Si Klegg Experiences Of Si And Shorty On The Great Tullahoma Campaign Part 29

Others were turned away with similar brusqueness, until the Deacon was in despair; but the though of Si on a bed of pain nerved him, and he kept his place in the line that was pushing toward the Provost's desk.

Suddenly the Provost looked over those in front of him, and fixing his eye on the Deacon, called out:

"Well, my friend, come up here. What can I do for you?"

The Deacon was astonished, but in obedience to a gesture from the Provost, left the line, and came up.

"What's your name? Where are you from? What are you doing down here?

What do you want?" inquired the Provost, scanning him critically.

The Deacon's eyes met his boldly, and he answered the questions categorically.

"Well, Mr. Klegg, you shall have a pa.s.s at once, and I sincerely hope that you will find your son recovering. You probably do not remember me, but I have seen you before, when I was on the circuit in Indiana.

My clerk there is writing out a pa.s.s for you. You will have to take the oath of allegiance, and sign the paper, which I suppose you have no objection to doing."

"None in the world," answered the Deacon, surprised at the unexpected turn of events. "I'll be only too glad. I was gittin' very scared about my pa.s.s."

"O, I have hard work here," said the Provost smiling, "in separating the sheep from the goats, but I'm now getting to know the goats tolerably well. There's you're pa.s.s, Deacon. A pleasant journey, and a happy termination to it."

The Deacon took out his long calf-skin wallet from his breast, put the precious pa.s.s in it, carefully strapped it up again and replaced it, and walked out of the office toward the depot.

He had gone but a few steps from the building when he saw the man who had been ordered out of the city by the Provost, and who seemed to be on the lookout for the Deacon. He came up, greeted the Deacon effusively and shook hands.

"You're from Posey County, Ind., I believe? I used to live there myself.

Know Judge Drake?"

"Very well," answered the Deacon a little stiffly, for he was on his guard against cordial strangers.

"You do;" said the stranger warmly. "Splendid man. Great lawyer. Fine judge. I had a great deal to do with him at one time."

"Probably he had a great deal to do with you," thought the Deacon. "He was a terror to evil-doers."

"Say, my friend," said the stranger abruptly, "you got a pa.s.s. I couldn't. That old rascal of a Provost-Marshal's down on me because I wouldn't let him into a speculation with me. He's on the make every time, and wants to hog everything. Say, you're a sly one. You worked him fine on that wounded son racket. I think I'd like to tie to you. I'll make it worth your while to turn over that pa.s.s to me. It'll fit me just as well as it does you. I'll give you $50 to let me use that pa.s.s just two days, and then I'll return it to you."

"Why, you're crazy," gasped the Deacon.

"O, come off, now," said the other impatiently. "Business is business.

I haint no time to waste. It's more'n it's worth to me, but I'll make it $100, and agree to be back on this spot to-morrow night with your pa.s.s.

You can't make $100 as easy any other way."

"I tell you, you're crazy," said the Deacon with rising indignation.

"You can't have that pa.s.s for no amount o' money. I'm goin' to see my wounded son."

"That's a good enough gag for the Provost, but I understand you, in spite of your hayseed airs. Say, I'll make it $250."

"I tell you, you old fool," said the Deacon angrily, "I won't sell that pa.s.s for a mint o' money. Even if I wasn't goin' to see my son I wouldn't let you have it under any circ.u.mstances, to use in your traitorous business. Let go o' my coat, if you know what's good for you."

"Now, look here," said the stranger; "I've made you a mighty fair proposition more'n the pa.s.s's worth to you. If you don't accept it you'll wish you had. I'm onto you. I'll go right back to the Provost and let out on you. I know enough to settle your hash mighty sudden. Do you hear me?"

It was very near train time, and the Deacon was desperately anxious to not miss the train. He had already wasted more words on this man than he usually did on those he didn't like, and he simply ended the colloquy with a shove that sent the impertinent stranger into the gutter as if a mule had kicked him there, hurried on to the depot, and managed to get on just as the train was moving out.

It was night, and he dozed in his seat until the train reached Bridgeport, Ala., when everybody was turned out of the train, and a general inspection of the pa.s.sengers made.

"Very sorry for you, sir," said the Lieutenant; "but we can't let you go on. Your pa.s.s is all right up to this point, but the Commandant at Nashville has no authority here. Orders are very strict against any more civilians coming to Chattanooga under any pretext. Rations are very short, and there is danger of their being much shorter, with the rebel cavalry slashing around everywhere at our cracker-line. We only saved two bridges to-night by the greatest luck. You'll have to go back to Nashville by the next train."

"O, Mister Lootenant," pleaded the Deacon, with drops of sweat on his brow. "Please let me go on. My only son lays there in Chattanooga, a-dyin' for all I know. He's bin a good soldier. Ask anybody that knows the 200th Injianny, and they'll tell you that there ain't no better soldier in the regiment than Corporal Si Klegg. You've a father yourself. Think how he'd feel if you was layin' in a hospital at the pint o' death, and him not able to git to you. You'll let me go on, I know you will. It aint in you to re fuse."

"I feel awful sorry for you sir," said the Lieutenant, much moved. "And if I had it in my power you should go. But I have got my orders, and I must obey them. I musn't allow anybody not actually be longing to the army to pa.s.s on across the river on the train."

"I'll walk every step o' the way, if you'll let me go on," said the Deacon.

"I tell you what you might do," said the Lieutenant suggestively. "It isn't a great ways over the mountains to Chattanooga. There's a herd of cattle starting over there. The Lieutenant in charge is a friend of mine. I'll speak to him to let you go along as a helper. It'll be something of a walk for you, but it's the best I can do. You'll get in there some time to-morrow."

"P'int out your friend to me, and let me go as quick as I kin."

"All right," said the Lieutenant in charge of the herd, when the circ.u.mstances were explained to him. "Free pa.s.ses over my road to Chattanooga are barred. Everybody has to work his way. But I'll see that you get there, if Joe Wheeler's cavalry don't interfere. We are going over in the dark to avoid them. You can put your carpet-bag in that wagon there. Report to the Herd-Boss there."

"You look like a man of sense," said the Herd-Boss, looking him over, and handing him a hickory gad. "And I believe you're all right. I'm goin' to put you at the head, just behind the guide. Keep your eye peeled for rebel cavalry and bushwhackers, and stop and whistle for me if you see anything suspicious."

It was slow, toilsome work urging the lumbering cattle along over the steep, tortuous mountain paths. Naturally, the nimblest, friskiest steers got in the front, and they were a sore trial to the Deacon, to restrain them to the line of march, and keep them from straying off and getting lost. Of course, a Deacon in the Baptist Church could not swear under any provocation, but the way he remarked on the conduct of some of the "critters" as "dumbed," "confounded," and "tormented," had almost as vicious a ring as the profuse profanity of his fellow-herders.

Late in the afternoon the tired-out herd was halted in a creek bottom near Chattanooga. The patient animals lay down, and the weary, footsore Deacon, his clothes covered with burs, his hands and face seamed with b.l.o.o.d.y scratches, leaned on his frayed gad and looked around over the wilderness of tents, cabins, trains and interminable lines of breastworks and forts.

"Mr. Klegg," said the Herd-Boss, coming toward him, "you've done your duty, and you've done it well. I don't know how I could've ever got this lot through but for your help. Here's your carpet-sack, and here's a haversack o' rations I've put up for you. Take mighty good care of it, for you'll need every cracker. That lot o' tents you see over there, with a yaller flag flyin' over 'em, is a general hospital. Mebbe you'll find your son in there."

The Deacon walked straight to the nearest tent, lifted the flap and inquired:

"Does anybody here know where there is a boy named Si Klegg, of Co. Q, 200th Injianny Volunteers?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "PAP, IS THAT YOU?" SAID A WEAK VOICE. 238]

"Pap, is that you?" said a weak voice in the far corner.

"Great, jumpin' Jehosephat, the Deacon!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed a tall skeleton of a man, who was holding a cup of coffee to Si's lips.

"Great Goodness, Shorty," said the Deacon, "is that you?"

"What's left o' me," answered Shorty.

CHAPTER XIX. TEDIOUS CONVALESCENCE

THE DEACON COMMITS A CRIME AGAINST HIS CONSCIENCE.

"YOU are the father of that boy in the far end of the tent," said the Surgeon coming up to the Deacon, who had stepped outside of the tent to get an opportunity to think clearly. "I'm very glad you have come, for his life hangs by a thread. That thread is his pluck, aided by a superb const.i.tution. Most men would have died on the field from such a wound.

Medicine can do but little for him; careful nursing much more; but his own will and your presence and encouragement will do far more than either."

"How about Shorty?" inquired the Deacon.