Part 5

“In whose else’s but Danny Lemmons’s? An’ won’t he holler an’ take on? Why, I wouldn’t miss seein’ Danny Lemmons take on for a hat full er shinplasters. Dang my buttons ef I would!”

Chadwick looked at his captor with some curiosity. There was not a trace of ill-feeling or bad humor in Spurlock’s tone, nor in his attitude. The situation was so queer that it was comical, and Chadwick laughed aloud as he thought about it. In this Spurlock heartily joined him, and the situation would have seemed doubly queer to a passer-by chancing along and observing captor and prisoner laughing and chatting so amiably together.

“Who, in the name of goodness, is Danny Lemmons?”

“Lord!” exclaimed Spurlock, lifting both hands, “don’t ast me about Danny Lemmons. He’s—he’s—well, I tell you what, he’s the bull er the woods, Danny Lemmons is; nuther more ner less. He hain’t bigger ’n my two fists, an’ he’s ’flicted, an’ he’s all crippled up in his back, whar he had it broke when he was a baby, an’ yit he’s in-about the peartest man on the mountain, an’ he’s the toughest an’ the sooplest. An’ more ’n that, he’s got them things up here,” Spurlock went on, tapping his head significantly. Chadwick understood this to mean that Lemmons, whatever might be his afflictions, had brains enough and to spare.

There was a pause in the conversation, and then Chadwick, looking at his bound wrists, which were beginning to chafe and swell, spoke up.

“What’s your will wi’ me?” he asked.

“Well,” said Spurlock, rising to his feet, “I’m a-gwine to empty your gun, an’ tote your pistol for you, an’ invite you down to Uncle Billy’s. Oh, you needn’t worry,” he went on, observing Chadwick’s disturbed expression, “they’re expectin’ of you. Polly’s tol’ ’em you’d likely come back.”

“How did Polly know?” Chadwick inquired.

“Danny Lemmons tol’ ’er.”

“By George!” exclaimed Chadwick, “the woods is full of Danny Lemmons.”

“Why, bless your heart,” said Spurlock, “he thes swarms roun’ here.”

After Spurlock had taken the precaution to possess himself of Chadwick’s arms and ammunition, he cut the cords that bound his prisoner’s hands, and the two went down the mountain, chatting as pleasantly and as sociably as two boon companions. Chadwick found no lack of hospitality at Uncle Billy Powers’s house. His return was taken as a matter of course, and he was made welcome. Nevertheless, his entertainers betrayed a spirit of levity that might have irritated a person less self-contained.

“I see he’s ketched you, Iserl,” remarked Uncle Billy, with a twinkle in his eye. “He ’lowed las’ night as how he’d fetch you back wi’ him.”

“Yes,” said Israel, “he thes crope up on me. It’s mighty hard for to fool these army fellers.”

Then and afterward the whole family pretended to regard Spurlock as Chadwick’s prisoner. This was not a joke for the latter to relish, but it was evidently not intended to be offensive, and he could do no less than humor it. He accepted the situation philosophically. He even prepared himself to relish Captain Moseley’s astonishment when he returned and discovered the true state of affairs. As the day wore away it occurred to Chadwick that the captain was in no hurry to return. Even Uncle Billy Powers grew uneasy.

“Now, I do hope an’ trust he ain’t gone an’ lost his temper up thar in the woods,” remarked Uncle Billy. “I hope it from the bottom of my heart. These here wars an’ rumors of wars makes the folks mighty restless. They’ll take resks now what they wouldn’t dassent to of tuck before this here rippit begun, an’ it’s done got so now human life ain’t wuth shucks. The boys up here ain’t no better ’n the rest. They fly to pieces quicker ’n they ever did.”

No trouble, however, had come to Captain Moseley. Though he was confused in his bearings, he was as serene and as unruffled as when training a company of raw conscripts in the art of war. After an unsuccessful attempt to find the road he gave his horse the rein, and that sensible animal, his instinct sharpened by remembrance of Uncle Billy Powers’s corn-crib and fodder, moved about at random until he found that he was really at liberty to go where he pleased, and then he turned short about, struck a little canter, and was soon going down the road by which he had come. The captain was as proud of this feat as if it were due to his own intelligence, and he patted the horse’s neck in an approving way.

As Captain Moseley rode down the mountain, reflecting, it occurred to him that his expedition was taking a comical shape. He had gone marching up the hill, and now he came marching down again, and Israel Spurlock, so far as the captain knew, was as far from being a captive as ever—perhaps farther. Thinking it all over in a somewhat irritated frame of mind, Moseley remembered Lovejoy’s eagerness to recapture Spurlock. He remembered, also, what he had heard the night before, and it was in no pleasant mood that he thought it all over. It was such an insignificant, such a despicable affair, two men carrying out the jealous whim of a little militia politician.

“It is enough, by George!” exclaimed Captain Moseley aloud, “to make a sensible man sick.”

“Lord, yes!” cried out a voice behind him. Looking around, he saw the hunchback following him. “That’s what I tell ’em; goodness, yes!”

“Now, look here!” said Captain Moseley, reining in his horse, and speaking somewhat sharply. “Are you following me, or am I following you? I don’t want to be dogged after in the bushes, much less in the big road.”

“Ner me nurther,” said the hunchback, in the cheerfulest manner. “An’ then thar’s Spurlock—Lord, yes; I hain’t axt him about it, but I bet a hoss he don’t like to be dogged atter nuther.”

“My friend,” said Captain Moseley, “you seem to have a quick tongue. What is your name?”

“Danny Lemmons,” said the other. “Now don’t say I look like I ought to be squoze. Ever’body inginer’lly says that,” he went on with a grimace, “but I’ve squoze lots more than what’s ever squoze me. Lord, yes! Yes, siree! Men an’ gals tergether. You ax ’em, an’ they’ll tell you.”

“Lemmons,” said the captain, repeating the name slowly. “Well, you look it!”

“Boo!” cried Danny Lemmons, making a horrible grimace; “you don’t know what you’re a-talkin’ about. The gals all ’low I’m mighty sweet. You ought to see me when I’m rigged out in my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ duds. Polly Powers she ’lows I look snatchin’. Lord, yes! Yes, siree! I’m gwine down to Polly’s house now.”

Whereat he broke out singing, paraphrasing an old negro ditty, and capering about in the woods like mad.

“Oh, I went down to Polly’s house, An’ she was not at home; I set myself in the big arm-cheer An’ beat on the ol’ jaw bone. Oh, rise up, Polly! Slap ’im on the jaw, An hit ’im in the eyeball—bim!”

The song finished, Danny Lemmons walked on down the road ahead of the horse in the most unconcerned manner. It was part of Captain Moseley’s plan to stop at Mrs. Spurlock’s and inquire for Israel. This seemed to be a part of Danny’s plan also, for he turned out of the main road and went ahead, followed by the captain. There were quite a number of men at Mrs. Spurlock’s when Moseley rode up, and he noticed that all were armed. Some were standing listlessly about, leaning against the trees, some were sitting in various postures, and others were squatting around whittling: but all had their guns within easy reach. Mrs. Spurlock was walking about among them smoking her pipe. By the strained and awkward manner of the men as they returned his salutation, or by some subtle instinct he could not explain, Captain Moseley knew that these men were waiting for him, and that he was their prisoner. The very atmosphere seemed to proclaim the fact. Under his very eyes Danny Lemmons changed from a grinning buffoon into a quiet, self-contained man trained to the habit of command. Recognizing the situation, the old soldier made the most of it by retaining his good humor.

“Well, boys,” he said, flinging a leg over the pommel of his saddle, “I hope you are not tired waiting for me.” The men exchanged glances in a curious, shame-faced sort of way.

“No,” said one; “we was thes a-settin’ here talkin’ ’bout ol’ times. We ’lowed maybe you’d sorter git tangled up on the hill thar, and so Danny Lemmons, he harked back for to keep a’ eye on you.”

There was no disposition on the part of this quiet group of men to be clamorous or boastful. There was a certain shyness in their attitude, as of men willing to apologize for what might seem to be unnecessary rudeness.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Danny Lemmons, “they ain’t a man on the mounting that’s got a blessed thing agin you, ner agin the tother feller, an’ they hain’t a man anywheres aroun’ here that’s a-gwine to pester you. We never brung you whar you is; but now that you’re here we’re a-gwine to whirl in an’ ast you to stay over an’ take Christmas wi’ us, sech ez we’ll have. Lord, yes! a nice time we’ll have, ef I ain’t forgot how to finger the fiddle-strings. We’re sorter in a quandary,” Danny Lemmons continued, observing Captain Moseley toying nervously with the handle of his pistol. “We don’t know whether you’re a-gwine to be worried enough to start a row, or whether you’re a-gwine to work up trouble.”

Meanwhile Danny had brought his long rifle into a position where it could be used promptly and effectually. For answer Moseley dismounted from his horse, unbuckled his belt and flung it across his saddle, and prepared to light his pipe.

“Now, then,” said Danny Lemmons, “thes make yourself at home.”

Nothing could have been friendlier than the attitude of the mountain men, nor freer than their talk. Captain Moseley learned that Danny Lemmons was acting under the orders of Colonel Dick Watson, the virile paralytic; that he and Chadwick were to be held prisoners in the hope that Adjutant Lovejoy would come in search of them—in which event there would be developments of a most interesting character.

So Danny Lemmons said, and so it turned out; for one day while Moseley and Chadwick were sitting on the sunny side of Uncle Billy’s house, listening to the shrill, snarling tones of Colonel Watson, they heard a shout from the roadside, and behold, there was Danny Lemmons with his little band escorting Lovejoy and a small squad of forlorn-looking militia. Lovejoy was securely bound to his horse, and it may well be supposed that he did not cut an imposing figure. Yet he was undaunted. He was captured, but not conquered. His eyes never lost their boldness, nor his tongue its bitterness. He was almost a match for Colonel Watson, who raved at all things through the tremulous and vindictive lips of disease. The colonel’s temper was fitful, but Lovejoy’s seemed to burn steadily. Moved by contempt rather than caution, he was economical of his words, listening to the shrill invective of the colonel patiently, but with a curious flicker of his thin lips that caused Danny Lemmons to study him intently. It was Danny who discovered that Lovejoy’s eyes never wandered in Polly’s direction, nor settled on her, nor seemed to perceive that she was in existence, though she was flitting about constantly on the aimless little errands that keep a conscientious housekeeper busy.

Lovejoy was captured one morning and Christmas fell the next, and it was a memorable Christmas to all concerned. After breakfast Uncle Billy Powers produced his Bible and preached a little sermon—a sermon that was not the less meaty and sincere, not the less wise and powerful, because the English was ungrammatical and the rhetoric uncouth. After it was over the old man cleared his throat and remarked:—

“Brethern, we’re gethered here for to praise the Lord an’ do his will. The quare times that’s come on us has brung us face to face with much that is unseemly in life, an’ likely to fret the sperit an’ vex the understandin’. Yit the Almighty is with us, an’ of us, an’ among us; an’, in accordance wi’ the commands delivered in this Book, we’re here to fortify two souls in the’r choice, an’ to b’ar testimony to the Word that makes lawful marriage a sacrament.”

With that, Uncle Billy, fumbling in his coat pockets, produced a marriage license, called Israel Spurlock and his daughter before him, and in simple fashion pronounced the words that made them man and wife.

The dinner that followed hard on the wedding was to the soldiers, who had been subsisting on the tough rations furnished by the Confederate commissaries, by all odds the chief event of the day. To them the resources of the Powers household were wonderful indeed. The shed-room, running the whole length of the house and kitchen, was utilized, and the dinner table, which was much too small to accommodate the guests, invited and uninvited, was supplemented by the inventive genius of Private William Chadwick, who, in the most unassuming manner, had taken control of the whole affair. He proved himself to be an invaluable aid, and his good humor gave a lightness and a zest to the occasion that would otherwise have been sadly lacking.

Under his direction the tables were arranged and the dinner set, and when the politely impatient company were summoned they found awaiting them a meal substantial enough to remind them of the old days of peace and prosperity. It was a genuine Christmas dinner. In the centre of the table there was a large bowl of egg-nog, and this was flanked and surrounded by a huge dish full of apple dumplings, a tremendous chicken pie, barbecued shote, barbecued mutton, a fat turkey, and all the various accompaniments of a country feast.

When Uncle Billy Powers had said an earnest and simple grace he gave his place at the head of the table to Colonel Watson, who had been brought in on his chair. Aunt Crissy gave Chadwick the seat of honor at the foot, and then the two old people announced that they were ready to wait on the company, with Mr. Chadwick to do the carving. If the private betrayed any embarrassment at all, he soon recovered from it.

“It ain’t any use,” he said, glancing down the table, “to call the roll. We’re all here an’ accounted for. The only man or woman that can’t answer to their name is Danny Lemmons’s little brown fiddle, an’ I’ll bet a sev’m-punce it’d skreak a little ef he tuck it out’n the bag. But before we whirl in an’ make a charge three deep, le’ ’s begin right. This is Christmas, and that bowl yander, with the egg-nog in it, looks tired. Good as the dinner is, it’s got to have a file leader. We’ll start in with what looks the nighest like Christmas.”

“Well,” said Aunt Crissy, “I’ve been in sech a swivet all day I don’t reelly reckon the nog is wuth your while, but you’ll ha’ ter take it thes like you fin’ it. Hit’s sweetened wi’ long sweet’nin’, an’ it’ll ha’ ter be dipped up wi’ a gourd an’ drunk out’n cups.”

“Lord bless you, ma’am,” exclaimed Chadwick, “they won’t be no questions axed ef it’s got Christmas enough in it, an’ I reckon it is, kaze I poured it in myself, an’ I can hol’ up a jug as long as the nex’ man.”

Though it was sweetened with syrup, the egg-nog was a success, for its strength could not be denied.

“Ef I hadn’t ’a’ been a prisoner of war, as you may say,” remarked Chadwick, when the guests had fairly begun to discuss the dinner, “I’d ’a’ got me a hunk of barbecue an’ a dumplin’ or two, an’ a slice of that chicken pie there—I’d ’a’ grabbed ’em up an’ ’a’ made off down the mountain. Why, I’ll tell you what’s the truth—I got a whiff of that barbecue by daylight, an’ gentulmen, it fairly made me dribble at the mouth. Nex’ to Uncle Billy there, I was the fust man at the pit.”

“Yes, yes,” said Uncle Billy, laughing, “that’s so. An’ you holp me a right smart. I’ll say that.”

“An’ Spurlock, he got a whiff of it. Didn’t you all notice, about the time he was gittin’ married, how his mouth puckered up? Along towards the fust I thought he was fixin’ to dip down an’ give the bride a smack. But, bless you, he had barbecue on his min’, an’ the bride missed the buss.”

“He didn’t dare to buss me,” exclaimed Polly, who was ministering to her grandfather. “Leastways not right out there before you all.”

“Please, ma’am, don’t you be skeered of Iserl,” said Chadwick. “I kin take a quarter of that shote an’ tole him plumb back to camp.”

“Now I don’t like the looks er this,” exclaimed Uncle Billy Powers, who had suddenly discovered that Lovejoy, sitting by the side of Danny Lemmons, was bound so that it was impossible for him to eat in any comfort. “Come, boys, this won’t do. I don’t want to remember the time when any livin’ human bein’ sot at my table on Christmas day with his han’s tied. Come, now!”

“Why, tooby shore!” exclaimed Aunt Crissy. “Turn the poor creetur loose.”

“Try it!” cried Colonel Watson, in his shrill voice. “Jest try it!”

“Lord, no,” said Danny Lemmons. “Look at his eyes! Look at ’em.”

Lovejoy sat pale and unabashed, his eyes glittering like those of a snake. He had refused all offers of food, and seemed to be giving all his attention to Israel Spurlock.

“What does Moseley say?” asked Colonel Watson.

“Ah, he is your prisoner,” said Moseley. “He never struck me as a dangerous man.”

“Well,” said Chadwick, “ef there’s any doubt, jest take ’im out in the yard an’ give ’im han’-roomance. Don’t let ’im turn this table over, ’cause it’ll be a long time before some of this company’ll see the likes of it ag’in.”

It was clear that Lovejoy had no friends, even among his comrades. It was clear, too, that this fact gave him no concern. He undoubtedly had more courage than his position seemed to demand. He sat glaring at Spurlock, and said never a word. Uncle Billy Powers looked at him, and gave a sigh that ended in a groan.

“Well, boys,” said the old man, “this is my house, an’ he’s at my table. I reckon we better ontie ’im, an’ let ’im git a mou’ful ter eat. ’T ain’t nothin’ but Christian-like.”

“Don’t you reckon he’d better eat at the second table?” inquired Chadwick. This naïve suggestion provoked laughter and restored good humor, and Colonel Watson consented that Lovejoy should be released. Danny Lemmons undertook this gracious task. He had released Lovejoy’s right arm, and was releasing the left, having to use his teeth on one of the knots, when the prisoner seized a fork—a large horn-handle affair, with prongs an inch and a half long—and as quick as a flash of lightning brought it down on Danny Lemmons’s back. To those who happened to be looking it seemed that the fork had been plunged into the very vitals of the hunchback.

The latter went down, dragging Lovejoy after him. There was a short, sharp struggle, a heavy thump or two, and then, before the company realized what had happened, Danny Lemmons rose to his feet laughing, leaving Lovejoy lying on the floor, more securely bound than ever.

“I reckon this fork’ll have to be washed,” said Danny, lifting the formidable-looking weapon from the floor.

There was more excitement after the struggle was over than there had been or could have been while it was going on. Chadwick insisted on examining Danny Lemmons’s back.

“I’ve saw folks cut an’ slashed an’ stobbed before now,” he explained, “an’ they didn’t know they was hurt tell they had done cooled off. They ain’t no holes here an’ they ain’t no blood, but I could ’most take a right pine-blank oath that I seed ’im job that fork in your back.”

“Tut, tut!” said Colonel Watson. “Do you s’pose I raised Danny Lemmons for the like of that?”

“Well,” said Chadwick, resuming his seat and his dinner with unruffled nerves, temper, and appetite, “it beats the known worl’. It’s the fust time I ever seed a man git down on the floor for to give the in-turn an’ the under-cut, an’ cut the pigeon-wing an’ the double-shuffle, all before a cat could bat her eye. It looks to me that as peart a man as Lemmons there ought to be in the war.”

“Ain’t he in the war?” cried Colonel Watson, excitedly. “Ain’t he forever and eternally in the war? Ain’t he my bully bushwhacker?”

“On what side?” inquired Chadwick.

“The Union, the Union!” exclaimed the colonel, his voice rising into a scream.

“Well,” said Chadwick, “ef you think you kin take the taste out’n this barbecue with talk like that, you are mighty much mistaken.”

After the wedding feast was over, Danny Lemmons seized on his fiddle and made music fine enough and lively enough to set the nimble feet of the mountaineers to dancing. So that, take it all in all, the Christmas of the conscript was as jolly as he could have expected it to be.

When the festivities were concluded there was a consultation between Colonel Watson and Danny Lemmons, and then Captain Moseley and his men were told that they were free to go.

“What about Lovejoy?” asked Moseley.

“Oh, bless you! he goes over the mountain,” exclaimed Danny, with a grin. “Lord, yes! Right over the mountain.”

“Now, I say no,” said Polly, blushing. “Turn the man loose an’ let him go.”

There were protests from some of the mountaineers, but Polly finally had her way. Lovejoy was unbound and permitted to go with the others, who were escorted a piece of the way down the mountain by Spurlock and some of the others. When the mountaineers started back, and before they had got out of sight, Lovejoy seized a musket from one of his men and turned and ran a little way back. What he would have done will never be known, for before he could raise his gun a streak of fire shot forth into his face, and he fell and rolled to the side of the road. An instant later Danny Lemmons leaped from the bushes, flourishing his smoking rifle.

“You see ’im now!” he cried. “You see what he was atter! He’d better have gone over the mountain. Lord, yes! Lots better.”

Moseley looked at Chadwick.

“Damn him!” said the latter; “he’s got what he’s been a-huntin’ for.”

By this time the little squad of militia-men, demoralized by the incident, had fled down the mountain, and Moseley and his companion hurried after them.

ANANIAS.

I.

Middle Georgia, after Sherman passed through on his famous march to the sea, was full of the direst confusion and despair, and there were many sad sights to be seen. A wide strip of country with desolate plantations, and here and there a lonely chimney standing sentinel over a pile of blackened and smouldering ruins, bore melancholy testimony to the fact that war is a very serious matter. All this is changed now, of course. The section through which the grim commander pushed his way to the sea smiles under the application of new and fresher energies. We have discovered that war, horrible as it is, sometimes drags at its bloody tumbril wheel certain fructifying and fertilizing forces. If this were not so, the contest in which the South suffered the humiliation of defeat, and more, would have been a very desperate affair indeed. The troubles of that unhappy time—its doubts, its difficulties, and its swift calamities—will never be known to posterity, for they have never been adequately described.

It was during this awful period—that is to say, in January, 1866—that Lawyer Terrell, of Macon, made the acquaintance of his friend Ananias. In the midst of the desolation to be seen on every hand, this negro was the forlornest spectacle of all. Lawyer Terrell overtook him on the public highway between Macon and Rockville. The negro wore a ragged blue army overcoat, a pair of patched and muddy blue breeches, and had on the remnants of what was once a military cap. He was leading a lame and broken-down horse through the mud, and was making his way toward Rockville, at what appeared to be a slow and painful gait. Curiosity impelled Lawyer Terrell to draw rein as he came up with the negro.

“Howdy, boss?” said the negro, taking off his tattered cap. Responding to his salutation, the lawyer inquired his name. “I’m name’ Ananias, suh,” he replied.