail that hangs on the edge of all holiday occasions, were out for a
frolic. A band was playing, and the old-fashioned apparatus with which
fire departments were provided in that day and time, was showing the
amazed and amused crowd how to put out an imaginary conflagration. And
it succeeded, too. Worked as it was by hand-power, it sent a famously
strong stream into the very midst of the imaginary conflagration; and
when the fire raged no longer, the gallant firemen turned the stream on
the rag, tag and bobtail, and such screams and such a scattering as
ensued has no parallel in the history of Malvern, which is a long and
varied one.
But what did it all mean? It was some kind of a celebration, of course,
but why then did the _Malvern Recorder_, one of the most enterprising
newspapers in the State, as its editors and proprietors were willing to
admit, why, then, did the _Recorder_ fail to have an appropriate
announcement of an event so interesting and important? Was our public
press, the palladium of our liberties, losing its prestige and
influence? Certainly it seemed so, when such an affair as this could be
devised and carried out without an adequate announcement in the organ of
public opinion.
After awhile there was a lull in the display. The Chief, who was
stationed near the depot, received authoritative information that the
train from Savannah was approaching. He waved his trumpet, and the
firemen formed themselves into a procession, and passed twice in review
before their Chief, and then halted, with their hose reels, and their
hook and ladder waggons almost completely blocking up the entrance to
the station. The crowd had followed them, but the police managed to keep
the street clear, so that vehicles might effect a passage.
It was well that the officers of the law had been thus thoughtful in the
matter, otherwise a countryman who chanced to be coming along just then
would have found it difficult to drive his team even half way through
the jam. He was a typical Georgia farmer in his appearance. He wore a
wide straw hat to preserve his complexion, a homespun shirt and jeans
trousers, the latter being held in place by a dirty pair of home-made
suspenders. He drove what is called a spike-team, two oxen at the
wheels, and a mule in the lead. The day was warm, but he was warmer. The
crowd had flurried him, and he was perspiring more profusely than usual.
He was also inclined to use heated language, as those nearest him had no
difficulty in discovering. In fact, he was willing to make a speech, as
the crowd into which he was wedging his team grew denser and denser. It
was observed that when the crowd really impeded the movements of his
team, he had a way of touching the mule in the flank with the long whip
he carried. This was invariably the signal for such gyrations on the
part of the mule as were calculated to make the spectators pay due
respect to the animal's heels.
"I don't see," said the countryman, "why you fellers don't get out
some'rs an' go to work. They's enough men in this crowd to make a crop
big enough to feed a whole county, ef they'd git out in the field an'
buckle down to it stidder loafin' roun' watchin' 'em spurt water at
nothin'. It's a dad-blamed shame that the courts don't take a han' in
the matter. Ef you lived in my county, you'd have to work or go to the
poor-house. Whoa, Beck! Gee, Buck! Why don't you gee, contrive your
hide!"
At a touch from the whip, the rearing, plunging, and kicking of the mule
were renewed, and the team managed to fight its way to a point opposite
where the chief officials of the Police and Fire Department were
standing. The waggon to which the team was attached was a ramshackle
affair apparently, but was strong enough, nevertheless, to sustain the
weight of three bales of cotton, one of the bales being somewhat larger
than the others.
"My friend," said the Chief of Police, elevating his voice so that the
countryman could hear him distinctly, "this is not a warehouse. If you
want to sell your cotton, carry it around the corner yonder, and there
you'll find the warehouse of Vardeman & Stark."
"If I want to sell my cotton? Well, you don't reckon I want to give it
away, do you? Way over yander in the fur eend of town, they told me that
the cotton warehouse was down here some'rs, an' that it was made of
brick. This shebang is down yander, an' it's made of brick. How fur is
t'other place?"
"Right around the corner," said one in the crowd.
"Humph--yes; that's the way wi' ever'thing in this blamed town; it's
uther down yander, or right around the corner. But ef it was right here,
how could I git to it? Deliver me from places whar they celebrate
Christmas in the hottest part of June! Ef I ever git out'n the town
you'll never ketch me here ag'in--I'll promise you that."
"Oh, Mister, please don't say that!" wailed some humourist in the crowd.
"There's hundreds of us that couldn't live without you."
"Oh, is that you?" cried the countryman. "Tell your sister Molly that
I'll be down as soon as I sell my cotton." This set the crowd in a roar,
for though the humourist had no sister Molly, the retort was accepted as
a very neat method of putting an end to impertinence.
Inside the station another scene was in the full swing of action.
Certain well-known citizens of Halcyondale had been pacing up and down
the planked floor of the station apparently awaiting with some
impatience for the moment to come when the train for Atlanta would be
ready to leave. But the train itself seemed to be in no particular
hurry. The locomotive was not panting and snorting with suppressed
energy, as the moguls do in our day, but stood in its place with the
blue smoke curling peacefully from its black chimney. Presently an
access of energy among the employees of the station gave notice to those
who were familiar with their movements that the train from Savannah was
crossing the "Y."
Mr. Tidwell, of Shady Dale, who was also among those who were apparently
anxious to take the train for Atlanta, ceased his restless walking, and
stood leaning against one of the brick pillars supporting the rear end
of the structure. Major Tomlin Perdue, on the other hand, leaned
confidently on the counter of the little restaurant, where a weary
traveller could get a cup of hasty and very nasty coffee for a dime. The
Major was acquainted with the vendor of these luxuries, and he informed
the man confidentially that he was simply waiting a fair opportunity to
put a few lead plugs into the carcass of the person at the far end of
the station, who was no other than Mr. Tidwell.
"Is that so?" asked the clerk breathlessly. "Well, I don't mind telling
you that he has been having some of the same kind of talk about you, and
you'd better keep your eye on him. They say he's 'most as handy with his
pistol as Buck Sanford."
Slowly the Savannah train backed in, and slowly and carelessly Major
Perdue sauntered along the raised floor. They had decided that the
prisoners would most likely be in the second-class coach, and they
purposed to make that coach the scene of their sham duel. It was a very
delicate matter to decide just when to begin operations. A moment too
soon or too late would be decisive. When this point was referred to Mr.
Sanders, he settled it at once. "What's your mouth for, Gus? Shoot wi'
that tell the time comes to use your gun. And the Major has got about as
much mouth as you. Talk over the rough places, an' talk loud. Don't
whisper; rip out a few damns an' then cut your caper. This is about the
only chance you'll have to cuss the Major out wi'out gittin' hurt. I
wisht I was in your shoes; I'd rake him up one side an' down the other.
You can stand to be cussed out in a good cause, I reckon, Major."
"Yes--oh, yes! It'll make my flesh crawl, but I'll stand it like a
baby."
"Don't narry one on you try to be too polite," said Mr. Sanders, and
this was his parting injunction.
The two men were the length of the car apart when the Savannah train
came to a standstill. "Perdue! they tell me that you have been hunting
for me all over the city," said Mr. Tidwell. He was a trained speaker,
and his voice had great carrying power. The firemen of both trains heard
it distinctly, caught the note of passion in it and looked curiously out
of their cabs.
"Yes, I've been hunting you, and now that I've found you you'll not get
away until you apologise to me for the language you have used about me,"
cried Major Perdue. He was not as loud a talker as Mr. Tidwell, but his
voice penetrated to every part of the building.
"What I've said I'll stand to," declared Mr. Tidwell, "and if you think
I have been trying to keep out of your way, you will find out
differently, you blustering blackguard!" (The Major insisted afterward
that Tidwell took advantage of the occasion to give his real views.)
"Are you ready, you cowardly hellian?" cried the Major, apparently in a
rage.
"As ready as you will ever be," replied Tidwell hotly. He was the better
actor of the two.
And then just as the prisoners were coming out of the coach--as soon as
Gabriel, lean and haggard, had reached the floor of the station, Major
Perdue whipped out his pistol and a shot rang out, clear and distinct,
and it was immediately reproduced from the further end of the car by Mr.
Tidwell, and then the shooting became a regular fusillade. There was a
wild scattering on the part of the crowd assembled in the station, a
scuffling, scurrying panic, and in the midst of it all Gabriel ducked
his head, and made a rush with the rest. He had been handcuffed, but his
wrist was nearly as large as his hand, and he had found early in his
experience with these bracelets that by placing his thumb in the palm of
his hand, he would have no difficulty in freeing himself from the irons.
This he had accomplished without much trouble, as soon as he started out
of the car, and when he ducked his head and ran, he had nothing to
impede his movements.
And Gabriel was always swift of foot, as Cephas will tell you. On the
present occasion, he brought all his strength, and energy, and will to
bear on his efforts to escape. Running half-bent, he was afraid the
crowd which he saw all about him, pushing and shoving, and apparently
making frantic efforts to escape, would give him some trouble. But
strangely enough, this struggling crowd seemed to help him along. He saw
men all around him with uniforms on, and wearing queerly shaped hats.
They opened a way before him and closed in behind him. He heard a sharp
cry, "Prisoner escaped!" and he heard the energetic commands of the
officer in charge, but still the crowd opened a way in front of him, and
closed up behind him. This pathway, formed of struggling firemen, led
Gabriel away from the main entrance, and conducted him to the side,
where there was an opening between the pillars. Not twenty feet away was
the countryman with his queer-looking team. He was still complaining of
the way he had been taken in by the town fellers who had told him that
the station was a cotton warehouse.
Gabriel recognised the voice and ran toward it, jumped into the waggon,
and crawled under the cover. "Now here--now here!" cried the countryman,
"you kin rob me of my money, an' make a fool out'n me about your cotton
warehouses, but be jigged ef I'll let you take my waggin an' team. I
dunner what you're up to, but you'll have to git out'n my waggin." With
that he stripped the cover from the top, and, lo! there was no one
there!
He turned to the astonished crowd with open mouth. "Wher' in the nation
did he go?" he cried. There was no answer to this, for the spectators
were as much astonished as Mr. Sanders professed to be. The man who had
crawled under the waggon-cover had disappeared.
He turned to the astonished crowd with a face on which amazement was
depicted, crying out, "Now, you see, gentlemen, what honest men have to
endyore when they come to your blame town. Whoever he is, an' wharsoever
he may be, that chap ain't up to no good." Then he looked under the
waggon and between the bales of cotton, and, finally, took the cover and
shook it out, as if it might be possible for one of the "slick city
fellers" to hide in any impossible place.
There was a tremendous uproar in the station, caused by the soldiers
trying to run over the firemen and the efforts of the firemen to prevent
them. In a short time, however, a squad of soldiers had forced
themselves through the crowd, and as they made their appearance, Mr.
Sanders gave the word to old Beck, saying as he moved off, "Ef you gents
will excuse me, I'll mosey along, an' the next time I have a crap of
cotton to sell, I'll waggin it to some place or other wher' w'arhouses
ain't depots, an' wher' jugglers don't jump on you an' make the'r
disappearance in broad daylight. This is my fust trip to this great
town, an' it'll be my last ef I know myself, an' I ruther reckon I do."
As he spoke, his team Was moving slowly off, and the soldiers who were
in pursuit of Gabriel had no idea that it was worth their while to give
the countryman and his superannuated equipment more than a passing
glance. It was providential that Captain Falconer, who was to have
conveyed the prisoners to Atlanta, should have been confined to his bed
with an attack of malarial fever when the order for their removal came.
The Captain would surely have recognised the countryman as Mr. Sanders,
and the probability is that Gabriel would have been recaptured, though
Captain Buck Sanford, who was sitting in an upper window of the hotel,
with his Winchester across his lap, says not.
The officer in charge did all that he could have been expected to do
under the circumstances. By a stroke of good-luck, as he supposed, he
found the Chief of Police near the entrance of the station and
interested that official in his effort to recapture the prisoner who had
escaped. By order of the military commander in Atlanta, the train was
held a couple of hours while the search for Gabriel proceeded. The whole
town was searched and researched, but all to no purpose. Gabriel had
disappeared, and was not to be found by any person hostile to his
interests.
Mr. Sanders drove his team around to the warehouse of Vardeman & Stark,
where he was met by Colonel Tom Vardeman, who, besides being a cotton
factor, was one of the political leaders of the day, and as popular a
man as there was in the State.
"I heard a terrible fusillade in the direction of the depot," he said to
Mr. Sanders, as the latter drove up. "I hope nobody's hurt."
"Well, they ain't much damage done, I reckon. Gus Tidwell an' Major
Perdue took a notion to play a game of tag wi' pistols. They're doin' it
jest for fun, I reckon. They want to show you city fellers that all the
public sperrit an' enterprise ain't knocked out'n the country chaps."
"Well, they're almost certain to get in the lock-up," remarked Colonel
Tom Vardeman.
"It reely looks that away," said Mr. Sanders, drily; "the Chief of
Police was standin' in front of the depot, an' ev'ry time a gun'd go off
he'd wink at me."
Colonel Tom laughed, and then turned to Mr. Sanders with a serious air.
"What did I tell you about that wild plan of yours to rescue one of the
prisoners? You've had all your trouble for nothing, and the probability
is that you are out considerable cash first and last. You don't catch
grown men asleep any more. Why, if the officer in charge of those poor
boys were to permit one of them to escape, he'd be court-martialled, and
it would serve him right."
"So it would," replied Mr. Sanders, "an' I'm mighty glad it wa'n't
Captain Falconer. This feller that had the boys in tow is a stranger to
me, an' I'm glad of it. He'll never know who lost him his job. He's a
right nice-lookin' feller, too, but when he run out'n the depot awhile
ago, his face kinder spoke up an' said he had had a dram too much some
time endyorin' of the night; or his colour mought 'a' been high bekaze
he was flurried or skeered. Now, then, Colonel Tom, ef you've done what
you laid off to do, an' I don't misdoubt it in the least, you've got a
safe place wher' I kin store a bale of long-staple cotton, ag'in a rise
in prices. Ef you've got it fixed, I'll drive right in, bekaze the kind
of cotton I'm dealin' in will spile ef it lays in the sun too long."
"Do you mean to tell me----"
"I'm mean enough for anything, Colonel Tom; but right now, I want to
git wher' I can drench a long-sufferin' friend of mine wi' a big
gourdful of cold water."
"But, Mr. Sanders----"
"Ef you'd 'a' stuck in the William H., you'd 'a' purty nigh had my whole
name," remarked Mr. Sanders with a solemn air.
"Why, dash it, man! you've taken my breath away. Drive right in there.
John! Henry! come here, you lazy rascals, and take this team out! I told
you," said Colonel Tom to Mr. Sanders as the negroes came forward, "that
you couldn't get any better prices for your cotton than I offered you.
We treat everybody right over here, and that's the way we keep our
trade."
The two negroes were detailed to convey the mule and the oxen to the
stable where Mr. Sanders had arranged for their "keep," as he termed it,
and as soon as they were out of sight, Mr. Sanders went to the rear of
the waggon, and said playfully, "Peep eye, Gabriel!" Receiving no
answer, he was suddenly seized with the idea that the young man had
suffocated behind the loose cotton which was intended to conceal him.
But no such thing had happened. Gabriel had plenty of breathing-room,
and the practical and unromantic rascal was sound asleep. His quarters
were warm, but the sweat-boxes at Fort Pulaski were hotter. It was very
fortunate for Gabriel that the reaction from the strain under which he
had been, took the blessed shape of sleep.
Gabriel's place of concealment was simplicity itself. With his own hands
Mr. Sanders had constructed a stout box of oak boards, and around this
he had packed cotton until the affair, when complete, had the
appearance of an extra large bale of cotton, covered with bagging, and
roped as the majority of cotton-bales were in those days. The only way
to discover the sham was to pull out the cotton that concealed the
opening in the end of the box. In delivering his message to Cephas, Mr.
Sanders had called this loose cotton a plug, and the fact that the word
was new to the vocabulary of the school-children gave great trouble to
Gabriel, causing him to lose considerable sleep in the effort to
translate it satisfactorily to himself. The meaning dawned on him one
night when he had practically abandoned all hope of discovering it, and
then the whole scheme became so clear to him that he could have shouted
for joy.
It was thought that a search would be made for Gabriel in the
neighbourhood of Shady Dale, and it was decided that it would be best
for him to remain in the city until all noise of the pursuit had died
away. But no pursuit was ever made, and it soon became apparent to the
public at large that radicalism was burning itself out at last, after a
weary time. When rage has nothing to feed upon it consumes itself,
especially when various chronic maladies common to mankind take a hand
in the game.
Not only was no pursuit made of Gabriel, but the detachment of Federal
troops which had been stationed at Shady Dale was withdrawn. The young
men who had been arrested with Gabriel were placed on trial before a
military court, but with the connivance of counsel for the prosecution,
the trial dragged along until the military commander issued a
proclamation announcing that civil government had been restored in the
State, and the prisoners were turned over to the State courts. And as
there was not the shadow of a case against them, they were never brought
to trial, a fact which caused some one to suggest to Mr. Sanders that
all his work in behalf of Gabriel had been useless.
"Well, it didn't do Gabriel no good, maybe," remarked the veteran, "but
it holp me up mightily. It gi' me somethin' to think about, an' it holp
me acrosst some mighty rough places. You have to pass the time away
anyhow, an' what better way is they than workin' for them you like? Why,
I knowed a gal, an' a mighty fine one she was, who knit socks for a
feller she had took a fancy to. The feller died, but she went right
ahead wi' her knittin' just the same. Now, that didn't do the feller a
mite of good, but it holp the gal up might'ly."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
_Gabriel as an Orator_
The _Malvern Recorder_ was very kind to Gabriel, and said nothing in
regard to his escape. This was due to a timely suggestion on the part of
Colonel Tom Vardeman, who rightly guessed that the Government
authorities would be more willing to permit the affair to blow over,
provided the details were not made notorious in the newspapers. As the
result of the Colonel's discretion, there was not a hint in the public
press that one of the prisoners had eluded the vigilance of those who
had charge of him. There was a paragraph or two in the _Recorder_,
stating that the Shady Dale prisoners--"the victims of Federal
tyranny"--had passed through the city on their way to Atlanta, and a
long account was given of their sufferings in Fort Pulaski. The facts
were supplied by Gabriel, but the printed account went far beyond
anything he had said. "They are not the first martyrs that have suffered
in the cause of liberty," said the editor of the _Recorder_, in
commenting on the account in the local columns, "and they will not be
the last. Let the radicals do their worst; on the old red hills of
Georgia, the camp-fires of Democracy have been kindled, and they will
continue to burn and blaze long after the tyrants and corruptionists
have been driven from power."
Gabriel read this eloquent declaration somewhat uneasily. There was
something in it, and something in the exaggeration of the facts that he
had given to the representative of the paper that jarred upon him. He
had already in his own mind separated the Government and its real
interests from the selfish aims and desires of those who were
temporarily clothed with authority, and he had begun to suspect that
there might also be something selfish behind the utterances of those who
made such vigorous protests against tyranny. The matter is hardly worth
referring to in these days when shams and humbugs appear before the
public in all their nakedness; but it was worth a great deal to Gabriel
to be able to suspect that the champions of constitutional liberty, and
the defenders of popular rights, in the great majority of instances had
their eyes on the flesh-pots. The suspicions he entertained put him on
his guard at a time when he was in danger of falling a victim to the
rhetoric of orators and editors, and they preserved him from many a
mistaken belief.
During the period that intervened between his escape and the
announcement of the restoration of civil government in Georgia, Gabriel
settled down to a course of reading in the law office of Judge Vardeman,
Colonel Tom's brother. He did this on the advice of those who were old
enough to know that idleness does not agree with a healthy youngster,
especially in a large city. His experience in Judge Vardeman's office
decided his career. He was fascinated from the very beginning. He found
the dullest law-book interesting; and he became so absorbed in his
reading that the genial Judge was obliged to warn him that too much
study was sometimes as bad as none.
Yet the lad's appetite grew by what it fed on. A new field had been
opened up to him, and he entered it with delight. Here was what he had
been longing for, and there were moments when he felt sure that he had
heard delivered from the bench, or had dreamed, the grave and sober
maxims and precepts that confronted him on the printed page. He pursued
his studies in a state of exaltation that caused the days to fly by
unnoted. He thought of home, and of his grandmother, and a vision of Nan
sometimes disturbed his slumbers; but for the time being there was
nothing real but the grim commentators and expounders of the common law.
When Mr. Sanders returned home, bearing the news of Gabriel's escape,
Nan Dorrington laid siege to his patience, and insisted that he go over
every detail of the event, not once but a dozen times. To her it was a
remarkable adventure, which fitted in well with the romances which she
had been weaving all her life. How did Gabriel look when he ran from the
depot at Malvern? Was he frightened? And how in the world did he manage
to get in the waggon, and crawl on the inside of the sham bale of cotton
and hide so that nobody could see him? And what did he say and how did
he look when Mr. Sanders found him asleep in the cotton-bale box, or the
cotton-box bale, whichever you might call it?
"Why, honey, I've told you all I know an' a whole lot more," protested
Mr. Sanders. "Ef ever'body was name Nan, I'd be the most populous man in
the whole county."
"Well, tell me this," Nan insisted; "what did he talk about when he woke
up? Did he ask about any of the home-folks?"