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."
he went to the hiding place and pulled out the fowls one after another. "they are all here," he said; "but how in the world am i goin' to keep 'em through another night?"
"you ain't a-goin' to keep 'em through another night, are you?" asked shorty anxiously, as he gloated over the sight. "le's eat 'em to-day."
"and starve to-morrer?" said the thrifty deacon rebukingly. "i don't know where any more is comin' from. it was hard enough work gittin' these. i had calculated on cookin' one a day for you and si. that'd make 'em provide for four more days. after that only the lord knows what we'll do."
"inasmuch as we'll have to trust to the lord at last, anyway," said shorty, with a return of his old spirit, "why not go the whole gamut? a day or two more or less won't make no difference to him. i feel as if i could eat 'em all myself without si's help."
"i tell you what i'll do," said the deacon, after a little consideration. "i feel as if both si and you kin stand a little more'n you had yesterday. i'll cook two to-day. we'll send a big cupful over to capt. mcgillicuddy. that'll leave us two for to-morrer. after that we'll have to trust to providence."
"if ever there was a time when he could use his ravens to advantage," said the irreverent shorty, "it's about now. they carried bread and meat to that old prophet. there's a lot o' mighty good men down here in this valley now in terrible want of grub, and nothin' but birds kin git over the roads to the rear very well."
"don't speak lightly o' the lord and his ways, shorty," said the deacon severely.
"'judge not the lord by feeble sense,
but trust him for his grace.
behind a frowning providence
he hides a smilin' face,'
as the hymn says. here, take these chickens in one hand and this pistol in the other, and guard 'em while i go down to the branch and wash and git some water. then i'll cook your breakfast."
again the savory smell of the boiling chickens attracted sick boys, who begged for a little of the precious food. having double the quantity, the deacon was a little more liberal, but he had to restrain shorty, who, despite his own great and gnawing hunger, would have given away the bigger part of the broth to those who so desperately needed it.
"no, shorty," said the prudent deacon. "our first duty is to ourselves. we kin help them by gittin' you and si on your feet. we can't feed the whole army o' the cumberland, though i'd like to."
a generous cupful was set aside for capt. mcgillicuddy, which his servant received with gratitude and glowing reports of the good the former supply had done him.
with the daylight came the usual shells from the rebel guns on lookout mountain. even the deacon was getting used to this noisy salutation to the morn, and he watched the shells strike harmlessly in the distance with little tremor of his nerves. as the firing ceased, amid the derisive yells of the army, he said quietly:
git down from there! commanded the deacon 21
"that last shell's saved me a good deal o' work diggin'. it, tore out a hole that'll just do to bury the carcasses of these dogs."
accordingly, he dragged the carcasses over after breakfast, and threw the dirt back in the hole upon them.
the two remaining chickens were stowed in a haversack, and during the day hung outside from the ridge-pole of the crib, where they were constantly under the eye of either the deacon or shorty, who took turns watching them. that night the deacon slept with them under his head, though they were beginning to turn a little, and their increasing gameness brought a still larger herd of dogs about. but the deacon had securely fastened the door, and he let them rage around as they pleased.
when they were cooked and eaten the next morning the deacon became oppressed with anxious thought. where were the next to come from? the boys had improved so remarkably that he was doubly anxious to continue the nourishing diet, which he felt was necessary to secure their speedy recovery. without it they would probably relapse.
he could think of nothing but to go back again to the valley where he got the chickens, and this seemed a most desperate chance, for the moment that either of the old couple set eyes on him he or she would give the alarm. he went to sleep thinking about the matter, and when he rose up in the morning, and had nothing to offer his boys but the coarse and uninviting hardtack, pork and coffee, he made up his mind to take the chances, whatever they might be. he set out again immediately after breakfast, and by cutting across the mountain came to the entrance to the valley a little after noon. keeping close under cover of the woods, he approached within sight of the house, and carefully scanned it. what to do he had scarcely planned. he was only determined to have some fresh meat to take back to camp. he was going to get it as honestly and fairly as he could, but fresh meat he must have.
he could see no other house anywhere in the distance, and probably if he went farther he would run into rebel bushwhackers and guerrillas, who were watching from the high ridges. so long as he kept under cover of the woods he would feel all right, for he was as skilled in woodcraft as any of them, and could take care of himself. but if he should come out into the open fields and road to cross the valley they would have him at an advantage. he was confirmed in this fear by seeing several little clouds of smoke rise up above the tops of the trees on the ridge.
"there's a gang of rebels in camp over there," said he to himself, with a woodman's quick reading of every sign. "that smoke's from their fires. 'tain't enough of it to be clearin' ground; people ain't clearin' up at this time o' year; that ground over there ain't the kind they'd clear up for anything. 'twouldn't raise white beans if it was cleared; and you don't hear nobody choppin'."
he looked again at the house. everything was very quiet and peaceful around it. there was no stock in the barnyard or fields, and the only signs of life were the smoke rising from one of the great stone chimneys, the chickens picking and scratching in the garden, a couple of negresses, who occasionlly passed back and forth between the main house and another cabin apparently used as a kitchen.
the deacon had almost made up his mind to march boldly down to the house, snatch up a few of the chickens, and make his way back to the woods again, before the old couple could summon assistance. suddenly his quick eyes caught a glimpse of something at a point where the road from the ridge came down out of the woods. then that something developed into a man on horseback, who rode forward to a little rise, stopped, and surveyed the landscape cautiously, and then rode forward toward the house.
he dismounted and entered the house. in a few minutes there appeared unusual bustle and activity, during which the man rode back again, munching as he went at a piece of cornpone and one of meat, which he had gotten at the house, and held in either hand, while his reins lay on his horse's neck.
the old woman came out into the yard with some meat in her hand, and the shrill note of her orders to the negresses reached the deacon's ears, though he could not make out the words. but he saw one of them go to the spring and bring water, which she poured in a wash-kettle set up in the yard, while the old woman prepared the beef and put it in, the other negress started a fire, and the old man chopped and split wood to put around the kettle and fill the stone oven near by.
"they're cookin' vittels for them rebels on the ridge." the deacon correctly diagnosed the situation. "by-and-by they'll come for 'em, or take 'em to 'em. mebbe i kin find some way to collar some of 'em. it's a slim chance, but no other seems to show up just now. if no more'n one man comes for that grub i'm goin' to jump him."
the deacon looked at the caps on his revolver and began laying plans for a strategic advance under the cover of the sumachs to a point where he could command the road to the house.
his cheek paled for an instant as the thought obtruded that the man might resist and he have to really shoot him.
"i don't want to shoot nobody," he communed with himself, "and it won't 'be necessary if the other fellow is only sensible and sees, that i've got the drop on him, which i will have before i say a word. anyway, i want that grub for a work of necessity and mercy, which justifies many things, and as a loyal man i ought to keep it from goin' to rebels. if i've got to put a bullet into another feller, why, the lord'll hold me guiltless and blame the other feller. i ain't no free will baptist. i believe things 've bin foreordained. wisht i knowed that it was foreordained that i was to git that grub back to si and shorty."
presently he saw the old man come out and take a path into the woods. he cautiously circled around to where he could follow and watch him. he saw him make his way to a secluded little cove, where there was a corn-crib partially filled and a rude shelter, under which were a buckboard and fairly-good young horse. the old man began putting the clumsy harness of ropes, chains and patched leather on the horse and hitching him to the buckboard.
"good, the old man's goin' to take the grub out to 'em himself," thought the deacon with relief. "he'll be easy to manage. no need o' shootin' him."
he hurried back to his covert, and then shpped unseen down to where he had selected for his ambush. the old man drove the buckboard around to the front of the house, and the negresses, obeying the shrill orders of the old woman, brought out pones of smoking cornbread, and buckets, tin pans and crocks containing the meat, potatoes, turnips and other food, and loaded them on to the buckboard. the fragrance of the food reached the deacon's nostrils, and made his mouth water and fond anticipations rise as to the good it would do the boys.
"i'll have that grub, and the boys shall have it," he determined, "or there'll be an injianny deacon pretty badly used up."
the old man mounted into the seat, gathered up the rope lines, and chirruped to the horse to start.
when he came opposite, the deacon jumped out, seized the reins, and pointing his revolver at him, commanded sternly:
"git down from there, and git down quick."
the old man dropped the lines, and for an instant gazed at him with scared eyes.
"why, yo' robber, what d'yo' mean?" he gasped.
"git down from there, and git down quick!" repeated the deacon.
"why, this is highway robbery, threats, puttin' in bodily fear, attempted murder, hoss-stealin'."
"hain't no time to argy law with you," said the deacon impatiently. "this ain't no court-room. you ain't in session now. git down, and git down quick!"
"help! help! murder! robbery! thieves!" shouted the old man, at the top of his voice.
the negresses, who had been watching their master depart, set to screaming, and the old woman rushed back into the house and blew the horn. the deacon thrust his revolver back into the holster, caught the old man with his sinewy hand, tore him from the seat, and flung him into the fence-corner. he sprang into the seat, turned the horse's head toward chattanooga, and hit him a sharp cut with a switch that lay in the wagon.
"i've got about three miles the start," he said as he rattled off. "this horse's young and fresh, while their's probably run down. the road from here to the main road's tollably good, and i think i kin git there before they kin overtake me."
at the top of the hill he looked back, and saw the rebels coming out. apparently they had not understood what had happened. they had seen no yankees and could not have seen the deacon's tussle with the old man. they supposed that the holler simply meant for them to come in and get their dinner, instead of having it taken out to them. all this passed through the deacon's mind, and he chuckled over the additional start it would give him.
"they won't find out nothin' till they git clean to the house," he said. "by that time i'll be mighty nigh the main road. my, but wouldn't i like to have as many dollars as they'll be mad when they find the yankee trick that's bin played on 'em, with their dinner hauled off into the union camp."
he rattled ahead sharply for some time, looking back at each top of a hill for his pursuers. they did not come in sight, but the main road to chattanooga did, and then a new trouble suggested itself.
"i won't never dare haul this load uncovered through camp," he said to himself. "the first gang o' roustabout teamsters that i meet'll take every spoonful of the vittles, and i'd be lucky if i have the horse and wagon left. i must hide it some way. how? that's a puzzler."
at length a happy idea occurred to him. he stopped by a cedar thicket, and with his jack-knife cut a big load of cedar boughs, which he piled on until every bit of food was thoroughly concealed. this took much time, and as he was finishing he heard a yell on the hill behind, and saw a squad of rebels riding down toward him. he sprang to the seat, whipped up his horse, and as he reached the main road was rejoiced to see a squad of union cavalry approaching.
"here, old man," said the lieutenant in command; "who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"i'm a nurse in the hospital," answered the deacon unhesitatingly. "i was sent out here to get some cedar boughs to make beds in the hospital. say, there's some rebels out there, comin' down the hill. they saw me and tuk after me. you'll find 'em right over the hill."
"that's a pretty slick horse you're driving," said the lieutenant. "looks entirely too slick to belong to chattanooga. it's a much better horse than mine. i've a notion—"
"say, them rebels are just over the hill, i tell you," said the deacon in a fever of apprehension of losing his steed. "they'll be on top of you in a minute if you don't look out."
"right over the hill, did you say?" said the lieutenant, forgetting for the moment the horse. "attention, there, boys. look out for the rebels. advance carbines—forward—trot! i'll come back directly and take another look at that horse."
the squad trotted up the hill in the direction the deacon had pointed, and as he drove off as fast as he could he heard the spatter of exchanging shots.
late in the evening, as he drove off the pontoon into chattanooga and turned to the right toward his corn-crib he muttered over to himself:
"they say that when a man starts down the path of sin and crime the road seems greased for his swift progress. the other day i begun with petty larceny and chicken stealin'. to-day it's bin highway robbery, premeditated murder, horse stealin', grand larceny, and tellin' a deliberate lie. what'll i be doin' this time next week? i must git that old man's horse and buckboard back to him somehow, and pay him for his vittles. but how'm i goin' to do it? the army's terribly demoralizin'. i must git si back home soon, or i won't be fit to associate with anybody outside the penitentiary. how kin i ever go to the communion table agin?"
