CHAPTER XIX. THE DEACON IS TROUBLED
DISPOSES OF THE $500 "WHISKY" MONEY AND GOES OUT FORAGING.
FROM the door of the cabin the Deacon could see the fort on which theboys were piling up endless cubic yards of the red soil of Tennessee. Ashe watched them, with an occasional glance at the beans seething in thekettle, fond memories rose of a woman far away on the Wabash, who thesemany years had thought and labored for his comfort in their home, whilehe labored within her sight on their farm. It was the first time intheir long married life that he had been away from her for such a lengthof time.
"I believe I'm gittin' real homesick to see Mariar," he said with asigh. "I'd give a good deal for a letter from her. I do hope everythingon the farm's all right. I think it is. I'm a little worried about BrownSusy, the mare, but I think she'll pick up as the weather settles. Ihope her fool colt, that I've give Si, won't break his leg nor nothin'while I'm away."
Presently he saw the men quit work, and he turned to get ready for theboys. He covered the rough table with newspapers to do duty for a cloth;he had previously scoured up the tinware to its utmost brightness andcleanliness, and while the boys were{230} washing off the accumulationsof clay, and liberally denouncing the man who invented fort building,and even West Point for educating men to pursue the nefarious art, hedished out the smoking viands.
"Upon my word, Pap," said Si, as he helped him self liberally, "you dobeat us cookin' all holler. Your beans taste almost as good as mother's.We must git you to give us some lessons."
"Yes; you're a boss cook," said Shorty, with his mouth full. "Better notlet Gen. Rosecrans find out how well you kin bile beans, or he'll haveyou drafted, and keep you with him till the end o' the war."
After supper they lighted their pipes and seated themselves in front ofthe fire.
"How'd you git along to-day, Pap," said Si. "I hope you didn't have notrouble."
The Deacon took his pipe out of his mouth, blew a cloud of smoke, andconsidered a moment before replying. He did not want to recount hisexperiences, at least, until he had digested them more thoroughly. Hewas afraid of the joking of the boys, and still more that the storywould get back home. Then, he was still sorely perplexed about thedisposition of the money. He had not thought that out yet, by a greatdeal. But the question was plump and direct, and concealment and untruthwere alike absolutely foreign to his nature. After a minute's pause hedecided to tell the whole story.
"Well, boys," he began with a shamefaced look, "I had the flamboyantestracket to-day I've had yit."
The two boys took their pipes out and regarded him with surprise.{231}
"Yes," he continued, with a deep sigh, "it laid away over gittin' downhere, and my night in the guard-house, even. You see, after you wentaway I began to think about gittin' up something a little extry for youto eat. I thought about it for awhile, and then recollected seein' alittle grocery that'd been set up nigh here in a board shanty."
"Yes, we know about it," said Shorty, exchanging a look with Si.
"Well," continued the Deacon, "I concluded that I'd jest slip overthere, and mebbe I could find{232} something that'd give variety to yourpork and beans. He didn't seem to have much but canned goods, and hisprices wuz jest awful. But I wuz de termined to git something, and Ifinally bought a jug o' genuine Injianny maple molasses, a chunk o'cheese and a can o' peaches. I had to pay $5 for it. He said he had tocharge high prices on account o' freight rates, and I remembered that Ihad some trouble in gittin' things down here, and so I paid him. He wuzvery peart and sassy, and it was take-it-or-leave-it-and-be-plaguey-quick-about-it all the time. But I paid my $5, gathered the things up,and started back to the house. I hadn't got more'n 100 rods away when Imet one o' these officers with only one o' them things in his shoulderstraps."
"A First Lieutenant," interjected Si.
"Yes, they called him a Lieutenant. He spoke very bossy and cross tome, and hit my jug a welt with his sword. He broke it, and what do yousuppose was in it?"
HIT MY JUG A WELT WITH HIS SWORD 231]
"Whisky," said Si and Shorty simultaneously, with a shout of laughter.
"That's jest what it wuz. I wuz never so mortified in my life. Icouldn't say a word. The Lieutenant abused me for being a partner insellin' whisky to the soldiers me, Josiah Klegg, Patriarch of the Sonso' Temperance, and a Deacon. While I wuz tryin' to tell him he jabbedhis sword into the can o' peaches, and what do you suppose was in that?"
"Whisky," yelled Si and Shorty, with another burst of laughter.
"That's jest what it wuz. Then one o' the Lieutenant's men jerked thechunk o' cheese away and{283} broke it open. And what do you suppose wasin that?"
"Whisky, of course," yelled the boys in uncontrollable mirth.
"That's jest what it was. I wuz so dumfounded that I couldn't say aword. They yanked me around in behind the squad, and told me they'dshave my head and drum me out o' camp. The Lieutenant took his men upto the grocery and tore it down, and ketched the feller that wuz keepin'it. They put him alongside o' me, and tuk us up to the guard house. Onthe way he whispered to me that they wuz likely to salt him, 'cause theyknowed him, but I'd likely git off easy. He'd made $500 clean out o' thebusiness already, and had it in his clothes. He'd pass it over to me tokeep till the racket wuz over, when he'd divide fair and square with me.I told him that I'd rather burn my hand off than tech a dirty dollar o'his money, but he dropt it into my overcoat pocket all the same, and Iwuz so excited that I clean forgot about it, and brung it away with me.When we got to the guard-house they tuk all the rest of his money away,shaved his head, and drummed him out o' camp."
"Yes, we saw that," answered Si; "but didn't pay no attention to it.They're drummin' some feller out o' camp nearly every day, for somethingor other."
"I don't see that it does any good," said Shorty. "It'd be a heap betterto set 'em to work on the fortifications. That'd take the deviltry outo' 'em."
"When they'd got through with him," continued the Deacon, "they Burnedtheir attention to me. I{234} never wuz so scared in all my borndays. But luckily, jest in the nick o' time, I ketched sight o' Capt.McGillicuddy, and hollered to him. He come up and explained things, andthey let me go, with lots o' apologies. When I got back to the house, Ifelt for my handkerchief, and found that scalawag's roll o' bills, whichI'd clean forgot. Here it is."
'PULLED OUT A FAT ROLL OF GREENBACKS. 235]
He pulled out a fat roll of crisp greenbacks. Si took them, thumbed themover admiringly, counted them, and handed them to Shorty, who did thesame.
"Yes, there's $500 there," said Si. "What are you goin' to do with it,Pap?"
"That's jest what's worrying the life out o' me," answered his father."By rights I ought to throw the condemned stuff into the fire, only Ihold it a great sin to destroy property of any kind."
"What, burn all that good money up?" said Shorty with a whistle. "Youdon't live in an insane asylum when you're at home, do you?"
"'Twouldn't be right to burn it, Pap," said Si, who better understoodthe rigidity of his father's principles. "It'd do a mighty sight o' goodsomewhere."
"The money don't belong at all to that feller," mused the Deacon. "A mancan't have no property in likker. It's wet damnation, hell's broth, tonourish murderers, thieves, and paupers. It is the devil's essence, withwhich he makes widows and orphans. Every dollar of it is minted withwomen's tears and children's cries of hunger. That feller got the moneyby violatin' the law on the one hand and swindling the soldiers on theother, and corruptin' them to their ruin. To give the money back to himwould be rewardin' him for his rascality. It'd be like{235} givin' athief his booty, or a burglar his plunder, and make me his pardner."
"You're right there, Pap," assented Si. "You'd jest be settin' him upin business in some other stand. Five hundred dollars'd give him a goodstart. His hair'll soon grow agin."
"The worst of it," sighed Shorty, "is that it ain't good likker.Otherwise it'd be different. But it's pizener than milk-sick orloco-weed. It's aqua-fortis, fish-ber
ries, tobacco juice and ratsbane.That stuff'd eat a hole in a tin pan."{236}
"The Captain turned the rest o' his money over to the hospital,"continued the Deacon. "I might do that."
"Never do it in the world, Pap," protested Si. "Better burn it up atonce. It'd be the next worst thing to givin' it back to him. It'djest be pamperin' and encouragin' a lot o' galoots that lay around thehospitals to keep out o' fights. None o' the wounded or really sick'dgit the benefit of a cent of it. They wuz all sent away weeks ago toNashville, Louisville, and back home. You jest ought to see that bummergang. Last week me and Shorty wuz on fatigue duty down by one o' thehospitals. There wuzzent nobody in the hospital but a few 'shell-fever'shirks, who're too lazy to work on the fortifications, and we saw acrowd of civilians and men in uniform set down to a finer dinner thanyou kin git in any hotel. Shorty wanted to light some shells and roll inamongst 'em, but I knowed that it'd jest make a muss that we'd have toclean up afterward."
"But what am I going to do with it?" asked the Deacon despairingly. "Idon't want no money in my hands that don't belong to me, and especiallysich money as that, which seems to have a curse to every bill. If wecould only find out the men he tuk it from."
"Be about as easy as drivin' a load o' hay back into the field, andfitting each spear o' grass back on the stalk from which it was cut,"interjected Shorty.
"Or I might send it anonymously to the Baptist Board o' Missions,"continued the Deacon.
"Nice way to treat the little heathens," objected Si. "Send them likkermoney."{237}
The Deacon groaned.
"Tell you what we might do, Pap," said Si, as a bright idea struck him."There's a widder, a Union woman, jest outside the lines, whose housewuz burned down by the rebels. She could build a splendid new house with$100 better'n the one she wuz livin' in before. Send her $100.
"Not a bad idee," said the Deacon approvingly, as he poked the ashes inhis pipe with his little finger.
"And, Pap," continued Si, encouraged by the reception of thissuggestion, "there's poor Bill Ellerlee, who lost his leg in the fight.He used to drink awful hard, and most of his money went down his throat.He's got a wife and two small children, and they hain't a cent to liveon, except what the neighbors gives. Why not put up $200 in an expresspack age and send it to him, marked 'from an unknown friend?'"
"Good," accorded the Deacon.
"And Jim Pocock," put in Shorty, seeing the drift. "He's gone home witha bullet through his breast. His folks are pretty poor. Why not send him$100 the same way?"
"Excellent idee," said the father.
"That leaves $100 yit," said Si. "If you care to, you kin divide itbetween Shorty and me, and we'll use it among the boys that got hurt,and need some thing."
A dubious look came into the Deacon's face.
"You needn't be afeared of us, Pap," said Si, with a little blush. "Ikin promise you that we won't use a cent ourselves, but give every bitwhere it is really needed."{238}
"I believe you, my son," said the Deacon heartily. "We'll do jest as yousay."
They spent the evening carrying their plan into execution.
At the 9 o'clock roll-call the Orderly-Sergeant announced:
"Co. Q to go out with a forage-train to-morrow morning."
This was joyful news a delightful variation from the toil on thefortifications. "Taps" found every body getting his gun and traps readyfor an excursion into the country.
"You'd like to go with us, Pap, wouldn't you?" asked Si, as he lookedover his cartridge-box to see what it contained.
"Indeed I would," replied the father. "I'll go any where with you ratherthan spend such another day in camp. You don't think you will see anyrebels, do you?" he asked rather nervously.
"Don't know; never kin tell," said Shorty oracularly. "Rebels isanywhere you find 'em. Sometimes they're seldomer than a chaw ofterbaker in a Sunday school. You can't find one in a whole County. Then,the first thing you know, they're thicker'n fleas on a dog's back. Butwe won't likely see no rebels to-morrow. There ain't no great passelo' them this side o' Duck River. Still, we'll take our guns along, jestlike a man wears a breast-pin on a dark night, because he's used to it."
"Can't you give me a gun, too? I think it'd be company for me," said theDeacon.
"Certainly," said Si.
The Deacon stowed himself in the wagons with{239} the rest the nextmorning, and rode out with them through the bright sunshine, that gavepromise of the soon oncoming of Spring. For miles they jolted over theexecrable roads and through the shiftless, run-down country before theyfound anything worth while putting in the wagons.
"Great country, Pap," said Si suggestively.
"Yes; it'd be a great country," said his father disdainfully, "if youcould put a wagonload o' manure on every foot and import some Injiannymen to take care of it. The water and the sunshine down here seem allright, but the land and the people and the pigs and stock seem to becullin's throwed out when they made Injianny."
At length the train halted by a double log house of much morepretentious character than any they had so far seen. There were a coupleof well-filled corn-cribs, a large stack of fodder, and other evidencesof plenty. The Deacon's practiced eye noticed that there was no stock inthe fields, but Si explained this by saying that everything on hoofs hadbeen driven off to supply the rebel army. "They're now trying to gita corn-crib and a fodder-stack with four legs, but hain't succeeded sofar."
The Captain ordered the fence thrown down and the wagons driven in tobe filled. The surrounding horizon was scanned for signs of rebels,but none appeared anywhere. The landscape was as tranquil, aspeace-breathing as a Spring morning on the Wabash, and the Deacon's mindreverted to the condition of things on his farm. It was too wet to plow,but he would like to take a walk over the fields and see how his wheathad come out, and look over the{240} peach-buds and ascertain how theyhad stood the Winter. He noticed how some service-trees had alreadyunfolded their white petals, like flags of truce breaking the long arrayof green cedars and rusty-brown oaks.
The company stacked arms in the road, the Captain went to directthe filling of the wagons, and Si and Shorty started on a privatereconnoissance for something for their larder.
The Deacon strolled around the yard for awhile inspecting the buildingsand farm implements with an eye of professional curiosity, and arrivedat very unfavorable opinions. He then walked up on the porch ofthe house, where a woman of about his own age sat in a split-bottomrocking-chair knitting and viewing the proceedings with frowning eyes.
"Good day, ma'am," said he. "Warm day, ma'am."
"'Tain't as warm as it orter to be for sich fellers as yo'uns," shesnapped. "You'd better be in the brimstone pit if you had your justdeserts."
The Deacon always tried to be good-humored with an angry woman, and hethought he would try the effect of a little pleasantry. "I'm a Baptist,ma'am, and they say us Baptists are tryin' to put out that fire withcold water."
"You a Babtist?" she answered scornfully. "The hot place is full o' jestsich Babtists as yo'uns air, and they're making room for more. We'unsair Babtists ourselves, but, thank the Lord, not o' your kind. Babtistsair honest people. Babtists don't go about the country robbin'and murderin' and stealin' folks' corn. Don't tell me you air aBabtist,{241} for I know you air a-lyin', and that's the next thing tokillin' and stealin'."
"But I am a Baptist," persisted the Deacon, "and have bin for 30 yearregular, free-will, close-communion, total-immersion Baptist. We havesome Campbellites, a few Six Principle Baptists, and some Hard Shells,but the heft of us air jest plain, straight-out Baptists. But, speakin'o' cold water, kin you give me a drink? I'm powerful dry."
"Thar's water down in the crick, thar," she said, with a motion of herknitting in that direction. "It's as fur for me as it is for you. Godown thar and drink all you like. Lucky you can't carry the crick awaywith yo'uns. Yo'uns 'd steal it if yo'uns could."
"You don't seem to be in a good humor, ma'am," said the Deacon,maintaining his pleasant demeanor and tone. r />
"Well, if you think that a passel o' nasty Yankees is kalkerlated to puta lady in a good humor you're even a bigger fool than you look. ButI hain't no time to waste jawin' you. If you want a drink thar's thecrick. Go and drink your fill of it. I only wish it was a's'nic, topizen you and your whole army."
She suddenly stopped knitting, and bent her eyes eagerly on an openingin the woods on a hill-top whence the road wound down to the house. TheDeacon's eyes followed hers, and he saw unmistakable signs of men inbutternut clothes. The woman saw that he noticed them, and her mannerchanged.
"Come inside the house," she said pleasantly, "and I'll git you agourdful of water fresh from the spring."{242}
"Thankee, ma'am; I don't feel a bit dry," answered the Deacon, withhis eyes fastened on the hill top. "Si, Shorty, Capt. McGillicuddy," heyelled.
"Shet your head, and come into the house this minit, you nasty Yankee,or I'll slash your fool head off," ordered the woman, picking up acorn-cutter the advantage of his position and ran up to him.
The Deacon was inside the railing around the porch, and he had notjumped a fence for 20 years. But he cleared the railing as neatly as Sicould have done it, and ran bareheaded down the road, yelling at the topof his voice.
He was not a minute too soon not soon enough. A full company of rebelcavalry came dashing out of the woods, yelling like demons.
Without waiting to form, the men of Co. Q ran to their guns and beganfiring from fence-corners and behind trees. Capt. McGillicuddy took thefirst squad that he came to, and, running forward a little way, made ahasty line and opened fire. Others saw the advantage of his position andran up to him.
The Deacon snatched up a gun and joined the Captain.
"I never wuz subject to the 'buck fever,'" he muttered to himself, "andI won't allow myself to be now. I remember jest how Gineral Jacksontold his men to shoot down to New Orleans. I'm going to salt one o' themfellers as sure as my name's Josiah Klegg."
He took a long breath, to steady himself, as he joined the Captain,picked out a man on a bay horse that seemed to be the rebels' Captain,and caught his breast fully through the hindsight before he{243} pulledthe trigger. Through the smoke he saw his man tumble from his horse.
"Got him, anyway," he muttered; "now, how in the world kin I load thisplaguey gun agin?"
At that instant a rebel bullet bit out a piece of his ear, but he paidno attention to it.
"Gi' me that cartridge," he said to the man next to him, who had justbitten off the end of one; "I can't do it."
The man handed him the cartridge, which the Deacon rammed home, butbefore he could find a cap the fight was over, and the rebels were seeking the shelter of the woods.
The Deacon managed to get a cap on his gun in time to take along-distance, ineffective shot at the rebels as they disappeared in thewoods.
They hastily buried one rebel who had been killed, and picked up thosewho had been wounded and carried them into the house, where they weremade as comfortable as possible. Among them was the man whom the Deaconhad aimed at. He was found to have a wound through the fleshy part ofhis hip, and proved to be the son of the woman of the house.
As soon as the fight was over, Si, full of solicitude, sought hisfather. He found him wiping the blood from his ear with his bandanna.
"It's nothin', son; absolutely nothin'," said the old gentleman withas much pride as any recruit. "Don't hurt as much as a scratch from abriar. Some feller what couldn't write put his mark on me so's he'd knowme agin. But I fetched that feller on the bay hoss. I'm glad I didn'tkill him, but he'll keep out o' devilment for sometime.
CHAPTER XX. THE DEACON BUTTS IN
ENFORCES THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION.