John McElroy - The Red Acorn

“I seemed to be bustin’ up a moosyum o’ revolutionary relics,” said Jake afterward, in describing the incident. “The feller dropped keepsakes from his forefathers like a bird moltin’ its feathers on a windy day. I begun to think that if I kep up the chase purty soon he’d begin to shed Continental money and knee-britches.”

The fugitive turned off to the right into a narrow path that wound through the laurel thickets. Jake followed with all the energy that remained in him, confident that a short distance more would bring him so close to his game that he could force his surrender by a threat of bayoneting. He caught up to within a rod of the Rebel, and was already foreshortening his gun for a lunge in case of refusal to surrender on demand, when he was amazed to see the Rebel whirl around, level his gun at him, and order HIS surrender. Jake was so astonished that he stumbled, fell forward and dropped his gun. As he raised his eyes he saw three or four other Rebels step out from behind a rock, and level their guns upon him with an expression of bloodthirstiness that seemed simply fiendish.

Then it flashed upon him how far away he was from all his comrades, and that the labyrinth of laurel made them even more remote. With this realization came the involuntary groan:

“O, Lordy! it’s all up with me. I’m a goner, sure!”

His courage did not ooze out of his fingers, like the historic Bob Acres’s; it vanished like gas from a rent balloon. He clasped his hands and tried to think of some prayer.

“Now I lay me,” he murmured.

“Shan’t we shoot the varmint?” said one of the Rebels, with a motion of his gun in harmony with that idea.

“O, mister—mister—GOOD mister, DON’T! PLEASE don’t! I swear I didn’t mean to do no harm to you.”

“Wall, ye acted monty quare fur a man that didn’t mean no harm,” said the pursued man, regaining his breath with some difficulty. “A-chasin’ me down with thet ar prod on yer gun, an’ a-threatenin’ to stick hit inter me at every jump. Only wanted ter see me run, did yer?”

“O, mister, I only done it because I wuz ordered to. I couldn’t help myself; I swear I couldn’t.”

“Whar’s the ossifers thet wuz a-orderin’ ye? Whar’s the captins that wuz puttin’ ye up ter hit? Thar wan’t no one in a mile of ye. Guess we’d better shoot ye.”

Again Jake raised his voice in abject appeal for mercy. There was nothing he was not willing to promise if only his life were only spared.

“Wouldn’t hit be better ter bay’net him?” suggested one of the Rebels, entirely unmoved, as his comrades were, by Jake’s piteous pleadings. “Ef we go ter shootin’ ‘round yere hit’ll liekly bring the Yankees right onter us.”

“I ‘spect hit would be better ter take him back a little ways, any way,” said the man whom Jake had pursued. “Pick up his gun thar, Eph. Come along, you, an’ be monty peart about hit, fur we’re in a powerful bad frame o’ mind ter be fooled with. I wouldn’t gin a fi’-penny-bit fur all yer blue-bellied life’s worth. The boys ar jest pizen mad from seein’ so many o’ thar kin and folks killed by yer crowd o’ thievin’ Hessians.”

Grateful for even a momentary respite, Jake rose from his knees with alacrity and humbly followed one of the Rebels along the path. The others strode behind, and occasionally spurred him into a more rapid pace with a prick from their bayonets.

“O,–ough, mister, don’t do that! Don’t, PLEASE! You don’t know how it hurts. I ain’t got no rhinoceros skin to stand such jabs as that. That came purty nigh goin’ clean through to my heart.”

“Skeet ahead faster, then, or the next punch’ll go righ smack through ye, fur sartin. Ef yer skin’s so tender what are ye doin’ in the army?”

They climbed the mountain laboriously, and started down on the other side. About midway in the descent they came upon a deserted cabin standing near the side of the road.

“By the Lord Harry,” said one of the Rebels, “I’m a’most done clean gin out, so I am. I’m tireder nor a claybank hoss arter a hard day’s plowin’, an’ I’m ez dry ez a lime-kiln. I motion that we stop yere an’ take a rest. We kin put our Yank in the house thar, an’ keep him. I wonder whar the spring is that the folks thet lived yere got thar water from?”

“Ef I don’t disremember,” said another, “this is the house where little Pete Higgenbottom lived afore the country got ruther onhelthy fur him on account of his partiality for other people’s hosses. I made a little trip up yere the time I loss thet little white-faced bay mar of pap’s, an I’m purty sure the spring’s over thar in the holler.”

“Lordy, how they must ‘ve hankered arter the fun o’ totin’ water to ‘ve lugged hit clar from over tha. I’d’ve moved the house nigher the spring afore I’d’ve stood thet ere a month, so I would.”

“The distance to the water ortent to bother a feller thet gets along with usin’ ez little ez you do,” growled the first speaker.

“A man whose nose looks like a red-pepper pod in August, and his shirt like a section o’ rich bottom land, hain’t no great reason ter make remarks on other folks’s use o’ water.”

Jake plucked up some courage from the relaxation in the savage grimness of his captors, which seemed implied by this rough pleasantry, and with him such recuperation of spirits naturally took the form of brassy self-assertion.

“Don’t you fellers know,” he began with a manner and tone intended to be placating, but instead was rasping and irritating, “don’t you fellers know that the best thing you can do with me is to take me back to our people, and trade me off for one of your fellers that they’ve ketched?”

“An’ don’t ye know thet the best thing ye kin do is to keep thet gapin’ mouth o’ your’n shet, so thet the flies won’t git no chance to blow yer throat?” said the man whose nose had been aptly likened to a ripe red-pepper pod, “an’ the next best thing’s fur ye to git inter that cabin thar quicker’n blazes ‘ll scorch a feather, an’ stay thar without makin’ a motion toward gittin’ away. Git!” and he made a bayonet thrust at Jake that tore open his blouse and shirt, and laid a great gaping wound along his breast. Jake leaped into the cabin and threw himself down upon the puncheon floor.

“Thar war none of our crowd taken,” said another of the squad, who had looked on approvingly. “They wuz all killed, an’ the only way to git even is ter send ye whar they are.”

Jake made another earnest effort to recall one of the prayers he had derided in his bad boyhood.

Leaving the red-nosed man to guard the prisoner, the rest of the Rebels started for the hollow, in search of water to cool their burning thirst.

They had gained such a distance from the scene of the fight, and were in such an out-of-the-way place, that the thought of being overtaken did not obtrude itself for an instant, either upon their minds or Jake’s.

But as they came back up the hill, with a gourd full of spring water for their companion, they were amazed to see a party of blue-coats appear around the bend of the road at a little distance. They dropped the gourd of water, and yelled to the man on guard:

“Kill the Yank, an’ run for yer life!” and disappeared themselves, in the direction of the spring.

The guard comprehended the situation and the order. He fired his gun at Jake, but with such nervous haste as to destroy the aim, and send the charge into the puncheon a foot beyond his intended victim, and then ran off with all speed to join his companions. The Union boys sent a few dropping shots after him, all of which missed their mark.

Jake managed to recover his nerves and wits sufficiently to stagger to the door as his comrades came up, and grasp one of the guns the Rebels had left.