CHAPTER XXI. CRAZY JOE'S MISTAKE.
Uncle Dan had long prided himself on his skill in woodcraft, and, to be thus outwitted in his old days, was more than he could endure. He plunged recklessly into the brush, which was so dense that no object could be seen a dozen feet away. He ran several narrow risks, coming two or three times almost into the rebel lines.
"To think that a nigger should get ahead of me that way! It's too much!" exclaimed the old man, as he leaned against a tree, and listened to the occasional shots which awoke the echoes of the forest. "But what do I want with him, if I should catch him? My business is to lead the army through the woods, and not to be following a strange nigger up and down."
A crushing in the underbrush told him that some one was advancing, and, a moment later, Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords with half a dozen soldiers came up to where the old man stood.
"Hilloa, old boy!" said Sergeant Swords. "Pausin' to view the land ahead?"
"No, I've been trying to git a pop at a nigger," replied Uncle Dan.
"What are niggers doing here?" said Corporal Grimm. "When dogs fight for a bone, the bone seldom fights."
"The bone is in these woods, but I'll be hanged if I know what it's here for. Let's be moving on."
"D'ye know the lay of the land?" asked Sergeant Swords.
"Every foot," said Uncle Dan.
The long line of Union skirmishers was moving slowly through the thick woods, and the line of Confederate skirmishers was retreating at the same pace to cover the rear of their army. The crack of rifles rang out frequently, but it was seldom with effect. It was evident that the Confederates were making for their stronghold beyond the Twin Mountains. The line of their retreat led by the foot of the mountains, where stood Uncle Dan's cabin.
With some anxiety Uncle Dan watched the movements of the retreating mass of soldiers. Among them was one short fat little fellow on foot, whose legs were too short to ably execute his prodigious exertions to keep pace with his companions; his little gray coat-tails were streaming in the air or whipping wildly against the trees. The officers, who were in the advance, amused themselves by popping away at the fleeing rebel with their revolvers. Still he flitted on among the trees, into the brush, out of the brush, over the logs, and under the lower branches of the trees, straining every nerve to keep up with his swifter companions. The soldiers were gaining on him rapidly, and it was painfully evident, that, when he reached open ground, one of these many loaded guns must bring him down. His companions, who were several rods in advance, suddenly turned abruptly to the left, which he, evidently too terrified to comprehend which way he was going, kept straight ahead.
Crack, crack! went the pistols of Grimm and Swords, and the bullets whizzed uncomfortably near our short friend's head.
"Oh, Lordy, Lordy, I know I shall be killed!" he cried in tones so wild and shrill that his fear could not be doubted. He reached the thicket bordering Wolf Creek and—crash, crash, bang!—he went through the thicket into the creek. The splash was plainly heard by his pursuers and, in spite of themselves, they could not repress a laugh.
In a moment they were at the bank and beheld a half drowned little man, sneezing and coughing as he struggled to the bank and clung to some pendant vines.
"Hem, hem, or Lordy!—achew—hem, hem!—oh Lordy, achew!" he murmured. "I'll—achew—quit this horrible soldier—achew—business. Oh! Lordy, I know I shall be killed! Achew! oh, Lordy. I want to quit this, I never was made to be a soldier."
"Helloa!" cried Uncle Dan. "Come out o' there, and tell us who ye are."
He looked up on the bank and, seeing the soldiers, with a cry plunged under the water. In a moment more he came up to breathe.
"Come out o' that and don't be playing mud-turtle," cried Uncle Dan. "Ef I ain't mistaken, ye are Patrick Henry Diggs, and yer lost."
It really was Diggs, and, with a yell of recognition and delight, he scrambled up the bank.
"O, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan!" he cried, falling almost exhausted at his feet. "Save me, save me, save me!"
"Save ye from what?" said Uncle Dan.
"From being shot and drowned and killed. Oh, I solemnly swear that I will never have anything more to do with this soldier business. It is only run, run, from beginning to end, and then plunging head first into a muddy stream. Oh, I'll quit it, I'll quit it. Heaven forgive me, Uncle Dan!" he cried vehemently.
"This is sorry business, Diggs. What war ye doing?" said Uncle Dan seriously.
"Running for my life," answered Diggs.
"Get up, Diggs," said the old scout solemnly.
The little fellow arose, looking more like a school-boy who was going to be thrashed.
"Diggs," said the old man, and there was not the slightest tinge of jest in his tones, "what war ye doing with the rebels?"
"If you please, sir,—hem, hem—" began Diggs, greatly confused, turning pale as death and beginning to tremble, "I—I—was taken prisoner with these two gentlemen," pointing to Corporal Grimm and Sergeant Swords.
"No, you were not," said both at once. "We were never taken prisoners."
"Oh, I beg your pardon—hem, hem!—gentlemen, please hear me through, and I can explain all this to you. I was taken prisoner by the rebels one night, when I went out with these two gentlemen, and they—hem, hem!—I mean the rebels, kept me for a long time until they made me go with them to-day, and you found me with them."
"Do you mean to say that ye have been a prisoner all this time?" asked Sergeant Swords.
"Yes," said Diggs, after a moment's hesitation.
"Then what was ye doing with a gun in yer hand, when we come on ye and the others?" said Corporal Grimm.
"You are mistaken, it was some one else," said Diggs, becoming confused.
"No, I am not. We all saw you throw it away and run with the rest," said the Corporal.
"Well, it was one I had just picked up. I was tryin' to escape, when you came up, and I ran with the rest."
"But here ye are with the cartridge-box belted around you," said the Sergeant, "and you have the gray uniform on."
Diggs was too much confused to reply, and his eyes dropped under the searching glance of the soldiers.
"Diggs," said the old scout, with great earnestness in his tones, "I'm afraid it will go hard with you. You are a deserter and a spy. It's sorry business, Diggs."
"O, Uncle Dan, Uncle Dan, promise me you will not let me be hurt!" cried Diggs.
"Come along. You shall be treated as a prisoner of war, but I can't say what a court martial may do about your desertion."
"O, Uncle Dan, you wont let them shoot me, will you? Say you won't, and I'll do anything in the world you want me to do. I'll enlist in your army and fight on half rations."
"You've 'listed a little too much already," said Uncle Dan. "This tryin' to sarve two masters won't do."
"Oh, you surely would not let me be killed. Oh, promise me, you will not let them take me out and shoot me." Poor Diggs broke down and sobbed like a whipped school-boy.
"Hush up blubberin'. Be a man, if ye've got any manhood about ye, and come along."
They now begin to retrace their steps back to where the main army had paused.
"But, Uncle Dan, you have known me from a child, and you knew my father before me. Say that you wont have me killed!" sobbed Diggs, as he walked along with a soldier on either side of him.
"That's beyond my control," replied Uncle Dan. "I'll turn ye over to the authorities, and I can't make promises."
Poor Diggs felt his heart sink within him. His very breathing became oppressive, and the soldiers who walked by his side seemed like giants of vengeance.
"Oh, what must I do, I know I shall be killed," thought Diggs. He reflected on his past life and commenced preparing for his exit from this world.
In his mind he opened a double-column ledger account of the good and the bad acts of his life. He tried to think how many times he had prayed. They were few. Only on occasions, like the present, when his danger was imminent. He remembered with horror, now, that when the danger was gone, he had always forgotten his good resolves, and mentally blamed himself for his weakness. The bad column ran up so rapidly that it seemed impossible for the account to be balanced.
"If I ever can get out of this," he mentally ejaculated, "I shall devote my life to the Lord's service. I will be a preacher; I would make a capital preacher; I was meant for a preacher, I know. If the good Lord will only get me out of this scrape, I will not go back on my word, sure!"
When Uncle Dan's party came up, they found Colonel Holdfast, Colonel Jones and Major Fleming holding a consultation under a large tree.
"Here is Uncle Dan, the scout, the very man we wanted," said Colonel Holdfast. "But who have you there? Did you find your prisoner in the home of the beaver and musk rat?"
Uncle Dan explained how they captured Diggs, and then the scout was instructed that he was to pilot two of the regiments through the woods to Snagtown, while the other was to follow up the retreating enemy. Uncle Dan understood in a moment how matters stood. There was no danger from the retreating Confederates, but it was very important that fortifications be thrown up at Snagtown.
Poor Diggs spent the night following in the jail building with several other prisoners. He passed the weary hours in prayer, good resolutions and in the firm determination to be a preacher, if the Lord would get him out of this scrape.
"When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be.
When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he."
Major Fleming, to whom was left the task of completing the rout of the Confederate forces, was a bold, energetic man. He pushed forward with no delay after the demoralized and retreating enemy. The science of war was yet new to both sides, and, while bravery and tact was displayed at an early day of the war, there was a lack of the veteran's skill.
The retreat was up Wolf Creek toward the mountains, through a rough, wild region. The advance of the Confederates came to where Uncle Dan's cabin stood. It so happened that Joe, who had so often been Uncle Dan's companion, was at the cabin, which he kept always ready for the old man's return. He stood in the door way and watched the advancing throng, his mild blue eyes wide with wonder.
"Do you come from the land of Canaan, and is the famine over where my father dwells?" he asked of the rough soldiers, who paused at the spring to drink.
"Come from Canaan? No; we come from h—l," replied one, with a laugh at his own wit.
"Have you seen my father?" asked Joe, in astonishment.
"No; but we have seen the devil," replied another, "and he is close at our heels."
The poor idiot looked alarmed. He vaguely comprehended that some danger was advancing, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, what shall I do?" he cried, in tones so plaintive, so pitiful, that they might have touched a heart of stone.
"Do? Run," said one of the soldiers, "run for your life, and hide among the rocks. There are plenty about here."
"No," said a third, "fight them. Here is a gun," handing him a musket. "Take this and shoot the first one you see."
Joe took the gun, but no dangerous light shone in his blue eyes.
"I will fight no one but the Philistines," he said, thoughtfully.
He was stunned and confused, and stood by the spring with the old musket in his hands, as group after group of armed soldiers hurried by.
"Hilloa, Joe, what are you doing?" said a familiar voice, and Howard Jones came towards him.
"I am here to assist Samson slay the Philistines," replied the poor lunatic.
"Put that down," said Howard, taking the gun from him and laying it on the rocks by the spring. "Now run. Go that way," pointing to the west, "and don't you take any guns in your hands. If any one says 'halt!' stop at once."
Howard Jones hurried on, hoping rather than believing, that Joe would follow his advice.
"Helloa, where are you going?" cried another soldier, as Joe started away.
"Fleeing from Sodom," replied Joe.
"Well, sir, don't you flee. Pick up that gun and fight the d——d Yankees. Shoot 'em as fast as they come out of the woods."
Joe, always obedient, took up the gun again and remained automaton-like, to obey the last speaker.
"For shame, Bryant!" exclaimed Seth Williams, who came up at that moment. "He is crazy. Would you have him expose his life that way, when he doesn't know what he is doing? Put the gun down, Joe, and go that way," said Seth, pointing to the west. "Go to Mr. Tompkins; he wants you."
Joe hastened to obey, and Seth hurried on.
There seemed to be some fatal attraction about that long line of moving men, with burnished arms and glittering bayonets, to poor Joe. He had not gone a dozen rods before he paused to look back at them. Tramp, tramp, tramp, they went, on and on, and he looked till his weak mind became all confused with wonder. As the dangerous reptile chains the bird it seeks to destroy, and draws it involuntarily to its death, so poor Joe felt involuntarily drawn towards that moving line of gray coats and glittering steel. Who were they? Where were they going? When would that long line end?
They kept passing, passing, passing, so many men, and so much alike, that poor Joe finally concluded it must be only one man, doomed for some misdeed to walk on, and on, and on forever, never advancing on his endless journey. Joe forgot Howard Jones and Seth Williams, and, pausing, gazed on in mute wonder.
But the main body had at length passed. Then the line became broken, and only straggling groups of horsemen and footmen went by; then these finally came at longer intervals, but in larger groups. Joe thought the end must be near.
The rear guard of the Confederates paused in front of Uncle Dan's cabin, to check the advance guard of Major Fleming.
"Halt!" cried the officer. "Deploy skirmishers and the advance."
"They're almost upon us, lieutenant," said a subordinate officer, riding in from the woods.
"Let 'em come," said the first speaker. "Take shelter behind trees or rocks, and make sure of every head that peeps out of the woods."
The men, about fifty in number, sprang to cover. The officer in command, chancing to look around, saw Crazy Joe, still spell-bound with wonder.
"Hey, fellow," he cried, "what are you doing there?"
"Nothing," said Joe.
"Well, then, come here and I'll give you something to do."
Joe obeyed. One look in his face was enough to betray the poor fellow's weakness.
The lieutenant knew that he was crazy, but, reckless of what the poor fellow's fate might be, he pointed to the musket Joe had laid on the rocks, and said:
"Pick that up, get behind those rocks, and when I say 'Fire!' shoot at the men you see coming from those trees."
Joe knew nothing else to do, but obey, little dreaming of the dread consequences that were to follow.
"What do you expect that crazy chap to do?" asked a soldier, as he rammed a ball down his rifle.
"He can shoot, and his bullet may strike a blue coat."
"Brace up and look more soldier-like," said one.
"Who greased yer hat?" asked another.
"When was yer hair cut?" put in a third.
"What ye got in the pockets of that great coat?" said another.
"Attention!" cried the lieutenant. "Here comes the enemy. Steady! Be sure of your aim, and fire only when you have it."
The Union skirmishers advanced cautiously, and the Confederates blazed away, taking care not to expose their own persons to the sharpshooters in the woods below and above. The fire from the woods became deadly, and the lieutenant ordered a retreat just as the Union forces in the woods, receiving reinforcements, made a charge.
"Run, run for your lives!" cried the lieutenant, setting the example.
A storm of leaden hail swept around Uncle Dan's low cabin, rattling against the walls and shattering shade trees in front of it.
Joe's face was now white with terror. The dread monster had come. He saw the men about him take to flight, and, in his simplicity, he threw aside the unused gun and followed them. He had not gone far before he changed his course, running off to the left, down the creek bottom, where the grass was tall and dry. The Confederates kept straight on across the woods, making for the mountain pass.
A detachment of soldiers came up to the cabin, and, seeing Joe in flight, the others already out of range, levelled their guns upon him.
"Hold!" cried an officer, in the uniform of a United States captain, as he galloped up to the group.
He was too late, before the word was fairly uttered, a dozen rifle shots drowned it.
"Great God, you have hit him!" cried Captain Abner Tompkins, as, through the smoke of the muskets, he saw Joe throw up his hands, reel, and fall. "You have hit him, and he was a poor, crazy fellow."
In a moment Abner was beside the prostrate form. He sprang from his horse and raised Joe from the ground. A deadly pallor had overspread his face; his blue eyes were glazed and he was gasping for breath.
"Who is it? Is he hurt?" cried Major Fleming, riding up to the spot, where the young captain was supporting the dying man on his knee.
"It is a poor fellow called Crazy Joe, and some of our men have shot him by mistake," said Abner, a moisture gathering in his eyes.
"He may not be badly hurt; perhaps he is only stunned," said the major.
But while they yet spoke, Joe breathed his last. Crazy Joe was dead; dead, without one ray of light piercing the dark cloud he had so vainly tried to lift; dead, with the dark mystery of his life unexplained; dead, not knowing who or what he was.
A musket ball had struck him in the back, passing out at the breast, and he lived but a few minutes after Abner had reached his side; he was past recognition then, and never spoke after he was shot.
Abner had the body conveyed to his father's house. The troops returned to Snagtown, having orders to pursue the enemy no further than the foot of Twin Mountains.
When Irene beheld the body of Crazy Joe, her resolution, which had borne her up under so many trials, gave way. She swooned, and, when she recovered, her grief so touched Mr. Tompkins that he had a costly burial outfit prepared for the poor dead boy. Abner obtained leave of absence to attend the funeral, and, early in the morning, he entered the home of his childhood, where he had so often played with the helpless being, who now lay there cold and lifeless. Irene met him in the hall, her eyes red with weeping.
"O, Abner," she cried, "it was such a cruel thing!"
"Yes, dear Irene, it was cruel, but it was a mistake, we were powerless to prevent," replied Abner, thinking it was the suddenness of his death that affected her.
"But, O, Abner, you do not understand me. I cannot tell you how strangely the death of this unfortunate being affects me. I loved Joe as we love those whose blood flows in our veins. I knew it all along, but never felt it so forcibly as now. 'Tis some great instinct, some higher power than human reason, that prompts me. Come, see how peaceful, how happy, how changed he looks."
He went with Irene into the darkened room. Joe's body was dressed in dark clothes with spotless linen, the hair trimmed and brushed, the eyelids closed over the troubled eyes. A look of intelligence had dawned in death on the face for years expressionless. There was a striking beauty in the face, with its perfect curve, its delicate, clear-cut features, and it seemed that there might have been a brain of power behind that lofty brow, on which he perceived the same deep scar that he had seen on his head when a boy. Abner was astonished. He had never thought Joe handsome with the old, pitiful look on his face, and his astonishment deepened, when, for the first time, he observed a striking resemblance between that face and the face of the girl who bent over it.
"It cannot be possible!" he thought. "Yet it might be; the birth of both was shrouded in mystery."
He did not give his thoughts expression, but he turned with deepening compassion from the white face of the dead to the face scarcely less white of the girl beside him.