Part 5 (2/2)

Miss Fairleigh's friends in Hillsborough would not permit her to risk the journey through the lines; and Captain Walthall's company was ordered to the front, where the young men composing it entered headlong into the hurly-burly that goes by the name of war.

There was one little episode growing out of Jack Walthall's visit to Miss Fairleigh that ought to be told. When that young gentleman bade her good evening, and pa.s.sed out of the parlor, Miss Fairleigh placed her hands to her face and fell to weeping, as women will.

Major Ba.s.s, sitting on the veranda, had been an interested spectator of the conference in the parlor, but it was in the nature of a pantomime.

He could hear nothing that was said, but he could see that Miss Fairleigh and Walthall were both laboring under some strong excitement.

When, therefore, he saw Walthall pa.s.s hurriedly out, leaving Miss Fairleigh in tears in the parlor, it occurred to him that, as the head of the household and the natural protector of the women under his roof, he was bound to take some action. He called Jesse, the negro house-servant, who was on duty in the dining-room.

”Jess! Jess! Oh, Jess!” There was an insinuating sweetness in his voice as it echoed through the hall. Jesse, doubtless recognizing the velvety quality of the tone, made his appearance promptly. ”Jess,” said the major softly, ”I wish you'd please fetch me my shotgun. Make 'aste, Jess, and don't make no furse.”

Jesse went after the shotgun, and the major waddled into the parlor. He cleared his throat at the door, and Miss Fairleigh looked up.

”Miss Lizzie, did Jack Walthall insult you here in my house?”

”Insult me, sir! Why, he's the n.o.blest gentleman alive.”

The major drew a deep breath of relief, and smiled.

”Well, I'm mighty glad to hear you say so!” he exclaimed. ”I couldn't tell, to save my life, what put it into my mind. Why, I might 'a' know'd that Jack Walthall ain't that kind of a chap. Lord! I reckon I must be getting old and weak-minded. Don't cry no more, honey. Go right along and go to bed.” As he turned to go out of the parlor, he was confronted by Jesse with the shotgun. ”Oh, go put her up, Jess,” he said apologetically; ”go put her up, boy. I wanted to blaze away at a dog out there trying to scratch under the palings; but the dog's done gone. Go put her up, Jess.”

When Jess carried the gun back, he remarked casually to his mistress:

”Miss Sa'h, you better keep yo' eye on Ma.r.s.e Maje. He talkin' mighty funny, en he doin' mighty quare.”

Thereafter, for many a long day, the genial major sat in his cool veranda, and thought of Jack Walthall and the boys in Virginia.

Sometimes between dozes he would make his way to Perdue's Corner, and discuss the various campaigns. How many desperate campaigns were fought on that Corner! All the older citizens, who found it convenient or necessary to stay at home, had in them the instinct and emotions of great commanders. They knew how victory could be wrung from defeat, and how success could be made more overwhelming. At Perdue's Corner, Was.h.i.+ngton City was taken not less than a dozen times a week, and occasionally both New York and Boston were captured and sacked. Of all the generals who fought their battles at the Corner, Major Jimmy Ba.s.s was the most energetic, the most daring, and the most skilful. As a strategist he had no superior. He had a way of ill.u.s.trating the feasibility of his plans by drawing them in the sand with his cane. Fat as he was, the major had a way of ”surroundering” the enemy so that no avenue was left for his escape. At Perdue's Corner he captured Scott, and McClellan, and Joe Hooker, and John Pope, and held their entire forces as prisoners of war.

In spite of all this, however, the war went on. Sometimes word would come that one of the Hillsborough boys had been shot to death. Now and then one would come home with an arm or a leg missing; so that, before many months had pa.s.sed, even the generals conducting their campaigns at Perdue's Corner managed to discover that war was a very serious business.

It happened that one day in July, Captain Jack Walthall and his men, together with quite an imposing array of comrades, were called upon to breast the sultry thunder of Gettysburg. They bore themselves like men; they went forward with a shout and a rush, facing the deadly slaughter of the guns; they ran up the hill and to the rock wall. With others, Captain Walthall leaped over the wall. They were met by a murderous fire that mowed down the men like gra.s.s. The line in the rear wavered, fell back, and went forward again. Captain Walthall heard his name called in his front, and then some one cried, ”Don't shoot!” and Little Compton, his face blackened with powder, and his eyes glistening with excitement, rushed into Walthall's arms. The order not to shoot--if it was an order--came too late. There was another volley. As the Confederates rushed forward, the Federal line retreated a little way, and Walthall found himself surrounded by the small remnant of his men.

The Confederates made one more effort to advance, but it was useless.

The line was borne back, and finally retreated; but when it went down the slope, Walthall and Lieutenant Ransome had Little Compton between them. He was a prisoner. Just how it all happened, no one of the three could describe, but Little Compton was carried into the Confederate lines. He was wounded in the shoulder and in the arm, and the ball that shattered his arm shattered Walthall's arm.

They were carried to the field hospital, where Walthall insisted that Little Compton's wounds should be looked after first. The result was that Walthall lost his left arm and Compton his right; and then, when by some special interposition of Providence they escaped gangrene and other results of imperfect surgery and bad nursing, they went to Richmond, where Walthall's money and influence secured them comfortable quarters.

Hillsborough had heard of all this in a vague way--indeed, a rumor of it had been printed in the Rockville ”Vade Mec.u.m”--but the generals and commanders in consultation at Perdue's Corner were astonished one day when the stage-coach set down at the door of the tavern a tall, one-armed gentleman in gray, and a short, one-armed gentleman in blue.

”By the livin' Lord!” exclaimed Major Jimmy Ba.s.s, ”if that ain't Jack Walthall! And you may put out my two eyes if that ain't Little Compton!

Why, shucks, boys!” he exclaimed, as he waddled across the street, ”I'd 'a' know'd you anywheres. I'm a little short-sighted, and I'm mighty nigh took off wi' the dropsy, but I'd 'a' know'd you anywheres.”

There were handshakings and congratulations from everybody in the town.

The clerks and the merchants deserted their stores to greet the newcomers, and there seemed to be a general jubilee. For weeks Captain Jack Walthall was compelled to tell his Gettysburg story over and over again, frequently to the same hearers; and, curiously enough, there was never a murmur of dissent when he told how Little Compton had insisted on wearing his Federal uniform.

”Great Jiminy Craminy!” Major Jimmy Ba.s.s would exclaim; ”don't we all know Little Compton like a book? And ain't he got a right to wear his own duds?”

Rockville, like every other railroad town in the South at that period, had become the site of a Confederate hospital; and sometimes the hangers-on and convalescents paid brief visits of inspection to the neighboring villages. On one occasion a little squad of them made their appearance on the streets of Hillsborough, and made a good-natured attempt to fraternize with the honest citizens who gathered daily at Perdue's Corner. While they were thus engaged, Little Compton, arrayed in his blue uniform, pa.s.sed down the street. The visitors made some inquiries, and Major Ba.s.s gave them a very sympathetic history of Little Compton. Evidently they failed to appreciate the situation; for one of them, a tall Mississippian, stretched himself and remarked to his companions:

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