116. CXVI.
THE WOES OF BASKERVILLE.
This was the rather depressing condition of affairs, when, late
in the afternoon, the column, which had made a circuit through
the country, reached the neighborhood of the Pignut Mountain,
west of New Baltimore.
Here they halted in front of a large and elegant mansion, and,
accompanied by a portion of his command, the captain of the
troop strode up to the door.
What was my astonishment to see no less a personage than
Baskerville appear upon the threshold in irreproachable citizen's
costume, of black and white, without a particle of gray anywhere
about him—Baskerville, smiling, winning, the soul of hospitality
and politeness to his visitors.
This warm reception, however, did not seem to make much
impression upon the Federal officer.
“Your name is Baskerville?” he said roughly.
“Yes, Captain,” was the smiling reply.
“You are an officer in the Rebel army?”
“Oh, by no means,” came from the other, whose manner
became still more suave. “I had at one time a temporary connection,
in a subordinate capacity, with the Rebel forces,
Captain”—he said
rebel!—“but it was merely as an amateur! The
fact is, I could never enter cordially into the treasonable schemes
of the rebels. I am a good Union man upon principle, Captain.”
“Then you have no objection to taking the oath?” asked the
black-bearded worthy.
“Oh, not the least! I will take it with pleasure!”
“Are you a Virginian, Mr. Baskerville?” said the Federal
officer coolly.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Born in this State?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Your family and friends are all here?”
“All, Captain!”
“And some are in the service?”
“Nearly all of them.”
“Then, in my opinion, Mr. Baskerville,” returned the growling
worthy, “you are a sneak, and I won't trust your oath! I
have no opinion of you `Union men,' who profess so much
loyalty, and can't find it in your hearts to go either with us or
with your native State—all because you want to save your crops
and horses and bacon, and don't want to risk your valuable
skins! There may be some of your class who are obliged to
take the oath against their feelings, from family circumstances—
but I don't consider you one of them. I won't trust you, sir!
We want fresh horses!”
And, making a sign to the troops:
“Gut the whole place!” said black-beard.
It is astonishing how rapidly and completely this order was
obeyed. The troops scattered, and soon reappeared leading
about a dozen beautiful horses.
Baskerville's face was the image of despair, as he saw his
splendid horses thus about to be carried off; but his troubles
were not ended.
“Now I want something to eat for myself and my command,”
said the Captain. “Be quick with it. I am going to move
on!”
Baskerville obeyed this imperative order, and we could see
through the window a costly mahogany table covered with
dishes, containing hams, cold beef, bread—every edible; and the
dishes were flanked by decanters of wine and brandy.
A motley rout threw themselves upon these viands; demolished
the meats, guzzled the liquids, and smash after smash of
china told the story of Baskerville's woes.
“They are playing the very devil in there!” said Farley,
laughing. “It is rather hard treatment for a good Union man!”
“Where are the prisoners?” I now heard the Captain shouting;
“bring them in with the second relay!”
And we were conducted into the house. The scene was
striking. In a magnificent apartment, with rich carpet, elegant
furniture, and many pictures on the walls, the Federal officer
and his myrmidons were seated around the great dining-table
covered with the refuse of their repast—“broken meats,” half
demolished loaves, and empty decanters. All were devouring
the substance of Baskerville with greedy mouths, the long ride
having whetted every appetite; and over this wild crew presided
the Federal captain, laughing, jesting, with a flushed face,
which betrayed an intimate acquaintance with Baskerville's
liquids.
“Bring in the prisoners, d—n 'em,” said the Captain, “and
let 'em eat. We don't charge extra at this hotel.”
And we were conducted to the table.
Suddenly my eye met Baskerville's, and I shall never forget
his expression. Was it wrath, shame, confusion—what? I
know not, but it was not agreeable. I could not despise this
man more thoroughly than before, but I pitied him.
He did not utter a word during the whole scene, and soon he
was rid of his unwelcome guests. We rose—neither Farley nor
myself had touched a mouthful.
“Fall in there!” shouted the Captain, walking unsteadily to
the door. “I am going to move on.”
Then, turning to Baskerville, he said, with drunken gravity:
“Let me advise you, my friend, to go into the Rebel army
again. I won't have the pleasure of dining with you then; but
no matter: you will be in a more creditable place than at
home!”
With these words, the speaker strode out, mounted unsteadily
into the saddle; and the column again began to move.
Looking back, I saw Baskerville standing in his front door,
with a face full of rage and anguish—and I have never seen him
since.
The squadron moved now toward New Baltimore, but night
all at once descended, and the Captain, who rode on with a rather
sleepy air, ordered a halt.
In a few minutes the men had broken ranks, dismounted, and
picketed their horses to the trees of the secluded glade in which
the column halted; and it was evidently their intention to
spend the night there.
An hour afterward the men had cooked and eaten their rations;
the pickets were established, and the weary cavalry-men
wrapped themselves in their blankets, and began to snore.
Farley and myself had been placed under guard, but not
otherwise confined; and now lay side by side for warmth, under
a large oak, near a smouldering camp-fire.
Within three paces of us a dismounted cavalry-man walked to
and fro, with measured tread—his carbine in his hand—prepared
to obey to the letter, apparently, the order which he had received,
to kill us instantly if we made any attempt to escape.
