Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
John Jordan, the Scout
By James Roberts Gilmore (1822–1903)T
It was pitch-dark when he set out; but he knew every inch of the way, having travelled it often, driving mules to market. He had gone twenty miles by early dawn, and the house of a friend was only a few miles beyond him. The man himself was away; but his wife was at home, and she would harbor him till nightfall. He pushed on, and tethered his horse in the timber; but it was broad day when he rapped at the door, and was admitted. The good woman gave him breakfast, and showed him to the guest-chamber, where, lying down in his boots, he was soon in a deep slumber.
The house was a log cabin in the midst of a few acres of deadening—ground from which trees have been cleared by girdling. Dense woods were all about it; but the nearest forest was a quarter of a mile distant, and should the scout be tracked, it would be hard to get away over this open space, unless he had warning of the approach of his pursuers. The woman thought of this, and sent up the road, on a mule, her whole worldly possessions, an old negro, dark as the night, but faithful as the sun in the heavens. It was high noon when the mule came back, his heels striking fire, and his rider’s eyes flashing, as if ignited from the sparks the steel had emitted.
“Dey’m comin’, Missus!” he cried,—“not haff a mile away,—twenty secesh,—ridin’ as ef de debil wus arter ’em!”
She barred the door, and hastened to the guest-chamber.
“Go,” she cried, “through the winder,—ter the woods! They’ll be here in a minnit.”
“How many is thar?” asked the scout.
“Twenty,—go,—go at once,—or you’ll be taken!”
The scout did not move; but, fixing his eyes on her face, he said:
“Yes, I yere ’em. Thar’s a sorry chance for my life a’ready. But, Rachel, I’ve thet about me thet’s wuth more’n my life,—thet, may-be, ’ll save Kaintuck. If I’m killed, wull ye tuck it ter Cunnel Cranor, at Paris?”
“Yes, yes, I will. But go; you’ve not a minnit to lose, I tell you.”
“I know, but will ye swar it,—swar ter tuck this ter Cunnel Cranor ’fore th’ Lord thet yeres us?”
“Yes, yes, I will,” she said, taking the bullet. But horses’ hoofs were already sounding in the door-yard. “It’s too late,” cried the woman. “Oh, why did you stop to parley?”
“Never mind, Rachel,” answered the scout. “Don’t tuck on. Tuck ye keer o’ th’ dispatch. Valu’ it loike yer life,—loike Kaintuck. The Lord’s callin’ fur me, and I’m a’ready.”
But the scout was mistaken. It was not the Lord, but a dozen devils at the door-way.
“What does ye want?” asked the woman, going to the door.
“The man as come from Garfield’s camp at sun-up,—John Jordan, from the head o’ Baine,” answered a voice from the outside.
“Ye karn’t hev him fur th’ axin’,” said the scout. “Go away, or I’ll send some o’ ye whar the weather is warm, I reckon.”
“Pshaw!” said another voice,—from his speech one of the chivalry. “There are twenty of us. We’ll spare your life, if you give up the dispatch; if you don’t, we’ll hang you higher than Haman.”
The reader will bear in mind that this was in the beginning of the war, when swarms of spies infested every Union camp, and treason was only a gentlemanly pastime, not the serious business it has grown to be since traitors are no longer dangerous.
“I’ve nothin’ but my life that I’ll guv up,” answered the scout; “and ef ye tuck thet, ye’ll hev ter pay the price,—six o’ yourn.”
“Fire the house!” shouted one.
“No, don’t do that,” said another. “I know him,—he’s cl’ar grit,—he’ll die in the ashes; and we won’t git the dispatch.”
This sort of talk went on for half an hour; then there was a dead silence, and the woman went to the loft, whence she could see all that was passing outside. About a dozen of the horsemen were posted around the house; but the remainder, dismounted, had gone to the edge of the woods, and were felling a well-grown sapling, with the evident intention of using it as a battering-ram to break down the front door.
The woman, in a low tone, explained the situation; and the scout said:
“It ’r’ my only chance. I must run fur it. Bring me yer red shawl, Rachel.”
She had none, but she had a petticoat of flaming red and yellow. Handling it as if he knew how such articles can be made to spread, the scout softly unbarred the door, and, grasping the hand of the woman, said:
“Good-bye, Rachel. It ’r’ a right sorry chance; but I may git through. Ef I do, I’ll come ter night; ef I don’t, git ye the dispatch ter the Cunnel. Good-bye.”
To the right of the house, midway between it and the woods, stood the barn. That way lay the route of the scout. If he could elude the two mounted men at the doorway, he might escape the other horsemen; for they would have to spring the barn-yard fences, and their horses might refuse the leap. But it was foot of man against leg of horse, and “a right sorry chance.”
Suddenly he opened the door, and dashed at the two horses with the petticoat. They reared, wheeled, and bounded away like lightning just let out of harness. In the time that it takes to tell it, the scout was over the first fence, and scaling the second; but a horse was making the leap with him. The scout’s pistol went off, and the rider’s earthly journey was over. Auother followed, and his horse fell mortally wounded. The rest made the circuit of the barn-yard, and were rods behind when the scout reached the edge of the forest. Once among those thick laurels, nor horse nor rider can reach a man, if he lies low, and says his prayer in a whisper.
The Rebels bore the body of their comrade back to the house, and said to the woman:
“We’ll be revenged for this. We know the route he’ll take, and will have his life before to-morrow; and you—we’d burn your house over your head, if you were not the wife of Jack Brown.”
Brown was a loyal man, who was serving his country in the ranks of Marshall. Thereby hangs a tale, but this is not the time to tell it. Soon the men rode away, taking the poor woman’s only wagon as a hearse for their dead comrade.
Night came, and the owls-cried in the woods in a way they had not cried for a fortnight. “T’whoot! t’whoot!” they went, as if they thought there was music in hooting. The woman listened, put on a dark mantle, and followed the sound of their voices. Entering the woods, she crept in among the bushes, and talked with the owls as if they had been human.
“They know the road ye’ll take,” she said; “ye must change yer route. Here ar’ the bullet.”
“God bless ye, Rachel!” responded the owl, “ye’r’ a true ’ooman!”—and he hooted louder than before, to deceive pursuers, and keep up the music.
“Ar’ yer nag safe?” she asked.
“Yes, and good for forty mile afore sun-up.”
“Well, here ar’ suthin’ ter eat: ye’ll need it. Good-bye, and God go wi’ ye!”
“He’ll go wi’ ye, fur He loves noble wimmin.”
Their hands clasped, and then they parted, he to his long ride; she to the quiet sleep of those who, out of a true heart, serve their country.