Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 September 1889 — CHASED BY GUERRILLAS. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

CHASED BY GUERRILLAS.

A Story of tlie \Var.

BY A. H. GIBSON.

. lEUT. ARTHUR t Hartwell of tlieUn2ion army had regceived a wound in Han engagement Ufought by two \ skirmishing parties | that had surprised 3 each other on the v White River in Arf ltansas. ► However, the young officer was

now sufficiently convalescent to mount his jet-black war horse and ride about the cam)) for exercise. He hoped

soon to pot himself into fighting trim again. He was a zealous, courageous young soldier, and lie could not endure with patience his enforced inactivity. Hearing that excellent wild fruit abounded in the woods about one mile and a half from the Federal camp, Hartwell determined to ride over and enjoy a delicious treat. While riding leisurely along through a large canebrake, midway between the camp and the woods to which he ■was bound, he was surprised and captured by a band of rough guerrillas who had been reconnoitering the enemy’s position from a safe distance. The Union spies had reported only that morning that there were no enemies within ten miles of their own lines. So Hartwell had ridden off alone, never dreaming of what was to befall him. He had been riding carelessly along, inadvertently whistling some little tune heard at camp, and thinking of the dear old mother far away in her cabin on the Kansas line.

Suddenly his horse was stopped, his arms were pinioned to liis sides by brawny hands, while villainous, hardened countenances leered upon him. “Don’t yer chip nary woid, or bv tlier holy smokin’ powers o’ t’other world, I’ll send a bullet clean through yer durned Yankee carcass,” said one robust guerrilla, holding an old musket threateningly near the captive’s handsome head. Hartwell was too completely surprised to frame an answer. .The guerrillas surged about him wild with glee over then 1 great capture. A Yankee officer -was not picked up every day. Their rejoicing, uncouth and profane, rendered them for a short time incautious. The tramp, tramp of coming horsemen threw the jubilant band of four guerrillas into considerable excitement. In a moment every man was quiet and on his guard. Instinctively, each rough fellow ’ sought musket or carbine, the rifled property of some dead soldier. Every eve was turned in the direction of the approaching riders. That there were not more than two or three could easily be told from the sounds that the horses' feet made on the hard, clay-baked road by the canes. Lieutenant Hartwell was for the moment forgotten. Were those riders wearers of the blue or the gray ? The tall, dense, intervening canes prevented an answer to that mute question. Three guerrillas had stationed themselves behind clumps of vegetation, while the fourth held Hartxvell’s horse with his left hand, his right grasping a •carbine. It was a favorable moment for Lieutenant Hartwell. He recognized it as such. While the short absorption of the guerrillas’ attention lasted, Hartwell, quick as a wink, slipped from the saddle, and, ere his captors were aware, with far more agility than his weak physical condition would seem to warrant, he had darted off through the towering canes, where a horse could not lolloxv. The guerrillas, so absorbed in awaiting the approach, of the invisible horsemen, did not for a moment observe the empty saddle. Then, with a smothered oath, the one holding the officer’s norse struck him a severe blow to make him stand aside. The spirited animal resented the blow, and with a savage lunge the bridle-rein was jerked from the grasp of the irate man who was thrown hardly to the ground, where lie lay half stunned as the Lieutenant’s fiery horse went tearing away down the road.

Then the horsemen rode into view. An exclamation of rude pleasure fell from the lips of the guerrillas. The grips on the carbines loosened. They recognized in the newcomers two of their own men, who were deserters from Van Dorn’s ranks, although they still wore the gray. These men were soon informed of the capture and sndden escape of tho Federal officer. “Jes’ plum like a blamed Yankee,” remarked one of the newcomers. “They’re all slicker’n a eel; they’ll any of em squeeze through a kuot-hole es they’re gin half a chance.” “Waal, I sartain believe yer,” said the leader, who had menaced Hartwell ; “but he kain’t be fur off, boys. Them Yankees kain’t ruu through a cane-patch no better’n a city gal kin. Let’s be on his trail, an’ not stall’ hyer a-givin’ sich chances ter beat we ’uns.” After a hasty consultation it was decided to conceal the horses in a grove hard by, and every man enter the pursuit, which they felt sure would lead to the recapture of their escaped prisoner. Striking into the cane-brake, they were soon on the Lieutenant’s track, which led through the intricacies of the thicket.

Meanwhile, Arthur Hartwell was making gigantic strides through the bosky brake, stumbling over clinging vines, which were densely entangled about the canes; splashing and dashing into hidden pools of stagnant water; then out again and into another worse than the first, despoiling the polish of his No. 7’s and flicking with clayey splashes his spotless uniform. His physical strength was not adequate to the demaftd which his really desperate effort to escape enforced. Still, on he hurried. The early autumn day was intensely hot. The sun seemed to bear a particular spite toward that spot, and poured down mercilessly upon pursued and pursuers. The huge canes defied the admission of any cooling breeze which might be astir without. Ere Lieutenant Hartwell had reached the southern border of the thicket he was almost exhausted. Great beads of sweat stood on his face, and his limbs trembled from fatigue. He stood irresolute as to what course to pursue next. He had been forced to fiee in an opposite direction from the Union camp. Where would he seek refuge ? His strength was failing. He could not keep up the flight any longer. Then he dared not hide among the canes. Already, in nearing pursuit, he could hear the heavy boots of the guerrillas crushing canes and brambles, leaving no nook unsearched.

Just before liim, through a grove of walnut, and hickory, all tinged with autumn’s russet gold, he caught sight of a handsome southern home, built of red sandstone, with clambering vines half veiling the front and roof, and beautiful flowers of every variety surrounding it, lending to tlie entire place the splendid glow and beauty of tropical aspect, it was the home of some abettor of the Southern cause. Hartwell knew this, and he felt quite sure that if he sought refuge there he would be handed over to his rough captors, who, if they did not belong to tlie Confederate service, favored it, while they bitterly opposed the Federal army. But haste, not debate, Avas necessary. He could hear the guerrillas drawing nearer; their curses, too, reached him, as non-success at every turn baffled them. They had expected to find it no task at all to run him down. But the end Avas not yet. Hartwell, hoAvever, knew that they would soon reach the southern limit of the canebrake; then escape Avould be impossible. Not pausing to think again that it might prove “out of the frying-pan into the fire,” the hunted officer dashed forAvard toward the house. He leaped over the loav, Avell-trimmed hedge that surrounded the attractive grounds of the lovely Southern home, then he stood motionless and gazed in evident admiration at the sAveet picture which confronted his vision. A beautiful girl, with plump, graceful figure, Avonderful masses of dusky golden tresses flOAving iu luxuriant rip-

pies ail over Her proud little head, and Avine-dark eyes starry with mirth and intelligence, Avas at work in the yard near the house. She was singing in a clear, bird-like soprano voice something about a brave lover wearing the gray. Her deft, snowy fingers unpinned fi’om a clothes-line, stretched from an Indian peach-ti-ee near the house to a stout cheiTy in the corner of the yard, miscellaneous articles of muslin. These she deposited into a large, old-fashioned clothes-basket that rested on the soft, velvety grass at her feet. In another moment Lieut. Hartwell stood uncovered before this fair Southern girl, boxving xvitli the urbanity of a perfect gentleman. . The song ceased, and Elma Staiiton

gave a start when she discovered the handsome Union officer bowing so politely before her. “Pardon me,” he uttered rapidly; “I did not wish to startle you.” Then he briefly mentioned his capture by the guerrillas and how he had escaped, ending by entreating her to show him, if possible, some secure hid-ing-place. Would she heed his importunity ? Elma Starlton had two brothers and a father in the Confederate service. This man was an enemy to the dear Southern cause. Would* it be right to assist him in his efforts to avoid recapture? Would it not be the very height of disloyalty in her to hide this Federal officer on the Starlton premises? The girl thought rapidly, one hand, beautiful and shapely, resting on the elothes-line, the other dropped at her side. She glanced up into the pale but firm face of the man who had applied to her for aid. His eyes were so blue and manly, his whole countenance so noble, her warm heart felt a throb of pity. His captors were not soldiers but swamp guerrillas—a bold, evildisposed band. She had quite forgotten that he had told her that. Elma Starlton was not in sympathy w ith the guerrillas infesting the swamps and

cane Drakes round about her home. But, had she been, the manly face before her Avould have been sufficient to shake it. The autumn breeze lifted the sheets on the line, giving Elma a glimpse of several roughly clad men, halted in the adjacent grove, evidently at a loss which Avay to turn to find the retreat of the Yankee officer. They were the guerrillas. A scornful flash lit up the Avine-dark eyes of the girl as she turned to the man, avlio seemed to be aAvaiting his doom or his salvation at her fair hands. Yes; she Avould save him. But how ? Ah! it is surely too late to help him to escape recapture. See! two of the guerrillas have started toward the house, leaving the others in consultation at the border cf the grove. In another moment they will have seen the hunted man, screened by the clothes on the line. On they stalk toward tho house. Elma is a girl of ingenuity, one accustomed to acting in emergencies. She will foil those rough outlaAvs yet. It is not too late. “Here,” she said, in a very loav voice, and she quickly lifted the clothes which she had thrown into the capacious basket, “if you will lie down in my old clothes-basket I think I shall be* able to hide you securely.” Very obediently, very quickly Arthur Hartwell coiled himself up in Elma Starlton’s clothes-basket, and very skillfully she covered him completely with the clothes she held. Then she Avent on unpinning clothes from the line, Avliich she threw loosely upon the basket. No one Avould have guessed tliei'e Avas a man beneath that mass of clean clothes.

Elma was again singing as merrily as a lark when the guerrillas drew near. One of them bounded over the hedge. He approached the girl, who gave a well-feigned start, greeting him thus: “Ike Carter! What do you mean by startling a body this way?” She knew him well, as his home was not far from the Starltons’. “Didn’t go ter startle yer, Miss Elmy; I’m on ther hunt of a blamed Yankee off’cer what’s escaped us.” “Wall, Ike, we’re not in the habit of entertaining Yankee officers here unless Ave are obliged to. It is not a good place to hunt for them on the Starlton premises.” “I know hit ain’t, Elmy,” said the fellow; “but we tracked him this away, ” he explained. “How did he escape you, Ike?” she asked, trying to show an interest in the subject, hoping thereby to allay any suspicion that might have been formed in the guerrillas’ minds. The guerrilla launched out a full account of the captux-e and escape of Lieutenant Hartwell. Elma listened as attentively as if it were all a new story to her. “As we-uns was consultin’ in yon grove, Pete Jarvis ’lowed he done seed a blue uniform, or somethin’ thet looked mighty like one, over hyar by these clothes. Thet’s why I come hyar a botherin’ you-uns.” A musical laugh followed this announcement. Then Elma said: “An optical illusion. I suppose it was mother’s blue muslin curtains that Jarvis took fora Yankee uniform.” And Elma held up to view a pair of pretty blue curtains. Ike Carter eyed them closely, then glanced at the overladen bse>_oi on the grass, then back at the girl who was smoothing the azur« curtains.

“Hain’t Pete Jarvis a good un ter sight Y'anks? No wonder we-uns done los’ his trail with sich a leader as Pete. I’m plumb sorry, Miss Elmv, thet he insulted them curtains thet away, by takiu’ ’em fur a Yank’s trousers.” And Ike Carter laughed at what he considered a clever joke. “I should think,” the girl remarked dryly. “Ike, tell your party, with my compliments, that I think their eyes must be full of cobwebs brushed from the canes. Tell them to wash them out and make another investigation of the thicket,” she called to him as he strode away, looking rather crestfallen; for Ike had seen what Jarvis had, and both had decided it must be Hartwell’s uniform. But Jarvis being absent had to bear the ridicule. Ike Carter could not stand it to have the bright Southern girl laugh at his blunders. Dear reader, you and I know that it was a glimpse of a blue uniform that those guerrillas had caught. But we can smile over the cleverness of Elma Starlton in turning it off so nicely, and heave a deep sigh of fullfgladness that her mother had those blue curtains, and that they happened to be in the wash that week. The guerillas went off, and evidently felt too sheepish over their mistake to venture within range of those mocking, dancing, wine-dark eyes, for they did not return. When the coast was clear, Elma uncovered the queerly hidden Lieutenant, who crawled out, with real thankfulness to his lovely deliverer, though his limbs were so stiff that she had to assist him to the little closet, where he remained effectually concealed during the rest of the afternoon. Here she brought him every refreshment that her home afforded. Under cover of the night, brave Elma Starlton escorted Lieutenant Hartwell safe within the Union lines. Ere he parted from her, he pressed her soft hand, saying: “If I survive the war, I shall return to thank you, as I am unable to do now.” Arthur Hartwell did not forget his promise. When peace reigned gloriously over a grief-bowed nation, he occupied a lucrative position in public life; but somehow a pair of wine-dark eyes ever haunted him. He took a trip to the balmy South. He found Elma lovely as of yore, but living sad and alone in her flower-decked Southern home. Her father and brothers slept Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day. Elma did not refuse to become the loved wife of the man whom she once hid in her old clothes-basket.

"SINGING IN A CLEAR, BIRD-KIJE, SOPRANO VOICE."

"AWAITTNG HIS DOOM OR HIS SALVATION."