After they had lain down on the ground and drunk from the spring, they turned in the direction of the lonely house, flattering themselves that they were, after all, pretty clever detectives. By putting together the facts which they had now determined and proved, they had made a rather shrewd beginning at the discovery of a crime. They agreed, as they went along, that nothing further should be disturbed within or without the house until they should have unraveled the history of the foul murder. That was, they believed, the method observed by the best detectives and coroners. They might not establish their theory to-day or to-morrow, but they could go and come by the new path they had found, and sooner or later they would force the secret from the mute objects in the midst of which the crime had been committed.
As they arrived at this united and enthusiastic decision, they were approaching the house on the opposite side to that which they had passed on their first coming. The turf was so firmly rooted here that it was not easy to determine whether there had or had not been a garden on this side. A thick clump of young chestnut-trees had grown up since cultivation had been suspended, and as the three soldiers turned around these, they came suddenly upon something which exploded their fine-spun theories.
THE GRAVE OF THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.THE GRAVE OF THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.
It was nothing less than a grave with an uncommonly high mound above it, and marked at the head by a broad slab of oak. Besides the wild-rose bush which grew out of the matted grass on the mound, there was another object which staggered the soldiers more than the grave itself. On the upper part of the headboard the following inscription was deeply cut:
HEREREST THE BONESOFHEZEKIAH WALLSTOWABOLITIONISTANDAPOSTLE OF TEMPERANCEWHO DIED
Here ended the letters, which were cut with a knife, evidently by the said Hezekiah himself, with the expenditure of much time and patience. Below, the inscription was continued with black paint, half written and half printed in one ungrammatical and badly spelled sentence:
Hit was sumwhar betuneApril 26 & Juin the 4,1858.
The other object, found lying across the grave, was the skeleton of the cow, whose crumpled horns were attached to the bleached skull, and whose white ribs provided a trellis for the rose-bush. Strangest of all strange things in this mysterious affair, one horn of the skeleton was hooked over the top of the slab so as to hold the great skull reversed close against the headboard on the side opposite to the inscription. Evidently the faithful creature had died of starvation during the winter which followed the death of her master. By accident or through a singular exhibition of affection, she had lain down to die on the hard snow which was banked high above the grave, and as this melted the head of the cow had lodged in this remarkable position.
"Well," said Philip, with a sigh for his pet theory, "whoever he was and however he came here, his name was Hezekiah Wallstow, and there was no murder after all—unless a third man came to bury him."
"That's all settled," said Bromley, resignedly; "but how about the cow? Did she come here in a balloon?"
"My dear fellow," said Lieutenant Coleman, "we have not yet found how the men got here. When we learn that, it may make all the rest plain."
Without entering the house again, the soldiers made a second circuit of the field, examining carefully every foot of the cliffs. They were absolutely certain now that there was no road or path leading to this smaller plateau except that by which they themselves had come; and yet here were the bones of a full-grown cow and the ruined stall which had at some time been her winter quarters. They next examined the heaps of stalks, which were sixteen in number, and represented that many harvests; but the older ones were little more than a thin layer of decayed litter through which the grass and bushes had grown Up. There might have been many others of an earlier date, all traces of which had long since disappeared. At first it seemed strange that a cow should have starved in the deepest snow in the midst of such surroundings. On a closer examination, however, it appeared that the tops of the two larger stacks had been much torn, and the stiff stalks cropped bare of leaves. It was plain enough that the lean cow had wandered here on the hard crust of the snow and scattered the stalks as she fed. Even now these could be seen lying all about in the grass where they had lodged when the snow melted. Under one of the stacks another skull was found, the owner of which must have died before the cow, or have been killed for beef. Instead of one, two domestic animals, then, had cropped the grass and switched at the flies on this plateau which was surrounded by inaccessible cliffs. How did they come there?
By sunset the soldiers were no nearer to a solution of this difficult problem, and so they filled their two pails with antislavery books, and returned to ponder and wonder in the society of the bear and the six sad roosters.
They could sleep but little after such a day of excitement, and they were scarcely refreshed by their night's rest when they returned on the following day to the deserted house. This time they left their overcoats at home, and took with them a loaf of corn-bread for luncheon, and the pails, in which they intended to bring back more books.
They halted again before the oak slab bearing the name of Hezekiah Wallstow, apostle of temperance, etc., and crowned by the mourning skull of the cow, as if to assure themselves of the reality of what they had seen, and then they walked humbly into the house. They could think of no guiding clue to start them in the solution of the problem of the cattle, and so they weakly yielded to their curiosity about the books. Bromley cut away the thicket of hop-vines which darkened the two windows, and in the improved light they fell to examining the coarse woodcuts of runaway slaves with their small belongings tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, which headed certain advertisements in the periodicals. "The Adventures of Captain Canot" was a thick book with numerous illustrations of a distressing character. In one picture a jolly sailor with a pipe in his mouth was smilingly branding the back of an African woman, while another sailor stood by with a lantern in broad daylight. They hoped to find an account-book or a diary, but there was nothing of the sort on the shelves beyond one or two entries in pencil on a fly-leaf of the "Memoir of Rev. Elijah P. Lovejoy," acknowledging the receipt of a cask of meal or a quarter of lamb.
Following their first visit, the three soldiers returned during four successive days to the deserted house and the field surrounding it. By this time they had carried home the last of the books by pailfuls, making the long journey through the cave of the bats by torch-light; but they had arrived no nearer to the solution of the riddle of the cattle. In fact, so long as any part of the library remained where they had found it, they had come to wander hopelessly in the early morning along the ledges which upheld the smaller plateau, and then retire to the cool house to read.
After the books had been removed by the soldiers to their own side of the dividing cliff, they found it so hard to leave them that they stopped at home for a whole week, reading by turns and worrying themselves thin about the bones of the cattle. They had abundant need at this time to keep their flesh and spirits, for two more of the nine sacks of corn had been ground in the mill, and the prospect for the future was more dismal than ever. The end of this week of inaction, however, found the three soldiers in the early morning again standing by the deserted house.
Lieutenant Coleman had a systematic, military mind, and, now the diverting books were out of their reach, he stated the problem to his companions in this direct and concise way:
"We know that two cattle have lived and died on this field."
"Undoubtedly," replied Bromley and Philip.
"We have examined three sides of the field, and found that the cattle could not have come from either of those directions. Is not that so?"
"It is absolutely certain," said the others.
"Therefore," continued Lieutenant Coleman, "they must have come by the fourth side."
This conclusion was admitted to be logical; but it provoked a storm of argument, in the course of which the soldiers got wild-eyed and red in the face. In the end, however, they consented to trim out the bushes which formed a thicket along the base of the ledge. It seemed to Lieutenant Coleman that they must find some passage here, and, sure enough, not far from the middle of this natural wall they came upon a low-browed opening, which presently narrowed down to a space not much more than five feet square. The farther end of this tunnel was closed by a pile of loose earth, which was spread out at the base, and had every appearance of having been thrown in from the other side of the ledge. The rusty shovel was brought from the fireplace of the house, and after a few minutes of vigorous digging, a ray of light broke through the roots and grass near the roof of the hole. The soldiers gave a wild cheer, and rushed out into the fresh air to cool off.
"That settles it," said Lieutenant Coleman. "Hezekiah Wallstow was the old man of the mountain, and after Josiah Woodring buried him he filled up this passage. The treasure he was searching for was the very cask of gold we dug out of the fake grave—thanks to the sacrilegious behavior of the bear."
"But how about the cattle?" said Bromley, still skeptical.
"Easy enough," said Coleman, triumphantly. "They brought two young calves up the ladders."
This hitherto unsuspected passage through the ledge made everything clear. It had evidently been wide open during all the years the old man had lived on the mountain. It might have been screened by bushes so that any chance visitors, like the hunters who came over the bridge, would be easily deceived, and not disposed to look farther than the ruined cabin and the non-committal gravestone.
It was not strange that the three soldiers had never suspected that there was an opening here through the rocks, for a four-pronged chestnut had taken firm root in the grassy bank which Josiah had thrown up, and the old man had been dead six years when they first arrived on the mountain. How soon after the burial the passageway had been closed, it was not so easy to determine, but numerous hollows which were afterward found near certain trees and rocks on the smaller plateau made it look as if Josiah had spent a good many moonlight nights in digging for the treasure before he gave it up altogether. According to the story of Andy, the guide, Josiah himself must have died soon after his strange patron, and most likely he closed the entrance to the passage in despair when he felt his last illness approaching. There was still much for the soldiers to learn about the motive of the hermit in burying his surplus gold. The comforts with which he had surrounded himself would indicate that he was no miser, and his devotion to the cause of the slave made it extremely probable that he had willed his treasure to some emancipation society, which had not succeeded in reclaiming it before the war, and which, for plenty of reasons, had not been able to secure it since.
After the soldiers had reopened the passage through the dividing cliff so that they could pass readily from one plateau to the other, they suspended further investigation and yielded to the luxury of reading, which had been denied them so long. The more they read of this peculiar literature from the library left by Hezekiah Wallstow, the more interested they became in the cause of the slave who, they believed, had been made free on paper by the impotent proclamation of Abraham Lincoln, only to have his fetters more firmly riveted than ever by the success of the Confederate arms.
Among the other books there was one entitled "Two-fold Slavery of the United States." This book had been published in London in the year 1854, and contained as a frontispiece a black-and-white map, which, so far west as it extended, was remarkably like the one which hung on the wall of their house. Philip shed new tears over the pathetic lives of Uncle Tom and little Eva, and Lieutenant Coleman and George Bromley grew more and more indignant as they read of the sufferings of the Rev. Elijah P. Lovejoy, and the self-confessed cruelties of Captain Canot. However much the soldiers were wrought up by these books, it was left to the mass of pamphlets and periodicals to fill their hearts with an unspeakable bitterness toward the institution which the united efforts of their comrades in arms had failed to overthrow.
It was evident that the old man had kept up some sort of communication by mail with the Boston abolitionists, and that his agent, Josiah, had yielded his views, if he had any, to a liberal supply of gold; for up to the time of his death he had continued to receive these periodicals. As long as he received such dangerous publications, he must have maintained correspondence with their editors; and the more the soldiers became imbued by their reading with the ideas which had made a hermit of Hezekiah Wallstow, the more certain they became that he had willed his money to the cause of abolition, or perhaps that he only held it in trust from the first. Otherwise, why should he have adopted so crafty a method of hiding it from Josiah? To speculate on the cunning of these two men became a favorite occupation of Coleman and Bromley when their eyes were worn out with reading. They were sure that every fresh lot of pamphlets had come, through the settlement and up the mountain, at the bottom of a cask of meal. The old man had no mill or other means of grinding his corn, which he must have cultivated for his cattle, relying upon Josiah for most of his food. Undoubtedly the very keg which the hunters had seen Josiah carrying up by moonlight, and which they believed was filled with whisky, contained seditious literature enough, if they had ever found it, to have put them to the unpleasant necessity of hanging the bearer to the nearest limb.
So the soldiers continued to read, to the neglect of every other duty, through the entire month of August, except that Lieutenant Coleman made a brief entry in the diary each morning, and, when they were out of food, Philip laid by his book long enough to grind another sack of the corn. The few ears which had shown themselves on the plantation had been eaten green, and the yellow and shriveled stalks which had escaped the grub at the root stood in thin, sickly rows. It was an off year even for the chestnuts. When, in addition to this, it was found in September that the potato crop had rotted in the ground, the reading was brought to a sudden end, and the soldiers found themselves face to face with a condition which threatened starvation, and that before the winter began. They remembered the bee-tree, and took up the line where Philip had left it, at the edge of the southern wall, only to find that the bees flew on to some tree in the forest below and beyond the plateau.
When it was quite settled that they would have no supplies for the winter unless they bought them from the people in the valley with their gold pieces, as the old man had done before them, they settled down to their reading again, foraging by turns for every edible thing they could find, and putting off the evil hour when they should be forced to reveal themselves. The more they read of these fiery periodicals the more they loathed their neighbors in the valley and shrank from communicating with them. They knew that these people in the mountains seldom owned slaves themselves; but they felt that they were in full sympathy with all the cruelties of which the yellow-and-blue covered pamphlets treated. If the guineas in the hoard of Hezekiah Wallstow meant anything, they represented the proportion of the gold which had been contributed by antislavery societies in England; and they began seriously to consider their moral obligation to return the entire sum to its rightful owners. In order to accomplish this just purpose, their lives must be preserved during the approaching winter, and seeds secured for another planting. After that, they would find means to replace with iron the gold they had used in the construction of the mill and of various domestic utensils; and when the treasure was restored to the cask, they would find some way to open communication with the benevolent antislavery societies.
By the end of October they had eaten the last of their meal. There were a few clusters of purple grapes on the vines, and to these they turned for food, still dreading to make any signs to their enemies, with a dread which was born of the pamphlets they were reading. For two days more they stained their hands and faces with the juice of the grapes, until an exclusive fruit diet, and meditation day and night on the awful wickedness of men, weakened their bodies and began to affect their minds.
The dread hour had finally come, and they could no longer delay making signs of their distress. To this end they collected a pile of dry wood, and heaped it on the point of rocks, in full view of the settlement of Cashiers. It was growing dusk when everything was ready to start the fire, and Philip had come from the house with a lighted torch. At the moment he was about to touch it to the dry wood, Bromley snatched the torch from his hand and extinguished it in the dirt. Coleman and Philip tried to prevent this rash act of their comrade, and in their excitement gave free expression to their anger; but Bromley stamped out the last spark of the fire without paying any heed to their bad language and frantic gestures.
"Are you mad?" he then cried, retreating a little from what threatened to be an assault. "What do you think will be our fate at the hands of these people, when we are found in possession of such books as we have been reading? We should be imprisoned like Lovejoy, or branded like Walker. We might pay with our lives for your recklessness to-night."
Philip and Coleman were shocked at the danger they had so narrowly escaped, and thanked Bromley for his forethought and prompt action.
Of course they must bury the books, but they would have all of the next day to attend to that; and with many expressions of thankfulness they returned to the house and crept into their bunks. When morning came they were weak and hungry, with nothing whatever to eat; but in spite of all this they heaped the antislavery books and pamphlets on the earthen floor, carefully separating them from the works on temperance. They had come to regard these books as little less than sacred, and they naturally shrank from burying them in the ground. Happy thought!—there was the cave of the bats. So, packing them into the pails, the soldiers carried the books in two toilsome journeys by torch-light to the middle of the cavernous passage, and laid them carefully together on the stone floor. They were well-nigh exhausted by this exertion; but after a rest they found strength to close the entrance with brush and earth, and to cover their work with pine-needles.
Half famished as Lieutenant Coleman and his comrades were, they could only drink from the branch and wait patiently for night. The poor old paralyzed rooster, sitting in the chips by the door, looked so forlorn and hungry that Philip set him out among the dry weeds, and lay down on the ground beside him, so as to be ready to turn him about and set him along when he had plucked the few seeds in his front. As for the bear and the five crippled roosters, they shambled and hobbled about, and shifted bravely for themselves.
There were still many things to consider as to how they would be received by these people, and what success they would have in exchanging United States gold pieces for food and clothing. Perhaps they would be obliged to buy Confederate notes at ruinous rates of exchange. Perhaps their visitors would confiscate their gold pieces at sight, and take them down the mountain as State prisoners. They must keep some coins in their pockets for barter, which was their object in summoning their dubious neighbors; but it would certainly be prudent to conceal the bulk of their money. So the last thing the soldiers did on this November afternoon was to dump the gold that remained in the cask into a hole in the ground, and cover it up.
As soon as it began to grow dark on the mountain they set fire to the pile of wood, which was presently a great tower of flame, lighting up the rocks and trees, and forming a beacon which must be seen from valley and mountain for miles around. At that hour, and in the glare of their own fire, they could see nothing of its effect in the settlement; but they were sure it would be watched by the families outside every cabin; and in this belief they moved about to the right and left of the flames, waving their arms in token of their distress.
THE BEACON FIRE.THE BEACON FIRE.
Surely a fire on this mountain-top, where no native had set foot for seven long years, would excite the wonder of the people below. It could be kindled only by human hands, and they would be eager to know to whom the hands belonged.
In the morning the three soldiers crept out to the smoldering remains of their fire, which was still sending up a thin wreath of smoke. On the distant road through the valley they could see groups of tiny people, evidently watching and wondering. They could come no nearer than the bridgeless gorge, and so, weak as the soldiers were, after making every effort to show themselves in the smoke, they made their way to the head of the ladders and climbed down to the field below. Philip stopped behind to run up the old flag on the pole; for, whatever effect that emblem might have on their neighbors, they were determined to stand by their colors. They found a few chestnuts and dried berries in the old field, which they devoured with wolfish hunger as they crept along toward the gorge.
They hoped to see human faces on the opposite bank when they arrived; but there was no one there to meet them. They were not greatly disappointed, for it was still early in the day, and the people had a much longer journey to make from the valley. There was the same old-time stillness on that part of the mountain: the tinkling brook in the bottom of the gorge, and the soughing of the wind in the tops of the tall pines on the other side. There were still some sticks of the old bridge wedged in the top of the dead basswood—the bridge which had served the old abolitionist in his lifetime, and the destruction of which had served the purpose of the soldiers equally well.
The mild November sunshine lay bright on the faded landscape, and the soldiers sat down on the dry grass to await the coming of their deliverers. If one of the tall pines had been standing on their own side of the gorge they would have used their last strength to cut it down and fell it across the chasm. They had put on their old blue overcoats, to make a decent appearance before the people when they arrived; but hour after hour crept slowly by, and nobody came except Tumbler, the bear, who had backed down the ladders and shambled across the field to join them. By the sun it was past noon when he came, and as he seated himself silently in the gloomy circle, he made but a sorry addition to the anxious waiters. Why did no one come to their relief? They knew that their fire had been seen where the presence of a human being would be regarded as little less than a miracle by the dwellers in the valley. What if they had accepted it as a miracle altogether, and avoided the place accordingly? They were ignorant people, and therefore superstitious; or else they were as cruel and heartless as they were described in the "Weekly Emancipator."
The rustling wind in the tree-tops, and the occasional tapping of a woodpecker in the forest beyond, became hateful sounds to their impatient ears. Bromley, who was the strongest of the three, and the more indignant that no one came to their relief, wandered back upon the old field, where he found a few more chestnuts, which he divided equally with his half-famished comrades. Every mouthful of food helped to keep up their strength and courage, and now the slanting rays of the afternoon sun reminded them that they must repeat their signal, and that no time was to be lost in gathering wood for another fire. There was still hope that relief would come before dark, and Philip was left to watch with the bear, while Coleman and Bromley returned to the plateau.
The postmaster in the Cove might be less superstitious, they thought, or less hard-hearted than the people in the valley. If their strength held out they would have two fires that night. No chance should be neglected. As Coleman and Bromley dragged together a few dead limbs upon the edge of the great boulder, they hoped that the postmaster had found the remains of the telescope, as they knew he had found the army blanket which fell from the balloon, so that when he saw their fire he would connect it, in his mind, with the other objects which had come down from the mountain.
It was after sunset when Philip and Tumbler appeared on the plateau. No one had come even so far as the gorge; and Philip helped to carry the last of their wood to the rocky point where the blackened embers of the first fire lay in the thin ashes. Coleman and Philip remained to kindle this beacon, while Bromley went to the Cove side with a lighted torch and a bundle of fat pine-knots. When Bromley saw the first smoke of the other fire across the ridge, no light had yet appeared in the windows of the small post-office. Moreover, with his strong eyes he was sure he saw some object moving along the road in the direction of the office. He waited a little, waving his torch, and then he applied it to the dry leaves and sticks at the base of the pile, which flashed quickly into a blaze. Bromley was not content to move about in the light replenishing his fire, but, as often as a fat pine-knot had become enveloped in flame, he separated it from the pile and poked it over the edge of the great smooth rock, to flare against the black storm-stains as it fell, and perhaps to start a new fire in the Cove bottom. A brisk east wind was blowing across the mountain, which carried the smoke and sparks over the long roof of the post-office. Bromley remained late at his work; but at last his strength and his will-power yielded to the weakness that comes with hunger. An overpowering drowsiness compelled him to leave the fire and go stumbling over the hill to the house, where he found Coleman and Philip already asleep.
When the three soldiers awoke on the morning which followed the kindling of the two fires, Philip was too ill to leave his bunk, and Lieutenant Coleman and Bromley were too weak to drag themselves as far as the rocks where the embers were still smoking. The sun was shining on their United States window, and when they looked out at the door, the old flag of thirty-five stars was floating bravely on the fresh wind.
"Three cheers for the stars and stripes, and for Sherman Territory!" cried Bromley, and the weak cheers so exhausted the two men that they sat down on the wooden bench in a state of collapse. Faint as they were from hunger, they were still fainter from thirst, and after a moment's rest they staggered over to the branch and drank their fill of the cool water, and laved their feverish faces in the stream. They brought a cup of the water to Philip who lay quietly in his bunk, and was altogether so weak that they were obliged to hold him up while he drank.
"There, there," said Coleman, as they eased him back on his pillow. "You must keep a good heart, for some one will surely come to us to-day."
Philip looked brighter for the draft of water, but he only smiled in reply. The sun was warm outside, but the act of drinking, while it had greatly revived and encouraged Coleman and Bromley, had so chilled their starved bodies that they put on their overcoats and buttoned them up to the throat. They could do no more in the way of calling for help than they had already done. Men had died of starvation before, and it might be their fate to perish of hunger, but they had a strong faith that the fires they had built for two nights on this uninhabited mountain would bring some one to their relief. They regretted now that the reading of the abolition books had influenced them to delay so long their appeal for help. To reach them their rescuers must fell one or more of the tall pines across the bridgeless gorge, but they were too weak to go down the ladders, and what wind there was blew across the mountain in the direction of the gorge, so that they would not be able to hear the sound of an ax a mile away. Time had never dragged so slowly before. The sun lay in at the open door, and by the marks they had made on the floor, as well as by the shadows cast by the trees outside, they could judge closely of the hour. They could hardly believe that it was only ten o'clock in the morning, when it seemed as if they had already passed a whole day in vain hope of relief.
It was such a terrible thing to await starvation in the oppressive stillness of the mountain, that Bromley, almost desperate with listening, went to the branch and hung the bucket on the arm of the old Slow-John, which presently began to pound and splash in its measured way. Dismal as the sound was, it gave them something to count, and relieved their tired ears of the monotonous flapping of the flag and of the rustling of the barren corn-stalks.
They talked of the old man who had died alone on the other plateau. He, too, might have died of starvation. There were no signs of food in the deserted house when they had discovered it. They had never thought of it before, but his cunning agent might have been a villain after all. He might have grown weary at last of lugging casks up the mountain by moonlight, and getting the old man's gold by slow doles. He must have had some knowledge of the treasure for which he dug so persistently afterward, and in his greed to possess it he might have deliberately starved the old abolitionist. They thought of Hezekiah Wallstow burning beacon-fires in his extremity, when there was a good bridge to connect the mountain-top with the valley, and yet he was left to die alone. The thought was not encouraging to Coleman and Bromley in their weakened, nervous condition, and tended to make them more than ever distrustful of the natives to whom they had appealed.
They withheld these disturbing suspicions from Philip, but the more they pondered on the subject the more they were convinced of the barbarity of the Confederates, and of their determination to leave them to their fate.
Lieutenant Coleman wrote what he believed to be the last entry in the diary. It was November 7, 1871; and on the prepared paper of the book which treated of deep-sea fishing, he stated briefly their starving condition and their fruitless efforts to summon relief. They still had the tin box in which the adamantine candles had been stored, and into this Bromley helped to pack the leaves of the diary, already neatly tied in separate packages, and labeled for each year. If he had had a little more strength he would have carried it to the forge, and sealed the cover of the box which contained the record of their lives. As it was, they set it on the mantelpiece under the trophy formed of the station flags and the swords and carbines, and laid a weight on the lid.
After this was accomplished, Lieutenant Coleman lay down and turned his face to the wall, and Bromley seated himself on the bench outside the door, too stubborn to give up all hope of relief. The warm sun lighted the chip dirt at his feet, and seemed to glorify the bright colors of the old flag as it floated from the staff. He forgot his desperate situation for a moment, as his mind turned back to the battle-days when he had seen it waving in the sulphurous smoke. It gave him no comfort, however, to think of his old comrades and the dead generals and the cause that was lost; and when his eyes fell on the ground at his feet, he tried to keep them fixed on a tiny ant which came out of a crumbling log. The small thing was so full of life, darting and halting and turning this way and that! Now it disappeared under the log, and then it came out again, rolling a kernel of corn by climbing up on one side of the grain, to fall ignominiously down on the other. Bromley was just about to pounce on the grain of corn and crush it between his teeth when he heard a sound on the hill, and, raising his eyes, he saw two men coming on toward the house. They carried long bird-rifles on their shoulders, and to his starved vision they looked to be of gigantic size against the sky.
He could only cry out, "Fred! Fred! Here they come!"
"HE COULD ONLY CRY OUT, 'FRED! FRED! HERE THEY COME!""HE COULD ONLY CRY OUT, 'FRED! FRED! HERE THEY COME!"
These electric words brought Coleman's haggard face to the door, and even Philip turned in his blankets.
The strange dress and wild appearance of the two soldiers clinging to the door of the house, and the fantastic effect of the afternoon sun on the stained-glass window, as if the interior were on fire, so startled the strangers that they lowered their rifles to a position for defense, and turned from the direct approach, until they had gained a position among the rustling corn-stalks in front of the door. The various buildings and the evidence of cultivation on the mountain-top staggered the visitors, and the haggard faces of Coleman and Bromley led them to believe that they had come upon a camp of the fabled wild men of the woods. They had never seen a stained-glass window before, and to their minds it suggested some infernal magic, so the two valley-men stood elbow to elbow in an attitude for defense, and waited for the others to speak.
"Come on, neighbors," said Bromley, holding out his empty hands. "We are only three starving men."
One of the valley-men was tall and lank, and the other was sturdily built; and at these pacific words of Bromley they advanced, still keeping close together.
"We don't see but two," said the stout man, coming to a halt again. "Where's the other one at?"
"He's too weak to get out of his bunk," said Lieutenant Coleman. "For God's sake, have you brought us food?"
"That's just what we have," said the rosy-faced stout man, who came on without any further hesitation. "We've brought ye a corn-pone. We 'lowed there might be some human critters starvin' up here." With that he whisked about the thin man, and snatched a corn-loaf from the haversack on his back.
"How did you-all ever git here?" said the thin man. "Hit's seven year since the old bridge tumbled into the gorge."
There was no reply to this question, for Bromley was devouring his bread like a starved wolf, while Coleman had turned away to share his piece with Philip.
The eagerness with which they ate seemed to please the two valley-men, who were willing enough to wait a reasonable time for the information they sought. It was a fine opportunity to give some account of themselves, and the rosy-faced man made good use of it.
"We're plumb friendly," he said, "and mighty glad we brought along the bread, ain't we, Tom? Mightn't 'a' done hit if hit hadn't 'a' been for my old woman insistin'. She 'lowed some hunter fellers had got up here and couldn't git down ag'in, and she hild fast to that idea while she was a-bakin' last night, time your fire was a-burnin'. Hit certainly takes women folks to git the rights o' things, don't hit, Tom? My name is Riley Hooper, and this yer friend o' mine is Tom Zachary, and we're nothin' if we ain't friendly."
Poor Philip was unable to swallow the dry bread, and Coleman came to the door with the golden cup in his hand, and begged one of the men to bring a cup of water from the branch. Tom Zachary hurried off on this mission of mercy.
"Hit's a wonder," he exclaimed, when he came back with the dripping cup, "that you-all ain't been pizoned afore this, drinkin' out o' brass gourds. That's what ailed Colum. Long time he had the greensickness. But his woman was cookin' into a brass kittle, and that might 'a' made some difference."
The two men now pressed into the house to see Philip, and Bromley, whose hands were at last empty, and whose strength was fast returning, came after them.
"I'm jist nacherly put out," said Hooper, when he saw the condition of Philip, "that I didn't bring along somethin' to warm up a cold stomic. Poor feller! Say, where's your fryin'-pan at? I'll fix a dose for him. Here, Tom, wake up. Fill this skillet with water out o' the branch, 'thout no flavor o' brass into hit"; and as he spoke he whisked Tom around again, and took the haversack from his shoulders. "No, ye don't," said he to Bromley, who came forward for more bread. "No, ye don't, my boy. I've viewed starvin' humans afore. What you want to do is to go slow. A dose o' gruel is jest the ticket for this yer whole outfit."
The rosy-faced man was too busy with the fire and the gruel, and too eager to improve the condition of the men he had rescued, to ask any disturbing questions; and Tom Zachary was so considerate, in the presence of actual starvation, that he seated himself on a three-legged stool, and stared at the stained-glass windows and the flags and the curious map on the wall. It was just as well that Bromley had removed the golden casters, years before, from the legs of the stools, when they were found to make ruts and furrows in the earthen floor. Tom Zachary would have been more astonished than ever if he had found himself rolling about on double-eagles.
When the hot gruel had been served, Philip was so much revived as to be able to sit up on the edge of his bunk. If it was delicacy that still prevented the visitors from asking questions, it was a dread of overwhelming bad news that sealed the soldiers' lips. They had become so settled in their convictions, and so confirmed in their strange blindness, that they shrank from hearing the mortifying particulars. So the five men sat staring at one another, each party waiting for the other to begin.
"Sojer coats," said the lean man, nudging his companion.
"And cavalry guns and swords," said the rosy-faced one, casting his eyes on the trophy.
"And my affydavid," said the tall one, "if them ain't the reg'lar old signal-flags—one, two, one."
Lieutenant Coleman was thankful that his visitors had said nothing disagreeable thus far, but he feared every moment that they would make some insulting remark about the old flag, which they could see through the door-way.
Bromley restrained himself as long as he could, and then, in reply to the three mild observations, in which he thought he detected a shade of sarcasm, he exclaimed:
"Well, what of it? We are not ashamed of our uniform or of our arms."
"There ain't no reason why ye should be, my buck," said the rosy-faced man. "Soldierin' is as good a trade as any other."
"Hit's better 'n some," said the tall one.
"Gentlemen," said Lieutenant Coleman, who began to fear more personal remarks, "you have saved our lives to-day. We shall never forget your kindness, or cease to feel ourselves your debtors. You see our destitute condition. We need food for the coming winter, and seed for another year, for which we are able to pay; and if you know who owns this mountain-top, we shall be glad to arrange, through you, to buy it."
"Well, now, I'll be gormed," said the rosy-faced man, "if he ain't a thoroughbred as soon's he gits fed up a little. Wants to buy these yer rocks, does he? Tom, who do you reckon owns this mounting?"
"Dunno," said Tom, with a grin, "if you don't."
"Well, I do," said Hooper, expanding himself with an air of proprietorship, "and there hain't nobody never disputed my title to this upper kentry."
"Are you willing to sell it?" said Lieutenant Coleman.
"I'll sell anything I've got," said Hooper, looking more rosy and smiling than ever, "so I git my figger."
"Very well," said Coleman. "If we take the mountain-top from the deep gorge up, at what price would you value it?"
"Well, now," said Hooper, "if you really mean business, this yer track ain't worth a fortun'. Timber-land in these parts brings a dollar an acre when hit brings anything. Rock-land like this, without no timber onto hit, is worth fifty cents; but, cousiderin' the improvements and the buildin's," he continued, "I reckon seventy-five would be dirt-cheap. Hit ain't ever been surveyed, but I 'low there's two hundred acres above the gorge."
Lieutenant Coleman already had his hand in the pocket of his canvas trousers, and, bringing out two double-eagles, he handed them to the rosy-faced proprietor as a first payment. Hooper jumped up from his seat and took the two yellow coins in his hands, and chinked them together, and tossed them about as if he feared they might burn his palms.
"Durned if hit ain't United States gold money, Tom," he exclaimed, passing one of the coins to Zachary, who was equally excited. "We hain't viewed that kind o' money for seven years in these parts, have we, Tom?"
Tom indorsed his companion's statement in pretty strong language, and Lieutenant Coleman hastened to say that if the money was not satisfactory, they could probably agree upon some rate of exchange. At this point of the conversation, the two mountaineers exchanged some words in a whisper, and the soldiers believed they were agreeing upon the discount between United States and Confederate money. To fill up this awkward break in the conversation, Lieutenant Coleman began again to express his gratitude to his rescuers.
"Now, hold on, captain," exclaimed Hooper, facing about. "Whatsoever me and Tom has done, we have done willin', and nobody willin'er, and we're goin' to stand by ye to the end; but we ain't goin' no further in this business till you tell us how ye got here. The way we study hit out, you ain't treatin' me and Tom fair."
"Pardon me, my good friends," said Lieutenant Coleman. "I had no intention of being rude. We came here in the summer of 1864, in the line of our duty as Union soldiers, and when the war ended with the success of the Confederates—"
"What!" cried the two men together, gasping in amazement at what they heard. "And the Union was destroyed," continued Lieutenant Coleman. "And the Capitol fell into the hands of the Confederates." "And slavery was restored," exclaimed Bromley. "And the flag was disgraced and robbed of its stars," put in Philip, with such voice as he could command.
The two mountaineers stood open-mouthed for a moment, and then they burst into peals of laughter. "Whoop!" cried the rosy-faced man, slapping his leg and throwing his wool hat on the floor as if it had been a brickbat. "If that ain't the jolliest thing I ever heard, and hit's kind o' serious-like, too! Why, men, there ain't no Confederacy. Hit's the old United States, from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic Ocean clear across to the Pacific."
"And General Sherman—" gasped Philip.
"He's gineral of the army up in Washington right now, and Gineral Grant is President," cried the rosy-faced man.
Somehow the interior of the house grew vague and misty, as if a sea-fog had swept in through the windows. Everything and everybody danced and reeled about, until the soldiers fell away from the embrace of their deliverers, quite exhausted by the excitement and the news they had heard.
While all this was going on, Philip lay back on his blanket and shed tears of joy over the wonderful news. In fact, there wasn't a dry eye in the room. Even the eyes of the men from Cashiers glistened with moisture, as they vied with each other in discharging facts, like cannon-balls, into the ears of the astonished soldiers. They gave them a rough history of the end of the great war, of the tragic death of Lincoln, and of some of the events which had since taken place in the United States.
"There were thirty-five stars on the old flag when we came here," cried Lieutenant Coleman.
"And there's thirty-seven now," said Hooper.
"Thirty-seven!" repeated the soldiers, looking at one another through their tears. "Thirty-seven!"
The soldiers ate some more of the bread from the haversack, and with renewed strength went out into the afternoon sunlight, Coleman and Bromley supporting Philip, and all five sat down under the old flag. And as they sat there together like brothers, the soldiers told the others why they had first come to the mountain, and the bad news they had got by flag, and the resolution they had made, and all that had come of it. And when they had done speaking, Tom Zachary, whose face had grown longer and sadder as he listened to their story, said he had something to tell them for which he hoped they would forgive him.
"I was only a boy in the war-time," said Tom, "and I lived with my kin-folks in a settlement at the foot of the tenth mountain. Gineral Thomas commanded the Home Guard brigade, with headquarters at Quallatown, in the Cherokee kentry, and he had signal-flag men like you-all, and 'mongst the rest there was one named Bud Bryson. Now Bud was mighty peart, and he boasted as how he could study out any cipher that ever was made, if only he had time enough. So when the gineral heard that there was a Yankee station on that mountain, he sent Bud with a spy-glass, to make out the cipher and read the telegrafts for him. Many's the day I stayed out on the South Ridge with Bud, and wrote down the letters as he read 'em off, and, turn 'em which way we would, we could never make head or tail of 'em. It was a-z-q-j-g and such fool letters, and after two weeks' hard work Bud Bryson was no nearer to makin' sense of the letters than when he begun, though he did always say that if they had only give him time he would 'a' studied out the trick.
"But the gineral got tired o' waitin' on Bud, and one day he sent a squad of fifteen cavalry soldiers to capture the stations. The soldiers started up the mountain in the early mornin', with Bud to guide 'em and give 'em points. I went up with the rest, just to see the fun, and when we got to the top, the soldiers rushed in on two sets o' men, sawin' the air with their flags and sendin' messages both ways. Lieutenant Swann was the officer's name, a big red man, and mighty mad he was when the soldiers took him. They searched him from head to foot, and 'mongst the papers on him they found the secret cipher Bud had been workin' for.
"What with guardin' the prisoners and the prospect of capturin' more, fifteen troopers was too scant a crowd to divide into two squads, and so the captain ordered Bud to stay on the mountain and give the stations ahead enough news to keep 'em quiet until he come back.
"That game suited Bud mighty well, and havin' nobody to help him, he made me stay with him to take down the letters. We had the camp just as they left it, with plenty o' rations and coffee to drink such as we hadn't tasted for years, and every time Bud looked at the flags he burst out laughin'. Hit was somewhere near the end of July when we took the mountain, and that same afternoon Bud begun to figger the letters of his first message crooked accordin' to the cipher, and git hit ready to send on. 'Tom,' he says to me with a grin, 'I reckon we better kill off Gineral Sherman first,' and then he laughed and rolled over on the blankets.
"Next mornin' he sent the message, and when the telegraft come back to know if the news was true, he sent word hit was, 'honor bright,' and signed the lieutenant's name, 'James Swann.' Hit was three weeks before the squad got back from Chattanooga way, and all the time Bud kept sendin' lies about great Confederate victories. He was keerful what he sent, too, and figgered on the dates, and kept all the messages he had sent before wrote down in order, so he wouldn't get mixed. When we got all ready to leave Bear Clift, which was the tenth station, Bud flagged an order to hold on—that relief was comin'.
"Now, after we started east, we picked up a station every mornin'; and as soon as Bud got his hands on the flags, he begun to lie more than ever, closin' up the war with a dash. We had over fifty prisoners when we took the three men off from Upper Bald, and there havin' been six on every other station, we nat'rally thought we had found the last; and the cavalry went away with their prisoners to Quallatown."
After the straightforward story of Tom Zachary, which explained the cunning method by which Lieutenant Coleman and his comrades had been deceived by the flag-messages, the soldiers could feel no resentment toward Tom. They were so happy in the possession of all the good news they had heard that they would have shaken hands with Bud Bryson himself, if he had been one of their rescuers.
"Now I reckon," said the rosy-faced man, as he got on his feet to go down the mountain, "considerin' the way things has turned out, you-all won't keer about investin' in property in this upper kentry, and I'll give ye back your money," he continued, looking fondly at the two yellow coins.
Coleman and Bromley, however, insisted that a bargain was a bargain, and that they wanted the land more than ever. They should go away, they said, the next day if Philip was able to make the journey; and Lieutenant Coleman pressed another coin upon Hooper, for which he was to bring them a supply of clothing which they could wear as far as Asheville.
It all seemed like a dream to the three belated soldiers when their visitors had gone; but Bromley, who was the more practical, reminded his comrades that the antislavery societies must have been long since disbanded, and that the gold was theirs by the right of discovery. So, after making a supper of the corn-bread from the haversack, Coleman and Bromley fell to work with a will, stripping the mill of its golden bands and hinges and hasps; and late into the night the windows of the forge glowed and beamed, and the ruddy firelight streamed out through the cracks in the logs, where Bromley, the goldsmith, was smelting and hammering the precious metal into bars, and beating into each, while it was soft, the impress of a double-eagle, reversed.
When all the gold was packed in the very cask in which they had found it, and so wedged and padded with leaves of the temperance books that it no longer chinked when it was moved, a book-cover was nailed on the head, and the package was addressed to "LIEUTENANT FREDERICK HENRY COLEMAN, U.S.A., WASHINGTON, D.C."
The tin box containing the diary, and the flags and swords and such books as they wished to keep, were gathered together and packed for transportation.
By noon of the following day the two mountaineers appeared again, looking like old-clothes men as they came over the hill.
When the three soldiers got out of their tattered clothing, and into the butternut-and-gray suits which had been borrowed for them from the neighbor folk in the settlement, the misfits were such that they looked hardly less comical than before. Philip was the first to appear from the house ready for the descent. His hat was a bell-crowned beaver, his trousers were turned up half-way to his knees, and he carried in his hand the alligator-skin bag which had belonged to the beautiful lady of the balloon.
"THEY LOOKED HARDLY LESS COMICAL THAN BEFORE.""THEY LOOKED HARDLY LESS COMICAL THAN BEFORE."
After they got down the ladders, Coleman carried the cask as far as the gorge, resting at intervals, but never permitting the two mountaineers to test its weight or even suspect its contents. Philip and Bromley divided between them the flags and sabers, the remaining carbine, the map, and the tin box containing the diary. Hooper and Zachary were occupied with the six sad roosters, and Tumbler, the bear, ambled along behind the men as they picked their way down the mountain. It was really a perilous journey along the rough trunk of the great pine which lay across the dark chasm, but Bromley shouldered the cask, and walked over as steadily as old Tumbler himself, and, arrived on the opposite side, he set it on end in the tail of the steer-cart, which was hitched to a sapling alongside the very rock on which Andy, the guide, had been seated when he told the story of the old man of the mountain.
The tall pines were whispering together in the soft wind as unconcernedly as if it had been seven days instead of seven years since the soldiers had stood on that spot before, and the tinkling stream below was still chinking on its way like silver coins in a vault.
At first Philip mounted the seat beside Tom Zachary, and took charge of the fowls jolting in a yellow, croaking mass between his feet, except the old paralyzed rooster, which he earned tenderly in his lap. He was too excited to ride, however, and presently he got down and walked with the others. At every stage of the descent the soldiers were learning new facts about the war, which made their return to the United States a triumphal and delirious progress. By the time they reached the hill-pastures where they were greeted by some of the very same copper bells that had startled the cavalcade going up, they began to be joined by the people who had heard of their discovery. They came in twos, and threes, and whole families, to swell their train, so that when they turned into the sandy road through the valley they were attended by a joyous procession of curious followers, which steadily increased until the cart, with the bear shambling alongside, came to a stand by the woodpile of Elder Long, misnamed Shifless. Philip took off his bell-crowned hat right and left to the women; and Lieutenant Coleman greeted Aunt Lucy, who leaned on her crutches at the gate among the purple cabbage-heads, with the stately courtesy he had learned at West Point.
Riley Hooper mounted the woodpile, and announced, with a merry twinkle in his eye, that he and Tom had captured the "harnts" that had been "doin'" the ghost business so long on old Whiteside; at which Aunt Lucy glared through her spectacles as if the remark were a personal affront to her, and the elder exclaimed fervently, "May the Lord's will be done!"
When presently the mail-carrier came along in his one-horse gig, Lieutenant Coleman wrote a hurried despatch to the adjutant-general of the army, announcing the relief of his station, and the cask containing the treasure was committed to the carrier's charge, to be sent on by express, as if it were only the commonest piece of luggage.
When the sun disappeared behind the mountain, ushering in the long twilight in the valley, the crowd was still increasing, and one of the last to arrive was the old postmaster from the Cove. When he came the soldiers and their deliverers were seated with the elder's family about the supper-table in the kitchen, where the neighbors lined the walls and filled the doors and windows, eager to hear more of the life on the mountain.
The great round table itself excited the soldiers', surprise; for, besides being covered with a gaudy patchwork of oilcloth, it was encircled at a lower level with a narrow ledge which held the plates and cups and knives and forks, while the great center was loaded with smoking loaves of corn-bread, platters of fried chicken, bowls of potatoes, jugs of milk, and pots of fragrant tea.
Room was made for the postmaster at the hospitable board, and after the elder had said grace standing, he invited everybody to help himself, at the same time giving the table a twirl which sent the smoking dishes and the flaring tallow dips circling around on an inner clockwork of creaking wooden wheels. It was altogether such a bewildering and unexpected movement that Philip nearly fell out of his chair, and even Bromley, who had just laid a piece of corn-bread on the edge of the oilcloth, dropped his knife as he saw the bread sail around until it rested in front of the postmaster, very much as the blanket had fluttered down from the balloon.
After the supper was over, and all the neighbor folks had been satisfied, eating and drinking where they stood, Lieutenant Coleman, speaking for his companions, related such incidents in connection with their life on the mountain as he chose to disclose. He ended his long story by presenting the bear to Riley Hooper, and the six sad roosters to Tom Zachary, with a sum of money to pay for their keeping. The library of abolition books he presented to Elder Long, telling him where he would find it in the long cavern.
"Hit's plumb quare," said the postmaster, after Lieutenant Coleman sat down. "Did you 'ns ever drop sech a thing as a spy-glass?"
"We did indeed," said all three of the soldiers together.
"An' mighty well battered an' twisted hit was," said the postmaster. "I found hit 'mongst the rocks a spell after the blanket landed front o' my door, an' I always 'lowed hit fell out o' the balloon."
The soldiers laughed.
"I come drefful nigh comin' up thar in '69," said the postmaster. "Say, strangers," he continued, dropping his voice, "tell me true; did you 'ns ever view the harnt up yonder?"
"We never had the pleasure," said Lieutenant Coleman.
"That's quare, too," said the postmaster, "an' you livin' thar seven year; fur I viewed hit, an' no mistake, that winter afore I 'lowed to come up, a-gyratin' an' cavortin' on the avalanche in the moonlight, the same bein' the night afore hit fell."
Bromley sat back in his chair, and laughed aloud. "Here's the 'harnt' you saw," he exclaimed, slapping Philip on the shoulders.
"No, no!" cried the postmaster, getting onto his feet with a scared look in his face. "Yer funnin' with me, stranger, fur no human could 'a' got thar whar I viewed the harnt."
"But he did," said Bromley; and then he described how Philip fell, and how he got up again. "By the way," continued Bromley, looking around, "is the young woman present who used to live alone in the house under Sheep Cliff?"
At this question some of the neighbor women pushed forward a tall, stoop-shouldered girl with a sallow face, who struggled to avoid the gaze of the soldiers.
"What fur ye want 'o know?" she said in a sullen voice, still pushing to get back to her place against the wall.
"Oh, nothing," said Philip; "only we used to see you through the telescope."
The soldiers and the family sat for a time in silence after the most of the neighbors had gone.
"Well, I declare," said the postmaster, giving a twirl to the creaking table which caused the last guttering candle to approach him in a smoky circle, "how things do come round!"
The light reddened the postmaster's face for an instant, and gleamed on his glasses, as he blew out the candle and pinched the wick.
And so ends the history of the three soldiers who remained in voluntary exile for seven years, and were happily rescued at last.