GOSSLEY THE GUERILLA
"Who can that be?" asked the lady of the mansion, nervously, as the
knock was repeated.
"I will go and see," answered Colonel Bradner. He turned to the two
negroes. "See that he doesn't get away from you."
"He shan't git de chance, Mars'r," answered Joe, who had picked up his
gun again.
Arising from his couch, where he had retained his seat while covering
the young captain, the crippled advocate of the Southern cause stumped
to the door, walked out of the room, and closed the barrier behind him.
His wife accompanied him.
Artie strained his ears to catch what might be said. A hope had entered
his mind that the newcomer might be Life Knox, who had grown impatient
of waiting at the forks of the road and come in this direction to find
him. He felt certain that if it was the tall Kentuckian, there would
presently be exceedingly "warm" times about the place.
But he was doomed to disappointment. The voice was that of a man, loud,
rough, and savage, and the front door was closed with a bang. Then a
long talk followed in the hallway, and the newcomer pushed his way into
the sitting room.
"So we meet again," was the salutation Artie received, with a dark frown
from a pair of wolf-like eyes. "Reckon you didn't expect to see me quite
so soon, and under such circumstances."
"You are right,--I never expected to see you again, Major Gossley,"
replied Artie, for the newcomer was the noted leader of the guerillas
encountered at Greeger Lake.
"How does it make you feel?"
"I haven't had time enough to consider that side of the question," Artie
returned, trying to keep as calm as possible, although he realized that
the coming of the guerilla leader was a bad thing for him.
"Reckon you will realize it before I have done with you," muttered
Gossley. "Martha, has he been telling you anything about me?" he added,
turning to his sister.
[Illustration: "SO WE MEET AGAIN," WAS THE SALUTATION ARTIE RECEIVED.
_Page 190._]
"A string of falsehoods, Dan,--a string of falsehoods! Said you actually
robbed a miller,--was going to hang him because he wouldn't give up his
money," ejaculated Mrs. Bradner, excitedly. "I wanted Dick to give him
the lash; the base Yankee deserves it."
"He deserves a rope--as they all do," said Gossley. "It was a fine thing
to steal our hosses and sell 'em, wasn't it?"
"Your horses were not stolen, as I told that lady."
"They were--and my money was taken, too. The Riverlawns are a pack of
thieves,--worse than any band of raiders that ever came out of
Tennessee," stormed the irate leader of the ill-fated expedition to
Greeger Lake.
"How much money did you have?" questioned Artie, calmly, hoping to draw
the guerilla out.
"I had nearly two thousand dollars, all told."
"In Confederate money?"
"Partly; and partly in United States scrip and gold."
"Where did you get so much money?"
The major of the guerillas scowled. As readers of the volume before this
know, Gossley had obtained the money by selling a large quantity of
grain, pork, hams, and bacon taken in the guerilla raids. The chief had
kept the money on his person, expecting to divide with his men later.
About the time the horses of the raiders were driven off, the money
disappeared, stolen by some of the guerillas, but Gossley was firmly
convinced that the base Yankees had relieved him of the amount.
"It's none of your business where I got the money," stormed the man. "I
had it, and that's enough. Your regiment stole it,--and I'm going to get
square."
"That's right, Dan; don't give him an inch," broke in Mrs. Bradner.
"I never saw your money or heard of it," added Artie, quietly.
"Of course he wouldn't acknowledge it," said Colonel Bradner, who had
sunk down on the couch again.
"I've a good mind to put a bullet through you where you stand," went on
the guerilla leader. "But I won't do it; I'll try another game. If I am
not mistaken, you are Captain Lyon."
"I am."
"You have a brother who is a major in the Riverlawn regiment."
"Right again."
"And your father is the colonel of the command."
"I call him my father. He is in reality my uncle."
"It's the same thing--so far as I am concerned."
"I don't see how that concerns you at all."
"Don't you? I am bound to have that money back."
"We haven't got it."
"Never mind, a colonel of a regiment is responsible for the actions of
his men; eh, Dick?"
"To be sure--undoubtedly," answered Colonel Bradner, and he winked his
eye suggestively.
"Which means that you are going to try to get your money from Colonel
Lyon?" said Artie, indignantly.
"Which means that or something like it. I don't care if the colonel pays
it, or the major, so long as I get it back in gold. I won't take any
more United States shinplasters. In a few months more they won't be
worth the paper they are printed on."
"That's as true as you're born," put in Colonel Bradner.
"What about Confederate scrip?"
"It will be as good as gold--in a short time. But we are talking too
much, and I came here on another errand." The guerilla turned to his
brother-in-law. "You can keep him locked up for about forty-eight hours,
can't you?"
"I had planned to lock him up before you came," answered the crippled
veteran. "There is a pantry in the cellar which will make a capital
cell."
"All right. Joe, lead the way, and you will follow him, Lyon. I will
come after," said the guerilla chief. "March!"
"Supposing I refuse to be locked up," ventured Artie.
"I will put a bullet through your head without hesitation."
"You are a generous enemy, to say the least," was the young captain's
comment; and without further words he moved off.
The colored man led the way through the hallway to the rear, where
there was an enclosed stairway to the cellar. The latter place was
gloomy, and the air far from wholesome. Soon the three stood before the
pantry which had been mentioned. It was a square affair, built of heavy
planking and with an equally heavy door. There was a bolt on the door,
and likewise a padlock.
"Now, Captain, you will step inside," said the guerilla, grimly. "And
let me utter a word of caution. One of the negroes shall stand guard,
and at the first attempt to escape he shall fire on you."
Artie entered the pantry, and the door was immediately closed, locked,
and bolted. A moment later Gossley walked away and returned upstairs.
What the negro Joe did, Artie did not know.
The cellar had been damp and unwholesome, the pantry was more so, and
the first breath of air he took into his lungs made Artie shudder. Was
it possible he would be kept in such a place as this for forty-eight
hours, and in his wet clothing?
"I must get out,--if such a thing is possible," he said to himself. "But
I must be careful what I do, or the guard will shoot at me. Those
negroes fear their master, and they are bound to obey orders."
Waiting for a while, to make certain he was really alone, Artie brought
forth a match and lit it. The tiny blaze revealed to him a long splinter
of pitch-pine board, and this he ignited into a tiny torch, not daring
to let it burn too freely for fear of being smothered by the smoke.
As has been said, the pantry was built of heavy planking. It was five
feet from front to back and side to side, and in the rear were several
shelves, now swept of their contents. Behind the shelving were several
small boards, put up as if they covered a cellar window. Overhead were
the beams and boards of the parlor floor of the mansion, and beneath was
a cement bottom as hard as stone.
The under shelf in the closet was quite low, and removing the shelves
above it, Artie used it as a seat, and gave himself up to his
reflections. It must be confessed that he felt decidedly blue. He was
caged like a rat in a trap, and what his captors intended to do next
with him there was no telling.
"I wonder if they will send to father for money?" he asked himself.
"Gossley intimated as much. This is a new way of handling a prisoner in
this country. Gossley ought to be an Italian brigand. I shouldn't wonder
if he sends a note to the colonel, threatening, if the money is not
forthcoming, to shoot me. And he will shoot me, too--there is no doubt
of that. The man has no more heart than a grindstone--he showed that
when he attempted to hang Price, the miller."
Artie was not one to sit down and kick his heels in dejection. To him,
'while there was life there was hope,' and having examined the sides and
front of his prison, he turned his attention to the rear. A little work
loosened one of the small boards previously mentioned. He was about to
tear the board away, when he heard footsteps in the cellar; and he
shoved the board back into place.
It was Martha Bradner who had come down, accompanied by the negro Joe.
Evidently the woman wanted nothing more than to render the young
Unionist uncomfortable.
"Hope you like the cell?" she began.
"Thank you, Madam."
"What is that strange smell? Have you been burning something?"
"Nothing of any consequence," returned Artie. He had put out the
pitch-pine torch and hid it behind him.
"My brother is going to get square for the terrible manner in which your
regiment treated him," went on the lady of the house, maliciously.
"He is holding me for a hostage, is that it?"
"You will find out fast enough, young man."
"Is he going to make his demands at once?"
"No. He has important work for General Bragg that must first be attended
to," answered the lady, who had not yet learned the value of silence
upon certain occasions.
"Then he is a messenger for the general, eh? That is quite a high
position to occupy."
"No higher than Daniel deserves," was the airy reply. "My brother is a
great soldier, were his real ability recognized."
"No doubt he is a big man,--if General Bragg trusts him to do his
scouting for him. It's hard work to play the part of a spy in a Union
camp, I can tell you that."
"Daniel is fully equal to the task," said the lady.
She seemed totally ignorant of the fact that Artie was "drawing her
out," and that she was letting her tongue run altogether too fast. Her
brother had told her something of his mission, and she wanted this
Northern mudsill to know what an important man that brother really was.
"Perhaps your brother won't get back into the Confederate lines to tell
all that he has learned," continued Artie.
"He'll be back to-morrow morning. He has a first-class horse, and the
Union password, and he--"
"Martha! What are you doing down there?" came in the voice of Colonel
Dick Bradner, as he appeared at the head of the cellar stairs. "I
thought you promised Dan to leave the prisoner alone for the present."
"I am not hurting him--nor is he hurting me," called back Mrs. Bradner.
"I wouldn't talk too much to him--at least, not about our affairs or
Dan's."
"Colonel, I am able to manage for myself," was the icy response to this
suggestion. "If it had not been for me we would not have captured
this--this good-for-nothing Yankee."
"Perhaps that is true, my dear. But be sure and tell him nothing about
Dan."
"Oh, dear, I can never do anything without your interference!" burst out
the lady, petulantly. "Joe, lock him in again;" and she flounced out of
the cellar, past the colonel, who tried in vain to detain her, and up to
her own room. The negro did as ordered, and Artie was left once more to
himself.
What the captain had learned filled him with interest. Gossley was not
only going to hold him for the money that might be gotten out of such a
proceeding, but he was going to hold him until a secret mission for
General Bragg could be executed. The guerilla chief was now a spy within
the Union lines.
"If only Life knew that, and knew I was here," he half groaned. "I must
get away from here--not only for my own sake, but in order to make
Gossley a prisoner and thus prevent him from carrying any news of
importance to the Confederates. How can I get away?"
Over and over again Artie asked himself that question. In the meantime
he began work on the board again, this time without a light. After
several minutes of twisting and pulling the board came off, revealing
several panes of glass, set in a window frame. But beyond the glass was
a mass of dirt, showing that the cellar opening had been completely
closed up from the outside.
For the instant the captain was dismayed; then his natural buoyancy of
spirit returned. "I can dig that dirt away, sooner or later," he
muttered, and set to work removing the glass.
A job of this sort looks easy, on paper; in reality Artie found the task
quite hard, and it took the best part of an hour to remove the panes
without making a noise. The glass out of the way, he drew his
pocket-knife and began to dig at the dirt, which came away easily,
falling in clods into his hand. The clods he placed on the cement
flooring directly under the opening.
The ground had been banked up for nearly three feet, so it took some
time to reach daylight. But at last the blade of the knife cut into the
roots of the sodding, and Artie felt that liberty was only a question
of a few minutes more. He worked away diligently, and soon had a hole as
big as his hand. Through this he peered anxiously. Was there a guard
outside, ready to frustrate his design?