The Red Acorn. John McElroy
rattlesnake crawled slowly and clumsily out from the shelter of a little ledge, his fearful eyes gleaming with deadly intentions against a ground-squirrel frisking upon the end of a mossy log, near where Captain Bob Bennett was seated, poring over a troublesome detail in the “Tactics.” The snake saw the man, and his awkward movement changed at once into one of electric alertness. He sounded his terrible rattle, and his dull diamonds and stripes lighted up with the glare that shines through an enraged man’s face. The thick body seemed to lengthen out and gain a world of sinuous suppleness. With the quickness of a flash he was coiled, with head erect, forked tongue protruding, and eyes flaming like satanic jewels.
A shout appraised Captain Bennett of his danger. He dropped the book, sprang to his feet with a quickness that matched the snake’s, and instinctively drew his sword. Stepping a little to one side as the reptile launched itself at him, he dexterously cut it in two with a sweeping stroke. A shout of applause rose from the excited boys, who gathered around to inspect the slain serpent and congratulate the Captain upon his skillful disposition of his assailant.
“O, that’s only my old bat-stroke that used to worry the boys in town-hall so much,” said the Captain carelessly. “It’s queer what things turn out useful to a man, and when he least expects them.”
A long, ringing yell from a thousand throats cleft the air, and with its last notes came the rattle of musketry from the brow of the hill across the little ravine. The bullets sang viciously overhead. They cut the leaves and branches with sharp little crashes, and struck men’s bodies with a peculiar slap. A score of men in the disordered group fell back dead or dying upon the green moss.
“Of course, we might’ve knowed them muddle-headed officers ‘d run us right slap into a hornets’ nest of Rebels before they knowed a thing about it,” grumbled Abe Bolton, hastily tearing a cartridge with his teeth, and forcing it into his gun.
“Hold on, my weak-kneed patriot,” said Kent Edwards, catching Jake Alspaugh by the collar, and turning him around so that he faced the enemy again. “It’s awful bad manners to rush out of a matinee just as the performance begins. You disturb the people who’ve come to enjoy the show. Keep you seat till the curatin goes down. You’ll find enough to interest you.”
The same sudden inspiration of common-sense that had flashed upon Captain Bennett, in encountering the snake now raised him to the level of this emergency. He comprehended that the volley they had received had emptied every Rebel gun. The distance was so short that the enemy could be reached before they had time to re-load. But no time must be lost in attempting to form, or in having the order regularly given by the Colonel. He sprang toward the enemy, waving his sword, and shouted in tones that echoed back from the cliffs:
“Attention, BATTALION! Charge bayonets! FORWARD, DOUBLE-QUICK, MARCH!”
A swelling cheer answered him. His own company ran forward to follow his impetuous lead. The others joined in rapidly. Away they dashed down the side of the declivity, and in an instant more were swarming up the opposite side toward the astonished Rebels. Among these divided councils reigned. Some were excited snapping unloaded guns at the oncoming foe; others were fixing bayonets, and sturdily urging their comrades to do likewise, and meet the rushing wave of cold steel with a counter wave. The weaker-hearted ones were already clambering up the mountain-side out of reach of harm.
There was no time for debate. The blue line led by Bennett flung itself upon the dark-brown mass of Rebels like an angry wave dashing over a flimsy bank of sand, and in an instant there was nothing to be done but pursue the disrupted and flying fragments. It was all over.
Chapter III. A Race
“Some have greatness thrust upon them.”
The unexpected volley probably disturbed private Jacob Alspaugh’s mind more than that of any other man in the regiment. It produced there an effect akin to the sensation of nauseous emetic in his stomach.
He had long enjoyed the enviable distinction of being the “best man” among combative youths of Sardis, and his zeal and invariable success in the fistic tournaments which form so large a part of the interest in life of a certain class of young men in villages, had led his townsmen to entertain extravagant hopes as to his achievements in the field.
But, like most of his class, his courage was purely physical, and a low order of that type. He was bold in those encounters where he knew that his superior strength and agility rendered small the chances of his receiving any serious bodily harm, but of that high pride and mounting spirit which lead to soldierly deeds he had none.
The sight of the dying men on each side shriveled his heart with a deadly panic.
“O, Kent,” he groaned, “Lemme go, and let’s git out o’ here. This’s just awful, and it’ll be ten times wuss in another minnit. Let’s git behind that big rock there, as quick as the Lord’ll let us.”
He turned to pull away from Kent’s detaining hand, when he heard Captain Bennett’s order to the regiment to charge, and the hand relaxed its hold. Jake faced to the front again and saw Kent and Abe Bolton, and the rest of the boys rush forward, leaving him and a score of other weak-kneed irresolutes standing alone behind.
Again he thought he would seek the refuge of the rock, but at that moment the Union line swept up to the Rebels, scattering them as a wave does dry sand.
Jake’s mental motions were reasonably rapid. Now he was not long in realizing that all the danger was past, and that he had an opportunity of gaining credit cheaply. He acted promptly. Fixing his bayonet, he gave a fearful yell and started forward on a run for the position which the regiment had gained.
He was soon in the lead of the pursuers, and appeared, by his later zeal, to be making amends for his earlier tardiness. As he ran ahead he shouted savagely:
“Run down the hellions! Shoot ‘em! Stab ‘em! Bay’net ‘em! Don’t let one of ‘em git away.”
There is an excitement in a man-chase that is not even approached by any other kind of hunting, and Jake soon became fairly intoxicated with it.
He quickly overtook one or two of the slower-paced Rebels, who surrendered quietly, and were handed by him over to the other boys as they came up, and conducted by them to the rear.
Becoming more excited he sped on, entirely unmindful of how far he was outstripping his comrades.
A hundred yards ahead of him was a tall, gaunt Virginian, clad in butternut-colored jeans of queer cut and pattern, and a great bell-crowned hat of rough, gray beaver. Though his gait was shambling and his huge splay feet rose and fell in the most awkward way, he went over the ground with a swiftness that made it rather doubtful whether Jake was gaining on him at all. But the latter was encouraged by the sings of his chase’s distress. First the bell-crowned hat flew off and rolled behind, and Jake could not resist the temptation to give it a kick which sent it spinning into a clump of honeysuckles. Then the Rebel flung off a haversack, whose flapping interfered with his speed, and this was followed by a clumsily-constructed cedar canteen. The thought flashed into Jake’s mind that this was probably filled with the much-vaunted peach-brandy of that section; and as ardent sprits were one of his weaknesses, the temptation to stop and pick up the canteen was very strong, but he conquered it and hurried on after his prey. Next followed the fugitive’s belt, loaded down with an antique cartridge-box, a savage knife made from a rasp and handled with buckhorn, and a fierce-looking horse-pistol with a flint-lock.
“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