by John McElroy
228 SI KLEGG.
"Josiah Nott killed Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded E. C. Bowersox."
"That seems to have more sense in it, but I don't know any Josiah Nottin this country. Does it mean that he killed a man named Hospital atChattanooga, and badly wounded E. C. Bower in the socks? That don't seemsense. I'll try it again."
The next time he succeeded in making it read:
"Josiah Nott killed. Hospital at Chattanooga. Badly wounded E. C.Bower's ox."
"There, that's best I can do," he said, surveying the screed. "It'llhave to go that way, and let the Deacon study it out. He's got more time'n I have, and mebbe knows all about it. I can't spend no more time onit. No. 3, passenger, from the West 's due in 20 minutes, and I've gotto get ready for it. Good luck; there comes the Deacon's darky now, witha load of wheat. I'll send it out by him."
The operator wrote out his last version of the message on atelegraph-blank, inclosed it in a West ern Union envelope, which headdressed to Deacon Klegg, and gave to Abraham Lincoln, with stronginjunctions to make all haste back home with it.
Impressed with these, Abraham, as soon as he delivered his grain to theelevator, put his team to a trot, and maintained it until he reachedhome.
Everything about the usually cheerful farm-house was shrouded inpalpable gloom. The papers of the day before, with their ghastly listsof the dead and wounded, had contained Si's and Shorty's names, besidesthose of other boys of the neighborhood, in terrific, unmistakableplainness. There were few homes into which mourning had not come. Thewindow curtains were drawn down, the front doors closed, no one appearedon the front porch, and it seemed that even the dogs and the fowls wereop pressed with the general sadness, and forebore their usual cheerfulutterances. Attired in sober black, with eyes red from weeping, and withcamphor bottle near, Mr. Klegg sat in Si's room, and between her fits ofuncontrollable weeping turned over, one after another, the remindersof her son. There were his bed, his clothes, which she had herselffashioned in loving toil for him; the well-thumbed school-books whichhad cost him so many anxious hours, his gun and fishing rod. All thesewere now sacred to her. Elsewhere in the house his teary-eyed sisterswent softly and silently about their daily work.
The father had sought distraction in active work, and was in thecornfield, long corn-knife in hand, shocking up the tall stalks with adesperate energy to bring forgetfulness.
Abraham Lincoln burst into the kitchen, and taking the dispatch from hishat said:
"Hyah am a papeh or sumfin dat de agent down at de station done tole meto bring hyah jest as quick as I done could. He said hit done come obera wire or a telugraph, or sumfin ob dat ere sort, and you must hab hitright-a-way."
"O, my; it's a telegraph dispatch," screamed Maria with that sickeningapprehension that all women have of telegrams. "It's awful. I can't techit. Take it Sophy."
"How can I," groaned poor Sophia, with a fresh outburst of tears. "But Isuppose I must."
The mother heard the scream and the words, and hurried into the room.
"It's a telegraph dispatch, mother," said both the girls as they sawher.
"Merciful Father," ejaculated Mrs. Klegg, sinking into a chair in sonearly a faint that Maria ran into the next room for the camphor-bottle,while Sophy rushed outside and blew the horn for the Deacon. Presentlyhe entered, his sleeves rolled to the elbow over his brawny arms, andhis shirt and pantaloons covered with the spanish-needles and burrswhich would grow, even in so well-tilled fields as Deacon Klegg's.
"What's the matter, mother? What's the matter, girls?" he askedanxiously.
Mrs. Klegg could only look at him in speechless misery.
"We've got a telegraph dispatch," finally answered Maria, bursting in atorrent of tears, into which Sophia joined sympathetically, "and we knowit's about poor Si."
"Yes, it must be about poor Si; nobody else but him," added Sophia witha wail.
The father's face grew more sorrowful than be fore. "What does it say?"he nerved himself to ask, after a moment's pause.
"We don't know," sobbed Maria. "We haint opened it. We're afraid to.Here it is."
The father took it with trembling hand. "Well," he said after a littlehesitation, "it can't tell nothin' no worse than we've already heard.Let's open it. Bring me my specs."
Maria ran for the spectacles, while her father, making a strong effortto calm himself, slit open the envelope with a jack-knife, adjusted hisglasses, and read the inclosure over very slowly.
"Josiah Nott killed Hospital at Chattanooga badly wounded E. C. Bower'sox. What on airth does that mean? I can't for the life o' me make itout."
"Read it over again, pap," said Maria, suddenly drying her eyes.
The father did so.
"Le' me read it, pap," said Maria, snatching the telegram from his hand."Josiah," said she, read ing. "That's Si's right name."
"Certainly it is," said her mother, reviving.
"Certainly; I didn't think o' that before," echoed the father.
"Josiah not killed," continued she. "Good heavens, that's what thatmeans. They rebels has got hold o' the wires, and shook 'em and tangledup the rest, but the beginnin's all straight."
"I believe that Sam Elkins down at the station 's mixed it up," saidSophia, with hope springing in her breast. "He never can get thingsstraight. He was in the class with me when I went to school, and toodumb to come in when it rained. He was the worst writer, speller andreader in the school. Think o' him being a telegraph operator. Why, hecouldn't spell well enough to make tally-marks on a door when you'remeasurin' corn. Railroad was mighty hard up for help when it hired him.Let me read that dispatch. 'Josiah not killed.' That means Si Klegg,as sure's you're born. It can't mean nothin' else, or it wouldn't beaddressed to you, pap. 'Hospital at Chattanooga.' Chattanooga's nearwhere the battle was fought. 'Badly wounded.' That means Si's bin shot.'E. C. Bower's ox.' What in the world can that be?"
"Bowersox?" said her father, catching the sound. "Why, that's the nameo' the Lootenant Si and Shorty was under when they came home. Don't youremember they told us about him? I remember the name, for a man namedBowersox used to run a mill down on Bean-Blossom Crick, years ago, andI wondered if he was his son. He's sent me that dispatch, and signedhis name. The Lord be praised for His never-endin' mercies. Si's alive,after all. Le' me read that over again."
He took the dispatch with shaking hands, but there was too much mist onhis glasses-, and he had to hand it back to Maria to read over again toconvince himself.
"I'll tell you what let's do: Let's all get in the wagon and ride overto the station, and get Sam Elkins to read the dispatch over again,"suggested Sophia. "I'll jest bet he's mummixed it up."
"Don't blame him, Sophy," urged Maria. "I think the rebels has got atthe poles or wires and shook 'em, and mixed the letters up. It's justlike 'em."
Sophy's suggestion was carried out. Abraham Lincoln was directed to getout the spring wagon, and the Deacon helped hitch up, while the "womenfolks" got ready.
While they were at the station getting Sam Elkins to re-examine the dotsand dashes on his strip of paper, the Eastern express arrived, bringingthe morning papers. The Deacon bought one, and the girls nervouslyturned to the war news. They gave a scream of exultation when they readthe revised returns of the killed and wounded, and found under head of"Wounded, in Hospital at Chattanooga":
"Corporal Josiah Klegg, Q, 200th Ind.
"Private Daniel Elliott, Q, 200th Ind."
"Mother and girls, I'm goin' to Chattanoogy on the next train," said theDeacon.
It was only a few hours until the train from the East would be along,and grief was measurably forgotten in the joy that Si was still aliveand in the bustle of the Deacon's preparation for the journey.
"No," he said, in response to the innumerable suggestions made by themother and daughters. "You kin jest set all them things back. I've bindown there once, and learned something. I'm goin' to take nothin with mebut my Bible, a couple o' clean shirts, and my razor. A wise man learnsby
experience."
Mother and girls were inconsolable, for each had something that theywere sure "Si would like," and would "do him good," but they knew JosiahKlegg, Sr., well enough to understand what was the condition when he hadonce made up his mind.
"If Si and Shorty's able to be moved," he consoled them with, "I'm goingto bring them straight back home with me, and then you kin nuss andcoddle them all you want to."
The news of his prospective journey had flashed through theneighborhood, so that he met at the station the relatives of most of themen in Co. Q, each with a burden of messages and comforts for those whowere living, or of tearful inquiries as to those reported dead.
He took charge of the letters and money, refused the other things, andgave to the kin of the wounded and dead sympathetic assurances of doingevery thing possible.
He had no particular trouble or advanture until he reached Nashville.There he found that he could go no farther without procuring a passfrom the Provost-Marshal. At the Provosts's office he found a highlymiscellaneous crowd besieging that official for the necessary permissionto travel on the military railroad. There were more or less honest andloyal speculators in cotton who were ready to take any chances inthe vicissitudes of the military situation to get a few bales of theprecious staple. There were others who were downright smugglers, andwilling to give the rebels anything, from quinine to gun-caps, forcotton. There were sutlers, pedlers, and gamblers. And there were moreor less loyal citizens of the country south who wanted to get back totheir homes, some to be honest, law-abiding citizens, more to get incommunication with the rebels and aid and abet the rebellion.
Deacon Klegg's heart sank as he surveyed the pushing, eager crowd whichhad gotten there before him, and most of whom were being treated verycavalierly by the Provost-Marshal.
"No," he heard that official say to a man who appeared a plain farmerlike himself; "you not only can have no pass, but you can't stay inNashville an other day. I remember you. I've heard you tell that storyof a sick son in the hospital before. I remember all the details. Youhaven't changed one. You're a smuggler, and I believe a spy. You've gotmule-loads of quinine somewhere in hiding, and may be gun-caps and othermunitions of war. If you know what's good for you, you'll take the nexttrain north, and never stop until you are on the other side of the OhioRiver. If you are in town to-morrow morning, I'll put you to work on thefortifications, and keep you there till the end of the war. Get out ofmy office at once."
Others were turned away with similar brusqueness, until the Deacon wasin despair; but the though of Si on a bed of pain nerved him, and hekept 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 hiseye 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 theProvost, 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 questionscategorically.
"Well, Mr. Klegg, you shall have a pass at once, and I sincerely hopethat you will find your son recovering. You probably do not rememberme, but I have seen you before, when I was on the circuit in Indiana.My clerk there is writing out a pass for you. You will have to takethe oath of allegiance, and sign the paper, which I suppose you have noobjection to doing."
"None in the world," answered the Deacon, surprised at the unexpectedturn of events. "I'll be only too glad. I was gittin' very scared aboutmy pass."
"O, I have hard work here," said the Provost smiling, "in separating thesheep from the goats, but I'm now getting to know the goats tolerablywell. There's you're pass, Deacon. A pleasant journey, and a happytermination to it."
The Deacon took out his long calf-skin wallet from his breast, put theprecious pass in it, carefully strapped it up again and replaced it, andwalked out of the office toward the depot.
He had gone but a few steps from the building when he saw the man whohad been ordered out of the city by the Provost, and who seemed to beon the lookout for the Deacon. He came up, greeted the Deacon effusivelyand 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 hisguard against cordial strangers.
"You do;" said the stranger warmly. "Splendid man. Great lawyer. Finejudge. 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. "Hewas a terror to evil-doers."
"Say, my friend," said the stranger abruptly, "you got a pass. Icouldn't. That old rascal of a Provost-Marshal's down on me becauseI wouldn't let him into a speculation with me. He's on the make everytime, and wants to hog everything. Say, you're a sly one. You worked himfine on that wounded son racket. I think I'd like to tie to you. I'llmake it worth your while to turn over that pass to me. It'll fit me justas well as it does you. I'll give you $50 to let me use that pass justtwo 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 pass.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 pass for no amount o' money. I'm goin' to see mywounded son."
"That's a good enough gag for the Provost, but I understand you, inspite of your hayseed airs. Say, I'll make it $250."
"I tell you, you old fool," said the Deacon angrily, "I won't sellthat pass for a mint o' money. Even if I wasn't goin' to see my sonI wouldn't let you have it under any circumstances, to use in yourtraitorous business. Let go o' my coat, if you know what's good foryou."
"Now, look here," said the stranger; "I've made you a mighty fairproposition more'n the pass's worth to you. If you don't accept ityou'll wish you had. I'm onto you. I'll go right back to the Provost andlet out on you. I know enough to settle your hash mighty sudden. Do youhear me?"
It was very near train time, and the Deacon was desperately anxious tonot miss the train. He had already wasted more words on this man thanhe usually did on those he didn't like, and he simply ended the colloquywith a shove that sent the impertinent stranger into the gutter as if amule had kicked him there, hurried on to the depot, and managed to geton just as the train was moving out.
It was night, and he dozed in his seat until the train reachedBridgeport, Ala., when everybody was turned out of the train, and ageneral inspection of the passengers made.
"Very sorry for you, sir," said the Lieutenant; "but we can't let yougo on. Your pass is all right up to this point, but the Commandant atNashville has no authority here. Orders are very strict against anymore civilians coming to Chattanooga under any pretext. Rations are veryshort, and there is danger of their being much shorter, with the rebelcavalry slashing around everywhere at our cracker-line. We only savedtwo bridges to-night by the greatest luck. You'll have to go back toNashville by the next train."
"O, Mister Lootenant," pleaded the Deacon, with drops of sweat on hisbrow. "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 knowsthe 200th Injianny, and they'll tell you that there ain't no bettersoldier in the regiment than Corporal Si Klegg. You've a fatheryourself. Think how he'd feel if you was layin' in a hospital at thepint o' death, and him not able to git to you. You'll let me go on, Iknow you will. It aint in you to re fuse."
"I feel awful sorry for you sir," said the Lieutenant, much moved. "Andif I had it in my power you should go. But I have got my orders, and Imust obey them. I musn't allow anybody not actually be longing to thearmy to pass on across the ri
ver on the train."
"I'll walk every step o' the way, if you'll let me go on," said theDeacon.
"I tell you what you might do," said the Lieutenant suggestively. "Itisn't a great ways over the mountains to Chattanooga. There's a herdof cattle starting over there. The Lieutenant in charge is a friendof mine. I'll speak to him to let you go along as a helper. It'll besomething of a walk for you, but it's the best I can do. You'll get inthere 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 thecircumstances were explained to him. "Free passes over my road toChattanooga are barred. Everybody has to work his way. But I'll see thatyou get there, if Joe Wheeler's cavalry don't interfere. We are goingover in the dark to avoid them. You can put your carpet-bag in thatwagon 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'mgoin' to put you at the head, just behind the guide. Keep your eyepeeled for rebel cavalry and bushwhackers, and stop and whistle for meif you see anything suspicious."
It was slow, toilsome work urging the lumbering cattle along over thesteep, tortuous mountain paths. Naturally, the nimblest, friskieststeers got in the front, and they were a sore trial to the Deacon, torestrain them to the line of march, and keep them from straying off andgetting lost. Of course, a Deacon in the Baptist Church could not swearunder any provocation, but the way he remarked on the conduct of some ofthe "critters" as "dumbed," "confounded," and "tormented," had almost asvicious a ring as the profuse profanity of his fellow-herders.
Late in the afternoon the tired-out herd was halted in a creek bottomnear Chattanooga. The patient animals lay down, and the weary, footsoreDeacon, his clothes covered with burs, his hands and face seamed withbloody scratches, leaned on his frayed gad and looked around overthe wilderness of tents, cabins, trains and interminable lines ofbreastworks and forts.
"Mr. Klegg," said the Herd-Boss, coming toward him, "you've done yourduty, and you've done it well. I don't know how I could've ever got thislot through but for your help. Here's your carpet-sack, and here's ahaversack 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'llfind your son in there."
The Deacon walked straight to the nearest tent, lifted the flap andinquired:
"Does anybody here know where there is a boy named Si Klegg, of Co. Q,200th Injianny Volunteers?"
"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!" ejaculated a tall skeleton of aman, 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.