CHAPTER XX. WAR IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.
It was a Sabbath morning in the latter part of October, clear and frosty. The sun had risen in a cloudless sky, the wind blew northward in rolling columns, the smoke from the village chimneys, and the leaves on the magnificent forest trees, which surrounded the village on the north, east, and south, had grown brown and sear, but the great plantations of the level valley on the west were still verdant. While on the west, faintly outlined in the distance, rose the Cumberland mountains.
An old man, with a basket on his arm, was walking down the broad sidewalk past the cottages, from which came the fragrant odor of coffee, a sure indication that breakfast was preparing. The old man chanced to cast his eyes towards the eastern part of the town, and paused in amazement.
In a field of about twenty acres, as if they had risen by magic, were scores of snowy tents. Sentries were on duty, their burnished arms glittering in the sun, and hundreds of gray-coated soldiers were passing and repassing, white clouds of smoke from their camp-fires rose in the frosty air.
While the old man was looking beyond the streets and houses at the encampment on the hill, a neighbor, walking up the other side of the street, hailed him with:
"Rather sudden appearance ain't it?" pointing to the camp, over which the Confederate flag was floating.
"When did they come, Mr. Williams?" said the first old man.
"Last night," replied Mr. Williams, crossing over to where the other stood. "Can't you guess what's in the wind?"
"No," was the answer.
Mr. Williams, a corpulent, smooth-faced man of sixty, smiled.
"Why, you see, the boys are strong enough now to take the Junction, and they are on their way."
"How many are they?" asked the first old man, who was tall and thin, with long, gray beard. He spoke evidently with some concern.
"About three thousand in all, with five pieces of artillery."
The cannon and the ammunition wagons were plainly to be seen from the street.
"And so they are on their way to fight the Abolitionists at the Junction?" said the first old man thoughtfully.
"Yes, Mr. Jones, and your son, Hiram, is in that crowd and my son, Seth. They'll make it quite lively for old Colonel Holdfast," replied Mr. Williams.
"Yes, they will," said Mr. Jones, stroking his gray beard.
The sun rose higher in the heavens, and the frosty air grew warm and genial. By nine o'clock the forces were in motion, the long lines of cavalry and infantry proceeding slowly and cautiously towards the Junction.
The good citizens of Snagtown had recovered from the excitement, into which the appearance of the troops had thrown them, and the church bells were calling them to worship, when the boom of the cannon shook the hills.
All was instant excitement. The cannon shot came from the direction in which the troops had gone. It was followed by another and another, until the roar of artillery shook the hills and valleys for miles around, and then the rattle of grape and canister was borne to the ears of the villagers. Plainly a fight was going on. The firing lasted about half an hour, then it began to slacken, and at last, ceased, excepting an occasional dropping musket shot.
The villagers were gathered about in anxious groups, when a single horseman, dressed in gray, galloped furiously into the village. The men crowded eagerly about him to inquire how the battle had gone.
"There had been no battle," he said, "but their advance guard had met the advance guard of the Union troops, and a skirmish had ensued, a battery on either side having opened.
"We are falling back to more advantageous ground," he added, "and will be in the village in fifteen minutes."
The excitement, of course, redoubled. There was no service in the church, but the women and children were hurried away from the village, and the stern-faced who remained, locked and barred their homes and gathered, armed and resolute, in the streets. Stragglers from the army came in first, then followed the infantry and artillery. There was a long embankment on the north side of the village, where the earth had been partly washed and partly cut away. This embankment was nearly as high as a man's breast, and a fence ran along its top for a quarter of a mile to the east of the village. Behind this natural fortification the principal part of the infantry formed in lines. The artillery was placed in an orchard, where there was a dense growth of trees to mask it.
The advance of the Union forces came on slowly, and it was an hour after the entrance of the Confederates into the village before the deployed skirmishers came in sight. The crack of a rifle announced their approach, another and another burst on the air at once, and then the balls came rattling rapidly against the houses.
The engagement became general, and the roar of artillery and the rattle of musketry was deafening. The Sabbath morning, dawning so serene and calm, had been followed by a noon of bloodshed, terror and strife. The neat village cottages were shattered and balls had crashed through window lights and shutters. The little stone church had been struck by cannon shot and shell, and one building had caught fire and burned to the ground.
Finally the Confederate lines began to waver and give way, and the bugle sounded the retreat. They fell back, column behind column, in regular order, passing through the village, closely followed by the victorious troops.
No sooner had the last column left the village than the frightened inhabitants, who had been hiding in the woods at some distance away, began to peep forth upon the terrible scene.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith, returning, found occasionally, here and there, in the street a ghastly form. A man lay dead at the gate of Mr. Jones; some were even in the houses, while one was lying across the sidewalk in front of the church. Their houses had been struck with balls, but not near so badly shattered as might have been expected. Two or three cannon balls were lying in the street and fragments of exploded shells strewn on the ground.
The occasional dropping shots in the distance told that both armies were moving. Colonel Holdfast seemed determined to hold fast to Colonel Scramble this time.
The struggle we have described in this chapter is not recorded by most historians, and, if mentioned at all, is only considered a skirmish, yet the citizens of Snagtown thought it the most terrible battle of the war.
No one of the Tompkins family had left their home. During the night Irene had been awakened by the rumble of wheels and the tramp of hoofs, and, looking from her bedroom window down the broad road, saw long lines of dark, silent figures marching in the direction of Snagtown. For more than an hour those silent dark figures, with their bristling bayonets glittering in the cold moonlight, marched on and on past her window in seemingly never-ending procession—horsemen, artillery and baggage wagons rolling by. Then the line was less solid and finally broken—an occasional group galloping by to join the army in advance. When daylight came not a soldier was to be seen on the hard beaten road.
Irene knew well what was the intention of the Confederates. She had recognized one form among those hosts that marched by in the moonlight, and, at sight of him, had crouched by in the window recess with a strange pain at her heart.
The whole family was aroused by the passing troops, and all rightly guessed their object. Through the long morning they sat watching on the veranda, Irene, pale and beautiful, leaning against one of the columns of the great porch running about the northeast side of the house, heard the first roar of the artillery, that ushered in the day's strife, and, during the long two hours that the battle raged, she stood motionless, except that her white lips moved in silent prayer. She saw the advance of the column in rapid retreat coming down the great road from Snagtown.
"Defeated!" she murmured. "O, Heaven, is he among the dead? Both may be slain!"
Little did she dream how close were the pursuers. One vast retreating mass of troops in gray poured down the hill, and, among the last of the Confederates, she saw the dark face of Oleah. His company was the last to descend the hill, and the rear was not half way from the summit when a line of blue coats appeared on the brow of the hill and quickly fell in line.
White puffs of smoke filled the air, and a rattling discharge of fire-arms followed.
Irene, forgetful of danger or too horrified to fly, stood motionless as a statue. She saw one or two of Oleah's company fall, and saw their captain wheel his horse and dash back among his panic-stricken troops. He reformed them almost instantly and returned the volley, driving back the advance of the Union troops, who immediately rallied and came on again to the conflict.
"Come, Irene, come in for Heaven's sake! You may be struck dead at any moment," cried Mrs. Tompkins, seizing the poor girl around the waist. "Come, come to the cellar; it is the only safe place."
"But, mother, see, he, they both, are there, in danger of being killed. I can not go until I see him safe."
But Mrs. Tompkins drew her away from the porch.
Contrary to the expectations of Mr. Tompkins and of the whole family, the house was not used as a fortification, and a running fight followed; then the bulk of the Union army swept on down the road in pursuit of the retreating Confederates.
Irene hastened from the house down the driveway. A dead horse lay on the hill, and two soldiers, one in blue and one in gray, lay motionless in the road, but their forms were stark and stiff, no earthly aid could reach them. As she turned away she heard a groan, and, hastening to the spot, she saw lying in a little hazel copse, which had before concealed him from her view, a Confederate soldier with a shattered leg, almost unconscious from loss of blood. One glance, and Irene recognized those pale haggard features. It was Henry Smith. She saw that he was badly wounded and flew back to the house for help.
The troops under Colonel Holdfast followed up the Confederates closely, harrassing them by repeated dashes on their rear guard, thus keeping up a continual skirmish. It so happened that Captain Abner Tompkins commanded the advance of Colonel Holdfast, while Captain Oleah Tompkins the rear guard of Colonel Scrabble. The men, under each, were from the immediate neighborhood of Snagtown, and, consequently, many in these hostile ranks were former acquaintances or friends. As the advance under Abner was approaching a farm-house, he threw out skirmishers, among whom was one Jim Moore, who had formerly lived in Snagtown. The house stood back from the road, surrounded by giant oaks, and the skirmishers, fifteen in number, led by Sergeant Swords, approached slowly and cautiously, warned by the crack of rifles behind the trees. The trees being plenty, each man concealed himself behind one of them, they commenced an Indian warfare. Jim Moore, who was behind a large oak, had been watching his chance to get a shot at a Confederate, behind a similar tree, about one hundred yards away. The Confederate was watching Jim the same time.
"I say," called out Jim, during a lull in the attack, "give a fellow a chance for a pop."
The Confederate thrust out his head for a brief second, and Jim blazed away; the bullet passed two inches over the reckless head.
"Too high!" cried the Confederate; now give me a chance.
Jim, not to be outdone, thrust out his head and shoulders, and a ball whizzed beneath his arm.
"Too low!" he cried; "but now, I'll bet a quart o' whiskey you and I have shot together before."
"Your voice is familiar," answered the man, reloading. "Who are you, any way?"
"Jim Moore, from Snagtown, and, if I aint mistaken, you are Seth Williams?"
"Right, old boy. We've shot ducks together many a time. How d'ye do?"
"Pretty well," said Jim. "How are yerself and all the rest of the boys?"
"Excellent. What are you fellows following us for?"
"To keep you out o' mischief."
"How many you got?"
"Not quite seventy thousand."
"You're lying, Jim."
"Well, I'll take that from an old friend, Seth, but don't repeat it too often, or I'll come over there and thrash you."
This dialogue attracted the attention of all the skirmishers, and not a shot for the last two minutes had been fired.
Re-inforcements now came up to the aid of the Union skirmishers, and the Confederates retired through the farmyard and across the pasture, into the woods beyond. A cackling and a squalling of hens told that they had made a raid, in passing, on the barn-yard fowls.
The Union soldiers ran forward and fired at the retreating rebels. The only reply was a chorus of voices, singing "Chich-a-my, chick-a-my, crany crow," followed by reckless yells and peals of laughter.
In the hurry and confusion of the pursuit, Abner became separated from his company, and eager to rejoin it, dashed down a woodland path. Both forces were now between Snagtown and Twin Mountains, in the forest, which spread out for miles on either side of Wolf and Briar creeks, and the constant popping of guns told that the sharpshooters were at work. Not a human being was to be seen on the forest path Captain Tompkins had taken, but he could hear shooting on all sides. Suddenly he came upon a man standing by the side of a dead horse. In his headlong gallop, Abner would have run over him, had not the man seized the former's horse by the bit with an iron grasp and hurled it on its haunches.
A glance told Abner that it was a Confederate officer, and that he held a naked sword in his hand. In an instant he had drawn his own weapon and leaped from the saddle, to discover that he was confronted by his brother.
"So, we meet again," cried Oleah, his eyes flashing fire. "You are my prisoner, sir."
"Release my horse, and remember that we are brothers," returning his sword to its scabbard. "We shall find other foes to fight. Loose my horse and go."
"When I go you will go a prisoner with me. Brothers!" exclaimed Oleah, sneeringly. "In all things you oppose me. You are joined now with my enemies, fighting to rob me of country and home; you have tried to take from me more than my life—why not my life? Defend yourself."
Again the brothers' blades clashed together, but a tall, powerful form sprang from the thicket into the road and hurled them apart, as though they were children.
"Brothers seeking each other's blood?" cried the new comer in a ringing voice. "Shame! oh, shame! There are enemies enough for both your swords without drawing them on each other."
The new comer was the mysterious negro, Yellow Steve.
"I know you," cried Oleah; "you have something to tell me—"
"But it is not to slay your brother," interrupted Yellow Steve. "Shame on you both! Put up your swords, lest I take them from you and break them on my knee. You, Oleah, go, and go quickly. Your enemies are all around you."
"Hilloa!" cried another voice, "what does all this mean?" and Uncle Dan Martin, the scout, stepped out of the woods, with his rifle, ready cocked, in his hand.
Oleah, hearing others advancing, sprang into the bushes and made good his escape. Abner looked after him for a single moment, and when he turned to speak to Yellow Steve, that mysterious person had disappeared.
"Who was them uns?" asked Uncle Dan, hastening forward to where his bewildered captain stood.
"One was my brother Oleah, the other was that strange negro, who calls himself Yellow Steve."
"Where did he go?" asked the scout.
"I don't know," answered Abner. "His ways of appearing and disappearing are quite beyond my comprehension."
"I'll catch him," replied Uncle Dan. "I know the tricks of the fox and mink, and others, and I'll set a trap, which will get him yet."
"Will you?" cried a mocking voice some distance up the path, and looking up, they saw the mysterious black, standing by the trunk of a tree his arms folded on his breast, a look of defiance in his gleaming eyes. Almost simultaneously with the discovery came the crack of Uncle Dan's rifle. When the smoke had cleared away the black had again disappeared.
The place all about was searched, but no trace of him could be found.
"I believe he is the devil," said Uncle Dan. "I never missed a squirrel's head at that distance in my life."
"He is certainly a very extraordinary person," said Abner.