THE RESCUE
When the three soldiers awoke on the morning which followed the
kindling of the two fires, Philip was too ill to leave his bunk, and
Lieutenant Coleman and Bromley were too weak to drag themselves as far
as the rocks where the embers were still smoking. The sun was shining
on their United States window, and when they looked out at the door,
the old flag of thirty-five stars was floating bravely on the fresh
wind.
"Three cheers for the stars and stripes, and for Sherman Territory!"
cried Bromley, and the weak cheers so exhausted the two men that they
sat down on the wooden bench in a state of collapse. Faint as they
were from hunger, they were still fainter from thirst, and after a
moment's rest they staggered over to the branch and drank their fill of
the cool water, and laved their feverish faces in the stream. They
brought a cup of the water to Philip who lay quietly in his bunk, and
was altogether so weak that they were obliged to hold him up while he
drank.
"There, there," said Coleman, as they eased him back on his pillow.
"You must keep a good heart, for some one will surely come to us
to-day."
Philip looked brighter for the draft of water, but he only smiled in
reply. The sun was warm outside, but the act of drinking, while it had
greatly revived and encouraged Coleman and Bromley, had so chilled
their starved bodies that they put on their overcoats and buttoned them
up to the throat. They could do no more in the way of calling for help
than they had already done. Men had died of starvation before, and it
might be their fate to perish of hunger, but they had a strong faith
that the fires they had built for two nights on this uninhabited
mountain would bring some one to their relief. They regretted now that
the reading of the abolition books had influenced them to delay so long
their appeal for help. To reach them their rescuers must fell one or
more of the tall pines across the bridgeless gorge, but they were too
weak to go down the ladders, and what wind there was blew across the
mountain in the direction of the gorge, so that they would not be able
to hear the sound of an ax a mile away. Time had never dragged so
slowly before. The sun lay in at the open door, and by the marks they
had made on the floor, as well as by the shadows cast by the trees
outside, they could judge closely of the hour. They could hardly
believe that it was only ten o'clock in the morning, when it seemed as
if they had already passed a whole day in vain hope of relief.
It was such a terrible thing to await starvation in the oppressive
stillness of the mountain, that Bromley, almost desperate with
listening, went to the branch and hung the bucket on the arm of the old
Slow-John, which presently began to pound and splash in its measured
way. Dismal as the sound was, it gave them something to count, and
relieved their tired ears of the monotonous flapping of the flag and of
the rustling of the barren corn-stalks.
They talked of the old man who had died alone on the other plateau.
He, too, might have died of starvation. There were no signs of food in
the deserted house when they had discovered it. They had never thought
of it before, but his cunning agent might have been a villain after
all. He might have grown weary at last of lugging casks up the
mountain by moonlight, and getting the old man's gold by slow doles.
He must have had some knowledge of the treasure for which he dug so
persistently afterward, and in his greed to possess it he might have
deliberately starved the old abolitionist. They thought of Hezekiah
Wallstow burning beacon-fires in his extremity, when there was a good
bridge to connect the mountain-top with the valley, and yet he was left
to die alone. The thought was not encouraging to Coleman and Bromley
in their weakened, nervous condition, and tended to make them more than
ever distrustful of the natives to whom they had appealed.
They withheld these disturbing suspicions from Philip, but the more
they pondered on the subject the more they were convinced of the
barbarity of the Confederates, and of their determination to leave them
to their fate.
Lieutenant Coleman wrote what he believed to be the last entry in the
diary. It was November 7, 1871; and on the prepared paper of the book
which treated of deep-sea fishing, he stated briefly their starving
condition and their fruitless efforts to summon relief. They still had
the tin box in which the adamantine candles had been stored, and into
this Bromley helped to pack the leaves of the diary, already neatly
tied in separate packages, and labeled for each year. If he had had a
little more strength he would have carried it to the forge, and sealed
the cover of the box which contained the record of their lives. As it
was, they set it on the mantelpiece under the trophy formed of the
station flags and the swords and carbines, and laid a weight on the lid.
After this was accomplished, Lieutenant Coleman lay down and turned his
face to the wall, and Bromley seated himself on the bench outside the
door, too stubborn to give up all hope of relief. The warm sun lighted
the chip dirt at his feet, and seemed to glorify the bright colors of
the old flag as it floated from the staff. He forgot his desperate
situation for a moment, as his mind turned back to the battle-days when
he had seen it waving in the sulphurous smoke. It gave him no comfort,
however, to think of his old comrades and the dead generals and the
cause that was lost; and when his eyes fell on the ground at his feet,
he tried to keep them fixed on a tiny ant which came out of a crumbling
log. The small thing was so full of life, darting and halting and
turning this way and that! Now it disappeared under the log, and then
it came out again, rolling a kernel of corn by climbing up on one side
of the grain, to fall ignominiously down on the other. Bromley was
just about to pounce on the grain of corn and crush it between his
teeth when he heard a sound on the hill, and, raising his eyes, he saw
two men coming on toward the house. They carried long bird-rifles on
their shoulders, and to his starved vision they looked to be of
gigantic size against the sky.
He could only cry out, "Fred! Fred! Here they come!"
[Illustration: "HE COULD ONLY CRY OUT, 'FRED! FRED! HERE THEY COME!"]
These electric words brought Coleman's haggard face to the door, and
even Philip turned in his blankets.
The strange dress and wild appearance of the two soldiers clinging to
the door of the house, and the fantastic effect of the afternoon sun on
the stained-glass window, as if the interior were on fire, so startled
the strangers that they lowered their rifles to a position for defense,
and turned from the direct approach, until they had gained a position
among the rustling corn-stalks in front of the door. The various
buildings and the evidence of cultivation on the mountain-top staggered
the visitors, and the haggard faces of Coleman and Bromley led them to
believe that they had come upon a camp of the fabled wild men of the
woods. They had never seen a stained-glass window before, and to their
minds it suggested some infernal magic, so the two valley-men stood
elbow to elbow in an attitude for defense, and waited for the others to
speak.
"Come on, neighbors," said Bromley, holding out his empty hands. "We
are only three starving men."
One of the valley-men was tall and lank, and the other was sturdily
built; and at these pacific words of Bromley they advanced, still
keeping close together.
"We don't see but two," said the stout man, coming to a halt again.
"Where's the other one at?"
"He's too weak to get out of his bunk," said Lieutenant Coleman. "For
God's sake, have you brought us food?"
"That's just what we have," said the rosy-faced stout man, who came on
without any further hesitation. "We've brought ye a corn-pone. We
'lowed there might be some human critters starvin' up here." With that
he whisked about the thin man, and snatched a corn-loaf from the
haversack on his back.
"How did you-all ever git here?" said the thin man. "Hit's seven year
since the old bridge tumbled into the gorge."
There was no reply to this question, for Bromley was devouring his
bread like a starved wolf, while Coleman had turned away to share his
piece with Philip.
The eagerness with which they ate seemed to please the two valley-men,
who were willing enough to wait a reasonable time for the information
they sought. It was a fine opportunity to give some account of
themselves, and the rosy-faced man made good use of it.
"We're plumb friendly," he said, "and mighty glad we brought along the
bread, ain't we, Tom? Mightn't 'a' done hit if hit hadn't 'a' been for
my old woman insistin'. She 'lowed some hunter fellers had got up here
and couldn't git down ag'in, and she hild fast to that idea while she
was a-bakin' last night, time your fire was a-burnin'. Hit certainly
takes women folks to git the rights o' things, don't hit, Tom? My name
is Riley Hooper, and this yer friend o' mine is Tom Zachary, and we're
nothin' if we ain't friendly."
Poor Philip was unable to swallow the dry bread, and Coleman came to
the door with the golden cup in his hand, and begged one of the men to
bring a cup of water from the branch. Tom Zachary hurried off on this
mission of mercy.
"Hit's a wonder," he exclaimed, when he came back with the dripping
cup, "that you-all ain't been pizoned afore this, drinkin' out o' brass
gourds. That's what ailed Colum. Long time he had the greensickness.
But his woman was cookin' into a brass kittle, and that might 'a' made
some difference."
The two men now pressed into the house to see Philip, and Bromley,
whose hands were at last empty, and whose strength was fast returning,
came after them.
"I'm jist nacherly put out," said Hooper, when he saw the condition of
Philip, "that I didn't bring along somethin' to warm up a cold stomic.
Poor feller! Say, where's your fryin'-pan at? I'll fix a dose for
him. Here, Tom, wake up. Fill this skillet with water out o' the
branch, 'thout no flavor o' brass into hit"; and as he spoke he whisked
Tom around again, and took the haversack from his shoulders. "No, ye
don't," said he to Bromley, who came forward for more bread. "No, ye
don't, my boy. I've viewed starvin' humans afore. What you want to do
is to go slow. A dose o' gruel is jest the ticket for this yer whole
outfit."
The rosy-faced man was too busy with the fire and the gruel, and too
eager to improve the condition of the men he had rescued, to ask any
disturbing questions; and Tom Zachary was so considerate, in the
presence of actual starvation, that he seated himself on a three-legged
stool, and stared at the stained-glass windows and the flags and the
curious map on the wall. It was just as well that Bromley had removed
the golden casters, years before, from the legs of the stools, when
they were found to make ruts and furrows in the earthen floor. Tom
Zachary would have been more astonished than ever if he had found
himself rolling about on double-eagles.
When the hot gruel had been served, Philip was so much revived as to be
able to sit up on the edge of his bunk. If it was delicacy that still
prevented the visitors from asking questions, it was a dread of
overwhelming bad news that sealed the soldiers' lips. They had become
so settled in their convictions, and so confirmed in their strange
blindness, that they shrank from hearing the mortifying particulars.
So the five men sat staring at one another, each party waiting for the
other to begin.
"Sojer coats," said the lean man, nudging his companion.
"And cavalry guns and swords," said the rosy-faced one, casting his
eyes on the trophy.
"And my affydavid," said the tall one, "if them ain't the reg'lar old
signal-flags--one, two, one."
Lieutenant Coleman was thankful that his visitors had said nothing
disagreeable thus far, but he feared every moment that they would make
some insulting remark about the old flag, which they could see through
the door-way.
Bromley restrained himself as long as he could, and then, in reply to
the three mild observations, in which he thought he detected a shade of
sarcasm, he exclaimed:
"Well, what of it? We are not ashamed of our uniform or of our arms."
"There ain't no reason why ye should be, my buck," said the rosy-faced
man. "Soldierin' is as good a trade as any other."
"Hit's better 'n some," said the tall one.
"Gentlemen," said Lieutenant Coleman, who began to fear more personal
remarks, "you have saved our lives to-day. We shall never forget your
kindness, or cease to feel ourselves your debtors. You see our
destitute condition. We need food for the coming winter, and seed for
another year, for which we are able to pay; and if you know who owns
this mountain-top, we shall be glad to arrange, through you, to buy it."
"Well, now, I'll be gormed," said the rosy-faced man, "if he ain't a
thoroughbred as soon's he gits fed up a little. Wants to buy these yer
rocks, does he? Tom, who do you reckon owns this mounting?"
"Dunno," said Tom, with a grin, "if you don't."
"Well, I do," said Hooper, expanding himself with an air of
proprietorship, "and there hain't nobody never disputed my title to
this upper kentry."
"Are you willing to sell it?" said Lieutenant Coleman.
"I'll sell anything I've got," said Hooper, looking more rosy and
smiling than ever, "so I git my figger."
"Very well," said Coleman. "If we take the mountain-top from the deep
gorge up, at what price would you value it?"
"Well, now," said Hooper, "if you really mean business, this yer track
ain't worth a fortun'. Timber-land in these parts brings a dollar an
acre when hit brings anything. Rock-land like this, without no timber
onto hit, is worth fifty cents; but, cousiderin' the improvements and
the buildin's," he continued, "I reckon seventy-five would be
dirt-cheap. Hit ain't ever been surveyed, but I 'low there's two
hundred acres above the gorge."
Lieutenant Coleman already had his hand in the pocket of his canvas
trousers, and, bringing out two double-eagles, he handed them to the
rosy-faced proprietor as a first payment. Hooper jumped up from his
seat and took the two yellow coins in his hands, and chinked them
together, and tossed them about as if he feared they might burn his
palms.
"Durned if hit ain't United States gold money, Tom," he exclaimed,
passing one of the coins to Zachary, who was equally excited. "We
hain't viewed that kind o' money for seven years in these parts, have
we, Tom?"
Tom indorsed his companion's statement in pretty strong language, and
Lieutenant Coleman hastened to say that if the money was not
satisfactory, they could probably agree upon some rate of exchange. At
this point of the conversation, the two mountaineers exchanged some
words in a whisper, and the soldiers believed they were agreeing upon
the discount between United States and Confederate money. To fill up
this awkward break in the conversation, Lieutenant Coleman began again
to express his gratitude to his rescuers.
"Now, hold on, captain," exclaimed Hooper, facing about. "Whatsoever
me and Tom has done, we have done willin', and nobody willin'er, and
we're goin' to stand by ye to the end; but we ain't goin' no further in
this business till you tell us how ye got here. The way we study hit
out, you ain't treatin' me and Tom fair."
"Pardon me, my good friends," said Lieutenant Coleman. "I had no
intention of being rude. We came here in the summer of 1864, in the
line of our duty as Union soldiers, and when the war ended with the
success of the Confederates--"
"What!" cried the two men together, gasping in amazement at what they
heard. "And the Union was destroyed," continued Lieutenant Coleman.
"And the Capitol fell into the hands of the Confederates." "And
slavery was restored," exclaimed Bromley. "And the flag was disgraced
and robbed of its stars," put in Philip, with such voice as he could
command.
The two mountaineers stood open-mouthed for a moment, and then they
burst into peals of laughter. "Whoop!" cried the rosy-faced man,
slapping his leg and throwing his wool hat on the floor as if it had
been a brickbat. "If that ain't the jolliest thing I ever heard, and
hit's kind o' serious-like, too! Why, men, there ain't no Confederacy.
Hit's the old United States, from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico, and
from the Atlantic Ocean clear across to the Pacific."
"And General Sherman--" gasped Philip.
"He's gineral of the army up in Washington right now, and Gineral Grant
is President," cried the rosy-faced man.
Somehow the interior of the house grew vague and misty, as if a sea-fog
had swept in through the windows. Everything and everybody danced and
reeled about, until the soldiers fell away from the embrace of their
deliverers, quite exhausted by the excitement and the news they had
heard.
While all this was going on, Philip lay back on his blanket and shed
tears of joy over the wonderful news. In fact, there wasn't a dry eye
in the room. Even the eyes of the men from Cashiers glistened with
moisture, as they vied with each other in discharging facts, like
cannon-balls, into the ears of the astonished soldiers. They gave them
a rough history of the end of the great war, of the tragic death of
Lincoln, and of some of the events which had since taken place in the
United States.
"There were thirty-five stars on the old flag when we came here," cried
Lieutenant Coleman.
"And there's thirty-seven now," said Hooper.
"Thirty-seven!" repeated the soldiers, looking at one another through
their tears. "Thirty-seven!"
The soldiers ate some more of the bread from the haversack, and with
renewed strength went out into the afternoon sunlight, Coleman and
Bromley supporting Philip, and all five sat down under the old flag.
And as they sat there together like brothers, the soldiers told the
others why they had first come to the mountain, and the bad news they
had got by flag, and the resolution they had made, and all that had
come of it. And when they had done speaking, Tom Zachary, whose face
had grown longer and sadder as he listened to their story, said he had
something to tell them for which he hoped they would forgive him.
"I was only a boy in the war-time," said Tom, "and I lived with my
kin-folks in a settlement at the foot of the tenth mountain. Gineral
Thomas commanded the Home Guard brigade, with headquarters at
Quallatown, in the Cherokee kentry, and he had signal-flag men like
you-all, and 'mongst the rest there was one named Bud Bryson. Now Bud
was mighty peart, and he boasted as how he could study out any cipher
that ever was made, if only he had time enough. So when the gineral
heard that there was a Yankee station on that mountain, he sent Bud
with a spy-glass, to make out the cipher and read the telegrafts for
him. Many's the day I stayed out on the South Ridge with Bud, and
wrote down the letters as he read 'em off, and, turn 'em which way we
would, we could never make head or tail of 'em. It was a-z-q-j-g and
such fool letters, and after two weeks' hard work Bud Bryson was no
nearer to makin' sense of the letters than when he begun, though he did
always say that if they had only give him time he would 'a' studied out
the trick.
"But the gineral got tired o' waitin' on Bud, and one day he sent a
squad of fifteen cavalry soldiers to capture the stations. The
soldiers started up the mountain in the early mornin', with Bud to
guide 'em and give 'em points. I went up with the rest, just to see
the fun, and when we got to the top, the soldiers rushed in on two sets
o' men, sawin' the air with their flags and sendin' messages both ways.
Lieutenant Swann was the officer's name, a big red man, and mighty mad
he was when the soldiers took him. They searched him from head to
foot, and 'mongst the papers on him they found the secret cipher Bud
had been workin' for.
"What with guardin' the prisoners and the prospect of capturin' more,
fifteen troopers was too scant a crowd to divide into two squads, and
so the captain ordered Bud to stay on the mountain and give the
stations ahead enough news to keep 'em quiet until he come back.
"That game suited Bud mighty well, and havin' nobody to help him, he
made me stay with him to take down the letters. We had the camp just
as they left it, with plenty o' rations and coffee to drink such as we
hadn't tasted for years, and every time Bud looked at the flags he
burst out laughin'. Hit was somewhere near the end of July when we
took the mountain, and that same afternoon Bud begun to figger the
letters of his first message crooked accordin' to the cipher, and git
hit ready to send on. 'Tom,' he says to me with a grin, 'I reckon we
better kill off Gineral Sherman first,' and then he laughed and rolled
over on the blankets.
"Next mornin' he sent the message, and when the telegraft come back to
know if the news was true, he sent word hit was, 'honor bright,' and
signed the lieutenant's name, 'James Swann.' Hit was three weeks
before the squad got back from Chattanooga way, and all the time Bud
kept sendin' lies about great Confederate victories. He was keerful
what he sent, too, and figgered on the dates, and kept all the messages
he had sent before wrote down in order, so he wouldn't get mixed. When
we got all ready to leave Bear Clift, which was the tenth station, Bud
flagged an order to hold on--that relief was comin'.
"Now, after we started east, we picked up a station every mornin'; and
as soon as Bud got his hands on the flags, he begun to lie more than
ever, closin' up the war with a dash. We had over fifty prisoners when
we took the three men off from Upper Bald, and there havin' been six on
every other station, we nat'rally thought we had found the last; and
the cavalry went away with their prisoners to Quallatown."