Days passed slowly by; the cattle, many of them, grew restive andfootsore. Often one or two would lie down, and then it was impossible toget 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 theway," Tom Grant said. "But anyhow she's a godsend, for we'll have freshmilk now."
"Can you milk?" the Lieutenant asked.
"Can I? {272}What was I brought up on a farm for, I wonder!" Tomresponded.
"You're a regular encyclopaedia, Tom," the officer laughed. "But, ofcourse, 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 themilk--just whenever I can get it."
The little creature was as smooth as satin, and quite plump. To Tom'scharge she fell, and he milked her each day as he promised he would, andshe 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," JimCleary said.
"That's the best thing we can do, I believe." So the animal was leftwhere she had dropped, and the drove kept on till they found a placewhere they could feed and rest for the night.
As soon as it began to grow dark Tom and his companion started backto where they had left the cow. She was not there, but a woman sittingoutside of quite a pretentious, two-story house, informed them that aman who lived "down the cross road a piece" had driven her to his ownhome.
"We'll have to get her back, Tom, for she's quite an acquisition to ourlarder."
It was quite dark when they reached the place to which they had beendirected. It was a weather-beaten old log house, with one room downstairs to serve the family, and an attic or loft above. Rapping at thedoor, they heard a gruff voice bid them enter. By the dim light ofa sputtering candle they saw a rough, poorly dressed man and a womansitting at a table which had no cloth, on which was some corn bread andsorghum. The mother held a puny, sickly little girl in her arms, whosebig {273}eyes roved restlessly around, as if wondering who the strangerswere. A tin cup stood by her plate, full of milk.
"Strangers, what ar' yer business?" The man's threatening countenanceseemed 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 thiscabin, 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 thebottoms, 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 droveof cattle we are taking to the army, and so we have the first claim onher."
The man seemed to be listening. He paused a moment, and looked furtivelyaround, 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 somenourishment," and he pointed toward the child, who was the picture ofstarvation.
Tom's heart was tender. He saw the man had not overstated the case, andhe rose to go.
"Come, Jim," he said, "You can see the child needs that milk bad--worsethan we do. Mister," he said, turning to the man, "you are welcome tothe cow, on one condition; and that is, that you promise on your word asa father that the little girl may have all the milk she can drink, everyday."
The woman had not spoken till now, but with a glad look she startedto her feet, and pressing the child into its father's arms, shesaid--"Jack, that's a fair bargain. And you're a fair man, sir, afterall."
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 indoing the fair thing, by any one. This neighborhood is full of fellowswho wouldn't mind giving you a chance {274}shot. The woman up at the bighouse 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 sameroad you came, but strike for that piece of woods, and then cut acrossthe fields, and you may get away. Hurry--you haven't much time beforeyou--you know the rest."
Into their saddles the two men vaulted, after thanking the man for hiscaution, and away they dashed. The stars were out in full force, and thedarkness of an hour before had lifted, for the moon was rising, and asthey entered the woods their shade hid them from sight. They rode fastthrough them, and struck a corduroy road, a rarity in that part of thecountry, and as they left it behind them, and were going to take thefield, Jim whispered--"Don't stir a step. Pull your horse into thatthicket. 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 scouringthese 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 outrunanything 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, andare talking with the man we've just left. He's true blue; he's pointingaway 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 wholecountry round here, and all that saved us was your generosity {275}inmaking him welcome to the little black cow. He's got a heart hid awaysomewhere, and you just touched it."
Tom's eyes opened wide. "I couldn't see that little creature starvingthere, and not offer them something to help her out. Why, she wasnothing but skin and bones."
"We mustn't loiter here. It is a good three miles to camp, and we mustmake it quick, or they'll head us off before we reach the road."
Touching their animals lightly with their spurs, they dashed across theopen field toward another road, and were almost ready to congratulatethemselves on their escape, when they heard a yell, and looking backthey saw one of the guerrillas who had sighted them and was almoststanding in his stirrups in his excitement, and shouting wildly to hiscompanions, who were coming after him at full gallop. Tom and Jim didnot need any further hint, but led the way, at a rattling pace. Tom wasmounted on a racer, but Jim's army mule proved that he could run, forhe kept pace with the horse, almost neck and neck. Whether he dreadedcapture 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-neckspeed, now through a gully, then over a broken fence, and sinking inthe furrows of fields that had been plowed in the long ago, now pasta ruined building that rose up black and forbidding in the weirdmoonbeams, and then the lights gleamed friendly from one that wasoccupied. What the end of this John Gilpin ride would have been, it ishard to say, for the guerrillas were gaining on them, but at a turn inthe road a dozen blue-coats were seen coming toward them. The pursuingfoe fired a few wild shots, which were returned with a will, when theywheeled about and fled across the field, and were soon in hiding in thewoods.
"Tom's cow came near getting me into trouble," Jim Cleary said, when hefinished telling the story to the lieutenant.
A few {276}weeks later, when they had reached Knoxville and gone int
ocamp, an old, feeble-looking farmer came into the lines looking forTom Grant. His hair was grizzled, and his beard uncut, and as Tom cametoward him, he was surprised to see the wrinkled brown hand extended asif to clasp that of an old friend.
"You don't seem to recognize me," the man said awkwardly. "You haven'tforgotten the little sick gal and her mammy down in the country ahundred miles or so?"
"You're not the man who showed us so much kindness when you knew theguerrillas were on our track?" Tom asked.
"The very same. You see a gray wig and a butternut suit make quite afarmer outen me. I'll never forget you, stranger, nor how you saved mybaby. She was the only gal we had left--we'd lost three, and when shetook to that milk so, and you told me to keep the cow, why, I couldn'thold still. I'd had it in my heart to kill you both, that night. I hadonly to whistle and I'd have brought the whole band about your ears. Thelittle 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 tome--'Martin, go and tell that young fellow the good turn he has doneus.' I've followed your trail for nearly a hundred mile to tell youthat you will never be forgotten in our home, and I'll never raise a gunagainst a Yank again." {277}
0286]
A WAR STORY.
9287]
HEN {278}the war broke out, Helen and Marie Mason, twin sisters, wereleft at home with no protector save two old slaves, Dan and Lois. Theirfather had given every dollar he had to the cause of the South. The twogirls had grown up without a mother's care, for she had died when theywere ten years old, and their father had mourned her so deeply thathe had never thought of giving them a new mother. But they were notspoiled--they lived in this simple little home, tenderly guarded bytheir father, and all their needs had been carefully looked after by thetwo 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 theirfather's sentiments of fidelity to the Southern cause.
They showed no signs of their sorrow at the parting, but, with Spartanendurance, bade him a long farewell, and he set off, followed by theprayers of his beautiful daughters. Letters and messages came oftento the little home by the Mississippi, and time did not hang quite asheavily as they had feared it would; but their father's letters werefilled with bitter rancor, and he sought earnestly to impress upon theirminds the enmity which {279}they should cultivate as daughters of thesunny 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 hadmore independence and self-reliance, found words of consolation for her.
In the days before the war, their home had been the scene of many apleasant gathering, and among their guests were several young men ofNorthern birth, whom business or pleasure had brought to the South, andwho had found great attractions within their charmed circle. Marie didnot know why she took such pleasure in the coming of Walter Ryder, orwhy she felt so lonely when he was away. Her father had liked the youngman for his manly, straightforward bearing and honest principles, but hecould not tolerate his becoming a Union soldier, and when he learned ofhis 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 thathe might say good-bye to her. She would not disobey her father, and yetit was with a bitter pang that she refused to meet him once more beforehis departure.
Old Aunt Lois saw how her lily drooped, but she had great faith in hermaster's judgment, and she didn't "like Northerners nohow," and yet shewiped many a tear away with the corner of her blue-checked apron, as shelamented about "diswah dat upset eberybody's 'pinions so."
Walter had gone without a word to cheer him. He had gone from the placewhich had grown so dear, and while pretty Marie wept, Helen chided herfor her lack of fortitude.
The months went by, and they often heard through returned soldiers ofWalter Ryder. Then came news that he was wounded, and then that he haddied of his wound. The whole world seemed to have stopped then for poorMarie. She grew thin and white, and she reproached herself incessantlybecause she had so cruelly refused to see Walter. The house grewstrangely still, {280}for there were no more social meetings, and Helenshared the gloom that enveloped Marie.
"Pears to me dat eberyting goes wrong," Aunt Lois said, as she stoppedin her mixing bread, and gazed out upon the landscape, which wasbeautiful to look upon.
But Aunt Lois was no poet or artist, only the colored cook in thislovely home. "Fust de wall cum--den Massa Mason brung home to die, andpretty Missie Helen sitting dar in her bodoor all alone all day, neberspeaking a word to po' Miss Marie, who lubed her father dearly. Don't Iknow dat po' little gal is breaking her heart 'tween losing dat foolishman 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, burstinto 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 ofanxiety on her black face, asked the girl what had happened.
"I've seen him--seen Walter. They said he was dead. Oh, Aunt Lois, helooked 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 towhen yo' was a tiny gal, and I used to tell yo' stories and sing de oldplantation melodies. Come, and you'll forgit all about yo' trubbles."
Lois had cleared her hands by this time of the dough, and as she tookthe 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'twith them!" Marie added, as she peered from the window.
"Ise not afraid of sogers! What do you want?" Aunt Lois said, boldlyadvancing to the door, where a tall soldier in blue stood, with a dozenmen, all armed. "Hello!" he said rather roughly, but catching sightof Marie, whose face was blanched with {281}terror, he spoke morecourteously: "I beg pardon, Miss, but we are in search of a spy who goesby the name of Walter Ryder. We have tracked him to this place, and haveorders to arrest him."
"My--" she choked the telltale words, and with dignity answered: "WalterRyder 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 twoof the men entered the dwelling, and commenced the search, but it wasuseless, for no trace of Walter was found. When they came to the door ofHelen's room, they found it locked, and yet they heard voices.
"I thought you were dead," some one was saying. "My sister has mournedyou constantly."
They struck the butts of their guns against the panels of the door, anddemanded admission, but no one answered. They pushed it open, and thegirl who sat there sprang to her feet, thoroughly frightened, but no oneelse was in the room.
The three men looked at each other with a puzzled look. There wasbut one window in the apartment, and that was covered with a mass ofclinging vines so dense and thick that they formed a complete mat. Theypushed their bayonets through the tangled mass, but no one was there.
Helen gazed at them as if half stupefied. The sergeant courteouslyraised his cap, and said: "Miss, we are in search of a man whom we thinkis 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 ahiding-place. I beg your pardon for intruding. Right about face!" to hismen, A still more prolonged search of the grounds revealed nothing, andafter placing a guard, the remainder lef
t.
But where was Marie? As soon as the soldiers had left the room she wentback to Helen, who sat with bowed head, and {282}touching her gently onthe 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--Ihave 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, wouldwillingly 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 werereceiving Walter Ryder's attentions, and that I had prevented anelopement by my watchfulness."
"Helen! How could you? And that is the reason that he would not see mewhen they brought him home wounded. How cruel! Father, you cannot hearme, 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 sheurged--"Tell me all, Helen. I _will_ call you sister," as the otherput up her hand with a gesture of pain. "You know how fond you were ofWalter once."
A frown contracted the brow of the girl who listened, and she buried herface in Marie's lap, as she continued--