THE COTTON THIEVES.
“Who are those men, and what did they want?” inquired Ned, as he got off
his horse at the foot of the steps. “Are they cotton traders?”
“I wish I hadn’t gone at them quite so rough,” replied Rodney. “You know
what a red-hot rebel Biglin has always been, don’t you?”
“I should say so. If he could have his way he’d hang every Union man in
the country.”
“Well, he had the impudence to declare in my presence, not more than
five minutes ago, that he’d always been strong for the Union and dead
against secession, and it made me so indignant that I said things which
drove him away before he had time to make his business known. But he
told me he had questioned my father about cotton and got no
satisfaction.”
“And did he think you would give it to him when your father would not?”
demanded Ned.
“He and his friends seemed to think so, but I gave them to
understand—Great Scott!”
“Hallo! What’s come over you all on a sudden?” exclaimed Ned, as Rodney
jumped to his feet and gazed anxiously up the road in the direction in
which Mr. Biglin and his party had just disappeared.
“Who knows but I have let them go to their death?” answered Rodney.
“They don’t know that one party who tried to find that cotton was fired
upon in the woods, and I was so provoked at Biglin that I forgot to tell
them.”
“W-h-e-w!” whistled Ned. “I never thought of it either. Well, let them
go on and find it out for themselves. They wouldn’t have believed you if
you had told them. They would have said right away that you were trying
to keep them out of the woods, and that would have made them all the
more determined to go in. I should be sorry to see any of them shot, but
now that I am here I’m going to stay with you and see the thing out.”
Nothing could have suited Rodney Gray better. He was lonely and
depressed and felt the need of cheerful company, so he went with Ned
when the latter turned his horse into the stable-yard, and repeated to
him every word of the conversation that took place while Mr. Biglin and
his friends were at the well.
“There’s just one thing about it,” said Ned, when he had heard the
story. “If Biglin hasn’t already got a permit to trade he is certain as
he can be that he’s going to have it, and that’s what brought him out
here. But I can’t imagine what he meant when he said you might be
obliged to tell what you know about him and his record.”
“No more can I, but I should be glad to do it if it were not for
bringing Mrs. Turnbull’s name into the muss. Has Biglin got any money,
do you think, or does he intend to pay for his cotton in promises? If I
were in father’s place I would not take his note for a picayune, for
there’s no telling where Biglin will be at the close of the war.”
“That’s so,” assented Ned. “But we’ll not worry about money until we see
some in prospect, will we? We haven’t lost the cotton yet.”
And they didn’t lose it that day and neither did Mr. Biglin and his
party find it, for the very thing happened that Rodney was afraid of. He
and Ned sat on the porch for an hour or more, conversing in low tones
and waiting for and dreading something, they could scarcely have told
what, when the clatter of hoofs up the road set the hounds’ tongues in
motion and took them out to the bars in a body. It took Rodney and Ned
out there too, and when they gained the middle of the road they saw
three horses bearing down upon them with their bridles and stirrups
flying loose in the wind and their saddles empty. A little farther up
the highway were a couple of mounted men, who were bending low over the
pommels of their saddles, plying their whips as rapidly as they could
make their arms move up and down, and a few rods behind them were two
more riderless horses. Both men and animals appeared to be frightened
out of their senses. The leading horses would not stop, but dashed
frantically into the bushes by the roadside rather than permit the two
boys to capture them, and the men, as well as the horses that brought up
the rear, went by like the wind, and without in the least slackening
their headlong flight.
“Well, I do think in my soul! What’s up?” whispered Ned, who had dodged
nimbly out of the road to escape being run down.
“There were seven in the party, and only two have returned,” murmured
Rodney.
“They must have seen something dreadful in there,” faltered Ned.
“Beyond a doubt they have been fired upon, but I don’t believe they saw
anything,” answered Rodney. “They heard the whistle of bullets and
buckshot, most likely, and it scared them half to death. Come on. Let’s
hurry.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Ned, as Rodney turned about and ran
toward the house.
“After my horse. There are five men missing, and it may be that some of
them were shot. And even if they were unhorsed and not hurt at all, they
need help if they are as badly frightened as the two that just went by.”
Not being a soldier, Ned Griffin was in no haste to ride into a dark
swamp to brave an invisible bushwhacker, who might be as ready to shoot
him as anybody else, but when Rodney broke into a run and started for
the stable-yard, he kept close at his heels. The two saddled their
horses with all haste, and with the eager and excited hounds for a
body-guard, rode through the bars just in time to meet the two survivors
of Mr. Biglin’s party, who had at last found courage enough to stop
their frantic steeds and come back.
“O Rodney; this is an awful day for us!” cried one of the frightened
men. “I wish we had never heard of that cotton.”
“The cotton is all right if you will keep your thievish hands off from
it,” replied Rodney. “What’s the matter with you, and where are Mr.
Biglin and the rest?”
“Dead or prisoners, the last one of them. There’s a whole regiment in
there, and they opened on us before we had left the road half a mile
behind.”
“A whole regiment of what?”
“Indians, judging by the way they yelled, though I suppose they were
Yankee soldiers out on a scout.”
“Not much!” exclaimed Rodney.
“How do you know what they were? You didn’t see them.”
“Did you?”
“Well, no; but I heard them yell, and I heard their bullets singing,
too. The swamp is full of them.”
“If they were Federal scouts you would have seen them,” said Rodney.
“They would have closed around you before you had a chance to draw the
revolver I see sticking out of your coat pocket.”
“It’s empty,” said the man, producing the weapon. “I never was in a
fight before and never want to be again; but I tried to give them as
good as they sent.”
“If you did not see any of the attacking party, what did you shoot at?”
“I fired in the direction from which the yells sounded, and so did all
of us. As for the bullets, you couldn’t tell which way they came from,
for they clipped the trees on all sides. Where are you and Griffin
going?”
“Into the swamp to see if we can be of use to anybody.”
“I really wish you would, for I wouldn’t dare go back there myself. If
they were not Yankees, who were they?”
“Didn’t you just tell me that I wasn’t there?” asked Rodney.
“But all the same you have a pretty good idea who they were, and you
don’t want to bring yourself into trouble by shielding them.”
“I am not trying to shield anybody,” answered Rodney.
“Do you think they were citizens who tried to kill us because they
didn’t want us to find their cotton?” inquired the second man, who had
not spoken before.
“If you had a fortune hidden out there in the woods, would you let
anybody steal it from you if you could help it?” asked Rodney in reply.
“I don’t think you would.”
“But we expect every day to get a permit to trade in cotton,” said the
first speaker, “and that will give us license to take it wherever we can
find it.”
“I reckon not,” said the boy hotly. “General Banks has a right to order
his soldiers to take cotton or anything else for the benefit of his
government or to cripple the Confederacy, but he has no shadow of a
right to license stealing by civilians, and I don’t think he will do it.
If he does, there will be some of the liveliest fighting around here he
ever heard of.”
“If I thought those villains in there were citizens I’d——”
“You’d what?” said Rodney, when the man paused and looked at his
companion. “Do you want to kick up another civil war right here in your
own neighborhood? Both of you own property, and if you desire to save it
you will take care what you do. If you will go into the house and sit
down for an hour or two we may be back with news of your friends.”
“I’ll not do it,” replied the man, who had not yet recovered from his
fright, “for there’s no telling how soon those ruffians may come this
way. I will ride into Baton Rouge and send some soldiers out here.”
So saying he and his companion wheeled their horses and galloped away,
and the two boys rode on toward the swamp.
“Now look at you!” said Ned, when they were once more alone. “You have
paved the way for the neatest kind of a fuss. Did you notice what Mr.
Louden said about sending soldiers out here?”
“I did; but when he tries it I think he’ll find he has not been hired to
take the command of the Department of the Gulf out of the hands of
General Banks. If Banks is anything like the generals I have served
under he’ll not take suggestions from anybody, much less a civilian. I
told the truth when I hinted that that cotton might have been protected
by citizens, for that is what Lambert and his gang are.”
“But Louden thought you meant planters,” urged Ned.
“I can’t help what he thought; and I noticed, too, that he suspected me
of shielding the bushwhackers, because I would not tell who they were.
Oh, I know we shall see fun before we hear the last of that cotton, but
we’ll hold fast to it as long as we can.”
The boys rode rapidly while they talked, and in a few minutes turned off
the road and plunged into the tangled recesses of as gloomy a piece of
timber as could have been found anywhere—just the finest place in the
world for an ambuscade, as Rodney remarked when he led the way into it.
They could not see ten feet in any direction, but they heard something
before they had gone a mile into the swamp. The hounds gave tongue
savagely and dashed away in a body, a wild shriek of terror arose from a
thicket close in front of Rodney’s horse, and in the next instant up
bobbed Mr. Biglin. But he didn’t show any of the courage of which he had
boasted. His face was very white, and his empty hands were held high
above his head. He had as fair a view of Rodney’s face as he ever had in
his life, but was so badly frightened that he did not recognize him.
“Don’t you see that I surrender?” he yelled. “Call off your
bloodhounds.”
[Illustration: MR. BIGLIN SURRENDERS.]
“All right,” said the boy, who rather enjoyed the spectacle. “The dogs
won’t hurt you. Come out of the bushes and tell us all about it.”
“O Rodney, is that you?” exclaimed Mr. Biglin, but he wasn’t quite sure
of it, and didn’t think it safe to lower his uplifted hands. “Where are
they? They have been beating the woods in every direction to find me.”
“They? Who?”
“I am sure I don’t know, but there’s a regiment of them. They shot down
every horse in the party before we knew there was danger near, and then
set out to hunt us at their leisure. Have you seen them? Where are they
now?”
“Come out and tell us where the other four are,” said Rodney, who had by
this time satisfied himself that Mr. Biglin had escaped uninjured. “Your
horses are all right, and so are Miles and Louden. Ned and I had a short
talk with them not more than an hour ago.”
“I am surprised to hear it,” said Mr. Biglin, with a long-drawn sigh of
relief. “I was sure they had all been killed.” He put down his hands and
came out of his concealment as he spoke, but he stepped cautiously as if
afraid of making a noise, and cast timid glances on all sides of him.
“It’s just awful to be shot at in that cold-blooded way, isn’t it? I
don’t see how you stood it so long in the army.”
“Do you imagine that I stayed there and let the Yanks pop at me because
I thought it was funny?” demanded Rodney. “I stayed so long for the
reason that I couldn’t help myself. Miles and Louden have gone on to the
city, and I reckon your horses must be there by this time if they kept
on running.”
“And did the horses escape also?” said Mr. Biglin, who looked as though
he didn’t know whether to believe it or not. “It’s really wonderful how
any of us came out alive.”
Instead of replying Rodney threw back his head and shouted “Hey-youp!”
so loudly that the woods rang with the sound.
“What made you do that?” said Mr. Biglin in a frightened whisper, at the
same time backing toward the thicket from which he had just emerged. “Do
you want to show the enemy where we are?”
“No; but I want to let your four friends know where we are.”
He raised his war-whoop a second time, following it up by calling out
the names of the missing men and telling them to come on, for there was
nothing to be afraid of. There was a long silence—so long that Rodney
began to fear the party had become widely separated during the hurried
stampede of its members; but after a while a faint answering shout came
to his ears, then another and another, and finally he could hear the
missing men making their way through the bushes in his direction. When
they came up it was found that not one of them had been injured by the
shower of bullets which had whistled about their ears thicker than any
hailstones _they_ ever saw, but they were all pale and nervous, and
begged Rodney and Ned to take them out of the woods by the shortest and
easiest route. Seeing that two of them were almost ready to drop with
fear or exhaustion, the boys gave them their horses and led the way on
foot. Not a word was said until they found themselves safe in the road,
and then Mr. Biglin recovered his courage and the use of his tongue.
“Quite a thrilling experience for men who do not claim to be fighters,”
said he, taking off his hat and wiping away the sweat which stood on his
forehead in big drops. “And a most wonderful escape for all of us. If
I’d had the least suspicion that such a thing was going to happen, you
wouldn’t have caught me going into that swamp. But the men who fired on
us, whoever they are, must be punished for their audacity. They couldn’t
have been Union troops, for as soon as we recovered from the
astonishment and panic into which we were thrown by their first volley,
we shouted to them that we had a permit from General Banks, but it
didn’t do any good.”
“It did harm, though,” remarked one of his companions, “for I am
positive that their yells grew louder and that the bullets came much
thicker than before. Have you boys any idea who they were?”
This was a question that neither of them intended to answer if he could
help it. If they said what they thought, Mr. Biglin would carry their
story straight to the Federal provost marshal, or to someone else in
authority in Baton Rouge, and it might lead to something that would end
in bloodshed. Lambert’s actions said as plainly as words that if he
couldn’t profit by the sale of that cotton himself, nobody else should
lay hands upon it, and having driven away two parties who had tried to
discover its hiding-place, it was barely possible that he might have
gained courage enough to resist soldiers, if any were sent into the
swamp to drive him out. Lambert was showing himself a good friend just
now, however disagreeable and dangerous he might prove to be by and by,
and Rodney did not want General Banks to send troopers after him. When
the Union man he was waiting for “turned up,” the general might rid the
settlement of Lambert’s presence as soon as he pleased.
“If I didn’t know that Tom Randolph’s company of Home Guards was broken
up, I should blame them for this day’s work,” said one of Mr. Biglin’s
companions.
“How do you know the company was broken up?” inquired Rodney.
“Why, I heard they were all conscripted long ago.”
“That may be; but they didn’t all go to Camp Pinckney. Some of them took
to the woods.”
“But even if they would fire upon their old friends and neighbors, which
isn’t probable, they have no interest in protecting the cotton in the
swamp, for they don’t own a dollar’s worth of it.”
“I don’t care who they are,” said Mr. Biglin. “They will find that the
arm of our government is long enough to reach them wherever they hide
themselves.”
“_Our_ government!” repeated Rodney. “Which one do you mean?”
“There is but one, young man, and you rebels can’t break it up, try as
hard as you will.”
It made Rodney angry to hear Mr. Biglin talk in this strain, but before
he could frame a suitable rejoinder the planter switched him off on
another track by inquiring:
“Now, how are we to get to the city?”
“I am sure I don’t know unless you walk,” answered Rodney.
“Can’t you raise five saddle nags on your place?”
“No, sir. And if I could, I wouldn’t let them go inside the Yankee
lines. I’d never see them again.”
“I give you my word that I will take the best of care of them.”
“You couldn’t take any sort of care of them. In less than five minutes
after you reached the city my horses would be gone, and when you found
them again, if you ever did, they would have some company’s brand on
them. I know what I am talking about, for I have been a cavalryman
myself. I have known regiments in the same brigade to steal from one
another.”
“In that case wouldn’t the brand show where the horse belonged?”
“It might if it was let alone, but it is easy to change it. I stole a
horse from company _I_ once, and when he was found in my possession a
week or two afterward, there was my company letter _D_ on his flank as
plain as the nose on your face.”
“And didn’t you have to give him up to his rightful owner?”
“Course not. I said if he wasn’t my horse, how came that letter _D_
branded on him, and that settled it. Won’t you go in and rest a few
minutes?”
As Rodney said this he waved his hand toward the house, whose front door
stood invitingly open, but Mr. Biglin replied that he did not care to
sit down until he was out of sight of the swamp, and beyond the reach of
the terrible Home Guards who made their hiding-place there. So he and
his companions walked on, and Rodney and Ned turned into the yard.
“_Our_ government!” Rodney said over and over again while they were at
the well watering their horses. “He’d give everything he’s got if he
could see it broken up this minute.”
“Of course he would, but he and his kind stand higher with the Federals
than you do,” replied Ned. “Now, all we can do is to possess our souls
in patience and wait for the next act on the programme. Let’s see if Mr.
Biglin’s government will send soldiers to protect him in his
cotton-stealing.”
It was very easy for Ned to talk of waiting patiently, but it was a hard
thing to do. He and Rodney looked anxiously for the appearance of the
cavalry that Mr. Biglin and one of his friends had threatened to send
against the men who had driven them from the swamp, but they never came.
They saw and talked with a good many troopers, who drank all the milk
they could find and asked about the Johnnies that were supposed to be
“snooping around” in that part of the country, but to the boys’ great
relief they did not say a word about cotton or Home Guards, and Rodney
hoped he had seen the last of Mr. Biglin. He was ready to make terms
with a genuine Yankee who would offer him sixty cents a pound for his
father’s cotton, but he wanted nothing to do with converted rebels. He
and Ned made several trips to the city, bringing out each time some
things that were not contraband of war, and some others that would have
caused the prompt confiscation of his whole wagon load if they had been
discovered, but his friend Mr. Martin, on whom he relied for information
of every sort, could not give him any advice on the subject that was
nearest to his heart.
“The city is full of men who are working their level best to get
permits,” said he, “but I am told it takes lots of influence and a clean
record to get them.”
“Then Biglin will never have the handling of my father’s cotton,” said
Rodney with a sigh of satisfaction. “His record is as bad as mine.”
“Much worse,” answered Mr. Martin, “for you never went back on your
friends and became a spy and informer. That is just what that man Biglin
has done, but I have reason to think he isn’t making much at it. Someone
has been telling true stories about him, and the provost marshal knows
his history like a book. O Rodney, why didn’t you keep out of the rebel
army and proclaim yourself a Union man at the start, no matter whether
you were or not. You would have plain sailing now.”
Rodney laughed and said it was too late to think of that; and besides,
why didn’t Mr. Martin proclaim himself a Union man at the start? Perhaps
he wouldn’t have been so closely watched.
Rodney saw and talked with Lambert about three times a week, but the
ex-Home Guard did not volunteer any information regarding his doings in
the swamp, and the boy took care not to ask him for any. He never
inquired how or where the man lived, how many companions he had, whether
or not they ever held communication with their friends in Mooreville—in
fact, Lambert more than once complained to Ned Griffin that Rodney did
not seem to care any more for the conscripts who were watching night and
day to protect his father’s cotton than he did for the wild hogs he was
shooting for his winter’s supply of bacon. When Rodney first began
hunting these hogs it was with the expectation that every pound of meat
he secured would have to be turned over to the agents of the Confederate
government as the price of Ned Griffin’s exemption; but when General
Banks began massing his army at Baton Rouge with a view of operating
against Port Hudson, and the country roundabout had been cleared of
rebel soldiers and conscript officers, Rodney hadn’t troubled himself
much about the exemption bacon. He was glad to believe he would not be
called on to pay it.
Affairs went on in a very unsatisfactory way until the middle of
February before any event that was either exciting or interesting
occurred to break the monotony, if we except one single thing—the
Emancipation Proclamation. Of course the news that the slaves had been
freed created something of an excitement at first, especially among such
men as Lambert and his outlaws who never had the price of a pickaninny
in their pockets, but it had little effect upon Rodney Gray and his
father, because they had been looking for it for six months. In
September President Lincoln told the Southern people very plainly that
if they did not lay down their arms and return to their allegiance he
would declare their slaves free, and now he had kept his promise. Rodney
remembered how he had laughed at his cousin Marcy, and how angry he was
at him when the latter declared that if the South tried to break up the
government she would lose all her negroes, but now he saw that Marcy was
right. More than that, he knew that the North had the power and the will
to enforce the proclamation. Mr. Martin gave him a copy of it and he
took it home with him, intending to read it to his negroes; but the news
reached the plantation before he did, and he found the field-hands
gathered about the kitchen waiting for him.
“Is Moster Linkum done sot we black ones all free?” they demanded in
chorus, as Rodney rode among them.
“Who told you anything about it?” he asked, in reply.
“De cutes’ little catbird you ebber see done sot hisself up dar on de
ridge-pole, an’ sung it to we black ones,” answered the driver; and then
they all shouted and laughed at the top of their voices. “Is we free
sure ’nough?” added the driver.
“That depends upon whether you are or not,” answered Rodney, taking the
proclamation from his pocket and holding it aloft so that all could see
it. “In the first place, who owns this part of Louisiana right around
here? In whose possession is it?”
“De Yankees, bress the Lawd,” said the negroes, with one voice.
“Then you are not free, and Mr. Lincoln says so.”
“Why, Moss Rodney, please sar, how come dat?” stammered the driver, and
all the black faces around him took on a look of deep disappointment and
sorrow.
“I have Mr. Lincoln’s own words for it,” replied Rodney. “This paper
says, in effect, that the slaves are free in all States in rebellion,
except in such parts as are held by the armies of the United States. Do
the Yankees around here belong to the armies of the United States, and
are they holding this country—this part of the State? Then you will not
be free until the rebels come in and drive them out.”
“O Lawd! O Lawd!” moaned the driver. “Den we uns won’t nebber be free.
Dem rebels won’t luf us go.”
“That’s what I think, so you had better dig out while you have the
chance. You are bound to have your freedom some day, and you might as
well take it now. Don’t go off like thieves in the night, but come up
here boldly and shake hands with me as you would if you were going back
to the home plantation. And when you get sick of the Yankees and their
ways, come back, and I will treat you as well as I ever did. Bob, you
had better go for one. You don’t earn your salt here.”
This was all Rodney had to say regarding the Emancipation Proclamation,
but it was more than his darkies bargained for. While they were glad to
know that they were free men and women, they were not glad to see Rodney
so perfectly willing to let them go. He didn’t care a snap whether they
went or stayed, and that made them all the more anxious to stay where
they were sure of getting plenty to eat and clothes to wear. Bob and one
other worthless negro took Rodney at his word, and left the plantation
that very afternoon, but they did not go to the house to bid him
good-by. They packed their bundles in secret, and slipped away “like
thieves in the night”; but, before they had been gone two hours, Lambert
marched them back to the bars at the muzzle of his rifle.