United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
“An' don't ye know thet the best thing ye kin do is to keep thet
gapin' mouth o' your'n shet, so thet the flies won't git no chance
to blow yer throat?” said the man whose nose had been aptly likened
to a ripe red-pepper pod, “an' the next best thing's fur ye to git
inter that cabin thar quicker'n blazes 'll scorch a feather, an'
stay thar without makin' a motion toward gittin' away. Git!” and
he made a bayonet thrust at Jake that tore open his blouse and shirt,
and laid a great gaping wound along his breast. Jake leaped into
the cabin and threw himself down upon the puncheon floor.
“Thar war none of our crowd taken,” said another of the squad, who
had looked on approvingly. “They wuz all killed, an' the only way
to git even is ter send ye whar they are.”
Jake made another earnest effort to recall one of the prayers he
had derided in his bad boyhood.
Leaving the red-nosed man to guard the prisoner, the rest of the
Rebels started for the hollow, in search of water to cool their
burning thirst.
They had gained such a distance from the scene of the fight, and
were in such an out-of-the-way place, that the thought of being
overtaken did not obtrude itself for an instant, either upon their
minds or Jake's.
But as they came back up the hill, with a gourd full of spring water
for their companion, they were amazed to see a party of blue-coats
appear around the bend of the road at a little distance. They
dropped the gourd of water, and yelled to the man on guard:
“Kill the Yank, an' run for yer life!” and disappeared themselves,
in the direction of the spring.
The guard comprehended the situation and the order. He fired his
gun at Jake, but with such nervous haste as to destroy the aim,
and send the charge into the puncheon a foot beyond his intended
victim, and then ran off with all speed to join his companions.
the Union boys sent a few dropping shots after him, all of which
missed their mark.
Jake managed to recover his nerves and wits sufficiently to stagger
to the door as his comrades came up, and grasp one of the guns the
Rebels had left.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account