And if we do but watch the hour,There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven,The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong.—Byron.
Harry Glen's first feeling when he found the battle was really over, was that of elation that the crisis to which he had looked forward with so much apprehension, had passed without his receiving any bodily harm. This was soon replaced by regret that the long-coveted opportunity had been suffered to pass unimproved, and still another strong sentiment—that keen sense of disappointment which comes when we have braced ourselves up to encounter an emergency, and it vanishes. There is the feeling of waste of valuable accumulated energy, which is as painful as that of energy misapplied.
Still farther, he felt sadly that the day of his vindication had been again postponed over another weary period of probation.
All around was intense enthusiasm, growing stronger every instant. It was the first battle tha the victors had been engaged in, and they felt the tumultuous joy that the first triumph brings to young soldiers. It was the first encounter upon the soil of Kentucky; it was the first victory between the Cumberland Mountains and the Mississippi River, and the loss of the victors was insignificant, compared with that of the vanquished.
The cold drench from the skies, the dreary mud—even the dead and wounded—were forgotten in the jubilation at the sight of the lately insolent foe flying in confusion down the mountain side, recking for nothing so much as for personal safety.
The band continued to play patriotic airs, and the cannon to thunder long after the last Rebel had disappeared in the thick woods at the bottom of the gloomy gorge.
A detail of men and some wagons were sent back after the regiment's baggage, and the rest of the boys, after a few minutes survey of the battle-field, were set to work building fires, cooking rations and preparing from the branches and brush such shelter as could be made to do substitute duty for the tents left behind.
Little as was Harry's normal inclination to manual labor, it was less than ever now, with these emotions struggling in his mind, and leaving his comrades hard at work, he wandered off to where Hoosier Knob, a commanding eminence on the left of the battle-field seemed to offer the best view of the retreat of the forces of Zollicoffer. Arriving there, he pushed on down the slope to where the enemy's line had stood, and where now were groups of men in blue uniforms, searching for trophies of the fight. In one place a musket would be found; in another a cap with a silver star, or a canteen quaintly fashioned from alternate staves of red and white cedar. Each “find” was proclaimed by the discoverer, and he was immediately surrounded by a group to earnestly inspect and discuss it. It was still the first year of the war; the next year “trophies” were left to rot unnoticed on the battle-fields they covered.
Harry took no interest in relic-hunting, but walked onward toward another prominence that gave hopes of a good view of the Rebels. The glimpses he gained from this of the surging mass of fugitives inflamed him with the excitement of the chase—of the most exciting of chases, a man-hunt. He forgot his fears—forgot how far behind he was leaving all the others, and became eager only to see more of this fascinating sight. Before he was aware of it, he was three or four miles from the Gap.
Here a point ran boldly down from the mountain into the valley, and ended in a bare knob that overlooked the narrow creek bottom, along which the beaten host was forging its way. Harry unhesitatingly descended to this, and stood gazing at the swarming horde below. It was a sight to rivet the attention. The narrow level space through which the creek meandered between the two parallel ranges of heights was crowded as far as he could see with an army which defeat had degraded to a demoralized mob. All semblance of military organization had well-nigh disappeared. Horsemen and footmen, infantry, cavalry and artillery, officers and privates, ambulances creaking under their load of wounded and dying, ponderous artillery forges, wagons loaded with food, wagons loaded with ammunition, and wagons loaded with luxuries for the delectation of the higher officers,—all huddled and crowded together, and struggled forward with feverish haste over the logs, rocks, gullies and the deep waters of the swollen stream, and up its slippery banks, through the quicksands and quagmires which every passing foot and wheel beat into a still more grievous obstacle for those that followed. Hopelessly fagged horses fell for the last time under the merciless blows of their frightened masters, and added their great bulks to the impediments of the road.
The men were sullen and depressed—cast down by the wretchedness of earth and sky, and embittered against their officers and each other for the blood uselessly shed—oppressed with hunger and weariness, and momentarily fearful that new misfortunes were about to descend upon them. In brief, it was one of the saddest spectacles that human history can present: that of a beaten and disorganized army in full retreat, and an army so new to soldiership and discipline as to be able to make nothing but the worst out of so great a calamity—it was a rout after a repulse.
Nearly all of the passing thousands were too much engrossed in the miseries of their toilsome progress to notice the blue-coated figure on the bare knob above the road. But the rear of the fugitives was brought up by a squad of men moving much more leisurely, and with some show of order. They did not plunge into the mass of men and animals and vehicles, and struggle with them in the morass which the road had now become, but deliberately picked their way along the sides of the valley where the walking was easier. They saw Harry, and understood as soon as they saw, who he was. Two or three responded to their first impulse, and raising their guns to their shoulders, fired at him. A bullet slapped against the rock upon which he was partially leaning, and fell at his feet. Another spattered mud in his face, and flew away, singing viciously.
At the reports the fear-harassed mob shuddered and surged forward through its entire length.
The companions of those who fired seemed to reproach them with angry gestures, pointing to the effect upon the panicky mass. Then the whole squad rushed forward toward the hill.
Deadly fear clutched Harry Glen's heart as the angry notes of the bullets jarred on his senses. Then pride and the animal instinct of fighting for life flamed upward. So swiftly that he was scarcely conscious of what he was doing he snatched a cartridge from the box, tore its end between his teeth, and rammed it home. He replaced the ramrod in its thimbles with one quick thrust, and as he raised his eyes from the nipple upon which he had placed the cap, he saw that the Rebel squad had gained the foot of the knoll and started up its side. He raised teh gun to fire, but as he did so he heard a voice call out from behind him:
“Skeet outen thar! Skeet outen thar! Come up heah, quick!”
Harry looked in the direction of the voice. He saw a tall, slender, black-haired man standing in the woods at the upper edge of the cleared space. He was dressed in butternut jeans, and looked so much like the Rebels in front that Harry thought he was one of them. The stranger noticed his indecision, and called out again still more peremptorily:
“Skeet outen thar, I tell ye! Skeet outen thar! Come up heah. I'm a friend—I'm Union.”
His rifle came to his face at the same instant, and Harry saw the flame and white smoke puff from it, and the sickening thought flashed into his mind that the shot was fired at him, and that he would feel the deadly ball pierce his body! Before he could more than formulate this he heard the bullet pass him with a screech, and strike somewhere with a plainly sharp slap. Turning his head he saw the leading Rebel stagger and fall. Harry threw his gun up, with the readiness acquired in old hunting days, and fired at the next of his foes, who also fell! The other Rebels, as they came up, gathered around their fallen comrades.
Harry ran back to where the stranger was, as rapidly as the clinging mud and the steep hillside would permit him.
“Purty fa'r shot that,” said the stranger, setting down the heavy rifle he was carefully reloading, and extending his hand cordially as Harry came panting up. “That's what I call mouty neat shooting—knock yer man over at 150 yards, down hill, with that ole smooth-bore, and without no rest. The oldest han' at the business couldn't've done no better.”
Harry was too much agitated to heed the compliment to his marksmanship. He looked back anxiously and asked:
“Are they coming on yet?”
“Skacely they hain't,” said the stranger, with a very obvious sneer. “Skacely they hain't comin' on no more. They've hed enuff, they hev. Two of their best men dropt inter blue blazes on the first jump will take all the aidge off ther appetite for larks. I know 'em.”
“But they will come on. They'll pursue us. They'll never let us go now,” said Harry, reloading his gun with hands trembling from the exertion and excitement.
He was yet too young a soldier to understand that his enemy's fright might be greater than his own.
“Nary a time they won't,” said the stranger, derisively. “Them fellers are jest like Injuns; they're red-hot till one or two gits knocked over, an' then they cool down mouty suddent. Why, me an' two others stopt the whole of Zollicoffer's army for two days by shootin' the officer in command of the advance-guard jest ez they war a-comin' up the hill this side of Barboursville. Fact! They'd a' been at Wildcat last Friday ef we hedn't skeered 'em so. They stopt an' hunted the whole country round for bushwhackers afore they'd move ary other step.”
“But who are you?” asked Harry, looking again at his companion's butternut garb.
“I'm called Long Jim Forner, an' I've the name o' bein' the pizenest Union man in the Rockassel Mountains. Thar's a good s'tifkit o' my p'litical principles” (pointing with his thumb to where lay the men who had felln under their bullets). Harry looked again in that direction. Part of the squad were looking apprehensively toward him, as if they feared a volley from bushwhackers concealed near him, and others were taking from the bodies of the dead the weapons, belts, and other articles which it was not best to leave for the pursuers, and still others were pointing to the rapidly growing distance between them and main body, apparently adjuring haste in following.
The great mental and bodily strain Harry had undergone since he had first heard the sound of cannon in the morning at the foot of Wildcat should have made him desperately weary. But the sight of the man falling before his gun had fermented in his blood a fierce intoxication, as unknown, as unsuspected before as the passion of love had been before its first keen transports thrilled his heart. Like that ecstacy, this fever now consumed him. All fear of harm to himself vanished in its flame. He had actually slain one enemy. Why not another? He raised his musket. The mountaineer laid his hand upon it.
“No,” he said, “that's not the game to hunt. They'll do when thar's nothin' better to be had, but now powder an' lead kin be used to more advantage. Besides they're outen range o' your smooth-bore now. Come.”
As Fortner threw his rifle across his shoulder Harry looked at it curiously. It had a long, heavy, six sided barrel, with a large bore, double triggers, and a gaily striped hickory ramrod in its thimbles. The stock, of fine, curly rock-maple, was ornamented with silver stars and crescents, and in the breech were cunning little receptacles for tow and patches, and other rifle necessaries, each closed by a polished silver cover that shut with a snap. It was evidently the triumph of some renowned kentucky gunsmith's skill.
The mountaineer's foot was on the soil he had trodden since childhood, and Harry found it quite difficult to keep pace with his strong, quick stride. His step landed firm and sure on the sloping surfaces, where Harry slipped or shambled. Clinging vines and sharp briers were avoided without an apparent effort, where every one grasped Harry, or tore his face and hands.
The instinct of the wolf or the panther seemed to lead Fortner by the shortest courses through the pathless woods to where he came unperceived close upon the flank of the mass of harassed fugitives. Then creeping behind a convenient tree with the supple lightness of the leopard crouching for a spring, he scanned with eager eyes the mounted officers within range. Selecting his prey he muttered:
“'Tain't HIM, but he'll hev to do, THIS time.”
The weapon rang out sharply. The stricken officer threw up his sword arm, his bridle arm clutched his saddle-pommel, as if resisting the attempt of Death to unhorse him. Then the muscles all relaxed, and he fell into he arms of those who had hurried to him.
Harry fired into the mass the next instant; a few random shots replied, and another impetus of fear spurred the mob onward.
Fortner and Harry sped away to another point of interception, where the same scene was repeated, and then to another, and then to a third, Fortner muttering after each shot his disappointment at not finding the one whom he anxiously sought.
When they hurried away the third time they were compelled to make a wide circuit, for the little valley suddenly broadened out into a considerable plain. Upon this the long-drawn-out line of fugitives gathered in a compact, turmoiling mass.
“That's Little Rockassel Ford,” said Fortner, pointing with his left hand to the base of the mountain that rose steeply above the farther side of the commotion. “That's Rockassel Mountain runnin' up thar inter the clouds. The Little Rockassel River runs round hits foot. That's what's a-stoppin' 'em. They'll hev a turrible time gittin' acrost hit. Hit's mouty hard crossin' at enny time, but hit's awful now, fur the Rockassel's boomin'. The big rains hev sent her up kitin', an' hit's now breast-deep thar in the Ford. We'll git round whar we kin see hit all.”
Another wide detour to keep themselves in the concealment of the woods brough Fortner and Harry out upon an acclivity that almost overhung the ford, and those gathered around it. The two Unionists crawled cautiously through the cedars and laurel to the very edge of the cliff and looked down upon their enemies. They were so near that everything was plainly visible, and the hum of conversation reached their ears. They could even hear the commands of the officers vainly trying to restore order, the curses of the teamsters upon their jaded animals, the ribald songs of the few whose canteens furnished them with forgetfulness of defeat, and contempt for the surrounding misery.
All the flooding showers which had been falling upon hundreds of square miles of precipitous mountin sides were now gorging through the crooked, narrow throat of the Little Rockcastle. The torrent filled the ragged banks to the brim, and in their greedy swirl undermined and tore from there logs, great trees, and even rocks.
This was the barrier that stayed the flight of the fugitive throng, and it was this that they strove to put between them and the presumed revengeful victors.
On the bank, field and line officers labored to calm their men and restore organization. It was in vain that they pointed out that there had been no pursuit thus far, and the unlikelihood of there being one. When did Panic yield to Reason? In those demoralized ears the thunder of the cannon at Wildcat, the crash of the bursting shells, and the deadly whistle of bullets still rang louder than any words officers could speak.
The worst frightened crowded into the stream in a frenzy, and struggled wildly with the current that swept their feet off the slimy limestone bottom, with the logs and trees dashing along like so many catapult-bolts, and with the horses and teams urged on by men more fear-stricken still. On the steep slope on the other side glimmered numbers of little fires where those who were lucky enough to get across were warming and drying themselves.
“Heavens!” said Harry with an anticipatory shudder, “if our men should come up, the first cannon shot would make half these men drown themselves in trying to get away.”
Fortner heeded him not. The mountaineer's eyes were fixed upon a tall, imperious looking man, whose collar bore the silver stars of a Colonel.
“He has found his man at last,” said Harry, noticing his companion's attitude, and picking up his own gun in readiness for what might come.
Fortner half-cocked his rifle, took from its nipple the cap that had been there an hour and flung it away. He picked the powder out if the tube, replaced it with fresh from his horn, selected another cap carefully, fitted it on the nipple, and let the hammer down with the faintest snap to force it to its place.
His eyes had the look of a rattlesnake's when it coils for a spring, and his breast swelled out as if he was summoning all his strength. He stepped forward to a tree so lightly that there came no rustle from the dead leaves he trod upon. Harry took his place on the other side of the tree, and cocked his musket.
So close were they to hundreds of Rebels with arms in their hands, that it seemed simply an invitation to death to call their attention.
Fortner turned and waved Harry back as he heard him approach, but Glen had apparently exhausted all his capacity for fearing, in the march upon Wildcat, and he was now calmly desperate.
The Colonel rode out from the throng toward the level spot at the base of the ledge upon which the two were concealed. The horse he bestrode was a magnificent thoroughbred, whose fine action could not be concealed, even by his great fatigue.
“Go and find Mars,” said the Colonel to an orderly, “and tell him to build a fire against that rock there, and make us some coffee. We will not be able to get across the ford before midnight.” The orderly rode off, and the Colonel dismounted and walked forward with the cramped gait of a man who had been long in the saddle.
Still louder yells arose from the ford. A powerful horse, ridden by an officer who was trying to force his way across, had slipped on the river's glassy bedstones, in the midst of a compact throng, and carried many with it down into the deep water below the crossing.
The Colonel's lip curled with contempt as he continued his walk.
A sharp little click sounded from Fortner's rifle. He had set the hair trigger.
He stepped out clear of the tree, and gave a peculiar whistle. The Colonel started as he heard the sound, looked up, saw who uttered it, and instinctively reached his hand back to the holster for a revolver.
Down would scarcely have been ruffled by Fortner's light touch upon the trigger.
Fire flamed from the rifle's muzzle.
The Colonel's haughty eyes became sterner than ever. The holster was torn as he wrenched the revolver out. A clutch at the mane, and he fell forward on the wet brown leaves—dead!
Dumb amazement filled the horse's great eyes; he stretched out his neck and smelled his lifeless master inquiringly.
A shot from Harry's musket, fifty from the astounded Rebels, and the two Unionists sped away unhurt into the cover of the dark cedars.
God sits upon the Throne of Kings,And Judges unto judgement brings:Why then so longMaintain your wrong,And favor lawlesss things?Defend the poor, the fatherless;Their crying injuries redress:And vindicateThe desolate,Whom wicked men oppress.—George Sandy's Paraphrase of Psalm XXXII.
Fortner and Glen were soon so far away from the Ford that the only reminder of its neighborhood were occasional glimpses, caught through rifts in he forest, of the lofty slope of Rockcastle Mountain, now outlined in the gathering darkness by twinkling fires, which increased in number, and climbed higher towards the clouds as fast as the fugitives succeeded in struggling across the river.
“That's a wonderful sight,” said Harry, as they paused on a summit to rest and catch breath. “It reminds me of some of the war scenes in Scott, or the Iliad.”
“Hit looks ter me like a gineral coon-hunt,” said Fortner, “on'y over thar hit's the coons, an' not the hunters, that hev the torches. I wish I could put a bum-shell inter every fire.”
“You are merciless.”
“No more'n they are. They've ez little marcy ez a pack o' wolves in a sheep-pen.”
“Well,” continued Fortner, meditatively, “Ole Rockassel's gittin' a glut to-night. She'd orten't ter need no more now fur a hundred yeahs.”
“I don't understand you,” said Harry.
“Why, they say thet the Rockassel hez ter hev a man every Spring an' Fall. The Injuns believed hit, an' hit's bin so ever sence the white folks come inter the country. Last Spring hit war the turn o' the Fortner kin to gi'n her a man, an' she levied on a fust cousin o' mine—a son o' Aunt Debby Brill. But less jog on; we've got a good piece fur ter go.”
It was now night—black and starless, and the dense woods through which they were traveling made the darkness thick and impenetrable. But no check in Fortner's speed hinted at any ignorance of the course or encountering of obstacles. He continued to stride forward with the same swift, certain step as in the day time. But for Harry, who could see nothing but his leader's head and shoulders, and, whose every effort was required to keep these in sight, the journey was full of painful toil. The relaxation from the intense strain manifested itself in proportion as they seemed to recede from the presence of the enemy, and his spirits flagged continually.
In the daylight the brush and briers had been annoying and hurtful, and the roughness of the way very trying. Now the one was wounding and cruel; the other made every step with his jaded limbs a torture. With the low spirits engendered by the great fatigue, came a return of the old fears and tremors. The continual wails of the wildcats roundabout filled him with gloomy forebodings. Every hair of his head stood stiffly up in mortal terror when a huge catamount, screaming like a fiend, leaped down from a tree, and confronted them for an instant with hideously-gleaming yellow eyes.
“Cuss-an'-burn the nasty varmint!” said Fortner angrily, snatching up a pine knot from his feet and flinging it at the beast, which vanished into the darkness with another curdling scream.
“Don't that man know what fear is?” wondered Harry, ignorant that the true mountaineer feels toward these vociferous felidae about the same contempt with which a plainsman regards a coyote.
At length Fortner slackened his pace, and began to move with caution.
“Are we coming upon the enemy again?” asked Harry, in a loud whisper, which had yet a perceptible quaver in it.
“No,” answered Fortner, “but we're a-comin' ter what is every bit an' grain ez dangersome. Heah's whar the path winds round Blacksnake Clift, an' ye'll hev ter be ez keeful o' your footin' ez ef ye war treadin' the slippery ways o' sin. The path's no wider 'n a hoss's back, an' no better ter walk on. On the right hand side hit's several rods down ter whar the creek's tearin' 'long like a mad dog. Heah hit now, can't ye?”
For some time the roar of the torrent sweeping the gorge had filled Harry's ears.
“Ye want ter walk slow,” continued Fortner, “an' feel keefully with yer foot every time afore ye sot hit squar'ly down. Keep yer left hand a-feelin' the rocks above yer, so's ter make shore all the time thet ye're close ter 'em. 'Bout half way, thar's a big break in the path. Hit's jess a long step acrost hit. Take one step arter I say thet I'm acrost; the feel keerfully with yer left foot fur the aidge o' the break, an' then step out ez long ez ye kin with yer right. That'll bring ye over. Be shore o' yer feet, an ye'll be all right.”
Harry trembled more than at any time before. They were already on the path around the steep cliff. The darkness was inky. The roar of the waters below rose loudly—angrily. The wails of the wildcats behind, overhead and in front of them, made it seem as if the sighing pines and cedars were inhabited with lost spirits shrieking warnings of impending disaster.
Harry's foot came down upon a boulder which turned under his weight. He regained his balance with a start, but the stone toppled over. He listened. There were scores of heart-beats before it splashed in the water below.
“Not so much as a twig between here and eternity,” he said to himself, with a shudder. Then aloud: “Can't we stay here, some place, and not go along there to-night?”
The roar of the water drowned his voice before it reached Fortner's ears, and Harry, obeying the instinct to accept leadership, followed the mountaineer tremblingly.
In a little while he felt—more than saw—Fortner stop, adjust his feet, and make a long stride forward with one of them. Glen collected himself for the same effort. He had need of all of his resolution, for the many narrow escapes which he had made from slipping into the hungry torrent, had shaken every nerve.
“I'm over,” called out Fortner. “Ye try hit now.”
Harry balanced his gun so as to embarrass him the least, and carefully felt with his left foot for the edge of the chasm. The catamount announced his renewed presence by a vindictive scream. The clouds parted just enough to let through a rift of gray light, but it fell not upon the brink of the black gap in the path. It showed for an instant the whirlpool, with fragments of tree trunks, of ghastly likeness to drowned human bodies, eddying dizzily around.
“Come on,” called out Fortner, impatiently.
Harry stepped out desperately. For a mental eternity he hung in air. His hands relaxed and his gun dropped with a crash and a splash. Then his foot touched the other side with nervous doubtfulness. It slipped, and he felt himself falling—falling into all that he feared. Fortner grasped his collar with a strong hand, and dragged him up against the rocky wall of the path.
“Thar, yer all right,” he said, panting with the exertion, “but hit wuz a mouty loud call for ye. Gabriel's ho'n couldn't've made a much mo' powerful one.”
“I've lost my gun,” said Harry, regretfully, as soon as he could compose himself.
“Cuss-an'-burn the blasted ole smooth-bore,” said Fortner, contemptuously. “Don't waste no tear on that ole kick-out-behind. We'll go 'long 'tween Wildcat an' the Ford, an' pick up a wagon-load uv ez good shooters ez thet clumsy chunk o' pot-metal wuz. Shake yourself together. We've on'y got a mile or so ter go now.”
In Harry's condition, the “mile or so” seemed to be stretching out a long ways around the globe, and he began to ask himself how near he was to the much-referred-to “heart of the Southern Confederacy.”
At length a little fading toward gray of the thick blackness, to that they had emerged from the heavy woods into more open country. Harry thought they were come to fields, but he could see nothing, and without remark plodded painfully after his leader.
Suddenly a large pack of dogs immediately in front of them broke the stillness with a startling diapason, ranging from the deep bass of the mastiff to the ringing bark of the fox-hounds. Mingled with this was the sound of the whole pack rushing fiercely forward. Fortner stopped in his tracks so abruptly that Glen stumbled against him. The mountaineer gave the peculiar whistle he had uttered at the Ford. The rush ceased instantly. The deep growls of the mastiffs and bull-dogs stopped likewise; only the hounds and the shrill-voiced young dogs continued barking.
The darkness was rent by a long narrow lane of light. A door had been opened in a tightly-closed house, just beyond the dogs.
“Down, Tige! Git out, Beauty!” said Forstner, imperiously. “Lay down, Watch! Quiet Bruno!”
The clamors of the gang changed to little yelps of welcome.
“Is that you, Jim?” inquired a high-pitched but not unpleasant voice, from the door.
“Yes, Aunt Debby,” answered Fortner, “an' I hev some one with me.”
As the two approached, surrounded by the fawning dogs, a slender, erect woman appeared in the doorway, holding above her head, by its nail and chain, one of the rude iron lamps common in the houses of the South.
“Everything all right, Aunt Debby?” asked Fortner, as, after entering, he turned from firmly securing the door, by placing across it a strong wooden bar that rested in the timbers on either side.
“Yes, thank God!” she said with quiet fervor. She stepped with graceful freedom over the floor, and hung the lamp up by thrusting the nail into a crack in one of the logs forming the walls of the room. “An' how is hit with ye?” she asked, facing Fortner, with her large gray eyes eloquent with solicitude.
“O, ez fur me, I'm jes ez sound ez when I left heah last week, 'cept thet I'm tireder 'n a plow mule at night, an' hongrier nor a b'ar thet's lived all Winter by suckin' hits paws.”
“I s'pose y' air tired an' hongry; ye look hit,” said the woman, with a compassionate glance at Harry, who had sunk limpy into a chair before the glowing wood-fire that filled up a large part of the end of the room.
“Set down by the fire,” she continued, “an' I'll git ye some pone an' milk. Thar's nothin' better ter start in on when yer rale empty.” She went to a rude cupboard in the farther part of the room, whence the note of colliding crockery soon gave information that she was busy.
Fortner took a bunch of tow from his pouch, and with it wiped off every particle of dampness from the outside of his rifle, after which he laid the gun on two wooden hooks above the fireplace, and hung the accouterments on deer horns at its breech.
“Pull off yer shoes an' toast yer feet,” he said to Harry. “The fire'll draw the tiredness right out.”
Harry's relaxed fingers fumbled vainly with the wet and obstinate shoe-strings. Aunt Debby came up with a large bowl of milk in each hand, and a great circular loaf of corn-bread under her arm. She placed her burden upon the floor, and with quick, deft fingers loosened the stubborn knots without an apparent effort, drew off the muddy shoes and set them in a dark corner near the fireplace before Harry fairly realized that he had let a woman do this humble office for him. The sight and smell of food aroused him from the torpor of intense fatigue, and he devoured the homely fare set before him with a relish that he had never before felt for victuals. As he ate his senses awakened so that he studied his hostess with interest. Hair which the advancing years, while bleaching to a snowy white had still been unable to rob of the curling waves of girlhood, rippled over a broad white brow, sober but scarcely wrinkled; large, serious but gentle gray eyes, and a small, firm mouth, filled with even white teeth were the salient features of a face at once resolute, refined and womanly. Long, slender hands, small feet, covered with coarse but well-fitting shoes, a slight, erect figure, suggestive of nervous strength, and clad in a shapely homespun gown stamped her as a superior specimen of the class of mountaineer woman to which she belonged.
“Heah's 'nuther pone, honey,” she said to Fortner, as she handed both of them segments of another disk of corn-bread, to replace that which they had ravenously devoured. “An' le' me fill yer bowls agin. Hit takes a powerful sight o' bread an' milk ter do when one's rale hongry. But 'tain't like meat vittels. Ye can't eat 'nuff ter do ye harm.”
She took from its place behind the rough stones that formed the jam of the fireplace a rude broom, made by shaving down to near its end long slender strips from a stick of pliant green hickory, then turning these over the end and confining them by a band into an exaggerated mop or brush. With this she swept back from the hearth of uneven stones the live coals flung out by the fire.
“Thar's some walnut sticks amongst thet wood,” she said as she replaced the hearth-broom, “an' they pops awful.”
From a pouch-like basket, made of skilfully interwoven hickory strips, and hanging against the wall, she took a half-finished stocking and a ball of yarn. Drawing a low rocking-chair up into the light, she seated herself and began knitting.
As he neared the last of his second bowl of milk Fortner bethought himself, and glanced at Aunt Debby. Her work had fallen from her nervous hands and lay idly in her lap, while her great eyes were fixed hungrily upon him.
“They've bin fouten over ter Wildcat to-day,” he said, answering their inquiry, without waiting to empty his mouth.
“Yes, I heard the cannons,” she said with such gentle voice as made her dialect seem quaint and sweet. “I clim up on Bald Rock at the top o' the mounting an' lissened. I could see the smoke raisin', but I couldn't tell nothin'. Much uv a fout?”
“Awful big'un. Biggest 'un sence Buner Vister. Ole Zollicoffer pitched his whole army onter Kunnel Gerrard's rijimint. Some other rijiments cum up ter help Kunnel Garrard, an' both sides fit like devis fur three or fur hours, an' the dead jess lay in winrows, an'——”
The demands of Fortner's unappeased appetite here rose superior to his desire to impart information. He stopped to munch the last bit of corn-bread and drain his bowl to the bottom.
“Yes,” said Aunt Debby, inhospitably disregarding the exhaustion of the provender, and speaking a little more quickly than her wont, “but which side whipt?”
“Our'n, in course,” said Fortner, with nettled surprise at the question. “Our'n, in course. Old Zollicoffer got ez bad a licken ez ever Gineral Zach Taylor gi'n the Mexicans.”
“Rayally?” she said. Gratification showed itself in little lines that coursed about her mouth, and her eyes illumined as when a light shines through a window.
“Yes,” answered Fortner. “Like hounds, and run clean ter the Ford, whar they're now a-fouten an' strugglin to git acrost, and drowndin' like so many stampeded cattle.”
“Glory! Thank God!” said Aunt Debby. Her earnestness expressed itself more by the intensity of the tone than its rise.
“Evidently a tolerable regular attendant at Methodist camp-meetings,” thought Harry, rousing a little from the torpor into which he was falling.
Her faded check flushed with a little confusion at having suffered this outburst, and picking up her knitting she nervously resumed work.
Fortner looked wistfully at the bottom of his emptied bowl. Aunt Debby took it away and speedily returned with it filled. She came back with an air of eager expectancy that Fortner would continue his narrative. But unsatisfied hunger still dominated him, and he had thoughts and mouth only for food. She sad down and resumed her knitting with an apparent effort at composing herself.
For a full minute the needles clicked industriously. Then they stopped; the long, slender fingers clenched themselves about the ball of yarn; she faced Fortner, her eyes shining with a less brilliant but intenser light.
“Jim Fortner,” she said with low, measured distinctness, “why don't ye go on? Is thar somethin' that ye'r afeered ter tell me? What hez hapened ter our folks? Don't flinch from tellin' me the wust. I'm allers willin' ter bow ter the will o' the Lord without a murmur. On'y let me know what hit is.”
“Why, Aunt Debby, thar hain't been nothin' happened ter 'em,” said Fortner, deeply surprised. “Thar ain't nothin' ter tell ye 'bout 'em. They're all safe. They're in Kunnel Garrard's rijimint, ez ye know, an' hit fit behind breastworks, and didn't lose nobody, scacely—leastwise none uv our kin.”
She rose quickly from her chair. The ball of yarn fell from her lap and rolled unheeded toward the glowing coals under the forelog. With arm outstretched, hands clasped, and eyes directed upward in fervent appeal, there was much to recall that Deborah from whom she took her name—that prophetess and priestess who, standing under the waving palm trees of Ball-Tamar, inspired her countrymen to go forth and overthrow and destroy their Canaanitish oppressors.
“O, God!” she said in low, thrilling tones, “Thou's aforetimes gi'n me much ter be thankful fur, as well ez much ter dumbly ba'r when Thy rod smote me fur reasons thet I couldn't understand. Thou knows how gladly I'd've gi'n not on'y my pore, nigh-spent life, but also those o' my kinsmen, which I prize much higher, fur sech a vict'ry ez this over the inimies of Thee an' Thy people. But Thou'st gi'n hit free ez Thy marcy, without axin' blood sacrifice from any on us. I kin on'y praise Thee an' Thy goodness all my days.”
Fortner rose and listend with bowed head while she spoke. When she finished he snatched up the ball of shriveling yarn and quenched its smoking with his hand. Looking fixedly at this he said softly: “Aunt Debby, honey, I hain't tole ye all yit.”
“No, Jim?”
“No,” said he, slowly winding up the yarn, “Arter the fouten wuz thru with at the Gap I slipt down the mounting, an' come in on the r'ar uv those fellers, an' me an' this ere man drapt two on 'em.”
“I kinder 'spected ye would do something uv thet sort.”
“Then we tuk a short cut an' overtuk 'em agin, an' we drapt another.”
Aunt Debby's eyes expressed surprise at this continued good fortune.
“An' then we tuk 'nuther short cut, an' saved 'nuther one.”
Aunt Debby waited for him to continue.
“At last—jess ez they come ter the Ford—I seed OUR man.”
“Seed Kunnel Bill Pennington?” The great gray eyes were blazing now.
“Yes.” Fortner's speech was the spiritless drawl of the mountains, and it had now become so languid that it seemed doubtful if after the enunciation of each word whether vitality enough remained to evolve a successor. “Yes,” he repeated with a yawn, as he stuck the ball of yarn upon the needles and gave the whole a toss which landed it in the wall-basket, “an' I GOT him, tew.”
“O, just God! Air ye shore?”
“Jess ez shore ez in the last great day thar'll be some 'un settin' in judgement atween him an' me. I wanted him ter be jess ez shore about me. I came out in plain sight, and drawed his attention. He knowed me at fust glimpse, an' pulled his revolver. I kivered his heart with the sights an' tetcht the trigger. I'm sorry now thet I didn't shoot him thru the belly, so thet he'd been a week a-dyin' an' every minnit he'd remembered what he wuz killed fur. But I wuz so afeered that I would not kill him ef I hit him some place else'n the heart—thet's a wayall pizen varmints hev—thet I didn't da'r resk hit. I wuz detarmined ter git him, too, ef I had ter foller him clean ter Cumberland Gap.”
“Ye done God's vengeance,” said Aunt Debby sternly. “An' yit hit wuz very soon ter expect hit.” She clasped her hands upon her forehead and rocked back and forth, gazing fixedly into the mass of incandescent coals.
“Hit's gwine to cla'r up ter-morrow,” said Fortner, returning from an inspection of the sky at the door. “Le's potter off ter bed,” he continued rousing up Harry. They removed their outer garments and crawled into one of the comfortable beds in the room.
Later in the night a sharp pain in one of Harry's over-strained legs awoke him out of his deep slumber, for a few minutes. Aunt Debby was still seated before the fire in her chair, rocking back and forth, and singing softly: