A march of forty miles was almost too much even for the tough Nettleton, more especially as he had received a severe shot in the ankle; but he bore up firmly, and at last arrived at the outskirts of the rebel camp. He had become very lame, and rolled about like a ship in a heavy sea. As he entered the camp, many were the jeers and taunts which hailed this specimen of the Yankee soldier. Nettleton made no reply, although his countenance bespoke his contempt.
He was now near the quarters of Price.
“By thunder!” yelled one of the Confederate soldiers, “that is the very fellow who fooled us at Springfield. Hang him! Hang him!”
An explanation was soon made, and Nettleton’s fate appeared certain, as a “drumhead” court-martial had already been convened. Sentence was soon given—the Yankee spy was to be hung upon the spot!
A rough scaffolding was formed, under a large tree, and a rope, with the fatal noose attached, thrown over a limb. Nettleton ascended the platform in silence, although his frame trembled.
“I never saw a Yankee yet that did not fear to die,” exclaimed one of the bystanders.
“Then you see one now, you darn skunk,” replied Nettleton.
“Why do you tremble, then?” asked the Confederate.
“I was thinking of the captain, and of his poor sister ‘Mamie.’”
“Ha! ha! ha! This booby is in love. A romantic spy. And the idol of his passion is called ‘Mamie!’”