On a Sunday afternoon in December, 1863, two horsemen were making their way across Big Corn Valley in the direction of Sugar Mountain. They had started from the little town of Jasper early in the morning, and it was apparent at a glance that they had not enjoyed the journey. They sat listlessly in their saddles, with their carbines across their laps, and whatever conversation they carried on was desultory.

To tell the truth, the journey from Jasper to the top of Sugar Mountain was not a pleasant one even in the best of weather, and now, with the wind pushing before it a bitterly cold mist, its disagreeableness was irritating. And it was not by any means a short journey. Big Corn Valley was fifteen miles across as the crow flies, and the meanderings of the road added five more. Then there was the barrier of the foothills, and finally Sugar Mountain itself, which when[46] the weather was clear lifted itself above all the other mountains of that region.

Nor was this all. Occasionally, when the wind blew aside the oilskin overcoats of the riders, the gray uniform of the Confederacy showed beneath, and they wore cavalry boots, and there were tell-tale trimmings on their felt hats. With these accoutrements to advertise them, they were not in a friendly region. There were bushwhackers in the mountains, and, for aught the horsemen knew, the fodder stacks in the valley, that rose like huge and ominous ghosts out of the mist on every side, might conceal dozens of guerrillas. They had that day ridden past the house of the only member of the Georgia State convention who had refused to affix his signature to the ordinance of secession, and the woods, to use the provincial phrase, were full of union men.

Suddenly, and with a fierce and ripping oath, one of the horsemen drew rein. “I wish I may die,” he exclaimed, his voice trembling with long pent up irritation, “if I ain’t a great mind to turn around in my tracks an’ go back. Where does this cussed road lead to anyhow?”

“To the mountain—straight to the mountain,”[47] grimly remarked the other, who had stopped to see what was the matter with his companion.

“Great Jerusalem! straight? Do you see that fodder stack yonder with the hawk on the top of the pole? Well, we’ve passed it four times, and we ain’t no further away from it now than we was at fust.”

“Well, we’ve no time to stand here. In an hour we’ll be at the foot of the mountain, and a quarter of a mile further we’ll find shelter. We must attend to business and talk it over afterwards.”

“An’ it’s a mighty nice business, too,” said the man who had first spoken. He was slender in build, and his thin and straggling mustache failed to relieve his effeminate appearance. He had evidently never seen hard service. “I never have believed in this conscriptin’ business,” he went on in a complaining tone. “It won’t pan out. It has turned more men agin the Confederacy than it has turned fer it, or else my daddy’s name ain’t Bill Chadwick, nor mine neither.”

“Well,” said the other curtly, “it’s the law, Bill Chadwick, and it must be carried out. We’ve got our orders.”

“Oh, yes! You are the commander,[48] Cap’n Moseley, an’ I’m the army. Ain’t I the gayest army you ever had under you? I’ll tell you what, Cap’n Moseley (I’d call you Dick, like I useter, if we wasn’t in the ranks), when I j’ined the army I thought I was goin’ to fight the Yankees, but they slapped me in the camp of instruction over there at Adairsville, an’ now here we are fightin’ our own folks. If we ain’t fightin’ ’em, we are pursuin’ after ’em, an’ runnin’ ’em into the woods an’ up the mountains. Now what kind of a soldier will one of these conscripts make? You needn’t tell me, Cap’n! The law won’t pan out.”

“But it’s the law,” said Captain Moseley. The captain had been wounded in Virginia, and was entitled to a discharge, but he accepted the position of conscript officer. He had the grit and discipline of a veteran, and a persistence in carrying out his purposes that gave him the name of “Hardhead” in the army. He was tall and muscular, but his drooping left shoulder showed where a Federal bullet had found lodgment. His closely cropped beard was slightly streaked with gray, and his face would have been handsome had not determination left its rude handwriting there.

[49]

The two rode on together in silence a little space, the cold mists, driven by the wind, tingling in their faces. Presently Private Chadwick, who had evidently been ruminating over the matter, resumed the thread of his complaints.

“They tell me,” he said, “that it’s a heap easier to make a bad law than it is to make a good one. It takes a lot of smart men a long time to make a good one, but a passel of blunderbusses can patch a bad one up in a little or no time. That’s the way I look at it.

“What’s the name of this chap we are after? Israel Spurlock? I’d like to know, by George, what’s the matter with him! What makes him so plague-taked important that two men have to be sent on a wild-goose chase after him? They yerked him into army, an’ he yerked himself out, an’ now the word is that the war can’t go on unless Israel Spurlock is on hand to fling down his gun an’ run when he hears a bung-shell playin’ a tune in the air.”

Captain Moseley coughed to hide a smile.

“It’s jest like I tell you, Cap’n. The news is that we had a terrible victory at Chattanooga, but I notice in the Atlanta papers[50] that the Yankees ain’t no further north than they was before the fight; an’ what makes it wuss, they are warmin’ themselves in Chattanooga, whilst we are shiverin’ outside. I reckon if Israel Spurlock had been on hand at the right time an’ in the right place, we’d a drove the Yanks plumb back to Nashville. Lord! I hope we’ll have him on the skirmish line the next time we surround the enemy an’ drive him into a town as big as Chattanooga.”

Private Chadwick kept up his complaints for some time, but they failed to disturb the serenity of the captain, who urged his horse forward through the mist, closely followed by his companion. They finally left the valley, passed over the foothills, and began the ascent of Sugar Mountain. Here their journey became less disagreeable. The road, winding and twisting around the mountain, had been cut through a dense growth of trees, and these proved to be something of a shelter. Moreover, the road sometimes brought the mountain between the travelers and the wind, and these were such comfortable intervals that Mr. Chadwick ceased his complaints and rode along good-humoredly.

The two horsemen had gone about a[51] mile, measuring the mountain road, though they were not more than a quarter of a mile from the foot, when they came suddenly on an old man sitting in a sheltered place by the side of the road. They came on the stranger so suddenly that their horses betrayed alarm, and it was all they could do to keep the animals from slipping and rolling into the gorge at their left. The old man was dressed in a suit of gray jeans, and wore a wool hat, which, although it showed the signs of constant use, had somehow managed to retain its original shape. His head was large and covered with a profusion of iron-gray hair, which was neatly combed. His face was round, but the lines of character obliterated all suggestions of chubbiness. The full beard that he wore failed to hide evidences of firmness and determination; but around his mouth a serene smile lingered, and humor sparkled in his small brown eyes.

“Howdy, boys, howdy!” he exclaimed. “Tired as they look to be, you er straddlin’ right peart creeturs. A flirt or two more an’ they’d ’a’ flung you down the hill, an’ ’a’ follered along atter you, headstall an’ stirrup. They done like they weren’t expectin’ company in an’ around here.”

[52]

The sonorous voice and deliberate utterance of the old man bespoke his calling. He was evidently a minister of the gospel. This gave a clew to Captain Moseley’s memory.

“This must be Uncle Billy Powers,” said the captain. “I have heard you preach many a time when I was a boy.”

“That’s my name,” said Uncle Billy; “an’ in my feeble way I’ve been a-preachin’ the Word as it was given to me forty year, lackin’ one. Ef I ever saw you, the circumstance has slipped from me.”

“My name is Moseley,” said the captain.

“I useter know Jeremiah Moseley in my younger days,” said Uncle Billy, gazing reflectively at the piece of pine bark he was whittling. “Yes, yes! I knowed Brother Moseley well. He was a God-fearin’ man.”

“He was my father,” said the captain.

“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Uncle Billy, in a tone that seemed to combine reflection with astonishment. “Jerry Moseley’s son; I disremember the day when Brother Moseley came into my mind, an’ yit, now that I hear his name bandied about up here on the hill, it carries me back to ole times. He weren’t much of a preacher on[53] his own hook, but let ’im foller along for to clench the sermon, an’ his match couldn’t be foun’ in them days. Yit, Jerry was a man of peace, an’ here’s his son a-gwine about with guns an’ pistols, an’ what not, a-tryin’ to give peaceable folks a smell of war.”

“Oh, no!” said Captain Moseley, laughing; “we are just hunting up some old acquaintances,—some friends of ours that we’d like to see.”

“Well,” said Uncle Billy, sinking his knife deep into the soft pine bark, “it’s bad weather for a frolic, an’ it ain’t much better for a straight-out, eve’y-day call. Speshually up here on the hill, where the ground is so wet and slipperyfied. It looks like you’ve come a mighty long ways for to pay a friendly call. An’ yit,” the old man continued, looking up at the captain with a smile that well became his patriarchal face, “thar ain’t a cabin on the hill whar you won’t be more than welcome. Yes, sir; wheresomever you find a h’a’thstone, thar you’ll find a place to rest.”

“So I have heard,” said the captain. “But maybe you can cut our journey short. We have a message for Israel Spurlock.”

[54]

Immediately Captain Moseley knew that the placid and kindly face of Uncle Billy Powers had led him into making a mistake. He knew that he had mentioned Israel Spurlock’s name to the wrong man at the wrong time. There was a scarcely perceptible frown on Uncle Billy’s face as he raised it from his piece of pine bark, which was now assuming the shape of a horseman’s pistol, and he looked at the captain through half-closed eyelids.

“Come, now,” he exclaimed, “ain’t Israel Spurlock in the war? Didn’t a posse ketch ’im down yander in Jasper an’ take an’ cornscrip’ ’im into the army? Run it over in your mind now! Ain’t Israel Spurlock crippled some’r’s, an’ ain’t your message for his poor ole mammy?”

“No, no,” said the captain, laughing, and trying to hide his inward irritation.

“Not so?” exclaimed Uncle Billy. “Well, sir, you must be shore an’ set me right when I go wrong; but I’ll tell you right pine blank, I’ve had Israel Spurlock in my min’ off an’ on’ ev’ry since they run him down an’ kotch him an’ drug ’im off to war. He was weakly like from the time he was a boy, an’ when I heard you call forth[55] his name, I allowed to myself, says I, ‘Israel Spurlock is sick, an’ they’ve come atter his ole mammy to go an’ nuss him.’ That’s the idee that riz up in my min’.”

A man more shrewd than Captain Moseley would have been deceived by the bland simplicity of Uncle Billy’s tone.

“No,” said he; “Spurlock is not sick. He is a sounder man than I am. He was conscripted in Jasper and carried to Adairsville, and after he got used to the camp he concluded that he would come home and tell his folks good-by.”

“Now that’s jes like Israel,” said Uncle Billy, closing his eyes and compressing his lips—“jes like him for the world. He knowed that he was drug off right spang at the time he wanted to be getherin’ in his craps, an’ savin’ his ruffage, an’ one thing an’ another bekaze his ole mammy didn’t have a soul to help her but ’im. I reckon he’s been a-housin’ his corn an’ sich like. The ole ’oman tuck on might’ly when Israel was snatched into the army.”

“How far is it to shelter?” inquired Captain Moseley.

“Not so mighty fur,” responded Uncle Billy, whittling the pine bark more cautiously.[56] “Jes keep in the middle of the road an’ you’ll soon come to it. Ef I ain’t thar before you, jes holler for Aunt Crissy an’ tell her that you saw Uncle Billy some’r’s in the woods an’ he told you to wait for ’im.”

With that, Captain Moseley and Private Chadwick spurred their horses up the mountain road, leaving Uncle Billy whittling.

“Well, dang my buttons!” exclaimed Chadwick, when they were out of hearing.

“What now?” asked the captain, turning in his saddle. Private Chadwick had stopped his horse and was looking back down the mountain as if he expected to be pursued.

“I wish I may die,” he went on, giving his horse the rein, “if we ain’t walked right square into it with our eyes wide open.”

“Into what?” asked the captain, curtly.

“Into trouble,” said Chadwick. “Oh,” he exclaimed, looking at his companion seriously, “you may grin behind your beard, but you just wait till the fun begins—all the grins you can muster will be mighty dry grins. Why, Cap., I could read that old chap as if he was a newspaper. Whilst he was a-watchin’ you I was a-watchin’ him, an’ if he ain’t got a war map printed on his[57] face I ain’t never saw none in the ‘Charleston Mercury.’”

“The old man is a preacher,” said Captain Moseley in a tone that seemed to dispose of the matter.

“Well, the Lord help us!” exclaimed Chadwick. “In about the wuss whippin’ I ever got was from a young feller that was preachin’ an’ courtin’ in my neighborhood. I sorter sassed him about a gal he was flyin’ around, an’ he upped an’ frailed me out, an’ got the gal to boot. Don’t tell me about no preachers. Why, that chap flew at me like a Stonefence rooster, an’ he fluttered twice to my once.”

“And have you been running from preachers ever since?” dryly inquired the captain.

“Not as you may say, constantly a-runnin’,” replied Chadwick; “yit I ain’t been a-flingin’ no sass at ’em; an’ my reason tells me for to give ’em the whole wedth of the big road when I meet ’em.”

“Well,” said the captain, “what will you do about this preacher?”

“A man in a corner,” responded Chadwick, “is obleeged to do the best he kin. I’ll jest keep my eye on him, an’ the fust motion he makes, I’ll”—

[58]

“Run?” suggested the captain.

“Well, now,” said Chadwick, “a man in a corner can’t most ingener’lly run. Git me hemmed in, an’ I’ll scratch an’ bite an’ scuffle the best way I know how. It’s human natur’, an’ I’m mighty glad it is; for if that old man’s eyes didn’t tell no lies we’ll have to scratch an’ scuffle before we git away from this mountain.”

Captain Moseley bit his mustache and smiled grimly as the tired horses toiled up the road. A vague idea of possible danger had crossed his mind while talking to Uncle Billy Powers, but he dismissed it at once as a matter of little importance to a soldier bent on carrying out his orders at all hazards.

It was not long before the two travelers found themselves on a plateau formed by a shoulder of the mountain. On this plateau were abundant signs of life. Cattle were grazing about among the trees, chickens were crowing, and in the distance could be heard the sound of a woman’s voice singing. As they pressed forward along the level road they came in sight of a cabin, and the blue smoke curling from its short chimney was suggestive of hospitality. It was a comfortable-looking cabin, too, flanked by several[59] outhouses. The buildings, in contrast with the majestic bulk of the mountain, that still rose precipitously skyward, were curiously small, but there was an air of more than ordinary neatness and coziness about them. And there were touches of feminine hands here and there that made an impression—rows of well-kept boxwood winding like a green serpent through the yard, and a privet hedge that gave promise of rare sweetness in the spring.

As the soldiers approached, a dog barked, and then the singing ceased, and the figure of a young girl appeared in the doorway, only to disappear like a flash. This vision, vanishing with incredible swiftness, was succeeded by a more substantial one in the shape of a motherly looking woman, who stood gazing over her spectacles at the horsemen, apparently undecided whether to frown or to smile. The smile would have undoubtedly forced its way to the pleasant face in any event, for the years had fashioned many a pathway for it, but just then Uncle Billy Powers himself pushed the woman aside and made his appearance, laughing.

“’Light, boys, ’light!” he exclaimed, walking nimbly to the gate. “’Light whilst[60] I off wi’ your creeturs’ gear. Ah!” he went on, as he busied himself unsaddling the horses, “you thought that while your Uncle Billy was a-moonin’ aroun’ down the hill yander you’d steal a march on your Aunt Crissy, an’ maybe come a-conscriptin’ of her into the army. But not—not so! Your Uncle Billy has been here long enough to get his hands an’ his face rested.”

“You must have been in a tremendous hurry,” said Captain Moseley, remembering the weary length of mountain road he had climbed.

“Why, I could ’a’ tuck a nap an’ ’a’ beat you,” said the old man.

“Two miles of tough road, I should say,” responded Moseley.

“Go straight through my hoss lot and let yourself down by a saplin’ or two,” answered Uncle Billy, “an’ it ain’t more ’n a good quarter.” Whereupon the old man laughed heartily.

“Jes leave the creeturs here,” he went on. “John Jeems an’ Fillmore will ten’ to ’em whilst we go in an’ see what your Aunt Crissy is gwine to give us for supper. You won’t find the grub so mighty various, but there is plenty enough of what they is.”

[61]

There was just enough of deference in Aunt Crissy’s greeting to be pleasing, and her unfeigned manifestations of hospitality soon caused the guests to forget that they might possibly be regarded as intruders in that peaceful region. Then there were the two boys, John Jeems and Fillmore, both large enough, and old enough, as Captain Moseley quietly observed to himself, to do military service, and both shy and awkward to a degree. And then there was Polly, a young woman grown, whose smiles all ran to blushes and dimples. Though she was grown, she had the ways of a girl—the vivacity of health and good humor, and the innocent shyness of a child of nature. Impulsive and demure by turns, her moods were whimsical and elusive and altogether delightful. Her beauty, which illumined the old cabin, was heightened by a certain quality that may be described as individuality. Her face and hands were browned by the sun, but in her cheeks the roses of youth and health played constantly. There is nothing more charming to the eye of man than the effects produced when modesty parts company with mere formality and conventionality. Polly, who was as shy as a[62] ground squirrel and as graceful, never pestered herself about formalities. Innocence is not infrequently a very delightful form of boldness. It was so in the case of Polly Powers, at any rate.

The two rough soldiers, unused to the society of women, were far more awkward and constrained than the young woman, but they enjoyed the big fire and the comfortable supper none the less on that account. When, to employ Mrs. Powers’s vernacular, “the things were put away,” they brought forth their pipes; and they felt so contented that Captain Moseley reproved himself by suggesting that it might be well for them to proceed on their journey up the mountain. But their hosts refused to listen to such a proposal.

“Not so,” exclaimed Uncle Billy; “by no means. Why, if you knowed this hill like we all, you’d hoot at the bar’ idee of gwine further after nightfall. Besides,” the old man went on, looking keenly at his daughter, “ten to one you won’t find Spurlock.”

Polly had been playing with her hair, which was caught in a single plait and tied with a bit of scarlet ribbon. When Spurlock’s[63] name was mentioned she used the plait as a whip, and struck herself impatiently in the hand with the glossy black thong, and then threw it behind her, where it hung dangling nearly to the floor.

“Now I tell you what, boys,” said Uncle Billy, after a little pause; “I’d jes like to know who is at the bottom of this Spurlock business. You all may have took a notion that he’s a no-’count sorter chap—an’ he is kinder puny; but what does the army want with a puny man?”

“It’s the law,” said Captain Moseley, simply, perceiving that his mission was clearly understood. “He is old enough and strong enough to serve in the army. The law calls for him, and he’ll have to go. The law wants him now worse than ever.”

“Yes,” said private Chadwick, gazing into the glowing embers—“lots worse’n ever.”

“What’s the matter along of him now?” inquired Mrs. Powers, knocking the ashes from her pipe against the chimney jamb.

“He’s a deserter,” said Chadwick.

“Tooby shore!” exclaimed Mrs. Powers. “An’ what do they do wi’ ’em, then?”

For answer Private Chadwick passed his[64] right hand rapidly around his neck, caught hold of an imaginary rope, and looked upwards at the rafters, rolling his eyes and distorting his features as though he were strangling. It was a very effective pantomime. Uncle Billy shook his head and groaned, Aunt Crissy lifted her hands in horror, and then both looked at Polly. That young lady had risen from her chair and made a step toward Chadwick. Her eyes were blazing.

“You’ll be hung long before Israel Spurlock!” she cried, her voice thick with anger. Before another word had been said she swept from the room, leaving Chadwick sitting there with his mouth wide open.

“Don’t let Polly pester you,” said Uncle Billy, smiling a little at Chadwick’s discomfiture. “She thinks the world an’ all of Sister Spurlock, an’ she’s been a-knowin’ Israel a mighty long time.”

“Yes,” said Aunt Crissy, with a sigh; “the poor child is hot-headed an’ high-tempered. I reckon we’ve sp’ilt ’er. ’T ain’t hard to spile a gal when you hain’t got but one.”

Before Chadwick could make reply a shrill, querulous voice was heard coming from the[65] room into which Polly had gone. The girl had evidently aroused some one who was more than anxious to engage in a war of words.

“Lord A’mighty massy! whar’s any peace?” the shrill voice exclaimed. “What chance on the top side of the yeth is a poor sick creetur got? Oh, what makes you come a-tromplin’ on the floor like a drove of wild hosses, an’ a-shakin’ the clabberds on the roof? I know! I know!”—the voice here almost rose to a shriek,—“it’s ’cause I’m sick an’ weak, an’ can’t he’p myself. Lord! ef I but had strength!”

At this point Polly’s voice broke in, but what she said could only be guessed by the noise in the next room.

“Well, what ef the house an’ yard was full of ’em? Who’s afeard? After Spurlock? Who keers? Hain’t Spurlock got no friends on Sugar Mountain? Ef they are after Spurlock, ain’t Spurlock got as good a right for to be after them? Oh, go ’way! Gals hain’t got no sense. Go ’way! Go tell your pappy to come here an’ he’p me in my cheer. Oh, go on!”

Polly had no need to go, however. Uncle Billy rose promptly and went into the next room.

[66]

“Hit’s daddy,” said Aunt Crissy, by way of explanation. “Lord! daddy used to be a mighty man in his young days, but he’s that wasted wi’ the palsy that he hain’t more ’n a shadder of what he was. He’s jes like a baby, an’ he’s mighty quar’lsome when the win’ sets in from the east.”

According to all symptoms the wind was at that moment setting terribly from the east. There was a sound of shuffling in the next room, and then Uncle Billy Powers came into the room, bearing in his stalwart arms a big rocking-chair containing a little old man whose body and limbs were shriveled and shrunken. Only his head, which seemed to be abnormally large, had escaped the ravages of whatever disease had seized him. His eyes were bright as a bird’s and his forehead was noble in its proportions.

“Gentlemen,” said Uncle Billy, “this here is Colonel Dick Watson. He used to be a big politicianer in his day an’ time. He’s my father-in-law.”

Uncle Billy seemed to be wonderfully proud of his connection with Colonel Watson. As for the Colonel, he eyed the strangers closely, apparently forgetting to respond to their salutation.

[67]

“I reckon you think it’s mighty fine, thish ’ere business er gwine ter war whar they hain’t nobody but peaceable folks,” exclaimed the colonel, his shrill, metallic voice being in curious contrast to his emaciated figure.

“Daddy!” said Mrs. Powers in a warning tone.

“Lord A’mighty! don’t pester me, Crissy Jane. Hain’t I done seed war before? When I was in the legislatur’ didn’t the boys rig up an’ march away to Mexico? But you know yourself,” the colonel went on, turning to Uncle Billy’s guests, “that this hain’t Mexico, an’ that they hain’t no war gwine on on this ’ere hill. You know that mighty well.”

“But there’s a tolerable big one going on over yonder,” said Captain Moseley, with a sweep of his hand to the westward.

“Now, you don’t say!” exclaimed Colonel Watson, sarcastically. “A big war going on an’ you all quiled up here before the fire, out ’n sight an’ out ’n hearin’! Well, well, well!”

“We are here on business,” said Captain Moseley, gently.

“Tooby shore!” said the Colonel, with a[68] sinister screech that was intended to simulate laughter. “You took the words out ’n my mouth. I was in-about ready to say it when you upped an’ said it yourself. War gwine on over yander an’ you all up here on business. Crissy Jane,” remarked the colonel in a different tone, “come here an’ wipe my face an’ see ef I’m a-sweatin’. Ef I’m a-sweatin’, hit’s the fust time since Sadday before last.”

Mrs. Powers mopped her father’s face, and assured him that she felt symptoms of perspiration.

“Oh, yes!” continued the colonel. “Business here an’ war yander. I hear tell that you er after Israel Spurlock. Lord A’mighty above us! What er you after Israel for? He hain’t got no niggers for to fight for. All the fightin’ he can do is to fight for his ole mammy.”

Captain Moseley endeavored to explain to Colonel Watson why his duty made it imperatively necessary to carry Spurlock back to the conscript camp, but in the midst of it all the old man cried out:—

“Oh, I know who sent you!”

“Who?” the captain said.

“Nobody but Wesley Lovejoy!”

[69]

Captain Moseley made no response, but gazed into the fire. Chadwick, on the other hand, when Lovejoy’s name was mentioned, slapped himself on the leg, and straightened himself up with the air of a man who has made an interesting discovery.

“Come, now,” Colonel Watson insisted, “hain’t it so? Didn’t Wesley Lovejoy send you?”

“Well,” said Moseley, “a man named Lovejoy is on Colonel Waring’s staff, and he gave me my orders.”

At this the old man fairly shrieked with laughter, and so sinister was its emphasis that the two soldiers felt the cold chills creeping up their backs.

“What is the matter with Lovejoy?” It was Chadwick who spoke.

“Oh, wait!” cried Colonel Watson; “thes wait. You mayn’t want to wait, but you’ll have to. I may look like I’m mighty puny, an’ I ’spec’ I am, but I hain’t dead yit. Lord A’mighty, no! Not by a long shot!”

There was a pause here, during which Aunt Crissy remarked, in a helpless sort of way:—

“I wonder wher’ Polly is, an’ what she’s a-doin’?”

[70]

“Don’t pester ’long of Polly,” snapped the paralytic. “She knows what she’s a-doin’.”

“About this Wesley Lovejoy,” said Captain Moseley, turning to the old man: “you seem to know him very well.”

“You hear that, William!” exclaimed Colonel Watson. “He asts me ef I know Wes. Lovejoy! Do I know him? Why, the triflin’ houn’! I’ve knowed him ev’ry sence he was big enough to rob a hen-roos’.”

Uncle Billy Powers, in his genial way, tried to change the current of conversation, and he finally succeeded, but it was evident that Adjutant Lovejoy had one enemy, if not several, in that humble household. Such was the feeling for Spurlock and contempt for Wesley Lovejoy that Captain Moseley and Private Chadwick felt themselves to be interlopers, and they once more suggested the necessity of pursuing their journey. This suggestion seemed to amuse the paralytic, who laughed loudly.

“Lord A’mighty!” he exclaimed, “I know how you feel, an’ I don’t blame you for feelin’ so; but don’t you go up the mountain this night. Thes stay right whar you is, beca’se ef you don’t you’ll make all[71] your friends feel bad for you. Don’t ast me how, don’t ast me why. Thes you stay. Come an’ put me to bed, William, an’ don’t let these folks go out ’n the house this night.”

Uncle Billy carried the old man into the next room, tucked him away in his bed, and then came back. Conversation lagged to such an extent that Aunt Crissy once more felt moved to inquire about Polly. Uncle Billy responded with a sweeping gesture of his right hand, which might mean much or little. To the two Confederates it meant nothing, but to Aunt Crissy it said that Polly had gone up the mountain in the rain and cold. Involuntarily the woman shuddered and drew nearer the fire.

It was in fact a venturesome journey that Polly had undertaken. Hardened as she was to the weather, familiar as she was with the footpaths that led up and down and around the face of the mountain, her heart rose in her mouth when she found herself fairly on the way to Israel Spurlock’s house. The darkness was almost overwhelming in its intensity. As Uncle Billy Powers remarked while showing the two Confederates to their beds in the “shed-room,” there “was a solid chunk of it from one eend of creation[72] to t’ other.” The rain, falling steadily but not heavily, was bitterly cold, and it was made more uncomfortable by the wind, which rose and fell with a muffled roar, like the sigh of some Titanic spirit flying hither and yonder in the wild recesses of the sky. Bold as she was, the girl was appalled by the invisible contention that seemed to be going on in the elements above her, and more than once she paused, ready to flee, as best she could, back to the light and warmth she had left behind; but the gesture of Chadwick, with its cruel significance, would recur to her, and then, clenching her teeth, she would press blindly on. She was carrying a message of life and freedom to Israel Spurlock.

With the rain dripping from her hair and her skirts, her face and hands benumbed with cold, but with every nerve strung to the highest tension and every faculty alert to meet whatever danger might present itself, Polly struggled up the mountain path, feeling her way as best she could, and pulling herself along by the aid of the friendly saplings and the overhanging trees.

After a while—and it seemed a long while to Polly, contending with the fierce forces of the night and beset by a thousand[73] doubts and fears—she could hear Spurlock’s dogs barking. What if the two soldiers, suspecting her mission, had mounted their horses and outstripped her? She had no time to remember the difficulties of the mountain road, nor did she know that she had been on her journey not more than half an hour. She was too excited either to reason or to calculate. Gathering her skirts in her hands as she rose to the level of the clearing, Polly rushed across it towards the little cabin, tore open the frail little gate, and flung herself against the door with a force that shook the house.

Old Mrs. Spurlock was spinning, while Israel carded the rolls for her. The noise that Polly made against the door startled them both. The thread broke in Mrs. Spurlock’s hand, and one part of it curled itself on the end of the broach with a buzz that whirled it into a fantastically tangled mass. The cards dropped from Israel’s hands with a clatter that added to his mother’s excitement.

“Did anybody ever hear the beat of that?” she exclaimed. “Run, Iserl, an’ see what it is that’s a-tryin’ to tear the roof off ’n the house.”

[74]

Israel did not need to be told, nor did Mrs. Spurlock wait for him to go. They reached the door together, and when Israel threw it open they saw Polly Powers standing there, pale, trembling, and dripping.

“Polly!” cried Israel, taking her by the arm. He could say no more.

“In the name er the Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Spurlock, “wher’ ’d you drop from? You look more like a drownded ghost than you does like folks. Come right in here an’ dry yourse’f. What in the name of mercy brung you out in sech weather? Who’s dead or a-dyin’? Why, look at the gal!” Mrs. Spurlock went on in a louder tone, seeing that Polly stood staring at them with wide-open eyes, her face as pale as death.

“Have they come?” gasped Polly.

“Listen at ’er, Iserl! I b’lieve in my soul she’s done gone an’ run ravin’ deestracted. Shake ’er, Iserl; shake ’er.”

For answer Polly dropped forward into Mrs. Spurlock’s arms, all wet as she was, and there fell to crying in a way that was quite alarming to Israel, who was not familiar with feminine peculiarities. Mrs. Spurlock soothed Polly as she would have soothed a baby, and half carried, half led[75] her to the fireplace. Israel, who was standing around embarrassed and perplexed, was driven out of the room, and soon Polly was decked out in dry clothes. These “duds,” as Mrs. Spurlock called them, were ill-fitting and ungraceful, but in Israel’s eyes the girl was just as beautiful as ever. She was even more beautiful when, fully recovered from her excitement, she told with sparkling eyes and heightened color the story she had to tell.

Mrs. Spurlock listened with the keenest interest, and with many an exclamation of indignation, while Israel heard it with undisguised admiration for the girl. He seemed to enjoy the whole proceeding, and when Polly in the ardor and excitement of her narration betrayed an almost passionate interest in his probable fate, he rubbed his hands slowly together and laughed softly to himself.

“An’ jest to think,” exclaimed Polly, when she had finished her story, “that that there good-for-nothin’ Wesley Lovejoy had the imperdence to ast me to have him no longer ’n last year, an’ he’s been a-flyin’ round me constant.”

“I seed him a-droppin’ his wing,” said[76] Israel, laughing. “I reckon that’s the reason he’s after me so hot. But never you mind, mammy; you thes look after the gal that’s gwine to be your daughter-in-law, an’ I’ll look after your son.”

“Go off, you goose!” cried Polly, blushing and smiling. “Ef they hang you, whose daughter-in-law will I be then?”

“The Lord knows!” exclaimed Israel, with mock seriousness. “They tell me that Lovejoy is an orphan!”

“You must be crazy,” cried Polly, indignantly. “I hope you don’t think I’d marry that creetur. I wouldn’t look at him if he was the last man. You better be thinkin’ about your goozle.”

“It’s ketchin’ befo’ hangin’,” said Israel.

“They’ve mighty nigh got you now,” said Polly. Just then a hickory nut dropped on the roof of the house, and the noise caused the girl to start up with an exclamation of terror.

“You thought they had me then,” said Israel, as he rose and stood before the fire, rubbing his hands together, and seeming to enjoy most keenly the warm interest the girl manifested in his welfare.

“Oh, I wisht you’d cut an’ run,” pleaded[77] Polly, covering her face with her hands; “they’ll be here therreckly.”

Israel was not a bad-looking fellow as he stood before the fire laughing. He was a very agreeable variation of the mountain type. He was angular, but neither stoop-shouldered nor cadaverous. He was awkward in his manners, but very gracefully fashioned. In point of fact, as Mrs. Powers often remarked, Israel was “not to be sneezed at.”

After a while he became thoughtful. “I jest tell you what,” he said, kicking the chunks vigorously, and sending little sparks of fire skipping and cracking about the room. “This business puzzles me—I jest tell you it does. That Wes. Lovejoy done like he was the best friend I had. He was constantly huntin’ me up in camp, an’ when I told him I would like to come home an’ git mammy’s crap in, he jest laughed an’ said he didn’t reckon I’d be missed much, an’ now he’s a-houndin’ me down. What has the man got agin me?”

Polly knew, but she didn’t say. Mrs. Spurlock suspected, but she made no effort to enlighten Israel. Polly knew that Lovejoy was animated by blind jealousy, and her[78] instinct taught her that a jealous man is usually a dangerous one. Taking advantage of one of the privileges of her sex, she had at one time carried on a tremendous flirtation with Lovejoy. She had intended to amuse herself simply, but she had kindled fires she was powerless to quench. Lovejoy had taken her seriously, and she knew well enough that he regarded Israel Spurlock as a rival. She had reason to suspect, too, that Lovejoy had pointed out Israel to the conscript officers, and that the same influence was controlling and directing the pursuit now going on.

Under the circumstances, her concern—her alarm, indeed—was natural. She and Israel had been sweethearts for years,—real sure-enough sweethearts, as she expressed it to her grandfather,—and they were to be married in a short while; just as soon, in fact, as the necessary preliminaries o............