Books: The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come
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John Fox, Jr. >> The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come
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"Good-by, Major," he said, brokenly.
"Good-by, sir," answered the Major, with a stiff bow, but the old man's lip
shook and he turned abruptly within.
Chad did not trust himself to look back, but, as he rode through the pasture
to the pike gate, his ears heard, never to forget, the chatter of the
blackbirds, the noises around the barn, the cry of the peacock, and the
wailing of the ploughman:
Trouble, O Lawd!
Nothin' but trouble--
At the gate the little mare turned her head toward town and started away in
the easy swinging lope for which she was famous. From a cornfield Jerome
Conners, the overseer, watched horse and rider for a while, and then his lips
were lifted over his protruding teeth in one of his ghastly, infrequent
smiles. Chad Buford was out of his way at last. At the Deans' gate, Snowball
was just going in on Margaret's pony and Chad pulled up.
"Where's Mr. Dan, Snowball?--and Mr. Harry?"
"Mars Dan he gwine to de wah--an' I'se gwine wid him."
"Is Mr. Harry going, too?" Snowball hesitated. He did not like to gossip about
family matters, but it was a friend of the family who was questioning him.
"Yessuh! But Mammy say Mars Harry's teched in de haid. He gwine to fight wid
de po' white trash."
"Is Miss Margaret at home?"
"Yessuh."
Chad had his note to Margaret, unsealed. He little felt like seeing her now,
but he had just as well have it all over at once. He took it out and looked it
over once more--irresolute.
"I'm going away to join the Union army, Margaret. May I come to tell you
good-by? If not, God bless you always. CHAD."
"Take this to Miss Margaret, Snowball, and bring me an answer here as soon as
you can."
"Yessuh."
The black boy was not gone long. Chad saw him go up the steps, and in a few
moments he reappeared and galloped back.
"Ole Mistis say dey ain't no answer."
"Thank you, Snowball." Chad pitched him a coin and loped on toward Lexington
with his head bent, his hands folded on the pommel, and the reins flapping
loosely. Within one mile of Lexington he turned into a cross-road and set his
face toward the mountains.
An hour later, the General and Harry and Dan stood on the big portico. Inside,
the mother and Margaret were weeping in each other's arms. Two negro boys were
each leading a saddled horse from the stable, while Snowball was blubbering at
the corner of the house. At the last moment Dan had decided to leave him
behind. If Harry could have no servant, Dan, too, would have none. Dan was
crying without shame. Harry's face was as white and stern as his father's. As
the horses drew near the General stretched out the sabre in his hand to Dan.
"This should belong to you, Harry."
"It is yours to give, father," said Harry, gently.
"It shall never be drawn against my roof and your mother."
The boy was silent.
"You are going far North?" asked the General, more gently. "You will not fight
on Kentucky soil?"
"You taught me that the first duty of a soldier is obedience. I must go where
I'm ordered."
"God grant that you two may never meet."
"Father!" It was a cry of horror from both the lads.
The horses were waiting at the stiles. The General took Dan in his arms and
the boy broke away and ran down the steps, weeping.
"Father," said Harry, with trembling lips, "I hope you won't be too hard on
me. Perhaps the day will come when you won't be so ashamed of me. I hope you
and mother will forgive me. I can't do otherwise than I must. Will you shake
hands with me, father?"
"Yes, my son. God be with you both."
And then, as he watched the boys ride side by side to the gate, he added:
"I could kill my own brother with my own hand for this."
He saw them stop a moment at the gate; saw them clasp hands and turn opposite
ways--one with his face set for Tennessee, the other making for the Ohio. Dan
waved his cap in a last sad good-by. Harry rode over the hill without turning
his head. The General stood rigid, with his hands clasped behind his back,
staring across the gray fields between them. Through the winds, came the low
sound of sobbing.
CHAPTER 21. MELISSA
Shortly after dusk, that night, two or three wagons moved quietly out of
Lexington, under a little guard with guns loaded and bayonets fixed. Back at
the old Armory--the home of the "Rifles"--a dozen youngsters drilled
vigorously with faces in a broad grin, as they swept under the motto of the
company--"Our laws the commands of our Captain." They were following out those
commands most literally. Never did Lieutenant Hunt give his orders more
sonorously--he could be heard for blocks away. Never did young soldiers stamp
out maneuvers more lustily--they made more noise than a regiment. Not a man
carried a gun, though ringing orders to "Carry arms" and "Present arms" made
the windows rattle. It was John Morgan's first ruse. While that mock-drill was
going on, and listening Unionists outside were laughing to think how those
Rifles were going to be fooled next day, the guns of the company were moving
in those wagons toward Dixie--toward mocking-bird-haunted Bowling Green, where
the underfed, unclothed, unarmed body of Albert Sydney Johnston's army lay,
with one half-feathered wing stretching into the Cumberland hills and the
frayed edge of the other touching the Ohio.
Next morning, the Home Guards came gayly around to the Armory to seize those
guns, and the wily youngsters left temporarily behind (they, too, fled for
Dixie, that night) gibed them unmercifully; so that, then and there, a little
interchange of powder-and-ball civilities followed; and thus, on the very
first day, Daniel Dean smelled the one and heard the other whistle right
harmlessly and merrily. Straightway, more guards were called out; cannon were
planted to sweep the principal streets, and from that hour the old town was
under the rule of a Northern or Southern sword for the four years' reign of
the war.
Meanwhile, Chad Buford was giving a strange journey to Dixie. Whenever he
dismounted, she would turn her head toward the Bluegrass, as though it surely
were time they were starting for home. When they reached the end of the
turnpike, she lifted her feet daintily along the muddy road, and leaped pools
of water like a cat. Climbing the first foot-hills, she turned her beautiful
head to right and left, and with pointed ears snorted now and then at the
strange dark woods on either side and the tumbling water-falls. The red of her
wide nostrils was showing when she reached the top of the first mountain, and
from that high point of vantage she turned her wondering eyes over the wide
rolling stretch that waved homeward, and whinnied with distinct uneasiness
when Chad started her down into the wilderness beyond. Distinctly that road
was no path for a lady to tread, but Dixie was to know it better in the coming
war.
Within ten miles of the Turners', Chad met the first man that he knew--Hence
Sturgill from Kingdom Come. He was driving a wagon.
"Howdye, Hence!" said Chad, reining in.
"Whoa!" said Hence, pulling in and staring at Chad's horse and at Chad from
hat to spur.
"Don't you know me, Hence?"
"Well, God--I--may--die, if it ain't Chad! How air ye, Chad? Goin' up to ole
Joel's?"
"Yes. How are things on Kingdom Come?"
Hence spat on the ground and raised one hand high over his head:
"God--I--may--die, if thar hain't hell to pay on Kingdom Come. You better keep
offo' Kingdom Come," and then he stopped with an expression of quick alarm,
looked around him into the bushes and dropped his voice to a whisper:
"But I hain't sayin' a word--rickollect now--not a word!"
Chad laughed aloud. "What's the matter with you, Hence?"
Hence put one finger on one side of his nose--still speaking in a low tone:
"Whut'd I say, Chad? D'I say one word?" He gathered up his reins. "You
rickollect Jake and Jerry Dillon?" Chad nodded. "You know Jerry was al'ays
a-runnin' over Jake 'cause Jake' didn't have good sense. Jake was drapped when
he was a baby. Well, Jerry struck Jake over the head with a fence-rail 'bout
two months ago, an when Jake come to, he had just as good sense as anybody,
and now he hates Jerry like pizen, an Jerry's half afeard of him. An' they do
say a how them two brothers air a-goin'" Again Hence stopped abruptly and
clucked to his team "But I ain't a-sayin' a word, now, mind ye--not a word!"
Chad rode on, amused, and thinking that Hence had gone daft, but he was to
learn better. A reign of forty years' terror was starting in those hills.
Not a soul was in sight when he reached the top of the hill from which he
could see the Turner home below--about the house or the orchard or in the
fields. No one answered his halloo at the Turner gate, though Chad was sure
that he saw a woman's figure flit past the door. It was a full minute before
Mother Turner cautiously thrust her head outside the door and peered at him
"Why, Aunt Betsey," called Chad, "don't you know me?"
At the sound of his voice Melissa sprang out the door with a welcoming cry,
and ran to him, Mother Turner following with a broad smile on her kind old
face. Chad felt the tears almost come--these were friends indeed. How tall
Melissa had grown, and how lovely she was, with her tangled hair and flashing
eyes and delicately modelled face. She went with him to the stable to help him
put up his horse, blushing when he looked at her and talking very little,
while the old mother, from the fence, followed him with her dim eyes. At once
Chad began to ply both with questions--where was Uncle Joel and the boys and
the school-master? And, straightway, Chad felt a reticence in both--a curious
reticence even with him. On each side of the fireplace, on each side of the
door, and on each side of the window, he saw narrow blocks fixed to the logs.
One was turned horizontal, and through the hole under it Chad saw
daylight--portholes they were. At the door were taken blocks as catches for a
piece of upright wood nearby, which was plainly used to bar the door. The
cabin was a fortress. By degrees the story came out. The neighborhood was in a
turmoil of bloodshed and terror. Tom and Dolph had gone off to the
war--Rebels. Old Joel had been called to the door one night, a few weeks
since, and had been shot down without warning. They had fought all night.
Melissa herself had handled a rifle at one of the portholes. Rube was out in
the woods now, with Jack guarding and taking care of his wounded father. A
Home Guard had been organized, and Daws Dillon was captain. They were driving
out of the mountains every man who owned a negro, for nearly every man who
owned a negro had taken, or was forced to take, the Rebel side. The Dillons
were all Yankees, except Jerry, who had gone off with Tom; and the giant
brothers, Rebel Jerry and Yankee Jake--as both were already known--had sworn
to kill each other on sight. Bushwhacking had already begun. When Chad asked
about the school-master, the old woman's face grew stern, and Melissa's lip
curled with scorn.
"Yankee!" The girl spat the word out with such vindictive bitterness that
Chad's face turned slowly scarlet, while the girl's keen eyes pierced him like
a knife, and narrowed as, with pale face and heaving breast, she rose suddenly
from her chair and faced him--amazed, bewildered, burning with sudden hatred.
"And you're another!" The girl's voice was like a hiss.
"Why, 'Lissy!" cried the old mother, startled, horrified.
"Look at him!" said the girl. The old woman looked; her face grew hard and
frightened, and she rose feebly, moving toward the girl as though for
protection against him. Chad's very heart seemed suddenly to turn to water. He
had been dreading the moment to come when he must tell. He knew it would be
hard, but he was not looking for this.
"You better git away!" quavered the old woman, "afore Joel and Rube come in."
"Hush!" said the girl, sharply, her hands clinched like claws, her whole body
stiff, like a tigress ready to attack, or awaiting attack.
"Mebbe he come hyeh to find out whar they air--don't tell him!"
"Lissy!" said Chad, brokenly.
"Then whut did you come fer?"
"To tell you good-by, I came to see all of you, Lissy."
The girl laughed scornfully, and Chad knew he was helpless. He could not
explain, and they could not understand--nobody had understood.
"Aunt Betsey," he said, "you took Jack and me in, and you took care of me just
as though I had been your own child. You know I'd give my life for you or
Uncle Joel, or any one of the boys"--his voice grew a little stern--"and you
know it, too, Lissy--"
"You're makin' things wuss," interrupted the girl, stridently, "an' now you're
goin' to do all you can to kill us. I reckon you can see that door. Why don't
you go over to the Dillons?" she panted. "They're friends o' your'n. An' don't
let Uncle Joel or Rube ketch you anywhar round hyeh!"
"I'm not afraid to see Uncle Joel or Rube, Lissy."
"You must git away, Chad," quavered the old woman. "They mought hurt ye!"
"I'm sorry not to see Jack. He's the only friend I have now."
"Why, Jack would snarl at ye," said the girl, bitterly. "He hates a Yankee."
She pointed again with her finger. "I reckon you can see that door."
They followed him, Melissa going on the porch and the old woman standing in
the doorway. On one side of the walk Chad saw a rose-bush that he had brought
from the Bluegrass for Melissa. It was dying. He took one step toward it, his
foot sinking in the soft earth where the girl had evidently been working
around it, and broke off the one green leaf that was left.
"Here, Lissy! You'll be sorry you were so hard on me. I'd never get over it if
I didn't think you would. Keep this, won't you, and let's be friends, not enemies."
He held it out, and the girl angrily struck the rose-leaf from his hand to her
feet.
Chad rode away at a walk. Two hundred yards below, where the hill rose, the
road was hock-deep with sand, and Dixie's feet were as noiseless as a cat's. A
few yards beyond a ravine on the right, a stone rolled from the bushes into
the road. Instinctively Chad drew rein, and Dixie stood motionless. A moment
later, a crouching figure, with a long squirrel rifle, slipped out of the
bushes and started noiselessly across the ravine. Chad's pistol flashed.
"Stop!"
The figure crouched more, and turned a terror-stricken face--Daws Dillon's.
"Oh, it's you, is it--Well, drop that gun and come down here."
The Dillon boy rose, leaving his gun on the ground, and came down, trembling.
"What're you doin' sneaking around in the brush?"
"Nothin'!" The Dillon had to make two efforts before he could speak at all.
"Nothin', jes' a-huntin'!"
"Huntin'!" repeated Chad. He lowered his pistol and looked at the sorry figure
silently.
"I know what you were huntin', you rattlesnake! I understand you are captain
of the Home Guard. I reckon you don't know that nobody has to go into this
war. That a man has the right to stay peaceably at home, and nobody has the
right to bother him. If you don't know it, I tell you now. I believe you had
something to do with shooting Uncle Joel."
The Dillon shook his head, and fumbled with his hands.
"If I knew it, I'd kill you where you stand, now. But I've got one word to say
to you, you hell-pup. I hate to think it, but you and I are on the same
side--that is, if you have any side. But in spite of that, if I hear of any
harm happening to Aunt Betsey, or Melissa, or Uncle Joel, or Rube, while they
are all peaceably at home, I'm goin' to hold you and Tad responsible, whether
you are or not, and I'll kill you"--he raised one hand to make the Almighty a
witness to his oath --"I'll kill you, if I have to follow you both to hell for
doin' it. Now, you take keer of 'em! Turn 'round!"
The Dillon hesitated.
"Turn!" Chad cried, savagely, raising his pistol. "Go back to that gun, an' if
you turn your head I'll shoot you where you're sneakin' aroun' to shoot Rube
or Uncle Joel--in the back, you cowardly feist. Pick up that gun! Now, let her
off! See if you can hit that beech-tree in front of you. Just imagine that
it's me."
The rifle cracked and Chad laughed.
"Well, you ain't much of a shot. I reckon you must have chills and fever. Now,
come back here. Give me your powder-horn. You'll find it on top of the hill on
the right-hand side of the road. Now, you trot--home!"
Then Dillon stared.
"Double-quick!" shouted Chad. "You ought to know what that means if you are a
soldier--a soldier!" he repeated, contemptuously.
The Dillon disappeared on a run.
Chad rode all that night. At dawn he reached the foot-hills, and by noon he
drew up at the road which turned to Camp Dick Robinson. He sat there a long
time thinking, and then pushed on toward Lexington. If he could, he would keep
from fighting on Kentucky soil.
Next morning he was going at an easy "running-walk" along the old Maysville
road toward the Ohio. Within three miles of Major Buford's, he leaped the
fence and stuck across the fields that he might go around and avoid the risk
of a painful chance meeting with his old friend or any of the Deans.
What a land of peace and plenty it was--the woodlands, meadows, pasture lands!
Fat cattle raised their noses from the thick grass and looked with mild
inquiry at him. Sheep ran bleating toward him, as though he were come to salt
them. A rabbit leaped from a thorn-bush and whisked his white flag into safety
in a hemp-field. Squirrels barked in the big oaks, and a covey of young quail
fluttered up from a fence corner and sailed bravely away. 'Possum signs were
plentiful, and on the edge of the creek he saw a coon solemnly searching under
a rock with one paw for crawfish Every now and then Dixie would turn her head
impatiently to the left, for she knew where home was. The Deans' house was
just over the hill he would have but the ride to the top to see it and,
perhaps, Margaret. There was no need. As he sat, looking up the hill, Margaret
herself rode slowly over it, and down, through the sunlight slanting athwart
the dreaming woods, straight toward him. Chad sat still. Above him the road
curved, and she could not see him until she turned the little thicket just
before him. Her pony was more startled than was she. A little leap of color to
her face alone showed her surprise.
"Did you get my note?"
"I did. You got my mother's message?"
"I did." Chad paused. "That is why I am passing around you."
The girl said nothing.
"But I'm glad I came so near. I wanted to see you once more. I wish I could
make you understand. But nobody understands. I hardly understand myself. But
please try to believe that what I say is true. I'm just back from the
mountains, and listen, Margaret--" He halted a moment to steady his voice.
"The Turners down there took me in when I was a ragged outcast. They clothed
me, fed me, educated me. The Major took me when I was little more; and he fed
me, clothed me, educated me. The Turners scorned me--Melissa told me to go
herd with the Dillons. The Major all but turned me from his door. Your father
was bitter toward me, thinking that I had helped turn Harry to the Union
cause. But let me tell you! If the Turners died, believing me a traitor; if
Lissy died with a curse on her lips for me; if the Major died without, as he
believed, ever having polluted his lips again with my name; if Harry were
brought back here dead, and your father died, believing that his blood was on
my hands; and if I lost you and your love, and you died, believing the same
thing--I must still go. Oh, Margaret, I can't understand--I have ceased to
reason. I only know I must go!"
The girl in the mountains had let her rage and scorn loose like a storm, but
the gentlewoman only grew more calm. Every vestige of color left her, but her
eyes never for a moment wavered from his face. Her voice was quiet and even
and passionless.
"Then, why don't you go?"
The lash of an overseer's whip across his face could not have made his soul so
bleed. Even then he did not lose himself.
"I am in your way," he said, quietly. And backing Dixie from the road, and
without bending his head or lowering his eyes, he waited, hat in hand, for
Margaret to pass.
All that day Chad rode, and, next morning, Dixie climbed the Union bank of the
Ohio and trotted into the recruiting camp of the Fourth Ohio Cavalry. The
first man Chad saw was Harry Dean--grave, sombre, taciturn, though he smiled
and thrust out his hand eagerly. Chad's eyes dropped to the sergeant's stripes
on Harry's sleeves, and again Harry smiled.
"You'll have 'em yourself in a week. These fellows ride like a lot of
meal-bags over here. Here's my captain," he added, in a lower voice.
A pompous officer rode slowly up. He pulled in his horse when he saw Chad.
"You want to join the army?"
"Yes," said Chad.
"All right. That's a fine horse you've got."
Chad said nothing.
"What's his name?"
"HER name is Dixie."
The captain stared. Some soldiers behind laughed in a smothered fashion,
sobering their' faces quickly when the captain turned upon them, furious.
"Well, change her name!"
"I'll not change her name," said Chad, quietly.
"What!" shouted the officer. "How dare you--" Chad's eyes looked ominous.
"Don't you give any orders to me--not yet. You haven't the right; and when you
have, you can save your breath by not giving that one. This horse comes from
Kentucky, and so do I; her name will stay Dixie as long as I straddle her, and
I propose to straddle her until one of us dies, or,"--he smiled and nodded
across the river--"somebody over there gets her who won't object to her name
as much as you do."
The astonished captain's lips opened, but a quiet voice behind interrupted
him:
"Never mind, Captain." Chad turned and saw a short, thick-set man with a
stubbly brown beard, whose eyes were twinkling, though his face was grave. "A
boy who wants to fight for the Union, and insists on calling his horse Dixie,
must be all right. Come with me, my lad."
As Chad followed, he heard the man saluted as Colonel Grant, but he paid no
heed. Few people at that time did pay heed to the name of Ulysses Grant.
CHAPTER 22. MORGAN'S MEN
Boots and saddles at daybreak!
Over the border, in Dixie, two videttes in gray trot briskly from out a leafy
woodland, side by side, and looking with keen eyes right and left; one, erect,
boyish, bronzed; the other, slouching, bearded, huge--the boy, Daniel Dean;
the man, Rebel Jerry Dillon, one of the giant twins.
Fifty yards behind them emerges a single picket; after him come three more
videttes, the same distance apart. Fifty yards behind the last rides "the
advance"--a guard of twenty-five picked men. No commission among "Morgan's
Men" was more eagerly sought than a place on that guard of hourly risk and
honor. Behind it trot still three more videttes, at intervals of one hundred
yards, and just that interval behind the last of these ride Morgan's Men, the
flower of Kentucky's youth, in columns of fours--Colonel Hunt's regiment in
advance, the colors borne by Renfrew the Silent in a brilliant Zouave jacket
studded with buttons of red coral. In the rear rumble two Parrot guns,
affectionately christened the "Bull Pups."
Skirting the next woodland ran a cross-road. Down one way gallops Dan, and
down the other lumbers Rebel Jerry, each two hundred yards. A cry rings from
vidette to vidette behind them and back to the guard. Two horsemen spur from
the "advance" and take the places of the last two videttes, while the videttes
in front take and keep the original formation until the column passes that
cross-road, when Dean and Dillon gallop up to their old places in the extreme
front again. Far in front, and on both flanks, are scouting parties, miles
away.
This was the way Morgan marched.
Yankees ahead! Not many, to be sure--no more numerous than two or three to
one; so back fall the videttes and forward charges that advance guard like a
thunderbolt, not troubling the column behind. Wild yells, a clattering of
hoofs, the crack of pistol-shots, a wild flight, a merry chase, a few
riderless horses gathered in from the fleeing Yankees, and the incident is
over.
Ten miles more, and many hostile bayonets gleam ahead. A serious fight, this,
perhaps--so back drops the advance, this time as a reserve; up gallops the
column into single rank and dismounts, while the flank companies, deploying as
skirmishers, cover the whole front, one man out of each set of fours and the
corporals holding the horses in the rear. The "Bull Pups" bark and the Rebel
yell rings as the line--the files two yards apart--"a long flexible line
curving forward at each extremity"--slips forward at a half run. This time the
Yankees charge.
From every point of that curving line pours a merciless fire, and the charging
men in blue recoil--all but one. (War is full of grim humor.) On comes one
lone Yankee, hatless, red-headed, pulling on his reins with might and main,
his horse beyond control, and not one of the enemy shoot as he sweeps
helplessly into their line. A huge rebel grabs his bridle-rein.
"I don't know whether to kill you now," he says, with pretended ferocity, "or
wait till the fight is over."
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