The gibes of Lucy Ann, and the occasional
little thrusts of Hugh about the “deserter business,”
continued and kept the boys stirred up. At length
they could stand it no longer. It was decided
between them that they must retrieve their reputations
by capturing a real deserter and turning him over
to the conscript-officer whose office was at the depot.
Accordingly, one Saturday they started
out on an expedition, the object of which was to capture
a deserter though they should die in the attempt.
The conscript-guard had been unusually
active lately, and it was said that several deserters
had been caught.
The boys turned in at their old road,
and made their way into Holetown. Their guns
were loaded with large slugs, and they felt the ardor
of battle thrill them as they marched along down the
narrow roadway. They were trudging on when they
were hailed by name from behind. Turning, they
saw their friend Tim Mills, coming along at the same
slouching gait in which he always walked. His
old single-barrel gun was thrown across his arm, and
he looked a little rustier than on the day he had
shared their lunch. The boys held a little whispered
conversation, and decided on a treaty of friendship.
“Good-mornin’,”
he said, on coming up to them. “How’s
your ma?”
“Good-morning. She’s right well.”
“What y’ all doin’? Huntin’
d’serters agin?” he asked.
“Yes. Come on and help us catch them.”
“No; I can’t do that exactly; but
I tell you what I can do. I can tell you
whar one is!”
The boys’ faces glowed. “All right!”
“Let me see,” he began,
reflectively, chewing a stick. “Does y’
all know Billy Johnson?”
The boys did not know him.
“You sure you don’t
know him? He’s a tall, long fellow, ’bout
forty years old, and breshes his hair mighty slick;
got a big nose, and a gap-tooth, and a mustache.
He lives down in the lower neighborhood.”
Even after this description the boys failed to recognize
him.
“Well, he’s the feller.
I can tell you right whar he is, this minute.
He did me a mean trick, an’ I’m gwine to
give him up. Come along.”
“What did he do to you?”
inquired the boys, as they followed him down the road.
“Why he ;
but ‘t’s no use to be rakin’ it up
agin. You know he always passes hisself off as
one o’ the conscrip’-guards, that’s
his dodge. Like as not, that’s what he’s
gwine try and put off on y’ all now; but don’t
you let him fool you.”
“We’re not going to,” said the boys.
“He rigs hisself up in a uniform jes’
like as not he stole it, too, an’
goes roun’ foolin’ people, meckin’
out he’s such a soldier. If he fools with
me, I’m gwine to finish him!” Here Tim
gripped his gun fiercely.
The boys promised not to be fooled
by the wily Johnson. All they asked was to have
him pointed out to them.
“Don’t you let him put
up any game on you ‘bout bein’ a conscrip’-guard
hisself,” continued their friend.
“No, indeed we won’t.
We are obliged to you for telling us.”
“He ain’t so very fur
from here. He’s mighty tecken up with John
Hall’s gal, and is tryin’ to meck out like
he’s Gen’l Lee hisself, an’ she
ain’t got no mo’ sense than to b’lieve
him.”
“Why, we heard, Mr. Mills, she
was going to marry you.”
“Oh, no, I ain’t
a good enough soldier for her; she wants to marry
Gen’l Lee.”
The boys laughed at his dry tone.
As they walked along they consulted how the capture
should be made.
“I tell you how to take him,”
said their companion. “He is a monstrous
coward, and all you got to do is jest to bring your
guns down on him. I wouldn’t shoot him ’nless
he tried to run; but if he did that, when he got a
little distance I’d pepper him about his legs.
Make him give up his sword and pistol and don’t
let him ride; ’cause if you do, he’ll
git away. Make him walk the rascal!”
The boys promised to carry out these kindly suggestions.
They soon came in sight of the little
house where Mills said the deserter was. A soldier’s
horse was standing tied at the gate, with a sword
hung from the saddle. The owner, in full uniform,
was sitting on the porch.
“I can’t go any furder,”
whispered their friend; “but that’s him that’s
‘Gen’l Lee’ the triflin’
scoundrel! loafin’ ‘roun’
here ‘sted o’ goin’ in the army!
I b’lieve y’ all is ’fraid to take
him,” eyeing the boys suspiciously.
“No, we ain’t; you’ll
see,” said both boys, fired at the doubt.
“All right; I’m goin’
to wait right here and watch you. Go ahead.”
The boys looked at the guns to see
if they were all right, and marched up the road keeping
their eyes on the enemy. It was agreed that Frank
was to do the talking and give the orders.
They said not a word until they reached
the gate. They could see a young woman moving
about in the house, setting a table. At the gate
they stopped, so as to prevent the man from getting
to his horse.
The soldier eyed them curiously.
“I wonder whose boys they is?” he said
to himself. “They’s certainly actin’
comical! Playin’ soldiers, I reckon.”
“Cock your gun easy,”
said Frank, in a low tone, suiting his own action
to the word.
Willy obeyed.
“Come out here, if you please,”
Frank called to the man. He could not keep his
voice from shaking a little, but the man rose and lounged
out toward them. His prompt compliance reassured
them.
They stood, gripping their guns and
watching him as he advanced.
“Come outside the gate!” He did as Frank
said.
“What do you want?” he asked impatiently.
“You are our prisoner,”
said Frank, sternly, dropping down his gun with the
muzzle toward the captive, and giving a glance at Willy
to see that he was supported.
“Your what? What do you mean?”
“We arrest you as a deserter.”
How proud Willy was of Frank!
“Go ‘way from here; I
ain’t no deserter. I’m a-huntin’
for deserters, myself,” the man replied, laughing.
Frank smiled at Willy with a nod,
as much as to say, “You see, just
what Tim told us!”
“Ain’t your name Mr. Billy Johnson?”
“Yes; that’s my name.”
“You are the man we’re
looking for. March down that road. But don’t
run, if you do, we’ll shoot you!”
As the boys seemed perfectly serious
and the muzzles of both guns were pointing directly
at him, the man began to think that they were in earnest.
But he could hardly credit his senses. A suspicion
flashed into his mind.
“Look here, boys,” he
said, rather angrily, “I don’t want any
of your foolin’ with me. I’m too
old to play with children. If you all don’t
go ’long home and stop giving me impudence, I’ll
slap you over!” He started angrily toward Frank.
As he did so, Frank brought the gun to his shoulder.
“Stand back!” he said,
looking along the barrel, right into the man’s
eyes. “If you move a step, I’ll blow
your head off!”
The soldier’s jaw fell.
He stopped and threw up his arm before his eyes.
“Hold on!” he called,
“don’t shoot! Boys, ain’t you
got better sense ’n that?”
“March on down that road.
Willy, you get the horse,” said Frank, decidedly.
The soldier glanced over toward the
house. The voice of the young woman was heard
singing a war song in a high key.
“Ef Millindy sees me, I’m
a goner,” he reflected. “Jes’
come down the road a little piece, will you?”
he asked, persuasively.
“No talking, march!” ordered
Frank.
He looked at each of the boys; the
guns still kept their perilous direction. The
boys’ eyes looked fiery to his surprised senses.
“Who is y’ all?” he asked.
“We are two little Confederates! That’s
who we are,” said Willy.
“Is any of your parents ever ever
been in a asylum?” he asked, as calmly as he
could.
“That’s none of your business,”
said Captain Frank. “March on!”
The man cast a despairing glance toward
the house, where “The years” were “creeping
slowly by, Lorena,” in a very high pitch, and
then moved on.
“I hope she ain’t seen
nothin’,” he thought. “If I
jest can git them guns away from ’em ”
Frank followed close behind him with
his old gun held ready for need, and Willy untied
the horse and led it. The bushes concealed them
from the dwelling.
As soon as they were well out of sight
of the house, Frank gave the order:
“Halt!” They all halted.
“Willy, tie the horse.” It was done.
“I wonder if those boys is thinkin’
‘bout shootin’ me?” thought the
soldier, turning and putting his hand on his pistol.
As he did so, Frank’s gun came to his shoulder.
“Throw up your hands or you are a dead man.”
The hands went up.
“Willy, keep your gun on him,
while I search him for any weapons.” Willy
cocked the old musket and brought it to bear on the
prisoner.
“Little boy, don’t handle
that thing so reckless,” the man expostulated.
“Ef that musket was to go off, it might kill
me!”
“No talking,” demanded
Frank, going up to him. “Hold up your hands.
Willy, shoot him if he moves.”
Frank drew a long pistol from its
holster with an air of business. He searched
carefully, but there was no more.
The fellow gritted his teeth.
“If she ever hears of this, Tim’s
got her certain,” he groaned; “but she
won’t never hear.”
At a turn in the road his heart sank
within him; for just around the curve they came upon
Tim Mills sitting quietly on a stump. He looked
at them with a quizzical eye, but said not a word.
The prisoner’s face was a study
when he recognized his rival and enemy. As Mills
did not move, his courage returned.
“Good mornin’, Tim,” he said, with
great politeness.
The man on the stump said nothing;
he only looked on with complacent enjoyment.
“Tim, is these two boys crazy?” he asked
slowly.
“They’re crazy ‘bout shootin’
deserters,” replied Tim.
“Tim, tell ’em I ain’t no deserter.”
His voice was full of entreaty.
“Well, if you ain’t a d’serter,
what you doin’ outn the army?”
“You know ”
began the fellow fiercely; but Tim shifted his long
single-barrel lazily into his hand and looked the man
straight in the eyes, and the prisoner stopped.
“Yes, I know,” said Tim
with a sudden spark in his eyes. “An’
you know,” he added after a pause, during
which his face resumed its usual listless look.
“An’ my edvice to you is to go ’long
with them boys, if you don’t want to git three
loads of slugs in you. They may put ’em
in you anyway. They’s sort of ’stracted
’bout d’serters, and I can swear to it.”
He touched his forehead expressively.
“March on!” said Frank.
The prisoner, grinding his teeth,
moved forward, followed by his guards.
As the enemies parted each man sent
the same ugly look after the other.
“It’s all over! He’s
got her,” groaned Johnson. As they passed
out of sight, Mills rose and sauntered somewhat briskly
(for him) in the direction of John Hall’s.
They soon reached a little stream,
not far from the depot where the provost-guard was
stationed. On its banks the man made his last
stand; but his obstinacy brought a black muzzle close
to his head with a stern little face behind it, and
he was fain to march straight through the water, as
he was ordered.
Just as he was emerging on the other
bank, with his boots full of water and his trousers
dripping, closely followed by Frank brandishing a
pistol, a small body of soldiers rode up. They
were the conscript-guard. Johnson’s look
was despairing.
“Why, Billy, what in thunder ?
Thought you were sick in bed!”
Another minute and the soldiers took
in the situation by instinct and Johnson’s
rage was drowned in the universal explosion of laughter.
The boys had captured a member of the conscript-guard.
In the midst of all, Frank and Willy,
overwhelmed by their ridiculous error, took to their
heels as hard as they could, and the last sounds that
reached them were the roars of the soldiers as the
scampering boys disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Johnson went back, in a few days,
to see John Hall’s daughter; but the young lady
declared she wouldn’t marry any man who let two
boys make him wade through a creek; and a month or
two later she married Tim Mills.
To all the gibes he heard on the subject
of his capture, and they were many, Johnson made but
one reply:
“Them boys’s had parents in a a sylum,
sure!”