Independent of his promise made to the woman to help her husband, if she would not betray him, Tom deemed it his duty to prevent the so-called Confederate States of America from obtaining even a single additional recruit for the armies of rebellion and treason. Without having any personal feeling in the matter, therefore, he was disposed to do all he could to assist his host in “avoiding the draft.” What would have been treason in New England was loyalty in Virginia.
The unfortunate subject of the Virginia militia law was unconsciously approaching the trap which had been set for him. He had, no doubt, come to the conclusion, by this time, that the hungry soldier boy was not a recruiting officer, or even the corporal of a guard sent to apprehend him, and he was returning with confidence to partake of his noonday meal. Tom, from his perch at the top of the chimney, watched him as he ambled along over the rough path with his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was something rather exciting in the situation of affairs, and he soon found himself deeply interested in the issue.
The unhappy citizen owing service to the Confederate States climbed over the zigzag fence that enclosed his garden, and continued to approach the rude dwelling which the law had defined to be his castle. Tom did not dare to speak in tones loud enough to be heard by the innocent victim of the officer’s conspiracy, for they would have betrayed his presence to the enemy. Sitting upon the top stones of the chimney, he gesticulated violently, hoping to attract his attention; but the man did not look up, and consequently could not see the signals.
He had approached within ten rods of the back door of the house, when Tom, fearing his footsteps might attract the attention of the soldier, ventured to give a low whistle. As this was not heeded, he repeated the signal when the man was within two or three rods of the house; but even this was not noticed, and throwing his head forward, so that the sound of his voice should not descend the chimney, he spoke.
“Halloo!” said he.
The man suddenly stopped, and looked up. Tom made signals with his hands for him to leave; but this mute language appeared not to be intelligible to him.
“Consarn yer picter, what are yer doin’ up thar?” said the proprietor of the castle, in tones which seemed to Tom as loud as the roar of the cannon at Bull Run.
“Hush! Hush!” replied Tom, gesticulating with all his might, and using all his ingenuity to invent signs that would convey to the militiaman the idea that he was in imminent danger.
“You be scotched!” snarled the man. “What are yer doin’? What ails yer?”
“They are after you!” added Tom, in a hoarse whisper.
The fellow most provokingly refused to hear him, and Tom thought his skull was amazingly thick, and his perceptions amazingly blunt.
“Now you come down from thar,” said he, as he picked up a couple of stones. “You act like a monkey, and I s’pose yer be one. Now make tracks down that chimley.”
But instead of doing this, Tom retreated into his shell, as a snail does when the moment of peril arrives. The soldier in the house was not deaf; and if he had been, he could hardly have helped hearing the stentorian tones of his victim. Instead of going out the back door, like a sensible man, he passed out at the front door, and in a moment more Tom heard his voice just beneath him.
“Halt!” shouted the soldier, as he brought his musket to his shoulder. “Your name is Joe Burnap.”
“That’s my name, but I don’t want nothin’ o’ you,” replied the embarrassed militiaman, as he dropped the stones with which he had intended to assault Tom’s citadel.
“I want something of you,” replied the soldier. “You must go with me. Advance, and give yourself up.”
“What fur?” asked poor Joe.
“We want you for the army. You are an enrolled militiaman. You must go with me.”
“Ill be dog derned if I do,” answered Joe Burnap, desperately.
“If you attempt to run away, I’ll shoot you. You shall go with me, dead or alive, and hang me if I care much which.”
Joe evidently did care. He did not want to go with the soldier; his southern blood had not been fired by the wrongs of his country; and he was equally averse to being shot in cold blood by this minion of the Confederacy. His position was exceedingly embarrassing, for he could neither run, fight, nor compromise. While matters were in this interesting and critical condition, Tom ventured to raise his head over the top of the chimney to obtain a better view of the belligerents. Joe stood where he had last seen him, and the soldier was standing within three feet of the foot of the chimney.
“What ye going to do, Joe Burnap?” demanded the latter, after waiting a reasonable time for the other to make up his mind.
“What am I gwine to do?” repeated Joe, vacantly, as he glanced to the right and the left, apparently in the hope of obtaining some suggestion that would enable him to decide the momentous question.
“You needn’t look round, Joe; you’ve got to come or be shot. Just take your choice between the two, and don’t waste my time.”
“I s’pose I can’t help myself,” replied Joe. “I’ll tell ye what I’ll do. I want to fix up things about hum a little, and I’ll jine ye down to the Gap to-morrow.”
“No you don’t, Joe Burnap!” said the soldier, shaking his head.
“Then I’ll jine ye to-night,” suggested the strategist.
“My orders are not to return without you, and I shall obey them.”
Mrs. Burnap, who had followed the soldier out of the house, stood behind him wringing her hands in an agony of grief. She protested with all a woman’s eloquence against the proceedings of the soldier; but her tears and her homely rhetoric were equally unavailing. While the parties were confronting each other, the soldier dropped his piece, and listened to the arguments of Joe and his wife. When he turned for a moment to listen to the appeals of the woman, her husband improved the opportunity to commence a retreat. He moved off steadily for a few paces, when the enemy discovered the retrograde march, and again brought the gun to his shoulder.
“None of that, Joe,” said the soldier, sternly. “Now march back again, or I’ll shoot you;” and Tom heard the click of the hammer as he cocked the piece. “I’ve fooled long enough with you, and we’ll end this business here. Come here, at once, or I’ll put a bullet through your head.”
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot! For mercy’s sake don’t shoot,” cried Mrs. Burnap.
“I’ll give him one minute to obey the order; if he don’t do it then, I’ll fire. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
Tom saw by the soldier’s manner that he intended to execute his threat. He saw him brace up his nerves, and otherwise prepare himself for the bloody deed. But Tom did not think that Joe had the stubbornness or the courage, whichever it might be called, to run the risk of dodging the bullet. He foresaw, too, that, if Joe gave himself up, his hiding place would be exposed, and the soldier would have two prisoners to conduct back to his officer, instead of one. It was therefore high time for him to do something for his own protection, if not for that of his host.
The necessity of defending himself, or of doing something to cover his retreat in an emergency, had been anticipated by Tom, and he had made such preparations as the circumstances would admit. His first suggestion was to dart his bayonet down at the rebel soldier, as he had seen the fishermen of Pinchbrook harpoon a horse mackerel; but the chances of hitting the mark were too uncertain to permit him to risk the loss of his only weapon, and he rejected the plan. He adopted the method, however, in a modified, form, deciding to use the material of which the chimney was constructed, instead of the bayonet. The stones being laid in clay instead of mortar, were easily detached from the structure, and he had one in his hands ready for operations.
“Come here, Joe Burnap, or you are a dead man,” repeated the soldier, who evidently had some scruples about depriving the infant Confederacy of an able-bodied recruit.
Tom Somers, being unembarrassed by any such scruples, lifted himself up from his hiding place, and hurled the stone upon the soldier, fully expecting to hit him on the head, and dash out his brains. The best laid calculations often miscarry, and Tom’s did in part, for the missile, instead of striking the soldier upon the head, hit him on the right arm. The musket was discharged, either by the blow or by the act of its owner, and fell out of his hands upon the ground.
Now, a stone as big as a man’s head, does not fall from the height of fifteen feet upon any vulnerable part of the human frame without inflicting some injury; and in strict conformity with this doctrine of probabilities, the stone which Tom hurled down upon the rebel, and which struck him upon the right arm, entirely disabled that useful member. The hero of this achievement was satisfied with the result, though it had not realized his anticipations. Concluding that the time had arrived for an effective charge, he leaped out of the chimney upon the roof of the house, descended to the eaves, and then jumped down upon the ground.
The soldier, in panic and pain, had not yet recovered from the surprise occasioned by this sudden and unexpected onslaught. Tom rushed up to him, and secured the musket before he had time to regain his self-possession.
“Who are you?” demanded the soldier, holding up the injured arm with his left hand.
“Your most obedient servant,” replied Tom, facetiously, as he placed himself in the attitude of “charge bayonets.” “Have you any dangerous weapons about your person?”
“Yes, I have,” replied the soldier, resolutely, as he retreated a few steps, and attempted to thrust his left hand into the breast pocket of his coat.
“Hands down!” exclaimed Tom, pricking his arm with the bayonet attached to the musket. “Here, Joe Burnap!”
“What d’ yer want?” replied the proprietor of the house, who was as completely “demoralized” by the scene as the rebel soldier himself.
“Put your hand into this man’s pocket, and take out his pistol. If he resists, I’ll punch him with this,” added Tom, demonstrating the movement by a few vigorous thrusts with the bayonet.
With some hesitation Joe took a revolver from the pocket of the soldier, and handed it to Tom.
“Examine all his pockets. Take out everything he has in them,” added Tom, cocking the revolver, and pointing it at the head of the prisoner.
Joe took from the pockets of the rebel a quantity of pistol cartridges, a knife, some letters, and a wallet.
“Who’s this fur?” asked Joe, as he proceeded to open the wallet, and take therefrom a roll of Confederate “shin-plasters.”
“Give it back to him.”
“But this is money.”
“Money!” sneered Tom. “A northern beggar wouldn’t thank you for all he could carry of it. Give it back to him, and every thing else except the cartridges.”
Joe reluctantly restored the wallet, the letters, and the knife, to the pockets from which he had taken them. Tom then directed him to secure the cartridge box of the soldier.
“You are my prisoner,” said Tom; “but I believe in treating prisoners well. You may go into the house, and if your arm is much hurt, Mrs. Burnap may do what she can to help you.”
The prisoner sullenly attended the woman into the house, and Tom followed as far as the front door.
“Now, what am I gwine to do?” said Joe. “You’ve got me into a right smart scrape.”
“I thought I had got you out of one,” replied Tom. “Do you intend to remain here?”
“Sartin not, now. I must clear.”
“So must I; and we have no time to spare. Get what you can to eat, and come along.”
In ten minutes more, Tom and Joe Burnap were travelling towards the mountains.
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