A Little Union Scout

by Joel Chandler Harris

  V

  I have never spent a more disagreeable hour than that which passedwhile I was engaged in following the two men for the purpose ofidentifying them. The weather was cold and the night dark, and therewere peppery little showers of sleet. The two left the town proper andturned into a by-way that I had travelled many times in my rambles inthe countryside. I knew that it led to a house that had been built fora suburban home, but now, in the crowded condition of the town, wasused as a tavern. It had attracted the suspicion of General Forrest andI knew that he had placed it under the surveillance of theIndependents. It was a very orderly public-house, however, and nothinghad ever occurred there to justify the suspicions of the General.

  The two men I followed could have reached their destination in lessthan twenty minutes if they had gone forward with the briskness thatthe weather justified; but there was an argument of some kind betweenthem--I judged that the stuttering man had no stomach for the part hewas to play as a horse-thief. At any rate, there was a dispute of somekind, and they stopped on the road at least half a dozen times to haveit out. One point settled, another would arise before they had gonefar, and then they would stop again; and at last, so dark did the woodbecome, and so low their conversation grew, that I passed within threefeet of them and never knew it until it was too late to betray theastonishment I naturally felt.

  I simply jogged along the path and pretended that I had not seen them.I went along briskly, and in a few minutes came to the tavern. The doorwas shut, the weather being cold, but I knew by the lights shiningthrough the windows that a hospitable fire was burning on the hearth.There was no need to knock at the door. I heard the jangling pianoplaying an accompaniment to the flute-like whistling of Harry Herndon'snegro. Remembering his carelessness, I felt like going into the tavernand giving him a frailing. The inclination was so strong that I held myhand on the door-knob until the first flush of anger had subsided. Itwas a very fortunate thing for me, as it turned out, that Whistling Jimwas present, but at the moment the turn of a hair would have caused meto justify much that the people of the North have said in regard to thecruelty of Southerners to the negro.

  The guests and visitors--and there were quite a number--made room forme at the fire, the landlord provided me with a chair and welcomed mevery heartily, taking it for granted that I was from the country andwould want a bed for the night. On the wide hearth a very cheerful fireburned, and the place reminded me somehow of home--particularly a bigrocking-chair in which one of the guests was seated. It had anupholstered seat and back, and the high arms were made more comfortableby a covering of the same material. It was a fac-simile of a chair thatwe had at home, and I longed to occupy it, if only for the sake of oldtimes.

  Among those who were taking their ease at this suburban inn was JasperGoodrum, one of my comrades. He was a noted scout as well as a seasonedsoldier. He looked at me hard as I entered, and continued to watch mefurtively for some time, and then his face cleared up and I knew thathe had recognized me. He was in civilian's clothes, and I knew by thatthat he did not care to be recognized. So I turned my attentionelsewhere. But in a little while he seemed to have changed his mind,and, suddenly rising from his chair, came to me with outstretched hand.

  It was a mixed company around the fire. There was a big Irishman, wholeaned calmly back in a small chair and smoked a short pipe. More thanonce I caught his bright eyes studying my face, but his smile was ampleapology for his seeming rudeness. He was as handsome a man as I hadever seen, and if I had been searching for a friend on whom to dependin an emergency I should have selected him out of a thousand.

  There was a short-haired man who was built like a prize-fighter. Hewore a sarcastic smile on his face, and his shifty eyes seemed to beconstantly looking for a resting-place. He had a thick neck and jawlike a bull-dog. I marked him down in my mental note-book as dangerous.There was a tall and pious-looking man, and two or three civilians whohad no particular points about them; and then there was a burly man,who sat with his hands in his pockets and did nothing but chew tobaccoand gaze in the fire, uttering not one word until some of the companyfell to discussing Captain Leroy, the famous Union scout. When Leroy'sname was mentioned the burly man was quick to join in the conversation.

  "There ain't a word of truth in all this stuff you hear about Leroy,"he said, and his manner was more emphatic than the occasion seemed todemand. "He's in the newspapers, and he ain't anywhere else on top ofthe ground. I know what I'm a-talking about. Leroy is the invention ofFranc Paul, of the Chattanooga _Rebel_. He as good as told me so. Hesaid that when he wanted to stir up talk and create a sensation he hadsomething written about this Captain Frank Leroy. He's a paper man andhe's able to do anything the newspapers want done."

  "You talk like you had gray hair," said the man that looked like aprize-fighter; "but you're givin' away a mighty big secret. What areyou doin' it for? Say!"

  "Oh, because I'm tired of all this talk about a man that doesn't liveoutside of the mind of a newspaper man."

  The big Irishman, who had been smoking and watching me with a shrewdsmile hovering about his mouth, began to chuckle audibly. He kept it upso long that it attracted the attention of the company.

  "What tickles you, my friend?" the burly man asked.

  "Maybe ye know Franc Paul?" he inquired. His countenance was aninterrogation-point. The man answered somewhat sullenly in theaffirmative. "Is there anny risimblance bechune him an' me?"

  "Not the slightest in the world," the man answered.

  "Thin ye'd have a quarrel wit' his wife an' she'd have all theadvantages," said the Irishman with a laugh. "F'r no longer than thelast time I was at Chattanooga, Missus Paul says, 'It's a good thing,Mr. O'Halloran,' she says, 'that ye're a hair's breadth taller than mebeloved husband,' she says, 'or I'd niver tell ye apart. Only the sharpeyes av a wife or a mither,' she says, 'could pick out me husband if hestood be your side,' she says."

  "I must say," remarked the pious-looking man, "that you gentlemen werenever more mistaken in your lives when you hint that there is no suchperson as Frank Leroy. I knew him when he was a boy--a beardless boy,as you may say. In fact, his father was my next-door neighbor inKnoxville, and I used to see Frank reading old Brownlow's paper."

  "Don't think ut!" replied the Irishman, and with that all joined in theconversation and I heard more of the perilous adventures andhair-breadth escapes of Captain Frank Leroy than you could put in abook. It seemed that his identity was a mystery, but he was none theless a hero in men's minds because his very existence had been calledin question; for people will hug delusions to their bosoms in the faceof religion itself, as we all know.

  The door of an inner room was open, and I could hear a conversationgoing on. One of the participants was the stuttering man, whose voice Ihad heard before the stable-door, and at a moment when I thought thatmy movements would attract no attention I took advantage of the freedomof a public-house and sauntered aimlessly into the room as if I had noparticular business there. I saw with surprise that the chap who hadproposed to steal the horses was one of the merchants of the town atwhose store I had occasionally traded. In the far end of the room,reading a newspaper by the light of a small fire, sat a slip of ayouth. He wore a military cloak that covered his figure from his neckto his top-boots.

  I saw that he was not so absorbed in the paper that he failed to make anote of my presence in the room, and he shifted himself around in hischair so that he could get a better view of me, and still leave hisface in the shadow. Near him sat a motherly-looking woman of fifty. Shewas well preserved for her age, and wore a smile on her face that wasgood to look at. The youngster said something to her in a low tone, andshe immediately turned her attention to me. Some other words passedbetween the two, and then the woman beckoned to me. I obeyed thesummons with alacrity, for I liked her face.

  "You seem to be lonely," she said. "Have a seat by our little fire.This is not a guest-room, but we have been so overrun lately that wehave had to turn it over to the public." She paus
ed a moment and thenwent on. "You are over-young to be in the army," she suggested.

  She had turned so that she looked me full in the face, and there was akindly, nay, a generous light in her eyes, and I could no more havelied to her in the matter than I could have lied to my own mother ifshe had been alive. "I do not have a very hard time in the army," Ireplied.

  "No, I suppose not," she remarked. "You are one to make friendswherever you go. Few are so fortunate; I have known only one or two."

  There was a note of sadness in her tones that touched me profoundly.The cause I can't explain, and the effect was beyond description. Ihesitated before making any reply, and when I did I tried to turn itoff lightly. "I never saw but one," I answered, "on whom I desired tomake an impression."

  "And who was that?" the woman inquired with a bright smile of sympathy.

  "You will think it a piece of foolishness," I replied; "but it was alady riding in a top-buggy. I had never seen her before and neverexpect to see her again."

  The youngster clutched his paper in his hand and turned in his chair."The light is detestable," he said. "Please throw on a piece of pine,mother."

  "You can't read by such a light," the woman replied. "Put your paper inyour pocket and read it to-morrow." Then she turned to me. "If you arein the army," she said, "why do you wear such clothes? They are notbecoming at all." She had such a kindly smile and betrayed such afriendly interest that it was not in human nature to suspect her--atleast, it was not in my nature to do so.

  "Why, mainly for comfort," I answered; "and while I am wearing them Iam having my uniform, such as it is, furbished up and cleaned a bit. Ihave a few days' leave, and I am taking advantage of it in this way."

  "I wish my son here would take advantage of his short furlough to wearthe clothes he used to wear," she remarked, and her tone was sosignificant that I could but regard her with a look of inquiry. Isuppose the puzzled expression of my face must have amused her, for shelaughed heartily, while the son, as if resenting his mother's words,arose and swaggered to the other end of the room.

  We had more conversation, and then I returned to the public room. Someof the guests had retired, but their places had been taken by others,and there was a goodly company gathered around the fire. I found thebig arm-chair unoccupied, and, seating myself on its comfortablecushion, soon forgot the wonder I had felt that the woman in the nextroom had known me for a soldier. I had accomplished one thing--theidentification of the prospective horse-thief--and I satisfied myselfwith that. As for Leroy, I knew I should have to trust to some strokeof good fortune.

  The comfort of the rocker appealed to me, and, with my hands on itsarms, I leaned back and, in spite of the talking all around me, wassoon lost in reflection. Through long usage the upholstering on thearms of the chair had become worn, and in places the tufts of moss orhorse-hair were showing. I fell to fingering these with the sameimpulse of thoughtlessness that induces people to bite theirfinger-nails. Suddenly I felt my finger in contact with a small roll ofpaper that had been carefully pushed under the leather, and then Iremembered that the last occupant of the chair was the short-hairedman--the man who had the general appearance of a prize-fighter.

  Now, it had occurred to me in a dim way that this man might beidentical with Leroy, and I suspected that he had left in the chair acommunication for some of his accomplices. I determined to transfer theroll of paper to my pocket and examine it at my leisure. But no soonerhad I come to this determination than I imagined that every person inthe room had his eyes fixed on me. And then the problem, if you cancall it so, was solved for me.

  A stranger who had evidently arrived while I was in the next roomappeared to be regarding Whistling Jim with some curiosity, andpresently spoke to him, inquiring if he was the negro that played onthe piano. Whistler replied that he could "sorter" play. "If you areWhistling Jim," I said, "play us a plantation tune. I heard a man saythe other day that the finest tune he ever heard was one you played forhim. It was something about 'My gal's sweet.'"

  The negro looked at me hard, but something in my countenance must haveconveyed a warning to him. "I 'member de man, suh; he say he wuz fumCincinnati, an' he gun me a fi'-dollar bill--a green one."

  Without more ado, he went to the piano and plunged into theheart-breaking melody of--

  "_Yo' gal's a neat gal, but my gal's sweet-- Sweet-a-little, sweet-a-little, sweet, sweet, sweet! Fum de crown er her head ter de soles er her feet-- Feet-a-little, feet-a-little, feet, feet, feet!_"

  Naturally all eyes were turned on the performer, and I took advantageof that fact to rise from the rocking-chair with the roll of paper safein my pocket, and saunter across the room in the direction of thepiano. Leaning against a corner of the ramshackle old instrument, Idrank in the melody with a new sense of its wild and melancholy beauty.The room in which I stood seemed transformed into what it never couldbe, and the old piano shed its discord and was glorified by themarvellous playing of the negro.

  The foolish little song runs along for several stanzas, simulating thesound of dancing feet. Alternately the negro sang the air and whistledthe chorus, but whether he did one or the other, the effect was thesame. The silly song struck the home note and sent it vibrating throughmy brain so invitingly that I was almost sorry that Whistling Jim hadplayed it.

  I returned to earth when he ceased playing. He looked hard at me whenhe had finished, but I did not glance at him. At the other end of thepiano, leaning against it, and apparently lost in thought, was theyoung fellow I had seen in the other room. His cloak was thrown backfrom his throat, and the red lining gave a picturesque touch to hissmall, lithe figure. His face was partly in the shadow, but I could seethat his expression was one of profound melancholy. He aroused himselfat last, and, looking toward me, said with a smile that had no heart init, "If all the negroes in the South are so gifted you must have ahappy time down there."

  "So it would seem," I answered, "but this negro is an exception. Hetells me that he learned to play while his old mistress was away fromhome looking after her plantation interests. He can whistle better thanhe can play."

  "He has great gifts," said the lad, "and I trust he is treatedaccordingly; but I doubt it," and with that he turned away from thepiano with a snap of thumb and finger that sounded for all the worldlike a challenge. He turned and went swaggering across the room, andseated himself in the rocking-chair of which I have spoken. In a word,and with a snap of the finger, he had thrown mud at the whole South,and with no more excuse than I should have had had I made an attack onthe North. Yet curiosity, and not irritation, was uppermost in my mind.

  His conduct was so puzzling that I determined to have another taste ofit if possible, and so discover what he would be at. So I went back tothe fire and took a seat close to his elbow, while Whistling Jim passedaround his hat, as was his custom when he played for company. He heldit out to all except the young fellow and myself, and then returned tothe piano and played for his own amusement, but so softly thatconversation could flow on undisturbed.

  I had a good look at the lad, and liked him all the better. His facehad in it that indescribable quality--a touch of suffering or ofsorrow--that always draws me, and I thought how strange it was that heshould sit there ignorant of the fact that a word or two would make mehis friend for life. I had a great pity for him, and there arose in methe belief that I had met him before, but whether in reality or only ina dream I could not make out. It was a foolish and a romantic notion,but it nibbled around my mind so persistently that I turned my gaze onthe fire and fell into reflections that were both teasing and pleasing.

  While thus engaged I suddenly became aware of the fact that the youngfellow was fingering at the worn place on the chair-arm. Conversationwas going on very briskly. The genial landlord, who had joined thegroup at the fire, was relating to a listening and an eager guestanother story of the almost superhuman performances of the Union scout,Leroy, when suddenly the lad arose from the rocker and began to searchthe floor with his eyes.
He had had the color of youth in his cheeks,in spite of the swarthiness of his skin, and I had admired thecombination--your light-haired man is for everything that has a touchof the brunette--but now he had gone white.

  As he stooped to search under my chair, I jumped up and drew it backpolitely. "Pardon me for disturbing you," he said; "I have lost apaper."

  "Is it of importance?" I inquired, endeavoring to show an interest inthe matter.

  "You would hardly think so," he replied. "It involves the safety of awoman." I regarded him with unfeigned astonishment, and he, in turn,looked at me with a face as full of anger and disappointment as I hadever beheld.

  "Why, you young rascal!" I exclaimed; "what do you know of me that youshould speak so? For less than nothing I'll give you a strapping andsend you to your daddy."

  "You couldn't do me a greater service. He is in heaven." You mayimagine my feelings, if you can, when, as he said this, he turnedtoward me a countenance from which all feeling had died out save thatof sadness. If he had plunged a knife in my vitals he could not havehurt me worse. "Well, sir," he insisted, "proceed with your strapping."

  "You are more than even with me, my lad," I said, "and I humblyapologize for my words. But why should you be so short with one whocertainly wishes you no harm?"

  "I am unable to tell you. You seem to be always smiling, while I am introuble: perhaps that is why I am irritable." He looked at me hard ashe resumed his seat in the rocker, and again I had the curious feelingthat I had met him somewhere before--perhaps in some sphere of formerexistence. Memory, however, refused to disgorge the details, and Icould only gaze helplessly into the fire.

  After a little the lad hitched his chair closer to mine, and I couldhave thanked him for that. He drew on his glove and drew it off again."Will you shake hands with me?" he inquired. "I feel that I am all toblame." As I took his hand in mine I could but notice how small andsoft it was.

  "No, you are not all to blame," I said. "I am ill-mannered by nature."

  "I never will believe it," he declared with something like a smile."No, it is not so."

  Before I could make any reply, in walked Jasper Goodrum, of theIndependents, and, following hard at his heels, was the man who had theappearance of a prize-fighter. This last comer appeared to be in astate of great excitement, and his brutal, overbearing nature wasclearly in evidence. He walked across the room to my lad--I was nowbeginning to feel a proprietary interest in him--and seized him roughlyby the arm.

  "Come 'ere!" he said, and his voice was thick with anger. "You've gotmore'n you bargained for. Come into the next room; you better had! Say,ain't you comin'?" He tried to pull the lad along, but the youngsterwas not to be pulled.

  "Don't touch me!" he exclaimed. "Don't you dare to put your hands onme. You have lied to me, and that is enough!" The short-haired man wasalmost beside himself with anger, and I could see that the lad would beno match for him. He was not at all frightened, but when he turned hiseyes toward me, with a little smile, I saw the face of Jane Ryder, thelittle lady I had seen in a top-buggy on her way to carry aid to JackBledsoe. And instantly I was furious with a blind rage that stung melike a thousand hornets.

  I rose and slapped the ruffian on the shoulder in a way that would haveknocked an ordinary man down. "You dirty brute!" I cried, "say to mewhat you have to say to the lad!"