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| 6. | CHAPTER VI. |
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 | CHAPTER VI. Tiger-lilies |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“Russet yeas and honest kersey noes.”
Love's Labor's Lost.
Cain Smallin was the most indefatigable of scouts.
He was always moving; the whole country side knew
him. His good-natured face and communicative habits
procured for him a cordial welcome at every house in
that quiet country, where as yet only the distant roar
of the war had been heard, where all was still and
sunny and lonesome, where the household-talk was that
of old men and women, of girls and children, whose sons
and brothers were all away in the midst of that dimly-heard
roaring. In this serene land a soldier's face that
had been in front of cannon and bullets was a thing to
be looked at twice, and a soldier's talk was the rare
treasure of a fireside. The gunboats in the river, upon
which these neighbors looked whenever they walked the
river bank, had ceased to be objects of alarm, or even
of curiosity. They lay there quietly and lazily, day
after day, making no hostile sign; and had lain so since
Norfolk fell. And as for the evening-gun at Fortress
Monroe — that had boomed every sunset for many a
year before the war.
On his way to the Point which terminates between
Burwell's Bay and Smithfield Creek, and which afforded
store of succulent grass and clover for the horses,
particularly distinguished himself in kindness to our
little party of scouts. The old gentleman was seated
in the open doorway, in midst of a pile of newspapers.
“Good mornin'! Mr. Smallin. Could n't stand it
any longer, you see, so I sent Dick away up to Ivor
yesterday to try and get some papers. Here 's another
stinger in the “Examiner.” Sit down here; I want you
to read it.”
“Thank 'ee, sir, don't care if I do rest a leetle; tollubble
warm walkin' this mornin',” replied the mountaineer,
and fell to reading — a slow operation for him
whose eye was far more accustomed to sighting a rifle
than deciphering letters.
“Massy me!” said he, after some silence, “our men 's
desertin' mighty fast, up yan, f'om the army. Here 's
nigh to a whole column full of `Thirty Dollars Rewards'
for each deserter. Let 's see if I know any of 'em.”
Cain's lip moved busily, in what might well have been
called a spell of silence. Suddenly he dropped the
paper and looked piteously upward.
“May be I spelt it wrong, le'm me look again,” muttered
he, and snatched the paper up to gaze again upon
that dreadful Thirty Dollar column.
It was there.
“Thirty-Dollars Reward.
“Deserted from the — Regiment, — Volunteers, Gorm
Smallin, who enlisted,” &c., &c.
Cain Smallin dropped his newspaper and strode
hastily out of the door, unheeding the surprise of his
host.
He walked rapidly, and aimlessly. The cruel torture
about; it lashed him with sharp thongs. Across fields
and marshes, through creeks and woods, with bent
head, with hands idly hanging, with unsteady step, he
circled. A tear emerged from his eye. It stopped in
a furrow, and glistened. Occasionally he muttered to
himself,—
“We was poor. We aint never had much to live on
but our name, which it was good as gold. An' now it
aint no better 'n rusty copper; hit 'll be green an'
pisenous. An' who 's done it? Gorm Smallin! Nobody
but Gorm Smallin! My own brother, Gorm
Smallin! Gorm, — Gorm.” He repeated this name
a hundred times, as if his mind wandered and he
wished to fix it.
The hours passed on and still the mountaineer
walked. His simple mountain-life had known few griefs.
This was worse than any sorrow. It was disgrace. He
knew no sophistries to retire into, in the ostrich-fashion
wherewith men avoid dishonor. He had lost all.
Not only he, but all whom he loved, would suffer.
“What will the Sterlin's say? Old John Sterlin';
him that stuck by us when corn was so scurce in the
Cove? an' Philip! him that I 've hunted with an' fished
with an' camped with, by ourselves, in yan mountains?
And Miss Felix! Miss Felix!”
The man dwelt on this name. His mind became a
blank, except two luminous spots which were rather
feelings than thoughts. These were, a sensation of disgrace
and a sensation of loveliness: the one embodied
in the name Gorm, the other in the name Felix.
He recoiled from one; he felt as if religion demanded
more than if he had committed the crime himself. For
he was innocence, and that is highly tender and sensitive,
being unseared.
At length the gathering twilight attracted his attention.
He looked around, to discover his locality.
Leaping a fence he found himself in the main road, and
a short walk brought him to a low house that stood in
a field on the right. He opened the gate, and knocked
at the door. “Here 's whar he said he 'd stay,” he
muttered. Gorm himself came to the door.
“Put on your hat, Gorm!”
The stern tone of his voice excited his brother's surprise.
“What fur, Cain?”
“I want you to walk with me, a little piece. Hurry!”
Gorm took down his hat and came out.
“Whar to, brother Cain?”
“Follow me,” replied Cain, with a motion of displeasure
at the wheedling tone of his brother.
Leaving the road, he struck into a path leading to
the Point from which he had wandered. As he walked
his pace increased, until it required the most strenuous
exertions on the part of his companion to keep up with
his long and rapid strides.
“Whar the devil air you gwine to, Cain? Don't
walk so fast, anyhow; I 'm a'most out o' breath a'-ready!”
The mountaineer made no reply, but slackened his
pace. He only muttered to himself: “Hits eight mile
across; ye 'll need your strength to git thar, may be.”
The path wound now amongst gloomy pines, for
open beach. They were upon the extreme end of the
lonely Point. The night was dark; but the sand-beach
glimmered ghastly white through the darkness. Save
the mournful hooting of an owl from his obscure cell
in the woods, the place was silent. Hundreds of huge
tree-stumps, with their roots upturned in the air, lay in
all fantastic positions upon the white sand, as the tide
had deposited them. These straggling clumps had been
polished white by salt air and waves. They seemed
like an agitated convention of skeletons, discussing the
propriety of flesh. A small boat rested on the beach,
with one end secured by a “painter” to a stake driven
in the sand.
“Little did I think, when I found it in the marsh this
mornin' an' brought it thar, thinkin' to git it round to
camp to-night, what use I was gwine to put it to,” said
Cain Smallin to himself.
As he led the way to the boat, suddenly he stopped
and turned face to face with his recreant brother. His
eyes glared into Gorm's. His right hand was raised,
and a pistol-barrel protruded from the long fingers.
“Gorm Smallin,” he said, with grating voice, “have
ye ever know'd me to say I 'd do anything an' then not
to do it?”
“I — I — no, I have n't, Cain,” stuttered the deserter,
cowering with terror and surprise.
“Remember them words. Now answer my questions,
and don't say nothin' outside o' them. Gorm
Smallin, whar was you born?”
“What makes you ax me sich foolish questions,
Cain? I was born in Tennessy, an' you know it!”
“Answer my questions, Gorm Smallin! Who raised
you, f'om a little un?”
“Mother an' father, o' course.”
“Who 's your mother and father? what 's ther name?”
“Cain, air you crazy? ther name 's Smallin.”
“Gorm Smallin, did you ever know any o' the Smallins
to cheat a man in a trade?”
“No, Cain; we 've always been honest.”
“Did ye ever know a Smallin to swar to a lie afore
the Jestis?”
“No.”
“Did ye ever know one to steal another man's horse,
or his rifle, or anything?”
“No.”
“Did ye ever know one to sneak out f'om a rightful
fight?”
“No.”
“Did ye ever know one to” — the words came like
lightning with a zigzag jerk — “to desert f'om his rigiment?”
The flash struck Gorm Smallin. He visibly sank into
himself like a jointed cane. He trembled, and gazed
apprehensively at the pistol in his brother's right hand
which still towered threateningly aloft. He made no
reply.
“Ye don't like to say yes this time!” continued Cain.
“Gorm Smallin, altho' I say it which I 'm your brother,
— ye lied every time ye said no, afore. You has
cheated in a dirty trade; you has swore to a lie afore
God that 's better than the Jestis; you has stole what 's
better 'n any rifle or horse; you has sneaked out f'om
the rightfullest fight ye ever was in; you has deserted
every friend ye had in the world was fightin' along with
ye.
“Gorm Smallin, you has cheated me, an' ole father
an' mother an' all, out of our name which it was all we
had; you has swore to a lie, for you swore to me 'at the
colonel sent you down here to go a-scoutin' amongst the
Yankees; you has stole our honest name, which it is
more than ye can ever make to give to your wife's
baby; you has sneaked out f'om a fight that we was
fightin' to keep what was our'n an' to pertect them that
has been kind to us an' them that raised us; you has
deserted f'om your rigiment which it has fought now
gwine on four year an' fought manful, too, an' never run
a inch.
“Gorm Smallin, you has got your name in the paper
'ith thirty dollars reward over it, in big letters; big letters,
so 'at father's ole eyes can read it 'ithout callin'
sister Ginny to make it out for him. Thar it is, for
every man, woman, and child in the whole Confederacy
to read it, an' by this time they has read it, may be, an'
every man in the rigiment has cussed you for a sneak
an' a scoundrel, an' wonderin' whether Cain Smallin
will do like his brother!
“Gorm Smallin, you has brung me to that, that I
haint no sperrit to fight hearty an' cheerful. Ef ye had
been killed in a fa'r battle, I mought ha' been able to
fight hard enough for both of us, for every time I cried
a-thinkin' of you, I 'd ha' been twice as strong an'
twice as clear-sighted as I was buffore. But — sich
things as these” — the mountaineer wiped off a tear
with his coat-sleeve — “burns me an' weakens me an'
straight forrard in the face. Hit don't make much
diff'ence to me now, whether we whips the Yanks or
they whips us. What good 'll it do ef we conquer 'em?
Everybody 'll be a-shoutin' an' a-hurrahin' an' they 'll
leave us out o' the frolic, for we is kin to a deserter!
An' the women 'll be a-smilin' on them that has lived to
git home, one minute, an' the next they 'll be a-weepin'
for them that 's left dead in Virginy an' Pennsylvany
an' Tennessy, — but you won't git home, an' you won't
be left dead nowher; they cain't neither smile at you
nor cry for you; what 'll they do ef anybody speaks yer
name? Gorm Smallin, they 'll lift their heads high an'
we 'll hang our'n low. They 'll scorn ye an' we 'll blush
for ye.
“Had n't ye better be dead? Had n't I better kill ye
right here an' bury ye whar ye cain't do no more harm
to the fambly name?
“But I cain't shoot ye, hardly. The same uns raised
us an' fed us. I cain't do it; an' I 'm sorry I cain't!
“You air 'most on yer knees, anyhow; git down on
'em all the way. Listen to me. God A'mighty 's a-lookin'
at you out o' the stars yan, an' he 's a listenin' at you
out o' the sand here, an' he won't git tired by mornin'
but he 'll keep a-listenin' an' a-lookin' at ye to-morrow
all day. Now mind ye. I 'm gwine to put ye in this
boat here, an' you can paddle across to yan side the
river, easy. Ef ye 'll keep yer eye on yan bright star
that 's jest a-risin' over Bullitt Pint, ye 'll strike t'other
shore about the right place. Ef ye paddle out o' the
way, the guard on yan gunboat 'll be apt to fire into ye;
keep yer eye on the star. Ye 'll git to the beach on
mornin' — ef ye can sleep. In the mornin' ye 'll walk
down the road, an' the Yankee pickets 'll see yer gray
coat an' take ye to Head-quarters. The officer at
Head-quarters 'll examine ye, an' when you tell him
you air a deserter he 'll make ye take the oath, an' ef
he know'd how many oaths ye 've already broke I think
he would 'n' take the trouble! Howsumdever, I 'm
gwine to do the same foolishness, for it 's all I kin do.
Now when ye take the oath the officer 'll likely make
ye sign yer name to it, or write yer name somewhar.
Gorm Smallin, when ye write that name ye shall not
write your own name; ye must write some other name.
Swar to it, now, while ye air kneelin' buffore God
A'mighty! Raise up yer hands, both of 'em; swar to
it, that ye 'll write some other name in the Yankee deserter-book,
or I 'll shoot ye, thar, right down!”
Cain had placed the muzzle of his pistol against his
brother's forehead.
The oath was taken.
“Don't git up yet; kneel thar. Hit would 'n' be right
to put any other man's name in the deserter-book in
place o' yourn, for ye mought be robbin' some other decent
fambly of ther good name. Le' ss see. We must
git some name that nobody ever was named afore. Take
a stick thar an' write it in the sand, so you won't forgit
it. The fust name don't make no diff'ence. Write
Sam'l.”
It was written in great scrawling letters.
“Now write J, an' call out as you write, so you won't
forgit it. For I 'm gwine to captur' that deserter-book
on' see ef your name 's in it. Write J, an' call out.”
“J.”
“O.”
“O.”
“X.”
“X.”
“O.”
“O.”
“B.”
“B.”
“B, agin.”
“B, agin.”
“le, -bul!”
“le, -bul!”
“Sam'l Joxo — Joxy — I cain't call it, but you can
write it — hit 'll do. Git it by heart.”
Cain paused a moment.
“Now git up. Git in the boat. Gorm Smallin, don't
never come back home, don't never come whar I may
be! I cain't shake hands with ye; but I 'll shove ye
off.”
Cain loosened the head of the boat from the sand,
turned her round, and gave a mighty push, running with
her till he was waist deep in the water. He came out
dripping, folded his arms, and stood still, watching the
dusky form in the receding boat.
Gorm Smallin was a half-mile from shore. Suddenly
he heard his brother's voice, across the water.
“Gorm!”
“Hello!”
“Joxo — Joxobabbul!” cried Cain Smallin at the
top of his voice, bending down to read the inscription
on the sand.
| CHAPTER VI. Tiger-lilies | |