The Last Three Soldiers

by W. H. Shelton

"There they are! There they are! See? By the end of the house!"

As soon as the lieutenant had adjusted the powerful glass to his eye, he had the men before him almost as distinctly as if they had been standing within hailing distance. There was no mistaking the evidence that two of them were officers of what the three soldiers considered the beaten and disbanded army, while, although the third was in citizen's dress, it was unlike the dress of the mountaineers.

"Heaven help them!" exclaimed Lieutenant Coleman, as he gazed in amazement on the scene at the end of the long house. "How ragged they are! They must have been hunted through the woods like wild animals. Both of the two in uniform wear jackets of the mounted service, and—stop—as sure as you are born, the taller of the two is a lieutenant of artillery. He has but one shoulder-strap left, and that has too dark a ground for either cavalry or infantry. They may be from the staff. There is something about their uniforms, in spite of rags and dirt, that makes me think so. The other carries a roll of blankets over his shoulder—he must be a soldier; and they have just come in, too, for their haversacks are mighty lean."

It looked as if the poor fellows had found friends at last; for, while they stood talking with two women at the end of the house, Smith himself, who was a lank mountaineer with a red beard, was lounging by the gate with his gun on his shoulder, as if watching against surprise from the road. Bromley, who had been patiently waiting, now took the glass.

"By Jove!" he cried, "there are four girls there now, and the short officer is going into the house. You are right, Fred; the old man is on guard, with a sharp eye in his head, too. They are all going into the house now, by Neighbor Smith's advice, I fancy. I'll tell you who they are, Fred. They are escaped prisoners from Charleston. They must have been hiding in the woods and swamps for months. If that is the condition of the officers of the United States that were, a thousand times better is our lot on this free mountain-top." And returning the glass, Bromley ventured some bitter reflections on the Congress and the high officials who had conducted the war to a disastrous end.

"We must not lose sight of these unhappy men while they remain in the valley," said Coleman; and, it then being ten o'clock, he settled himself behind the glass, and gave his watch to Bromley, who was to relieve him at twelve.

Philip was too much excited by the presence of the fugitive officers to leave the rocks of his own accord; but Coleman presently sent him to the house for a loaded carbine, which was laid by in a dry niche of granite, to be fired as a signal to the others in case of any movement of importance at the cabin below. For the rest of the morning Smith with his gun kept his post at the gate, and the officers were never once seen outside the cabin. Judging by the volume of smoke from both chimneys, it would appear that they were faring pretty well inside.

Shortly before noon one of the girls ran through the bare woods to the two cottages overlooking the road, and brought back Jones, who relieved Smith at the gate. It was evident that Jones was friendly to the officers, for when he was relieved in turn he went into the house, and it was a long time before he came out.

Whoever was on watch was seldom alone, so keen was the interest of the exiles in the movements of their fellow-soldiers, and in any other happening which might concern them. According to Philip, who took the post of observation at four o'clock, old Shifless bossed the milking from the woodpile as usual. It was plain that he had not been taken into the confidence of the Smiths or the Joneses, and this fact was laid up against him.

After supper all three gathered on the rocky lookout, and remained observing the lights at the cabin of the Smiths long after it was too dark to use the telescope. There were no signs of departure below, and after they returned to the house, chilled by exposure and inaction, they sat until a late hour by the warm fire, discussing the events of the day and laying plans for the morrow.