The Southerner: A Romance of the Real Lincoln Part 97

The speaker cautiously slipped his musket in place and drew a bead on the spot. His partner placed his hat on his ramrod and slowly lifted it a foot above their hiding place.

The hat had scarcely cleared the pile of dirt before the musket flashed.

"I got him! I told you he was there!"

John turned from the scene with a sense of sickening horror. He would die for his country, but he hoped he would not be called on to kill again.

He made a wide detour and attempted to cross the lines five miles further from the city and walked suddenly into a squad of grey soldiers in command of a lieutenant.

The officer eyed him with suspicion.

"What's your business here, sir?" he asked sharply.

"Looking over the lines," John replied casually.

"So I see. That's why I asked you. Show your pa.s.s."

"Why, I haven't one."

"I thought not. You're a d.a.m.ned spy and you'd just as well say your prayers. I'm going to hang you."

The men pressed near. Among them was a second lieutenant, a big, strapping, quiet-looking fellow.

"You've made a mistake, gentlemen," John protested.

"I'm a newspaper man from Atlanta. The chief sent me out to look over the lines and report."

"It's a lie. We've forbidden every paper in town to dare such a thing----"

John smiled:

"That's just why my office sent me, I reckon."

"Well, he sent you once too often----"

He turned to his orderly:

"Get me a bridle rein off my horse."

In vain John protested. The Commander shook his head:

"It's no use talking. You've pa.s.sed the deadline here to-day. This is a favorite spot for scouts to cross. I'm not going to take any chances; I'm going to hang you."

"Why don't you search me first?"

He was sure that his dangerous message was so skillfully sewed in the soles of his shoes they would not be discovered.

"I can search you afterwards," was the laconic reply.

He quickly tied the leather strap around his neck and threw the end of it over a limb. The touch of his hand and the rough way in which he had tied the leather stirred John Vaughan's rage to boiling point. All sense of danger was lost for the moment in blind anger. He turned suddenly and faced his executioner:

"This is a d.a.m.ned outrage, sir! Even a spy is ent.i.tled to a trial by drumhead court-martial!"

"Yes, that's what I say," the big, quiet fellow broke in.

"I'm in command of this squad!" thundered the lieutenant.

"I know you are," was the cool answer, "that's why this outrage is going to be committed."

The executioner dropped the rein and faced his subordinate:

"You're going to question my authority?"

"I've already done it, haven't I?"

A quick blow followed. The quiet man, in response, knocked his commander down and the men sprang on them as they drew their revolvers.

John Vaughan, with a sudden leap, reached the dense woods and in five minutes was inside Sherman's lines.

The bridle rein was still around his neck and the blue picket helped him untie the ugly knot.

"I've had a close call," he panted, with a glance toward the woods.

"You look it, partner. You'll be wantin' to see General Sherman, I guess?"

"Yes--to headquarters quick--you can't get there too quick to suit me."

He had recovered his composure before reaching the farm house where General Sherman and his staff were quartered.

The day was one of terrific heat--the first of September. The President's description of the famous fighter and the tremendous responsibility which was now being placed on his shoulders had roused John's curiosity to the highest pitch.

The General was seated in an arm chair in the yard under a great oak.

His coat was unb.u.t.toned and he had tilted back against the tree in a comfortable position reading a newspaper. His black slouch hat was pulled far down over his face.

John saluted:

"This is General Sherman?"

"Yes," was the quick, pleasant answer as the tall, gaunt form slowly rose.

John noted his striking and powerful personality--the large frame, restless hazel eyes, fine aquiline nose, bronzed features and cropped beard. His every movement was instinct with the power of perfect physical manhood, forty-four years old, the incarnation of health and wiry strength.

"I come from Washington, General," John continued, "and bear a special message from the President."

"From the President! Oh, come inside then."

The tall figure moved with quick, nervous energy. In ten minutes couriers were dashing from his headquarters in every direction.

At one o'clock that night the big movement of his withdrawal from the siege lines began. He had no intention of hurling his men against those deadly trenches. He believed that with a sure, swift start undiscovered by the Confederates he could by a single battle turn their lines at Jonesboro, destroy the railroad and force General Hood to evacuate Atlanta.