The Courier of the Ozarks

CHAPTER XVI

A WOUNDED CONFEDERATE

A few days after the battle of Pea Ridge there came riding into the valley of La Belle a wounded Confederate soldier. He was mounted on a raw-boned, emaciated horse that staggered as it walked. The rider seemed as weak as the horse, for he swayed in the saddle as he rode, and the bridle reins hung limp in his hands. The soldier's left arm was supported by a dirty sling, and the front of his uniform, if uniform it could be called, showed it had been soaked in blood.

The deep-set eyes of the soldier glowed with an unnatural fire, and he was muttering to himself, as if in delirium.

Of his own accord, the horse turned up to the door of Mr. Chittenden's house, and that gentleman came out just in time to catch the rider as he reeled from the saddle.

"He is about done for," he exclaimed as he ordered him carried in. "Tilly," he called, "here is a patient for you."

The colored woman came running, and with her Grace, who looked at the wan features of the soldier with piteous eyes. "Why, father, he's nothing but a boy," she exclaimed. "Where did he come from?"

"A sorry-looking horse brought him here, is all I know," replied her father.

A hasty examination showed a ball had gone through the muscles of his left arm about half-way between the elbow and shoulder and then torn a great jagged wound in the breast.

Tilly was a born nurse. The first thing she did was to turn to Grace and say, "Now, Missy Grace, yo' jes go 'way an' leave this boy to me. Dis is no place for a youn' lady."

The next time Grace saw the boy he was lying in a clean bed, his wounds neatly dressed. His bloody uniform had disappeared and instead he had on a soft white night-shirt. As Grace looked at him, so thin and pale, her eyes filled with tears, and she murmured, "Poor boy! Poor boy! I wonder if he has a mother." Then she turned to her father and asked, "Will he get well?"

"I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Chittenden. "He is not only badly wounded, but has a raging fever. I have sent for Doctor Hart. He will do all he can for him."

Doctor Hart lived miles away, and it was not until the next day he arrived. After examining the boy he said, "The wounds are bad, very bad. Without the fever, I would say he had a chance, but now I can hold out little hope. Who is he?"

"I know no more than you," replied Mr. Chittenden, and related how the boy came.

"Strange, very strange!" said the Doctor. "These wounds have the appearance of having been inflicted several days ago, and yet I have heard of no fighting near by. Must have been shot in a brawl."

"There is the battle of Pea Ridge; you know we have just heard of it."

"Mercy, man! what are you talking about! It must be between one and two hundred miles to where that battle was fought. I do not see how this boy could have ridden ten miles with the wounds he has. He must be a spunky chap, and I will do the best I can for him; but I reckon, Chittenden, you will have a funeral on your hands in a day or two."

But the young soldier did not die, although it was Tilly's careful nursing rather than the skill of the doctor that saved him.

For two days he tossed in delirium, and then the fever left him and he began to mend. Tilly was assiduous in her attentions, and until he was out of danger could hardly be persuaded to leave the bedside, even for rest.

When the wounded soldier became well enough to talk he told his story to Mr. Chittenden. He said his name was Mark Grafton, that his parents were dead, and that he had no living relatives who cared for him. "I am all alone in the world," he said, "and, Mr. Chittenden, if you had let me die there would have been no one to weep."

"Are you as friendless as that?" asked Mr. Chittenden.

"As friendless as that! I am nothing but a poor private soldier," answered Mark.

He then went on and told how he had been with Price from the beginning, how he had fought at Wilson Creek and Lexington and numerous other engagements.

"But at Pea Ridge – " Mark stopped and sighed.

"Pea Ridge!" cried Mr. Chittenden. "Was it at Pea Ridge you received your wounds?"

Mark nodded.

"And you rode all the distance from there here, wounded as you were? It seems impossible."

"I reckon I must," said Mark; "but I remember little about it. It was this way: We whipped them the first day; that is, Price's army did. Before the battle, McCullough's men – and he had a larger army than Price – made fun of our appearance and said they would show us how to fight, but they ran like sheep, while we drove the Yankees before us. We thought the victory ours. But with McCullough out of the way, the next morning the whole Yankee army attacked us, and we had to retreat. The retreat became a rout. I was wounded and left on the field for dead. When I came to it was night and the stars were shining. I staggered to my feet and was fortunate enough to catch a stray horse and, by taking a defile through the hills, was able to get away. I stopped at a house and had my wounds roughly dressed. It was reported that the Yankee cavalry were scouring the country, picking up the fugitives, and, although I was so weak from my wounds I could hardly stand, I determined to push on. Then my head began to feel strange: I saw all sorts of things. From that time until I came to and found myself here, I have no remembrance, how I got here, or how long it was after the battle."

"The battle had been fought about two weeks when you put in an appearance," said Mr. Chittenden.

"I must have stopped, and got some rest during that time," said Mark. "But where – it's all a blank. I feel I owe my life to you, Mr. Chittenden. Not many would be as kind to a poor friendless soldier as you have been to me. I feel – "

"No thanks, my boy; you must stay with us until you get entirely well."

"I reckon I will have to," replied Mark, with a smile. "I don't feel much like traveling."

There seemed to be something troubling Mark, and at last he asked Mr. Chittenden what had become of the clothes he wore when he came.

"Burnt up, Mark."

Mark gave a convulsive start and looked as if he were going to faint.

"There, don't worry; I'll see you have much better ones; those you wore were in awful condition," replied Mr. Chittenden.

"But – but what became of what was in the pockets?" Mark asked the question with a visible effort to appear calm.

"All safe, nothing disturbed. I gave orders that nothing should be touched until we saw whether you lived or died."

Mark looked relieved, but he only said: "There is nothing to worry about; but I had a little money in my pockets, and it might have been taken from me while I was wandering, not myself."

"We will see," said Mr. Chittenden, and he got the articles which had been taken from Mark's clothing.

Mark hastily glanced them over and said, "It's all right. I am glad there is money enough here to pay you, in part, for your trouble."

"None of that, Mark. I will throw you out of the house if you ever say pay again. In fact, I would take it as an insult," said Mr. Chittenden.

Mark said no more, but, glancing over the articles, he abstracted two or three papers, and handed the rest back to Mr. Chittenden, asking him to keep them for him. No sooner was he gone than Mark called Tilly and handed her the papers he had kept, asking her if she would not burn them. "Don't let anyone see them, Tilly, and burn them right away."

"Dat what I will," said Tilly, taking them.

"And, Tilly, don't say anything about it to anyone."

"Honey boy kin trust Tilly," exclaimed the woman as she turned to hurry away, highly pleased that she had been trusted with a secret errand.

"I can now rest easy," murmured Mark, as he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

One day as Tilly was administering to his wants Mark said, "Tilly, I don't know, but it seems as if I have seen you somewhere before, but for the life of me I can't remember where."

"Dat is jes what I said 'bout yo', Marse Mark," cried Tilly, her face brightening. "I said shorely I hev seen dat boy somewhar. It jes 'peared to me that Tilly had held yo' in her arms some time, an' Tilly tuk yo' to her ole heart right away, an' she grab yo' when de ole deth angel had hole of yo', and she sed, 'Go 'way, ole deth angel, dis is mah boy,' an' she tuk yo' right out of de clutches of dat ole deth angel, she did, an' now yo' air mah boy."

Mark smiled as he said, "Yes, Tilly, I believe you did cheat the death angel, and if anyone has a claim on me, you have. I shall always remember you."

"An' Missy Grace, she helped too," cried Tilly. "Yo' mustn't forgit Missy Grace."

"I shall never forget her," replied Mark, and there was more meaning in his words than Tilly thought.

That night Mark lay thinking over what Tilly had said about holding him in her arms, and suddenly he remembered. "She is right," he almost sobbed. "She has held me in her arms, but she must never know."

At last the day came when Mark could sit in a chair on the porch and look out over the beautiful valley and stately hills. The valley was arrayed in all the freshness and loveliness of spring; La Belle was murmuring her sweetest music.

"What a lovely valley you have here," he said to Mr. Chittenden. "One should be perfectly happy here – so peaceful, so beautiful, so far removed from the unrest and turmoil of the world."

"You talk like a philosopher, young man," replied Mr. Chittenden, laughing. "Not many of the world would like it; the mass of mankind prefer the rush and roar of the cities. There is little room for ambition here. The world would never have grown to what it is if all preferred to live as I do. Yet I would live nowhere else. Yes, it is very quiet here, or was before the war."

"Has the war disturbed you much?" asked Mark.

"Yes, a great deal. As yet there has been no fighting nearer than Frederickstown, but the hills are full of small guerrilla bands, I would not be surprised to have a Federal cavalry force visit us any day. I try to impress on the boys that it would be better if they were in the army fighting, but few of them care to become regular soldiers."

Mark said no more, but sat apparently buried in deep thought.

It was not to be expected that Mark had remained at Mr. Chittenden's all of this time without him and Grace becoming fast friends. Mark was so different from what she had expected when he represented himself as a poor, homeless private soldier, that it puzzled her. "There is a mystery about him," she said to herself, "and I am going to find out what it is. Whatever he is now, he was raised a gentleman."

As for Mark, he almost regretted he was getting well. The girl had come to fill a large share of his thoughts. He had also learned some things that surprised him. He had heard Grace and Tilly talk when he was lying, as they thought, asleep, and he knew that Grace's heart was with the North, and not the South, and that she hated slavery.

One day Tilly told Grace a story that caused every nerve in his body to tingle, and he scarcely could keep from crying out.

Mark was very curious to know whether or not Mr. Chittenden was cognizant of his daughter's heresy, and soon found that he was, but that he looked upon it as a mere girlish whim.

As Mark grew stronger he and Mr. Chittenden grew very intimate, and he never tired to hear Mark tell of how he had fought with Price at Wilson Creek, at Lexington, and at Pea Ridge.

In turn he confided to Mark that his house was what might be called a station between Missouri and Arkansas. The route through the valley of La Belle was little known to Federals, and practically unguarded. It touched no towns in their possession, and thus left an almost uninterrupted gateway between the two States.

Mark soon noticed that a good many Confederate officers were making their way north, and he learned that a gigantic conspiracy was on foot, but, being only a private soldier, he was not taken into their confidence.

One day there came to the house on his way north the same Colonel Clay spoken of in our first chapter. He noticed and asked about Mark, and, when told, exclaimed, "Remarkable! I would like to speak to him."

He made Mark tell him the whole story. Not only this, but by questioning he learned that Mark had not only a keen knowledge of military affairs but was wonderfully well informed as to the army.

"It's a shame you were kept in the ranks. You should be an officer," cried Clay.

"All can not be officers, and I was content to serve my country in the most humble capacity," modestly replied Mark. "Alas! I am afraid I can serve her no more." And he touched his wounded arm.

"I don't know about that," said Colonel Clay. "You may be able to serve your country even in a greater capacity than you yet have. I have some important documents which I would like to get into St. Louis to certain parties. I will not deny that if you were caught with them on your person it would be certain death; but I believe you are both brave and shrewd."

"The boy is not able," spoke up Mr. Chittenden. "He has not been out of bed more than a week. His wounds are not healed yet."

"So much the better," said Clay. "If he can ride, he can get through where a well man can not."

"I will go. A man can die but once, and it is for my country." As Mark said this his eyes fairly seemed to shine.

"Bravely spoken, my lad," cried Clay. "Would we had more like you!"

So it was arranged that Mark was to make the dangerous journey.

"Why do you do this, Mark?" asked Grace when he went to bid her good-bye.

"It is for my country," answered Mark.

"You mean it is to help destroy your country. I despise the cause for which you fight."

"Yes, I know; your father told me."

"You knew, and never let on?"

"Why should I?"

"Because father says I am a traitor to the South."

"Grace, if I never come back, remember that there is one who never will despise you, believe what you will."

"Take it easy," said Clay to Mark as he started to ride away. "Don't overtax your strength. Two or three days will not matter much."

Colonel Clay had liberally supplied Mark with money for the journey; in fact, the Colonel seemed to have plenty of money.

"Clay, I don't like it. You should never have sent him," said Mr. Chittenden. "I am afraid he never will live to see St. Louis, and I have grown fond of the boy. We raised him, as it were, from the dead."

"Never fear," replied the Colonel. "The same grit that brought him here will take him to St. Louis. If he dies after he gets there – well, it won't matter much. His mission will be done, and it may mean the redemption of the State. What is one life to that?"

Grace overheard the heartless remark, and a fierce anger seized her. It was well the Colonel left the next day, for she resolutely refused to serve him or sit at the same table with him.

The days passed. Two weeks passed, and then three, and Mark had not returned. Grace grew restless, her father anxious, and Tilly kept asking, "Whar is mah boy?"

But one day Mark appeared. He was riding slowly, so slowly, and his face was flushed. It was seen the fever had him again.

"Help me off." His voice was almost a whisper.

He was helped off, and almost carried into the house, and it was some weeks before he was able to leave it. "I do not regret the journey," he said to Mr. Chittenden. "I was entirely successful in my mission, and I rejoice that I was able to do something for my country, wounded as I am."

During his convalescence this time, Grace was with him a good deal. She sang and read to him, and Mark thought he never had heard a voice so sweet. Even the hand of Tilly was not so gentle and soothing on his fevered brow as was the hand of Grace.

By the first of August he had nearly recovered, but with August came Colonel Clay, returning to the South. He was in a towering rage, for all his planning had come to naught. The defeat of Porter at Moore's Mill, and then his complete overthrow at Kirksville, the dispersion of Poindexter's army, and his capture, ended all his hopes of capturing Missouri by a partisan uprising.

But one hope remained to him – that the movement in Southwest Missouri might be successful and Independence and Lexington captured. If so, the blow must be struck, and struck quickly. It had been ordered, but Colonel Clay was afraid it would not be struck quickly enough. Therefore when he saw Mark his face brightened.

"Ah, my boy, I learned weeks ago that your mission was entirely successful. You are a faithful courier, and I have another job for you."

"The one he had nearly proved the death of him," spoke up Mr. Chittenden. "The hardships of the trip were too much for him, and he lay for days with a return of the fever."

"He must go; I can trust no one else," cried Clay. "He is a soldier. I command him."

"I need no commands. I will go," said Mark proudly, drawing himself up.