Last Three Soldiers — The Plateau Receives A Name; The Prisoners

CHAPTER IX THE PLATEAU RECEIVES A NAME

It was now October, and time to being harvesting the crop on the little plantation, which something very like an inspiration had prompted Philip to plant.

While Lieutenant Coleman continued work on the house, stopping the chinks between the logs with clay, and repairing the roof of the hut with spare shingles, Bromley and Philip "topped" the corn, cutting off the stalks above the ripened ears.

Then the potatoes were thrown out of the mellow soil with a wooden shovel, and left to dry in the sun, while a level place was prepared in the center of the plot, and thickly spread with a carpet of dry stalks.

Upon this surface, after removing a few bushels to the hut, the crop was gathered into a conical heap and thatched over with stalks, and then the whole was thickly covered with earth and trenched about to turn off the water.

It was estimated that this cache contained thirty bushels, which, according to the table in the Blue Book (Revised Army Regulations), would exceed the potato ration of three men for a period of five years.

From the day of their arrival on the mountain, Lieutenant Coleman had never failed to make a daily entry in the station journal; and now that they had set up a country for themselves, he foresaw that the continuance of this practice would be necessary if they were not to lose the record of weeks and months.

His entry was always brief.

Often it was no more than the date, and even the more important events were set down with the utmost brevity and precision.

Once a week he noted the recurrence of the Sabbath, and on that day they suspended ordinary labor, and, if the weather was pleasant, inspected their increasing domestic comforts on the mountain-top and laid their plans for the future.

After their military habit, the morning of Sunday was devoted to personal cleanliness and to tidying up about their quarters.

As the commissary supply of yellow bars diminished, it was evident that the time would soon come when they should be obliged to make their own soap.

Back of the chestnut-tree in which they had taken refuge from the bear was a peculiar hollowed rock, and above it a flat shelf of stone, on which Philip erected a hollow log for leaching ashes.

A

little patient chipping of the upper stone with the ax-head made a shallow furrow along which the lye would trickle from the leach, and fall into the natural basin in the rock below, which was large enough to hold a half-barrel.

This was a happy device, as the strong liquid would have eaten its way through any vessel other than an iron pot or an earthen jar, of which unfortunately they possessed neither.

They had but a limited supply of hard corn, from which they selected the best ears for the next year's planting.

These they braided together by the husks, and hung up in yellow festoons from the rafters of the hut, which they continued to use as a storehouse.

Much of what remained of their small crop would be needed by the fowls in the winter, and up to this time they had made no use of it for their own food.

Meal was out of the question, and to break the flinty kernels between stones was a tedious process to which they had not yet been forced to resort.

The presence of the lye, however, suggested to Bromley the hulled corn of his New England grandmother, which he had seen her prepare by soaking and boiling the kernels in a thin solution of lye.

By this means the hulls or skins were removed, and after cleansing from potash, and boiling all day, the unbroken kernels became as white and tender as rice.

This satisfied the three soldiers for a time, and made an agreeable addition to their diet of bear steak and potatoes.

In the mountains of Tennessee Lieutenant Coleman had once seen a rude hydraulic contrivance called a Slow-John, which was a sort of lazy man's mill.

To construct this affair it was necessary to have a bucket, which Bromley set about making by the slow process of burning out a section of chestnut log with the red-hot ramrod of a carbine.

At a short distance above the house, the branch which flowed from the spring, after making its refreshing way between grassy banks, tumbled over a succession of ledges which ended in a small cascade, and twelve feet below this waterfall there was a broad, flat rock which laved its mossy sides in the branch, and showed a clean, flat surface above the level of the water.

Below this rock they built a dam of stones, by means of which they could flood its surface.

Four feet up-stream from the rock a log was fixed from bank to bank for a fulcrum, and upon this rested a movable lever, the short arm of which terminated above the submerged rock, while the long arm just touched the water of the cascade.

A wooden pin set in the under log passed through a slot in the lever, so as to hold it in position and at the same time give it free play.

Another flat stone of about thirty pounds' weight, which was the pestle of the mortar, was lashed with grape-vine thongs to the short arm of the lever directly over the submerged stone.

To the long arm was attached Bromley's bucket, bailed with a strong wire, and so hung as to catch the water of the cascade.

As the bucket filled and sank, its weight raised the flat stone higher and higher above the submerged rock until the bucket met a bar fixed to tilt its contents into the stream, when the upper millstone came down upon its fellow with a fine splash and thud.

After a wall of clay had been built about the surface where the two stones met, to keep the corn in place, the Slow-John was ready for work.

It was slow, but it was sure, and after that, when one of the three soldiers awoke in the night, it was cheerful to hear the regular splash and crash of the Slow-John, like the ticking of a huge clock, lazy enough to tick once a minute, and patient enough to keep on ticking for two days and nights to pulverize as many quarts of corn.

And now, for three young men who had solemnly renounced their country and cut themselves off voluntarily from all intercourse with their kind, they were about as cheerful and contented as could be expected.

In spite of the great disaster which they believed had befallen the National cause, their lungs expanded in the rare mountain air, and the good red blood danced in their veins, and with youth and health of body it was impossible to take an altogether gloomy view of life.

They had at first tried hard to be miserable, but nature was against them, and the effort had been a failure.

In their free life they could no more resist the infection of happiness than the birds in the trees could refrain from singing, and so it came to pass that in view of the bountiful harvest they had gathered, and the comfortable house they had built, and all the domestic conveniences they had contrived, Lieutenant Coleman came out boldly in favor of setting apart Thursday, the twenty-fourth day of November, as a Day of Thanksgiving, and quite forgot to name it a day of humiliation as well.

To this the others joyfully agreed, and agreed, moreover, that from that day forward the plateau should be called Lincoln Territory in memory of the patriotism of the good President, notwithstanding they felt that his divided counselors and incompetent generals had wiped the half of a great nation from the map of the world.

When this first holiday dawned on the mountain, the three soldiers arrayed themselves in full uniform for the ceremony of naming their possessions.

Bromley and Philip buckled on their cavalry swords and slung their carbines at their backs, and Lieutenant Coleman, for the last time, assumed his discarded rank to take command.

The arms had been polished the day before until they gleamed and flashed in the morning light, and the little army of two was dressed and faced and inspected, and then left at parade-rest while Lieutenant Coleman brought out the flag.

How their honest hearts swelled with pride to think that here, alone in all the world, that flag would continue to float with an undiminished field of stars!

Little did they dream that on that very morning hundreds like it were waving in the heart of Georgia over Sherman's legions on their march to the sea.

When at last it blew out from the staff, they gathered under its folds, and sang "The Star-spangled Banner" with tears in their eyes; and as the last words of the good old song rang out over the mountain-top, Philip and Bromley discharged their carbines, and all three cheered lustily for the old flag and the new name.

[Illustration: CHRISTENING THE TERRITORY.

] This was to be their last military ceremony, and having no further use for their swords, they arranged them with belts and scabbards into a handsome decoration against the chimneypiece, and crossed above them the three red-and-white flags of the station.

The Revised Army Regulations and Philip's prayer-book stood on the mantelpiece alongside the spy-glass in its leathern case.

The few articles of extra clothing hung in a line on the wall just opposite to the three bunks, whose under layer of pine boughs gave an aromatic perfume to the room.

After the ceremony of naming the plateau, and having fixed the trophies to their satisfaction, the three exiles took down their sky-blue overcoats from the line, for the November air was nipping cold, and set out with the two carbines and an empty sack to keep Thanksgiving in the good old country way.

They were still rather sad after what had happened in the morning; but by the time they were back all the gloom had worn off, for they brought with them two rabbits and a bag of chestnuts, and appetites sharpened by exercise in the keen air.

Philip made the stew, and Bromley fried two chickens of their own raising, one after the other, on a half-canteen, and the potatoes, left to themselves, burst their jackets in the ashes with impatience to be eaten.

Each man made his own coffee in his own blackened tin cup, and drank it with a keener relish because it was near the last of their commissary stock.

While they were eating and drinking within, the sky without had become thick with clouds blown up on the east wind, so that when they looked out at the door they saw Tumbler, the bear, who also had been stuffing himself with acorns, and ants which he had pawed out of a rotten log, rolling home for shelter.

There was yet time before the storm broke, and away they went up the hill as happy as lords, to load themselves with dead chestnut limbs and a few resinous sticks of fat pine; and when night came, and with it the rain, there was a warm fire in the new chimney, and a stick of lightwood thrust behind the backlog lighted the interior of the house with a good forty-adamantine-candle power.

Tumbler lay rolled up in his favorite corner, blinking his small eyes at the unusual light, and from time to time he passed his furry paw over his sharp nose and gave forth a low grunt of satisfaction.

Philip sat against the chimney opposite Tumbler, stirring chestnuts in the ashes with a ramrod, while Bromley put away the last of the supper things, and Lieutenant Coleman gazed out of the open window into the slanting rain, which beat a merry tattoo on the shingles, and tossed at intervals a sturdy drop on the hissing fire.

It was certainly not the cheerful interior, beaming with light and heat, that turned Lieutenant Coleman's thoughts back to the dark cloud of disasters which had overwhelmed the National arms; it might have been the dismal outlook from the square window into the darkness and the storm.

At all events, he turned abruptly about as if a new idea had struck him.

"George, this sudden success of the Johnnies has not been gained without important outside aid.

The French in Mexico may have decided at last to cross the border, and if they did it was in concert with the naval demonstrations of more than one European power against the blockade."

"That is just what I have been thinking, Fred," said Bromley, "and England is sure to be at the bottom of it.

After the sinking of the 'Alabama' there was no time to be lost, and when Grant's army began to fall back from Richmond, that hostile government had the excuse it had long been waiting for, and recognized the Confederacy at once."

"I am of the opinion," replied Lieutenant Coleman, thoughtfully, "that the recognition of the European powers came before the withdrawal from Richmond, because Grant would never have yielded that position except in obedience to orders from Washington.

Now would he?"

"No, he wouldn't," said Bromley.

"Of course not," said Philip.

"It all began with the death of Uncle Billy."

"So it did," said Bromley; "and after Sherman's army was out of the way Johnston probably joined his forces with Hood, defeated Thomas, and retook Chattanooga.

He could hardly have accomplished all that by August 20, but his cavalry must have struck our line of stations on that date."

"Exactly so, George," Lieutenant Coleman responded.

"If they had captured the tenth station alone, with Captain Swann, the line would have been useless and no further messages could have reached us.

If Swann had found the line broken behind him, he would certainly have flagged that news to me without delay."

"Well, what's the odds?"

said Philip, drawing his chestnuts out upon the hearthstone.

"The jig was up, and Captain Swann knew it.

If they had taken any station this side of the tenth mountain, the effect to us would have been the same."

"So it would," said Lieutenant Coleman, sadly, turning again to look out into the storm--"so it would."

"It is a blessing that we are ignorant of some things that have happened," said Bromley, who was disposed to look on the dark side.

"It would have been just like Lee's impudence, after Washington was garrisoned, to cut loose with his army, and live on the country through Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey until he reached his foreign allies in the port of New York.

If he has done that, for instance, I should rather not know it.

Well," continued Bromley, "there is one comfort: if the Rebs conquer everything, they will defeat their own purpose and reestablish the Union they sought to destroy."

"Yes," said Lieutenant Coleman, "but it would be a Union with slavery everywhere.

They can turn the Northern States back into Territories, and carry slavery into Massachusetts."

"Bah!"

exclaimed Philip.

"To think of the Territory of Ohio!

The Territory of Pennsylvania!

The Territory of New York!"

"Dear me!"

said Lieutenant Coleman; "it is all too humiliating to think of.

After all, what a miserable figure Abraham Lincoln will cut in history!

Think of it!

His Emancipation Proclamation is not worth the paper it was written on!"

"Ten thousand furies!"

cried Bromley, striding across the earthen floor and kicking the logs until the fire danced in the chimney; "we made a wise choice when we determined to stay on this mountain."

"But we did make a mistake when we named the plateau Lincoln Territory," cried Philip.

"That's so," said Bromley and Lieutenant Coleman, with one voice.

"It's not too late yet," shouted Bromley.

"Sherman!

Sherman was the only general worthy the name."

And they all cried "Sherman!

Sherman!"

and by common consent, after all the ceremony of the morning, the name of the plateau was changed to SHERMAN TERRITORY.

CHAPTER X THE PRISONERS

The ledge up which the ladders led from the direction of the gorge, it will be remembered, formed the northern support of the plateau.

The unscalable cliff terminated its extent to the south; and of the two longer sides the one on the west overlooked Whiteside Cove, and that on the east Cashiers valley.

The view into the Cove over the boulder side of the mountain, after the trees which grew on the edge were reached, was broad and unobstructed.

On the eastern side there was but one gap in the timber which covered the mountain-side from the end of the ledge to the cliff, through which a perfect view could be had of the settlement in the valley.

Before Andy Zachary left the plateau, Lieutenant Coleman had sketched a rude plot of the mountains overlooking the valley, and at the guide's dictation had written down the name of each peak.

Yellow Mountain was the nearest, and showed a dark, timbered ridge beyond the gorge.

At the northern end of the valley rose the mass of Sheep Cliff, and joined to it were the lesser ridges of Big and Little Terrapin.

Hog's Back showed its blue top ten miles away to the east, beyond the nearer wooded ridges that shut in the valley on that side, down to Rock Mountain and Chimney Top, which reared their sharp peaks to the right of the plateau.

Directly below this eastern outlook lay the one white road which ran through the valley, the same road along which the cavalcade had picked its silent way in the small hours of the morning, five months before, when they had come, full of hope, to establish the station.

Our exiles up to this time had been so busy with their preparations for winter that they had given but little attention to their neighbors below.

They had noticed on frosty mornings columns of white smoke rising straight into the air from half a dozen cabins in the valley, most of which had been hidden from view by the thick foliage during the summer months.

Now that the November winds had stripped the trees of their leaves, two cabins appeared in the direction of Sheep Cliff, standing side by side among the bare oaks on a knoll which sloped gently to the road.

The two seemed to be precisely alike, with rude verandas in front, and at no great distance back of these, in an open clearing, surrounded with orchards and stacks, was a long house with a heavy stone chimney at each end.

Scattered to the right of the plateau were several cabins, and close on the road a square brown building which looked to be a store.

Just below this point of rocks where the three solders looked down on the valley stood the largest house in the settlement, old and rambling in construction, with lurching chimneys and roofs extending to left and rear.

The woodpile was at the opposite side of the road, and comfortable log barns stood on the hillside above.

All these details were to be seen with the naked eye, but the powerful telescope of the station revealed much more, even showing the faces and forms of the people who lived in the cabins.

As the three exiles were lounging together one afternoon at this very point of rocks, studying their neighbors through the telescope as if they had been the inhabitants of another planet, Philip broke the silence with quite an original speech--one only he could make.

"See here, fellows," he said with that new familiarity they had begun to show toward each other, "as we are likely to take considerable interest in these people down below, it will be mighty inconvenient when we talk about them to say, 'The man in the big house across the road from the log barn did this,' or 'The man in the farthest twin cabin did that,' or 'The old chap in the long house flanked by orchards and stacks did something else'; so I say, let's give them family names."

The others laughingly admitted that the idea was not a bad one, and Bromley suggested at random the names Smith, Jones, and Brown.

"As good as any others," said Philip.

"Very well," said Bromley, "then we will call this first neighbor 'Smith.'

" "No, you don't," cried Philip, with much spirit.

"I've taken a prejudice against that old fellow, because he sits on the woodpile and smokes his pipe every afternoon while his wife does the milking.

Smith is too respectable a name for him."

"I didn't know," said Coleman, laughing, "that there was any particular virtue in the name of Smith."

"I didn't say there was," said Philip, "but if this first old loafer should turn out half as bad as I fear he will, the name would be a slur on too many families, you know.

Now, if it's all the same to you, gentlemen, we will begin at the other end and call the man of the orchard 'Smith.'

'Jones' naturally falls to the owner of the second twin cabin, and this fellow below becomes--say, 'Shifless,' whether he likes it or not."

As no one of the three had ever heard of any one of the name of Shifless, Philip's arrangement was agreed to, and from time to time they settled other names on the dwellers in every cabin in sight, and one column of smoke which rose from behind an intervening ridge was spoken of as "Thompson's smoke."

On the morning of December 23 in that first year on the mountain, the three soldiers were thrown into a great state of excitement by a remarkable discovery.

Coleman and Bromley were clearing off the snow from a stack of pea-vines, preparatory to beating them out on the floor of the house, when Philip came running toward them, holding up the telescope and beckoning them to meet him.

He said he had seen three United States officers at the long cabin under Sheep Cliff, which was known as Smith's. The others needed no urging to follow Philip.

Indeed, they ran so rapidly over the frozen ground in the rare upper air that they scarcely had breath for speaking when they arrived on the point of rocks.

Philip directed the glass on the house again, and then, with a cry of delight, he passed it to Coleman.

"There they are!

There they are!

See?

By the end of the house!"

As soon as the lieutenant had adjusted the powerful glass to his eye, he had the men before him almost as distinctly as if they had been standing within hailing distance.

There was no mistaking the evidence that two of them were officers of what the three soldiers considered the beaten and disbanded army, while, although the third was in citizen's dress, it was unlike the dress of the mountaineers.

"Heaven help them!"

exclaimed Lieutenant Coleman, as he gazed in amazement on the scene at the end of the long house.

"How ragged they are!

They must have been hunted through the woods like wild animals.

Both of the two in uniform wear jackets of the mounted service, and--stop--as sure as you are born, the taller of the two is a lieutenant of artillery.

He has but one shoulder-strap left, and that has too dark a ground for either cavalry or infantry.

They may be from the staff.

There is something about their uniforms, in spite of rags and dirt, that makes me think so.

The other carries a roll of blankets over his shoulder--he must be a soldier; and they have just come in, too, for their haversacks are mighty lean."

It looked as if the poor fellows had found friends at last; for, while they stood talking with two women at the end of the house, Smith himself, who was a lank mountaineer with a red beard, was lounging by the gate with his gun on his shoulder, as if watching against surprise from the road.

Bromley, who had been patiently waiting, now took the glass.

"By Jove!"

he cried, "there are four girls there now, and the short officer is going into the house.

You are right, Fred; the old man is on guard, with a sharp eye in his head, too.

They are all going into the house now, by Neighbor Smith's advice, I fancy.

I'll tell you who they are, Fred.

They are escaped prisoners from Charleston.

They must have been hiding in the woods and swamps for months.

If that is the condition of the officers of the United States that were, a thousand times better is our lot on this free mountain-top."

And returning the glass, Bromley ventured some bitter reflections on the Congress and the high officials who had conducted the war to a disastrous end.

"We must not lose sight of these unhappy men while they remain in the valley," said Coleman; and, it then being ten o'clock, he settled himself behind the glass, and gave his watch to Bromley, who was to relieve him at twelve.

Philip was too much excited by the presence of the fugitive officers to leave the rocks of his own accord; but Coleman presently sent him to the house for a loaded carbine, which was laid by in a dry niche of granite, to be fired as a signal to the others in case of any movement of importance at the cabin below.

For the rest of the morning Smith with his gun kept his post at the gate, and the officers were never once seen outside the cabin.

Judging by the volume of smoke from both chimneys, it would appear that they were faring pretty well inside.

Shortly before noon one of the girls ran through the bare woods to the two cottages overlooking the road, and brought back Jones, who relieved Smith at the gate.

It was evident that Jones was friendly to the officers, for when he was relieved in turn he went into the house, and it was a long time before he came out.

Whoever was on watch was seldom alone, so keen was the interest of the exiles in the movements of their fellow-soldiers, and in any other happening which might concern them.

According to Philip, who took the post of observation at four o'clock, old Shifless bossed the milking from the woodpile as usual.

It was plain that he had not been taken into the confidence of the Smiths or the Joneses, and this fact was laid up against him.

After supper all three gathered on the rocky lookout, and remained observing the lights at the cabin of the Smiths long after it was too dark to use the telescope.

There were no signs of departure below, and after they returned to the house, chilled by exposure and inaction, they sat until a late hour by the warm fire, discussing the events of the day and laying plans for the morrow.

At the first indication of dawn Bromley dressed and set out for the rocks, while his comrades turned over for another nap, which was taken with one eye open, so excited were they in view of what might happen during the day.

In their drowsy, half-wakeful state it seemed to Coleman and Philip as if no time at all had passed since the departure of Bromley when they were startled by the echoing report of the carbine.

Hurrying on their clothing, they scampered across the hard snow to the rocks, where they found Bromley with the telescope fixed on the house of Shifless.

"There the old rogue is," said Bromley, handing the spy-glass to Coleman, "leading his mule out of the stable.

He must have got some information during the night, for, after going to the stable with a lantern, he climbed up on to that ridge beyond and looked over at Smith's clearing as if he wanted to satisfy himself that all was quiet there.

I suspected he was up to some deviltry as soon as I got out here, for I saw a light in the house, showing first from one window and then from another.

Drat his picture!"

Bromley continued.

"As soon as he began climbing the hill I fired the alarm."

"I never knew him to turn out before eight o'clock," said Philip.

"He certainly means mischief," said Coleman, "for he is saddling the mule.

Now he has blown out the lantern and hung it on the bar-post.

Now he is mounting, the treacherous old villain!

Confound him!

there he goes trotting down the road toward the store."

Philip and Bromley took a look at the man, hurrying along in the gray of the morning before another soul was awake in the settlement, and then they saw him turn on to the road which would lead him around the mountain into the Cove.

"If I were only down in his neighborhood now," said Coleman, following Shifless with the telescope, "with a good rifle, I'd tumble him off that mule.

I should be serving my country."

"What country?"

sneered Bromley.

To this Coleman made no reply, and the three walked slowly across the mountain to the boulder side.

They had not long to wait there before the man on the mule appeared on the road below, and they followed him with scowling eyes until he drew up in front of the Cove post-office, dismounted, and went in.

"Of course," exclaimed Bromley, "the postmaster is a creature of the Confederacy."

In half an hour the two men trotted away together, and soon disappeared among the mountains.

Our heroes turned back, certain in their minds that this stealthy journey of Shifless had been undertaken with hostile intentions toward the three officers who still remained in the cabin under the shadow of Sheep Cliff.

They felt keenly their inability to warn them of the danger which hung over them, and hoped that during the day they might see the visitors leaving the valley.

Their anxiety now made it necessary to watch for developments in the Cove as well as in the valley, and they scarcely found time to prepare their meals, which they ate as they moved about.

All day the telescope was in transit from one side of the mountain to the other until there was a deep path trodden in the snow.

From time to time one or another of the officers was seen near the cabin, and even if they had not been seen at all, the presence of Smith or one of the girls watching at the gate would have been sufficient evidence that the officers were still there.

They might be waiting for a guide or the cover of night before going on.

The day was unusually cold, and beyond the smoke from the chimneys, and here and there a woman in a doorway, there was no movement in the quiet valley.

Late in the afternoon of this December 24--for it was Christmas eve, and not a very cheerful one on the mountain--Bromley, who was watching on the Cove side, spied a body of men at that very point in the road where the two horsemen had disappeared in the morning.

He shouted so lustily for the telescope that both Philip and Coleman joined him with all haste.

What they saw through the glass was a straggling column of mountaineers advancing in single file along the winding road, their steel rifle-barrels catching the last rays of the setting sun.

There were thirteen men in the party, of whom about half wore some part of a Confederate uniform; but neither Shifless nor the Cove postmaster was with them.

They had scarcely time to pass the glass from one to another, in their excitement, before the men left the road and turned up the mountain-side with a stealthy movement that made it plain they were going into temporary concealment.

A few extracts from Lieutenant Coleman's diary at this point give a vivid picture of what was happening during the night on the mountain and about it.

"I am writing by the light of the fire in our house on this Christmas eve, at 10:30 o'clock by my watch, powerless to warn our friends at the cabin of the impending calamity.

Soon after dark, fire appeared on mountainside, and it is now burning brightly, as reported by Philip, who has just returned to the lookout.

"12, midnight.

Have just come in--fire still visible.

"12:35. Philip reports that fire has just been extinguished on mountain-side.

Sparks indicated fire was put out by beating and scattering the brands.

We are all about to go to Point of Rocks--shall probably be up all night."

It seems that as soon as day began to dawn faintly on the mountain-tops, and while it was still dark in the valley, the three soldiers were crouching on the rocks eagerly awaiting light in the clearing.

First the whitewashed walls of the cabin came into view, and then, in the gray dawn, as they fully expected, they began to distinguish motionless figures stationed at regular intervals in the clearing, and forming an armed cordon about the house.

There was no sign of smoke from the stone chimneys, nor any other evidence that the inmates had been disturbed by the soldiers or had awakened of their own accord.

There was one hope left.

The officers might have gone away during the night.

They should soon know; and meanwhile the snowy mountains reared their dark ridges against the slowly reddening eastern sky, and a great silence lay on the valley.