The Blue and The Gray

It was sultry, and the dust lay in heaps along the highway. The news had come that a large body of Confederate cavalry were about to attack Stevenson, Alabama, which was held by the Union forces, and the cattle were hurried out of the town as soon as the first beams of the morning sun lighted up the earth. The boom of cannon and the rattle of musketry lent wings to their going.

"The rebs are after us, and we'll lose every steer we have," the foreman said to Tom Grant, who rode beside him.

The morning breeze brought the scent of the wild flowers on its wings, and as the soldiers guarding the train marched with easy, swinging step, it seemed more like a lively walk taken for pleasure than a dangerous undertaking. The hills ahead were clothed in a beautiful green, sprinkled thickly with the white clover so dear to the bovine tongue.

"We'll get away all right, Tom," said the foreman, Jim Morrison. "But we must make quicker time than this. Our usual twelve miles a day ain't going to bring us out of the reach of the Johnnies, and before we get far they'd overtake us, and then good-bye to the steers, and to our own liberty as well."

"There's trouble ahead already," Tom replied. He was active and lithe, and ever on the alert, showing much skill in managing cattle.

"Blast that long-horned steer," Cleary, the assistant foreman, cried. "They're on the stampede. Boys, go after them, lively."

A score of drivers set spurs to their horses, while the frightened animals, with tremendous leaps, thundered across an open field, and made straightway for a gully just beyond the field. The scene was one of wild confusion. The shouts and oaths of the drivers, the trampling and crowding of the maddened creatures, as they tore over the grassy field, and the sounds of the firing behind them, in the beleaguered town, were indescribable.

John Morrison and Tom Grant spurred their horses toward the flying cattle, intending to head them off, but Tom's horse was fleet, and coming up to the leading steer, he threw the whole force of his horse's breast against the steer's neck, and vigorously plying the whip to its nose, he checked its headlong career, and drew him into a circle. At once the remainder of the drove followed their leader, and quiet was restored. The unreasoning animals, governed only by instinct, were soon started on their original course.

The lieutenant in charge of the drove complimented young Tom in the warmest terms, stating that he had accomplished more than any ten men.

The journey was finished without any further incident. They made such good time that they escaped capture at the hands of the Confederates, and on arriving at Chattanooga, Lieutenant Reed was promoted to the charge of a drove of 3,000. This honor he knew was due principally to the ability and quickness of manouver which Tom Grant had exhibited, and to show his gratitude he had the boy appointed to the superintendence of the drove, a position which many an older man coveted.

Days passed slowly by; the cattle, many of them, grew restive and footsore. Often one or two would lie down, and then it was impossible to get them up again.

"Where did that little black cow come from?" one of the men asked, pointing to a cow walking sedately along in the drove.

"I suppose she's wandered in from some farm place we've passed on the way," Tom Grant said. "But anyhow she's a godsend, for we'll have fresh milk now."

"Can you milk?" the Lieutenant asked.

"Can I? What was I brought up on a farm for, I wonder!" Tom responded.

"You're a regular encyclopaedia, Tom," the officer laughed. "But, of course, the cream comes to headquarters."

"Certainly—but what shall I raise it in, my hat?"

"We'll fix that. On second thoughts, think I'll take the cream with the milk—just whenever I can get it."

The little creature was as smooth as satin, and quite plump. To Tom's charge she fell, and he milked her each day as he promised he would, and she soon became known as "Tom's cow."' She seemed quite at home.

One hot and sultry day, when they had traveled with considerable speed, Tom's prize showed signs of exhaustion. At last she could go no farther, but lay down, hot, tired and footsore, at a cross roads.

"We'd better let her rest and then we'll come back after her," Jim Cleary said.

"That's the best thing we can do, I believe." So the animal was left where she had dropped, and the drove kept on till they found a place where they could feed and rest for the night.

As soon as it began to grow dark Tom and his companion started back to where they had left the cow. She was not there, but a woman sitting outside of quite a pretentious, two-story house, informed them that a man who lived "down the cross road a piece" had driven her to his own home.

"We'll have to get her back, Tom, for she's quite an acquisition to our larder."

It was quite dark when they reached the place to which they had been directed. It was a weather-beaten old log house, with one room down stairs to serve the family, and an attic or loft above. Rapping at the door, they heard a gruff voice bid them enter. By the dim light of a sputtering candle they saw a rough, poorly dressed man and a woman sitting at a table which had no cloth, on which was some corn bread and sorghum. The mother held a puny, sickly little girl in her arms, whose big eyes roved restlessly around, as if wondering who the strangers were. A tin cup stood by her plate, full of milk.

"Strangers, what ar' yer business?" The man's threatening countenance seemed to demand an instant reply.

"We are looking for a cow we've lost."

"Wall, what's that to me? Yer didn't expect to find it here in this cabin, did ye?"

"Not exactly in the cabin, but we heard it was down here."

"Wall, that's about so, but I found the critter lying down in the bottoms, and I concluded she was as much mine as any one's."

"That ain't so, for we own the cow; that is to say, she joined our drove of cattle we are taking to the army, and so we have the first claim on her."

The man seemed to be listening. He paused a moment, and looked furtively around, and then at the two armed men. He went on:

"I'd not have troubled it, only for the sake of my little un there. She's sick, and can't eat a thing. She'll die soon without some nourishment," and he pointed toward the child, who was the picture of starvation.

Tom's heart was tender. He saw the man had not overstated the case, and he rose to go.

"Come, Jim," he said, "You can see the child needs that milk bad—worse than we do. Mister," he said, turning to the man, "you are welcome to the cow, on one condition; and that is, that you promise on your word as a father that the little girl may have all the milk she can drink, every day."

The woman had not spoken till now, but with a glad look she started to her feet, and pressing the child into its father's arms, she said—"Jack, that's a fair bargain. And you're a fair man, sir, after all."

The man looked at Tom, then out of the window, and said—"Look here, young fellow, you've, shown you've got a heart, and I won't be beat in doing the fair thing, by any one. This neighborhood is full of fellows who wouldn't mind giving you a chance shot. The woman up at the big house has given them the word that you're here, and before you know it, there'll be a committee sent to wait upon you. Don't go back the same road you came, but strike for that piece of woods, and then cut across the fields, and you may get away. Hurry—you haven't much time before you—you know the rest."

Into their saddles the two men vaulted, after thanking the man for his caution, and away they dashed. The stars were out in full force, and the darkness of an hour before had lifted, for the moon was rising, and as they entered the woods their shade hid them from sight. They rode fast through them, and struck a corduroy road, a rarity in that part of the country, and as they left it behind them, and were going to take the field, Jim whispered—"Don't stir a step. Pull your horse into that thicket. Over there I hear them after us."

They could hear the horses galloping down the road they had just left, and by the faint light could see that there was a dozen or more men.

"A narrow escape for us," said Tom.

"We haven't escaped yet. They'll not let us get off without scouring these woods."

"Which way shall we go?"

"Why, away from this vicinity as quick as we can."

"My Kentucky thoroughbred will carry me out of danger—she can outrun anything they've got."

"But I've only got a long, lank, rangy old mule, and half-blind at that. I'm destined to be captured," ruefully answered Jim.

"No, we're not—they are turning off into the left hand road; no, there's three or four taking the other one. Some have dismounted, and are talking with the man we've just left. He's true blue; he's pointing away in another direction."

"Well, he's not so bad after all, even if he is a guerrilla."

"Why, do you believe he's one of that band?"

"Sure as preaching he belongs to the gang who are bothering the whole country round here, and all that saved us was your generosity in making him welcome to the little black cow. He's got a heart hid away somewhere, and you just touched it."

Tom's eyes opened wide. "I couldn't see that little creature starving there, and not offer them something to help her out. Why, she was nothing but skin and bones."

"We mustn't loiter here. It is a good three miles to camp, and we must make it quick, or they'll head us off before we reach the road."

Touching their animals lightly with their spurs, they dashed across the open field toward another road, and were almost ready to congratulate themselves on their escape, when they heard a yell, and looking back they saw one of the guerrillas who had sighted them and was almost standing in his stirrups in his excitement, and shouting wildly to his companions, who were coming after him at full gallop. Tom and Jim did not need any further hint, but led the way, at a rattling pace. Tom was mounted on a racer, but Jim's army mule proved that he could run, for he kept pace with the horse, almost neck and neck. Whether he dreaded capture and being set to work, or feared being converted into mule meat, we are not able to say, but he held his own.

With shouts and oaths that were heard by the two men with distinctness, the guerrillas dashed after them, while they kept on with break-neck speed, now through a gully, then over a broken fence, and sinking in the furrows of fields that had been plowed in the long ago, now past a ruined building that rose up black and forbidding in the weird moonbeams, and then the lights gleamed friendly from one that was occupied. What the end of this John Gilpin ride would have been, it is hard to say, for the guerrillas were gaining on them, but at a turn in the road a dozen blue-coats were seen coming toward them. The pursuing foe fired a few wild shots, which were returned with a will, when they wheeled about and fled across the field, and were soon in hiding in the woods.

"Tom's cow came near getting me into trouble," Jim Cleary said, when he finished telling the story to the lieutenant.

A few weeks later, when they had reached Knoxville and gone into camp, an old, feeble-looking farmer came into the lines looking for Tom Grant. His hair was grizzled, and his beard uncut, and as Tom came toward him, he was surprised to see the wrinkled brown hand extended as if to clasp that of an old friend.

"You don't seem to recognize me," the man said awkwardly. "You haven't forgotten the little sick gal and her mammy down in the country a hundred miles or so?"

"You're not the man who showed us so much kindness when you knew the guerrillas were on our track?" Tom asked.

"The very same. You see a gray wig and a butternut suit make quite a farmer outen me. I'll never forget you, stranger, nor how you saved my baby. She was the only gal we had left—we'd lost three, and when she took to that milk so, and you told me to keep the cow, why, I couldn't hold still. I'd had it in my heart to kill you both, that night. I had only to whistle and I'd have brought the whole band about your ears. The little gal—Eda, we call her—began to pick right up on that milk, and now she's as peart as any child you ever saw. My woman says to me—'Martin, go and tell that young fellow the good turn he has done us.' I've followed your trail for nearly a hundred mile to tell you that you will never be forgotten in our home, and I'll never raise a gun against a Yank again."

A WAR STORY

WHEN the war broke out, Helen and Marie Mason, twin sisters, were left at home with no protector save two old slaves, Dan and Lois. Their father had given every dollar he had to the cause of the South. The two girls had grown up without a mother's care, for she had died when they were ten years old, and their father had mourned her so deeply that he had never thought of giving them a new mother. But they were not spoiled—they lived in this simple little home, tenderly guarded by their father, and all their needs had been carefully looked after by the two old slaves, who would have laid down their lives for them.

But when in the second year of the war, Mr. Mason went into the army, their hearts were nearly broken. They declared they could not spare him, the "old darling." Were there not plenty of younger and stronger men? and besides, they were half Union at heart, and did not share their father's sentiments of fidelity to the Southern cause.

They showed no signs of their sorrow at the parting, but, with Spartan endurance, bade him a long farewell, and he set off, followed by the prayers of his beautiful daughters. Letters and messages came often to the little home by the Mississippi, and time did not hang quite as heavily as they had feared it would; but their father's letters were filled with bitter rancor, and he sought earnestly to impress upon their minds the enmity which they should cultivate as daughters of the sunny South, against the soldiers of the North.

But there was one chapter in their life which he had not fully conned. Marie would sigh deeply over her father's messages, but Helen, who had more independence and self-reliance, found words of consolation for her.

In the days before the war, their home had been the scene of many a pleasant gathering, and among their guests were several young men of Northern birth, whom business or pleasure had brought to the South, and who had found great attractions within their charmed circle. Marie did not know why she took such pleasure in the coming of Walter Ryder, or why she felt so lonely when he was away. Her father had liked the young man for his manly, straightforward bearing and honest principles, but he could not tolerate his becoming a Union soldier, and when he learned of his intention, he forbade his gentle Marie ever to see him again.

In vain Walter had striven to see her, if only for an instant, so that he might say good-bye to her. She would not disobey her father, and yet it was with a bitter pang that she refused to meet him once more before his departure.

Old Aunt Lois saw how her lily drooped, but she had great faith in her master's judgment, and she didn't "like Northerners nohow," and yet she wiped many a tear away with the corner of her blue-checked apron, as she lamented about "diswah dat upset eberybody's 'pinions so."

Walter had gone without a word to cheer him. He had gone from the place which had grown so dear, and while pretty Marie wept, Helen chided her for her lack of fortitude.

The months went by, and they often heard through returned soldiers of Walter Ryder. Then came news that he was wounded, and then that he had died of his wound. The whole world seemed to have stopped then for poor Marie. She grew thin and white, and she reproached herself incessantly because she had so cruelly refused to see Walter. The house grew strangely still, for there were no more social meetings, and Helen shared the gloom that enveloped Marie.

"Pears to me dat eberyting goes wrong," Aunt Lois said, as she stopped in her mixing bread, and gazed out upon the landscape, which was beautiful to look upon.

But Aunt Lois was no poet or artist, only the colored cook in this lovely home. "Fust de wall cum—den Massa Mason brung home to die, and pretty Missie Helen sitting dar in her bodoor all alone all day, neber speaking a word to po' Miss Marie, who lubed her father dearly. Don't I know dat po' little gal is breaking her heart 'tween losing dat foolish man and her dear father?"

"Lois—Aunt Lois!" a sweet and girlish voice called.

"What is it, honey—Ise coming!"

Before she could take her hands from the dough a slender young girl, whose pure face would have made the veriest stranger admire it, burst into the kitchen, and sank in a heap at the feet of the old negress, who, now actually alarmed, seized her by the arm, and with a look of anxiety on her black face, asked the girl what had happened.

"I've seen him—seen Walter. They said he was dead. Oh, Aunt Lois, he looked so brave, so happy. I never thought he could look happy again," and the tears streamed down her face.

"Now cum here, chile, and sit in yo' old auntie's lap as yo' used to when yo' was a tiny gal, and I used to tell yo' stories and sing de old plantation melodies. Come, and you'll forgit all about yo' trubbles."

Lois had cleared her hands by this time of the dough, and as she took the girl by the hand, a loud rap sounded on the outside door.

"Oh, look, there's a whole lot of soldiers on the lawn, but he ain't with them!" Marie added, as she peered from the window.

"Ise not afraid of sogers! What do you want?" Aunt Lois said, boldly advancing to the door, where a tall soldier in blue stood, with a dozen men, all armed. "Hello!" he said rather roughly, but catching sight of Marie, whose face was blanched with terror, he spoke more courteously: "I beg pardon, Miss, but we are in search of a spy who goes by the name of Walter Ryder. We have tracked him to this place, and have orders to arrest him."

"My—" she choked the telltale words, and with dignity answered: "Walter Ryder is not a spy, neither is he here."

"I regret the necessity, Miss, but I must search the house."

"You can," she said, haughtily.

Leaving the soldiers posted around the house, the sergeant and two of the men entered the dwelling, and commenced the search, but it was useless, for no trace of Walter was found. When they came to the door of Helen's room, they found it locked, and yet they heard voices.

"I thought you were dead," some one was saying. "My sister has mourned you constantly."

They struck the butts of their guns against the panels of the door, and demanded admission, but no one answered. They pushed it open, and the girl who sat there sprang to her feet, thoroughly frightened, but no one else was in the room.

The three men looked at each other with a puzzled look. There was but one window in the apartment, and that was covered with a mass of clinging vines so dense and thick that they formed a complete mat. They pushed their bayonets through the tangled mass, but no one was there.

Helen gazed at them as if half stupefied. The sergeant courteously raised his cap, and said: "Miss, we are in search of a man whom we think is a spy—he certainly was seen in these grounds."

"We do not harbor spies, sir."

"I do not think you do—but he may have used your premises for a hiding-place. I beg your pardon for intruding. Right about face!" to his men, A still more prolonged search of the grounds revealed nothing, and after placing a guard, the remainder left.

But where was Marie? As soon as the soldiers had left the room she went back to Helen, who sat with bowed head, and touching her gently on the arm, she whispered—"Sister." A tender light shone in Helen's face, but she answered—"Marie, if you only knew how I have injured you—I have not been a sister to you."

"Not a sister to me, dear Helen? Why, you are the dearest of sisters. What do you mean?"

"Marie, could you dream that your sister, who loves you so dearly, would willingly have wronged you so that you never can forgive me?"

"I cannot believe you, Helen. Explain, will you?"

"I poisoned our father's mind against you. I wrote him that you were receiving Walter Ryder's attentions, and that I had prevented an elopement by my watchfulness."

"Helen! How could you? And that is the reason that he would not see me when they brought him home wounded. How cruel! Father, you cannot hear me, but you must know the truth now."

"I dare not ask your forgiveness, nor dare I tell you why I did it."

The girl stood before her sister, and in low and pleading tones she urged—"Tell me all, Helen. I will call you sister," as the other put up her hand with a gesture of pain. "You know how fond you were of Walter once."

A frown contracted the brow of the girl who listened, and she buried her face in Marie's lap, as she continued—

"I am ashamed to tell you, my unselfish sister, that I have done such a grievous wrong. I, too, loved Walter Ryder. Do not start. I was infatuated, and when he asked our dear father's permission to address you, I hated him, and from that hour I lost no chance of ruining him in his estimation. He went into the Northern army, and that helped my cause. Father swore that no daughter of his should marry a man who would take up arms against the South. I played a double part. I told Walter of our father's objections, and also persuaded him that you were half promised to a colonel in our army. He went away, and was killed at Chattanooga." And the stately Helen broke into a passion of weeping.

"Sister, who told you that he was killed?"

"I have letters from cousin Will, telling me so, and lamenting his death, for he was much attached to him."

"Did you not hear the soldier to-day charge Walter with being a spy?"

"I did not hear the name of the man they were looking for—it surely was not Walter?"

The rosy flush that rose to her cheeks made Marie turn faint. Could it be that her sister cared for him yet?

"Do not look at me as if you doubted me. That foolish passion has burned itself out. My only hope is that he lives, so that I may repair, in a measure, the wrong I have done you both. When I have seen you pining, my heart has ached for you."

"Oh, Helen dear, how good you are!"

The twilight deepened, as they sat there, and a shot was heard, which brought them both to their feet. Another rang out, and with a wild cry of alarm the girls fled from the house, toward the spot from whence they came. Marie saw a form fleeing into the darkening woods, and heard the command "Halt!" It never paused, and as the soldiers raised their rifles to fire, she sprang almost in front of their weapons, and cried—"Do not fire again. You have killed him."

"We have not fired at all. It was not our shot that struck him, but we were about to fire on the man who wounded him, and whom you saw running away," Sergeant Hughes said, respectfully.

At a short distance they found Walter Ryder, who was wounded in the side, and as they carried him back to camp, he said—

"Take me to the Lieutenant. I can prove my innocence." Marie and Helen threw themselves into each other's arms. Old Lois wrung her hands in despair.

"I tole you no good wud cum outen dat man's comin' round here," she said to old Dan.

"I doant know why not," he said. "Wat you got agin him?"

"He ain't our sort," she said, contemptuously. "Nordern men am diffunt from Soudern—doan yo' sense it?"

"Dat's not for me to explaticate. But who was it gib'd us our freedom but dem same Nordern men; and isn't it worf sumfing to own yo'self? Dat's wat de Nordern 'trash,' as you call 'em, has done for you and me."

"I neber could talk wif you, old man, for youse always on de contrary side," and she left the partner of her joys and sorrows with what was intended for a very lofty step.

"De old gal doant like my plain speaking," Dan chuckled. "But Ise on de right side always."

Next morning dawned brightly. As the birds sang their welcome to early day, a young girl left the house and walked rapidly toward the camp, a quarter of a mile distant. No one would have recognized the elegant Helen in her disguise. She wore a calico dress, much faded and too large for her, pinned in folds about her form. A sunbonnet hid her lovely face, and an old black cape completed the outfit. She carried a basket of fruit, and to all appearances was a country lassie seeking a market for her goods.