A Rebellion in Dixie

“Well, if I am going to die I’ll show myself a man,” soliloquized Leon, as he rolled about under the trees watching Tom, who was getting an early supper for them. “How cool Dawson takes it.”

His rebel friend lay opposite to him, on the other side of the fire, with his saddle for a pillow and his hat drawn over his face, and the regular breathing that came to Leon’s ears told him he was fast asleep.

“Now, it seems to me that if I was going back among a lot of comrades who were just aching to hang me I should find something to think about to keep me awake,” muttered Leon. “Maybe it is all in a lifetime. Perhaps when I have been through as many dangers as he has I can go to sleep, too.”

Supper was ready at last, Dawson aroused to eat his share of it, and the moment he was settled with a plate of bacon and corn-bread before him, he became at once full of stories. He seemed surprised because Leon told him that he was asleep.

“Well, I couldn’t make the time pass quicker by staying awake, could I?” said Dawson. “You would have gone to sleep if you knew what’s before you. You may see the time when you will be glad to take a wink all by yourself.”

In half an hour more the boys rode out of the grove and turned their horses toward the bridge. In passing by the hotel Leon saw his father standing on the porch. He saluted him, but kept right on without stopping. Dawson was surprised, and remarked in his quiet way that Mr. Sprague was taking the separation very coolly.

“He must have unbounded confidence in you,” said he. “Most fathers would have come out to bid you good-bye.”

“I did that long ago,” said Leon. “My mother is the only one I am worrying about now. If the killing of that rebel will convince them that we have a body-guard out on all sides, I shall be more than pleased. They will come with a bigger force than two men to take a map next time.”

The ride through the woods was a lonely one, and, finally, just as it began to grow dark, they came within sight of the bridge, and saw a sentry pacing up and down there with his piece carried at shoulder arms. One thing was evident to Leon: his father had improved his time in giving the men some instruction, or else the squad was under a corporal who understood his business. The sentry halted when he heard the sound of their horses’ hoofs on the road, faced about, and brought his gun to arms port before he said a word.

“That fellow acts like an old sentinel, don’t he?” said Dawson. “He has been in the service before.”

“No, I reckon not,” said Leon. “So far as I know, everyone of these men is as green as I am myself.”

“Halt!” shouted the sentry. “Who comes there?”

“Friends with the countersign!” said Leon.

“Dismount, friends. Advance, one, with the countersign.”

So far everything was all right; but the next move was something that was not down in the tactics. No sooner had Leon’s voice answered the sentry than nine men came running from different parts of the woods and took up their stand directly behind the sentry. They held their guns in readiness, too, as if they meant to be on hand for anything that might happen.

“I tell you they meant to be ready for us, didn’t they?” said Dawson. “You won’t get the sentries in our army to answer a challenge like that.”

“What would they do?”

“They would keep out of sight in the bushes, and perhaps be ready to fire in case anything goes wrong.”

The boys had by this time dismounted, and Leon, leaving his horse for Dawson to hold, walked up to the sentry and whispered the countersign, “Fidelity,” in his ears.

“The countersign is correct,” said the man. “Why, Leon, where are you going? Don’t you know that you will be gobbled up if you go beyond that bend?”

“No,” said Leon, in amazement; “we are going down after Dawson’s mother.”

“Well,” said one of the men who stood behind the sentry, “you can go, but I won’t. A little while ago two or three of us happened to be out here, and we looked up and saw a fellow standing in the road watching us. We called to him, but he got into the bushes before we could shoot at him.”

This was something Leon had not bargained for. The other boys had come up in obedience to his signal, and they all heard what the man had to say about the spy who was watching them.

“Did you see more than one?” asked Dawson, who was utterly amazed to know the rebels had come between him and his mother. If that was the case he might as well go back, for all hope of bringing her into the Union camp was, as he expressed it, “up stump.”

“No, I didn’t see but one, and he was a Johnny, for the way he took to the bush was a caution,” said the man. “That was what brought us out here in such a hurry. We didn’t know but there might be others behind you, and we thought we would be ready for you.”

“Well, Dawson, I am going ahead if you are,” said Leon.

“Talk enough,” exclaimed Dawson, placing his foot in the stirrup and swinging himself upon his horse. “All I want is a little pluck to back me up, and I will have my mother up here before you see the sun rise.”

“You have got the old man’s grit, I can see that easy enough,” said the sentry. “Good-bye and good luck to you. We don’t want to say a word to dishearten you, but if you come back here at all, you’ll come a-flying. One sentry can’t stop you.”

The boys laughed, but anybody could see that it was forced, and in a few moments they were around the bend, out of sight. It was there that the rebel spy had been seen. They looked sharply into the woods as they passed along – every boy had his revolver drawn and hanging by his side – but the thickets were as silent as if nobody had ever been there. Leon and Tom were very pale, there was no mistake about that, but they kept as close at the heels of Dawson’s horse as they could possibly get. Not a word was said until the woods had been passed and they found themselves in the midst of a long cotton-field which stretched away on both sides of them, and in the distance was a row of buildings which Dawson pointed out to them.

“If we can get there inside of that house we are all right,” said he, and a person wouldn’t have thought from the way he spoke that he was thinking of his mother. “There is where she lives.”

“If that spy was in the bushes and saw us when we went by, what was the reason he didn’t jump out and grab us?” said Tom.

“Perhaps he was alone,” said Leon, who would have felt safer if that spy, whoever he was, had been among his friends. “He wants more help before he attempts to arrest us.”

“Now, boys, let’s keep perfectly still and ride up to the house as though we had a right there,” said Dawson. “You are not afraid to shoot, are you, Tom?”

“All I ask of you is to give me a chance,” returned Tom, indignantly. “Anything to keep from being made prisoner.”

The boys relapsed into silence again, and presently drew up before the gate which gave entrance into the door-yard. It was an old-fashioned gate, and was held in place by a wooden pin, which was thrust into an auger-hole. The horse Dawson rode showed that he was accustomed to that way of getting in, for he moved up close to the pin, so that his rider could pull it. The gate creaked loudly on its wooden hinges, whereupon they heard a little confusion in the house, the door opened, and by the aid of the light from the fireplace the boys saw a woman and two little children fill the door.

“Oh, Bo – ”

One of the children was on the point of shouting out Dawson’s name, but quicker than a flash the mother’s hand covered his mouth. It was no place to speak a person’s name out loud.

“Sh – ! Not a word out of you,” said Dawson, dismounting from his horse. “You will bring the rebels on me. That’s a little boy, but he is Union all over,” he added, turning to Leon. “Now you stay here and hold my horse, and I will go in and get things ready. I needn’t tell you to keep a good watch down the road. If you hear so much as a foot-step, I want to know it.”

“Now hold on a bit,” said Tom, dismounting and handing his reins to Leon to hold for him, “If you are going to leave us here in silence I must take care of my muel, else she will arouse the neighborhood. You hold her head, Leon, and I will look out for her tail.”

“Well, why don’t you take care of it, then?” asked Leon, when he saw Tom station himself in such a position that he could readily seize her tail in moments of emergency.

“Because she isn’t ready to bray yet,” said Tom. “Whenever she gets ready to let the people know she is here she will bob her tail up and down. Then I will be ready to take hold of it and keep it down. Oh, there’s a heap to be learned about muels the first thing you know.”

Dawson laughed – he couldn’t keep from laughing if he knew his mother was in danger – and went on into the house, the door of which was closed after him; so Leon didn’t hear much of that greeting. And he wouldn’t have learned much if he had heard it. His mother had lived in danger for the last year, and all she did was to kiss him and listen while he told of his capture.

“But I wanted to go,” said he, “and father and I promised each other that whoever got away first should go to Jones county, and the one that was left in the rebel ranks should come there as soon as he could. I got away first, and now I am come after you. Pack up everything you want and be ready to load it aboard the mule-team which I will bring here as soon as possible.”

“Will I be protected there?” asked his mother.

“You certainly will. There is a thousand men there, and they are growing every day. I wouldn’t ask you to stir a step if I didn’t think so. Your house is gone up.”

“Well, I can’t help that. But do you really think your father will be able to join us there?”

“He’s got to take his chances; that’s what I had to do. Now, mother, take everything you need and leave the rest behind for the rebels.”

This was all that was said, and Dawson left the house and went out to his companions; but he knew that his mother had gone hastily to work to bundle up such things as she needed and could not possibly do without. He took his bridle from Leon’s hand and with a whispered “follow me” led the way around behind a corn-crib, out of sight.

“Now I must leave you again, and you will take notice that your horses don’t let anyone know they are here,” said Dawson. “I am going to get a mule-team.”

“Your mother is going, is she?” asked Tom.

“Of course she’s going. She would look nice living in that house while she had a husband and son in the Yankee army! Of course we have seen the house for the last time. The rebels will burn it up the first time they come this way.”

While Dawson was getting ready to go out and get the mule-team the boys noticed that their horses raised their heads, and pricked their ears forward and looked down the road, as if there was some object down there that attracted their attention. Dawson was the first to notice it, and he straightway grabbed his horse by the bridle and forced his head down.

“Somebody’s coming,” said he.

Leon speedily dismounted and took up a position by his horse’s bridle, Tom gave his reins into his hand and occupied his old station by his mule’s tail, and all the boys held their breath and listened. It was faint and far off, but presently they could distinctly hear the sound of a multitude of horses’ hoofs upon the hard road. Nearer it came, until Dawson, who was experienced in such matters, informed his companions in a whisper that there must be a whole platoon of cavalry approaching. It came from the south, too, and that was the direction in which the rebel headquarters were situated.

“I tell you it’s lucky that we got here just in the nick of time,” said Tom. “Hold on there, old muel,” he continued, catching the mule’s tail and pulling it down. “You mustn’t let those folks know we’re here. Did you see how I stopped his braying?”

Leon and Dawson were too deeply interested in what was going on in the road to pay much attention to him, and finally they could see, through the cracks in the corn-crib where the chinking had fallen out, a number of men ride past the house, or, rather, the majority of them rode by, while three drew rein and stopped there.

“By gracious! I hope mother heard them, and that she had time to put her bundles away out of sight,” whispered Dawson. “Everything depends upon that.”

“Where do you suppose they are going?” asked Leon, who was so excited that he could scarcely speak.

“They are going up to Jones county to see how nearly ready for them we are,” said Dawson. “I reckon they’ll stop when they get to the bridge. There are some riflemen up there that act to me as if they were good shots.”

“Now, here’s a thing that bothers me,” said Leon. “You are talking about getting a mule-team to haul your mother’s things to our county, and I would like to know how we are to get it by those fellows? We’ll have to wait until they go back.”

Dawson did not answer at once, for he was much concerned about those three men who rode into the yard. He saw one of them dismount and go into the house, and his heart beat like a trip-hammer when he saw it. He waited for the confusion which he knew would follow when the bundles his mother had made up were exposed to view, but it did not come. In a few minutes the man came out and spoke to the two men he had left on horseback, and they went on, and the rebel turned and came directly toward the corn-crib.

“He’s coming here,” said Leon; and before anybody could say a word against it he had cocked his revolver, rested it in the crack, and pointed it at the man’s head. He was right in front of the open doorway, and of course Leon couldn’t have missed him at that distance. The rebel came on as though he knew where he was going, entered the doorway, placed his mouth close to the crack, and whispered:

“Robert!”

“For goodness’ sake turn that revolver the other way!” whispered Dawson. “It is my father.”

CHAPTER X

CALE WANTS A MULE

“I am to go to the quartermaster, am I? It is his business to give the muels out, is it? He give one to that Tom Howe and never asked what he was going to do with him, and now he had to go and refuse to give one to me. I’ll get even with you, Mr. Sprague, for that, and you just see if I don’t.”

It was Newman who spoke, and he leaned against the corner of the hotel and watched Mr. Sprague as he went on inspecting the wagons. He was a boy about nineteen years old, although he might have passed for thirty, judging by his looks. He didn’t have a rifle; in fact he didn’t have anything except the big hunk of “nigger-twist” which he took from his pocket, transferring a generous slice to his mouth. He was not a raftsman, anybody could have told that, for they generally took some pains with their personal appearance. This Newman was ragged and dirty, and looked as though he had been in the habit of sleeping wherever night overtook him. He had the appearance of being mean enough for anything, and the facts proved that he was.

“See that ole Sprague stepping around like he owned the nation,” muttered Newman, shutting one eye and squirting a flow of tobacco-juice at the nearest tree. “I’ll see pap, and if he thinks it can be done I am going to do it. That ’rolling officer, when he was here, told them that they couldn’t have things all their own way, and I guess they will find it out. They will give me something for telling them where they can find the men, and I’ll be dog-gone if I don’t do it. Where’s that quartermaster, I wonder? Busy, as usual, I’ll bet. Well, let him work his own gait. He won’t do it much longer.”

Newman stayed around almost all day before he got a chance to speak to the quartermaster, and before he went away there was something that drew his attention from Mr. Sprague to Leon. The latter and two companions came up to report what had happened at Mr. Sprague’s plantation since his absence. Leon made a handsome figure, if he only knew it. He sat his horse with easy grace, was clad in a suit of blue jeans which fitted his person admirably, and he raised his hand to his father with a military salute that would have done credit to an old soldier. Newman did not hear any of his report, for it was given in tones so low that they could not reach his ears; but if he had heard any of it, it would have shown the necessity of his being up and doing.

“See how easily he touches his hat to that old civilian,” said Newman, with a sneer; “while my father, who could have had that position if the folks had been a-mind to give it to him, has to go around without anybody saluting him. Such things ain’t right, but I tell you I am going to make them that way. They offered my father something nice if he would betray these chief men into their hands – they didn’t say what it would be, but I suppose it is some commission – and he don’t seem willing to do it. I’ll do it, and see what they will give me. There’s the quartermaster now, and he don’t seem to be busy.”

Newman threw his tobacco out of his mouth and walked up to the quartermaster, who stood with his hands in his pockets and watching some wagons that were being hitched up previous to being hauled into the swamp.

“I want to see if you will give me a muel, please, sir,” said Newman, stepping up and trying his best to give the military salute as he had seen Leon do.

“A mule? What do you want of a mule?” said the officer, more than half inclined to laugh at the boy’s appearance. “You don’t want a mule to ride up to the house.”

“No, sir; but I want him so as to be ready to go with the men when they capture another wagon-train,” said Newman.

“Why, you didn’t go with the men the other day. I saw you around here the whole time. Your father was with you, and so was Dan.”

Dan was Newman’s oldest brother. All we can say about him is that he was Cale Newman over again. Dan was the one that stole the bacon and sweet potatoes that the family lived on. He had courage to go where Cale wouldn’t dare show his head.

“But we would a-had to go afoot,” said Newman, in an injured tone. “I couldn’t walk so fur.”

“It seems the others did it without any trouble. You could have gone there and showed your good-will, if you had been a-mind to. I reckon you will find it better to do without a mule.”

“You gave Tom Howe one and said nothing about it,” said Newman, growing angry again.

“I did?” said the quartermaster.

“Old Sprague done it, and it amounts to the same thing.”

“Look here, Newman, you want to be careful how you talk about that man. He ain’t a common civilian any more.”

“What is he, then, I would like to know?”

“He’s got power enough to put you where people won’t hear you say that,” said the officer, fastening his eyes sternly on Newman’s face. “He will put you in jail.”

“Well, I’ll bet he won’t put me in jail, neither. My father has got friends enough to tear it up.”

“Well, Cale, if you are going to hold to such doctrines as that you might as well go among the Confederates, where you belong. You don’t belong here, that is certain.”

“If you will give me a muel I won’t hold no such docterings,” said Newman. “I’ll be the loyalest fellow you ever see.”

The quartermaster looked at Newman in amazement.

“What kind of a fellow are you, any way?” he asked. “You are going to be loyal or not, just as you get paid for it.”

“That’s the way my father looks at it. You didn’t give him an office, and now he’s going to let you hoe your own row. Now, if I could have a muel to ride around – ”

“Well, you’ll not get any, I can tell you that. And, furthermore, if I hear any more such talk from you I’ll have you arrested.”

“My father says – ”

“I’ve heard enough. Don’t speak to me again. A man who will depend upon a mule for his loyalty don’t amount to much. Now go away, and don’t let me see you again.”

The quartermaster was very angry as he turned away, and Newman stood and watched him while he went on inspecting the wagons. Then he took a chew of “nigger-twist,” shook his head threateningly, and turned his steps toward home.

“You have heard enough, have you?” he muttered, as he followed the blind path that led through the woods toward the little shanty under which his family found shelter. “Well, I’ll bet you will hear more of it before to-morrow night. If father don’t give you into the hands of the rebels I will.”

When Newman arrived within sight of his home he found his father sitting on the door-step smoking his pipe, while his brother Dan was stretched in a sunny spot where he could enjoy the full benefit of the warmth without going near the fire. His mother was engaged in a lazy sort of way over a blaze which had been started in the fireplace; that is to say, she was sitting down and watching a pot that had been set over the coals, while a dingy cob pipe, like her husband’s, was tightly clasped between her teeth. The house was a tumble-down affair, and looked as though it was about to come to pieces, with a dirt floor, and the door beside which Mr. Newman was sitting was minus a hinge near the top. The family were all of them what might have been expected by this description of their place of abode. And the work, which might have been accomplished by one man in three or four days to make his house worth living in, was not above Mr. Newman’s ability, for he showed on his face that he had seen better times. He had been wealthy once, but now he had lost it, and was much too lazy to go to work and earn more. That accounted for Cale’s way of talking. He didn’t say “pap” and “mam” unless he spoke before he thought, for he considered himself better than those with whom he associated. The raftsmen used to say that if Mr. Newman’s work was equal to his talk he would have a much better house to live in.

“Well, Cale, what’s the matter with you?” inquired his father, as the new-comer approached the place where they were sitting. “You act as though you had lost your last friend.”

“I want to tell you what has happened down there in town, and see if you wouldn’t look so, too,” said Cale, seating himself on the ground. “I asked old Sprague and the quartermaster – ”

“Quartermaster nothing,” exclaimed Mr. Newman. “Who gave him such an office as that? He had the handling of the mules and horses and would not give you one.”

“That’s just the way of it,” said Cale. “Now, I want to know if such a thing is right? He gave Tom Howe one and never said nothing about it; but he wouldn’t give me one for fear that I wouldn’t be on hand when he was going out to capture the next wagon-train.”

“No more would you,” said his mother, at that moment appearing at the door to hear what Cale had to say. “You ain’t on that side. The South is going to whip, and you don’t want to be beholden to those fellows for anything.”

“I told ’em if they would give me a muel I would be just the loyalest fellow he ever saw,” said Cale.

“The more shame to you,” said his mother, angrily.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” chimed in Mr. Newman. “If he could get a mule or one of the horses he could fly around easy, carrying dispatches and the like. He could be here to-day and see what was going on, and to-night he could get on his mule and take the news down to the Confederates. Wouldn’t he give you a mule?”

“No, he wouldn’t, I tried Sprague and the quartermaster, too, and they both threatened to arrest me if I talked so any more.”

“Well, I do think in my soul that they are getting on a high horse,” said Mr. Newman, taking the pipe from his mouth. “I’d like to see them arrest you or anybody connected with this family. Their old jail would stay up about as long as I could get to it with an axe.”

“That’s what I told ’em; and he said that I mustn’t talk that way any more.”

“Say,” said Dan, who had mustered up energy enough to straighten up during this talk and was now engaged in filling a cob pipe with some nigger-twist, “you don’t suppose that the men who were captured with that wagon-train have gone on to Mobile, do you? It seems to me that they ought to be back here to-night or to-morrow. Them fellows ain’t a-going to stand still and let themselves be robbed of half a million dollars’ worth.”

“Don’t I wish I had the stuff that’s in one of them wagons!” exclaimed Cale. “There’s grub enough to keep our jaws wagging for one good solid year; and clothes! You just ought to see the uniforms there is in there.”

“I came away before they got to inspecting the wagons,” said Mr. Newman. “Somehow I couldn’t manage to stay around and see the clothes and things our fellows were going to wear go to those lazy vagabonds.”