University of Virginia Library

XXX.
TOUCH-AND-GO.

I had returned within the time; and the reader
will not fail to comprehend the grounds of my
anxiety to see “Bizarre” again.

Landon's narrative had produced a profound impression
upon me. This young Virginian, so bitter
and cynical at twenty-five, and pursuing with so
much ardour his private vengeance, attracted me irresistibly,
and I experienced an uncontrollable desire
to see him again, and be present at that denouement
of his affair with Ratcliffe, which, something told me,
would not long be delayed.

The main attraction, however, was Landon himself.
He had powerfully aroused my sympathy. This life
darkened in its dawn; this love and friendship both
betrayed; those friends turning coldly from the
young man, who, thus wounded mortally in his pride
and his heart, had permitted the venom of misanthropy
to filtrate, drop by drop, into his blood, — all
this made up an absorbing spectacle.

“Bah! nothing that is mean is fanciful in human
nature!”

Those words had expressed all. Stern moralists
might have shaken their heads and muttered “Monster!”
For my part, I sighed and felt a strong
sympathy for the monster!

On reaching “Bizarre,” I was cordially greeted, as
I have said, by Landon, who informed me that I had
arrived just in time, as he was going to set out, on
the next morning, on a scout toward Berryville.

“After Ratcliffe?”

“Always,” he replied, coolly. “He is at work
again, and this time is burning houses over the
heads of women and children.”

“Your scouts keep you well informed, I suppose?”

“Yes, especially Touch-and-go. By-the-by, that
is a remarkable person, colonel. Have you noticed
him?”

“Two or three times, and he appears to be a character.”

“A very curious one. He seems to have a private
account to settle with the enemy.”

“You do not know his history?”

“I am wholly ignorant of it, and can only tell
you that he is a perfect tiger in presence of the blue
people. He seems to have dedicated his life to the
work of killing as many of them as possible, and his
`account' is kept in a decidedly original fashion.”

“His `account'?”

“I mean of the men he kills. He keeps a string,
ties a knot in it whenever he kills an opponent, and
I assure you it is already a knotty affair.”

Landon had scarcely uttered the words when the
door opened, and Touch-and-go came in silently, saluting
as he did so. His boyish face wore its habitual
expression of mildness; his voice, as he saluted Landon,
was low and soft; in his hand he carried the
string referred to; and as he entered he was tying a
knot in it.

All at once I remembered seeing him perform that
operation twice before: the first time on the night
of our attack at the Chapel, just after he had shot
the vidette, and again on the day when Ratcliffe was
captured, when he had dashed out the brains of the
picket at the gate with his own carbine.

Touch-and-go was evidently “settling his account”
very steadily, for the string was nearly full of knots.
To the number, as I have said, he had just added a
new one, after which he quietly restored the string to
his pocket, and made his report to Landon. He had
penetrated the Federal lines, visited Sheridan's head-quarters,
seen houses burning in every direction, and
observed every indication of some important movement
on the part of the enemy.

“Good!” said Landon, “I think they are going
to attack Early at last.”

Touch-and-go waited silently to be addressed.

“Anything further, captain?” he said at length.

“Nothing; be ready to move with me at dawn.”

Touch-and-go saluted, and was stealthily retiring,
when I said: —

“You killed a man this evening, — did you not?”

“Yes, colonel,” he replied, quietly, “near Berryville.
I shot him through the heart.”

“That is another knot in your string.”

“Yes, colonel.”

“Another item in your account settled.”

“I see the captain has been talking about me,
colonel.”

“Yes, but he does not know your history. Is it
a mystery, Touch-and-go? If not, it would interest
me.”

“It is no mystery, colonel. My old father and
mother were burnt out by Hunter's people, on a
cold and rainy night last spring. They were all night
exposed without shelter, and crouching in a fence
corner, to the storm; and a month afterwards they
were dead from typhoid fever. I was in the army
at the time, but got off long enough to see them
buried decently. Since then I have been alone in the
world, and have been trying to kill as many Yankees
as I can. I have killed forty-eight that I know
of. Before I am killed myself I hope to make it a
hundred.”

I looked at the boy who uttered these words, full
of calmness and simplicity.

“Do you expect to be killed, Touch-and-go?” I
asked.

“Yes, colonel. The war is getting to be a bloody
affair. I think we will all be killed — if we do our
duty.”

“You are right,” I said.

“I try to do mine, colonel, and I believe it is to
kill Yankees. Forty-eight is not many; I wish it
was ten thousand. But I hope to make it a hundred.”

And waiting an instant to ascertain if Landon had
any additional orders, the boy saluted modestly, and
quietly left the apartment.

“What a war!” I said, as the youth disappeared;
“the very children are desperate, and this one seems
perfectly fearless.”

“I think he never experienced the emotion,”
Landon replied; “and he is as pious as he seems
blood-thirsty. He never utters an oath, reads his
Bible, says his prayers, and is a model of sweet temper
and kindness.”

As Landon spoke, a knock came at the door, and
one of the men entered.

“Here is a deserter, captain,” he said, saluting;
“he says he belongs to Captain Ratcliffe's command,
aud must see you.”

“To Ratcliffe's?”

“He was his orderly, he says.”

“Send him in,” said Landon, “and be ready
with a rope there to hang him!”

The man saluted and left the apartment. I gazed
at Landon with some astonishment.

“To hang him!” I exclaimed, as the door closed.

Landon nodded.

“I see you are not familiar with the devices of
our blue friends in this region, colonel. Civilized
warfare is too tame for them; they improve upon it.
To wear blue coats and fight fairly is too stupid; so
they dress whole companies of `Jesse Scouts' in
Confederate gray to deceive us.”

“But —”

“This deserter? He is sent, ten to one, by Ratcliffe.
You have had a specimen of that worthy's
courage; you have here, probably, a specimen of
his finesse. He despairs doubtless of whipping me;
he aims at entrapping me. His orderly deserts to
me, discovers my numbers, halting-places, everything;
then slips off some night, returns to Ratcliffe,
and before morning I am surprised, attacked,
and cut to pieces, five against one, without warning,
all in consequence of having listened with confiding
simplicity to his emissary.”

“You are right.”

“I think so. The trick is stale and will not fool
me.”

“You will hang this boy?”

“Is he a boy?”

“Yes; I saw him that night at Chapeldale, and
he brought Ratcliffe's detachment in pursuit.”

“Well, you see he is the confidential orderly,
emissary, spy of his master. My rope is going to
be put in requisition in twenty minutes.”

As he spoke, the door opened and the deserter
was ushered in.