SEPT 24 
THE BUBAL WEW-YOBKEB. 
ANDERSONVILLK VIOLETS. 
Copyrighted by the Rural New-Yorker. 
All rights reserved. 
A PLAN FOlt ESCAPE. 
chapter iv. — (Continued.) 
Uncle Nathan smiled grimly as lie put his 
band on John’s leg and examined the slight 
wound. He had never before been quite able 
to forget that John was only “ the Widder 
Rockwell s boy.” 
“Ye done well boy ! Ye done well.” He 
muttered as he satisfied himself that no serious 
damage had been done. “ Them guards can’t 
hit a barn door. But what made ye go after 
them posies? Ye don’t wanter risk a 
shot like that ’thout ye can git a grip on some 
Reb’s throat.” 
“ Archie wanted ’em ” said John simply. 
He did not consider it necessary to give any 
other reason, but Archie looked at him and 
smiled, and they understood each other. 
The group of men, old friends and neigh¬ 
bors, who had gathered in the sand, viewed 
the sick boy compassionately. The old home 
feeling came strongly to them as they watched 
him. It seemed so terrible for him, the baby 
of the company, to be dying here, and they 
unable to help him or sooth his sufferings. 
How different such a sickness would have 
been at home where all “the folks” would 
hasten with words of the tend crest consolation 
to draw the sting from death. These rough 
men did their best to speak tenderly, but home 
was too far away and the “ winimon folks” 
could not come. 
“ Done it fer him did ye ?” Said Uncle Na¬ 
than as he brushed the hair away from Arch¬ 
ie’s forehead. “It takes grit I tell ye to do 
secli things. It takes men from the State o’ 
Maine ter show them Rebels what grit is. 
Thems the kind o’ men we raise to our town. 
Old Breeze town don’t never take no back 
seat.” He addressed this boasting remark to 
the prison in general. 
“But what made that fust Rebel hold up 
his gun—he might have shot clean through 
ye with half an eye.” 
“I don’t know ’’answered John. “I see 
him drop the pint of his guu an’ 1 give a jump 
“An’ ye done well John, yc done well. Give 
me fifty sech men as you bo, an’ I’ll be out of 
this yard in half an hour. I see ’em take that 
fust Rebel down. They’ll court-martial him 
I ’apose. It beats all how they do business. 
When they git a decent man on guard, they 
shoot him jest to keep in practice. It beats 
all,” and Uncle Nathan, with a growl at the 
imperfect military system of the Confederacy, 
started away. 
He paused at the end of a few steps, and 
came slowly back. His face showed that 
something of great importance was coming. 
He pulled from beneath his coat the rude flag 
he had carried so sacredly. Ho pushed the 
little banner into John’s hand as he said:— 
“I’ll make ye a present of that. I’ll warrant 
you’ll keep it too. It takes men o’grit to do 
sech a thing as that is, I tell ye. I hadn’t no 
idee the Widder Rockwell’s boy hed ser much 
in him. I’m proud of ye—yes I be”—and he 
marched away, with a smile for Archie, while 
John thrust the flag into his pocket. 
Uncle Nathan went away, but the rest of 
the men made quite a visit. There was nothing 
to do, and they felt that they might just as 
well stop there and talk in the shade, as to 
wander about in the sun. They were all 
desperately hungry, and it was but natural 
that they should fall into a discussion of 
foods. They bad held many a Barmecide’s 
feast, in the prison before- indeed their great¬ 
est pleasure lay iti attempting to- 
“ Cloy the hungry edge of appetite 
By Pure imngluuilou of a feast.” 
“T tell ye” begun Tom Gove, “ when I git 
back to the State o’ Maine, I’m gouter git me 
the squares:; meal you ever see. I want me 
some fish chowder. I’m gonter git that down 
to Bill Waterside’s. Bill can make the beat 
fish chowder that ever was eet. He takes his 
big kittle and puts him in fust a layer o’ fish, 
then a thin patch o’ pork, then a luyer o’ 
pertaters, thou a layer o’ crackers an’ so on to 
the top. When it comes out o’that kittle, 
there ainb nothin' better nowhere, I tell ye.” 
The water stood in Tom’s mouth as he gave 
this receipt. He involuntarily extended his 
hand as if to secure a plateful of the delicious 
mixture. Bill Brown bad decided to patron¬ 
ize home taleut as far as possible. Ho was 
determined to secure a dish of his mother’s 
baked beaus. 
“They beats everything,” he argued. “I’ve 
seen my mother cook ’em time aud agin. She 
parbiles ’em over night, an’ then puts ’em in a 
deep dish with a piece o’ pork on top. She 
puts hi a little raerlasses an’ bates ’em kinder 
slow. There aint nothin’ comes nigh ’em for 
taste”—aud Bill drew a long breath as it to 
catch a faint whiff from the fragrant bean- 
pot just coming out of his mother’s oven. 
Dave Jackson was a trifle more of an aris¬ 
tocrat. It must be stated in explanation that 
Dave’s mother was not particularly noted as 
a cook. 
“ I’m gouter stop to Boston an’ get me a 
real good ham an’ eggs. I know a place where 
they cook eggs so they slide right down your 
throat without butter.” 
And so the men talked on, laying plans for 
a time that uever could come. 
The crowd at last dropped away ami left 
Archie aud John alone. The}' were glad of 
the chance to talk. 
“ Tin sorry I made you go, John,” said Ar¬ 
chie gently—“but you will never be sorry for 
it I’m sure.” 
“That’s all right,” said John, sturdily ; I 
aint u mite hurt, aud you got your flowers.” 
“But it wasn’t for me that yon went, John. 
I know all about it, John, and I am sure it 
will be all right some day.” Ho clasped 
John’s haud with a pressure that both men 
understood. 
“I shall uever see her again John. I am 
sure of that now, but I want you to take a 
message from me—and you must live through 
here to do it. I meant to do so much for 
them, John, but it’s all passed now, aud I can 
only leave them to you.” 
John listened without a word. How gladly 
he would take the charge. He would live to 
fulfill it, too. 
“I have written her a letter,” said Archie, 
after a little. “You must give it to hor aud 
tell her just how 1 wrote aud sent it. Give 
her my love, John, and tell her that I meant 
all I have written her. I thiuk she will be¬ 
lieve it, too. I'm so tired, John. I think I 
will try to sleep a little.” 
John arranged the coat under Archie’s 
head. The little fellow closed his eyes and 
slept like a tired child. John sat beside him 
and brushed the flies away from the thin face. 
JLIc glanced at the letter that Archie had 
given him. It was written on a piece of 
rough paper that had been torn from some 
package. The words were traced with a dim 
lead pencil and then retraced with a pale ink 
that Archie had borrowed from one of the 
prisoners. John did not mean to read the 
letter hilt bis eye glanced instinctively over 
the rough page, and he read it through 
almost at a glance, His heart gaye a great 
throb as he read. 
Dear Nellie: I am writing this in the 
prison. It is the last time I shall ever w r rite 
to you, for I do not think I shall live through 
another week. I am not afraid to die, for I 
feel that I have tried to do my best. John 
has promised to carry this letter to you, aud 
I know he will live to do it. He will carry my 
love to you, too. I do wish you could kuovv 
John as w'ell as I do. What I wrote just bo. 
fore we were captured was not half strong 
enough. If you love me you never will marry 
anyone till you know just what John is. He 
loves you better than he loves his own life. I 
know it, for he would die to-day for me be¬ 
cause I am like you. Good-bye, comfort 
mother the best you cau. I did mean to do so 
much for you but it's all past now. John will 
tell you all about it, and if you could only 
know him, you would love him just as well as 
I do.— ARCHIE.” 
John read this letter and then folded it care¬ 
fully, tearing olF a piece from his ragged coat 
to serve for a covering. He opened his vest 
and disclosed the piece of the letter to Archie 
with “I love you” written upon it. He fas¬ 
tened both papers with the pin and buttoned 
the vest tightly about his throat. 
Johu sat by Archie’s side till the sun cume 
back over the bright hills. Slowly it circled 
up over the prison, gradually it destroyed the 
shade win-re Archie was lying. The sunlight 
fell directly in the face of the sleeper, and 
turn as he would John could not keep him in 
the shade. At last he shook Archie’s shoulder 
to rouse him. The sleeping man was eold and 
stiff. Johu had been watching the sleep of 
death. 
The soldiers of the old Maine town came 
and viewed the body in solemn procession. 
There was nothing they could do or say. 
They had passed through too many horrors 
already. 
Uncle Nathan and John carried the body 
into the shade. They threw a coat over the 
face and arranged the violets on the breast. 
This was all they could do now. John’s log 
troubled him somewhat yet he did his work. 
As they came back to their old place Uncle 
Nathan whispered to John: 
“Are ye ready to make a dash agin, and 
push outer here?" 
John nodded. The letter under his coat 
throbbed at the thought of freedom. He felt 
that he must deliver that note. It had put a 
wild courage into his heart. Uncle Nathan 
ehuokled with great satisfaction. 
“I knowed ye would. I like yer grit fust 
rate, We can show them fellers wlmt kind of 
folks we raise to home in the state o’ Maine. 
We must leave the boys here and make a 
break for the lines." 
Uncle Nathan detailed his plan. A number 
of the prisoners were called for to go out on 
the hills after firewood. He had gone once 
aud noticed as he thought, a chance for es¬ 
cape. He proposed to John to go out, sepa¬ 
rate the guards, beat them down, secure their 
arms and ammunition, and make for the 
mountains. It was a wild scheme. Many a 
prisoner had been killed attempting it, hut 
John was still ready to try. Anything, rather 
than endure another mouth of Andersouville 
life. The two men shook hands. They were 
willing to make the trial. They went back to 
take a last look at Archie. There was no 
"scene,” no painful leave-taking. John bent 
over and cut away one of the curls that strug¬ 
gled over the dead man’s forehead. They 
threw the old coat back over the face, and it 
was all over. John and Uncle Nathan secured a 
position in the squad of wood carriers. They 
went out throngh the gates, determined never 
to re-enter the m alive. As they marched up 
over the hills, they saw a file of Rebel soldiers 
with a man marching in the midst with his 
hands bound behind him. They were not near 
enough to recognize .1 ark Foster. 
chapter v. 
“DISHONORABLY DISCHARGED.” 
When Jack Foster found himself alone in 
the guardhouse, bis first impulse was to read 
his letters. There was just light enough in 
the dim room to enable him to see the words 
of the letter that he selected at random from 
his pocket. 
This selection was not, on tho whole a hap¬ 
py one. It had been written just after Grant 
defeated Pemberton and drove him back into 
Vicksburg. The Union soldiers bad marched 
through the village. Lucy bad but spoken 
the feelings of all Southern women when she 
wrote—“ I hate them all. If you ever neglect 
your duty, or show any mercy for these rob¬ 
bers and murderers. I will never speak to you 
again. But I know you never will come to 
any disgrace for you love me too well.” 
Somehow, Jack did not feel exactly com¬ 
fortable after reading this letter. What would 
she think of him now { Ho had spared a Yan¬ 
kee’s life, aud brought disgrace upon himself. 
Would she believe him when he told hor tho 
reason ? 
The thought was so unpleasant that he 
crowded the letters back into his pocket. 
This was the first time they had failed to 
bring him consolation. He put his bauds in¬ 
to bis pockets aud began walking up and down 
the narrow' room. There was nothing partic¬ 
ularly dreadful about the trial which he knew 
would soon be called, lie had faced death too 
many times to fear it now, but the thought of 
Lucy’s displeasure nearly drove him wild. 
As he paced slowly up aud down, he caught 
the sound of marching feet outside. 
“ Halt !” Tho stem order brought both the 
inarching guard aud himself to a standstill. 
The door was unlocked aud thrown open. 
Peering out into the bright light, Jack found 
himself confronted by two lines of soldiers 
who were drawn up in front of the door. 
The officer in command ordered Jack to 
march out aud take his place between the 
lines of soldiers. Then at the sharp order, 
“Forward—March! "the squad advanced in 
the direction of the commander’s office. Juck 
glaueed at the faces of tho guards as they 
marched on. He knew them all There was 
not a sign of hope In any countenance. A 
group of officers stood about the door of the 
office. At the approach of the guard they 
passed inside. Jack, at the order followed 
them, while the guard fell in behind to cover 
the entrance. And Jack Foster found himself 
on trial for his life. It was treason then to re¬ 
fuse to shoot a man for doing what any man 
would have done, it was a crime to be merci¬ 
ful. The room was dismal and bare, in keeping 
with war’s justice. A few’ rough chairs aud a 
dirty table covered with papers stood at oue 
end A few maps were hung upon the walls. 
The floor ami walls were stained and rough. 
Jack Stood in the middle of the room while 
the guard ranged about the sides. Every eye 
turned to the prison commander. This per¬ 
sonage sat at tho little table. He seemed 
glum aud savage aud the others glanced anx¬ 
iously at him. A rough, brutal looking man, 
he glared augnly at Jack, and nodded bis 
head Impatiently at tho group of officers 
gathered about lnm, as if anxious to have tho 
case eudod. An example must be made of 
this sentinel. A few such cases, aud the 
prisoners would break over the walls. There 
was no possible hope for mercy in that sav¬ 
age face. Jack knew that his story would bo 
wasted on such a man. A grim, hard feeling 
came over him, uud he shut his teeth just as 
ho used to do when the compauy marched 
into battle. He was too proud to beg for his 
life, uud he knew ho had no dofouso that could 
ever satisfy such a man. So bo waited proud¬ 
ly for the result. J 
The trial w’as a very short one. The case 
against Jack was too clear to admit of any 
argument. The guard who had shot John 
Rockwell told the story os an outsider might 
have seen it. Tills man stated that he had 
seen the lag Yankee talking with Jack. He 
had distinctly seen Jack lower his musket, and 
he had noticed the Yankee jump over the 
line. At this point lie had deemed it neces¬ 
sary to take an active part iu the exercise 
himself. He had taken a hasty aim and firtd 
Tho Yankee was, in bis opiuion, very badly 
hurt—his only regret was that he had not 
killed him at once. This story was told in a 
most dramatic manner, with many gestures 
ami explanatory remarks. What did this 
man know or care about the violets or the 
little woman who had stood in front of the 
Yankee ? 
The officers listened carefully to the story, 
asking an occasional question. When the 
fluent sentinel had finished Ins oration, all eyes 
turned to Jack. 
“Well, what have you got to say,” growled 
the commander. 
What could Jack say? How could he tell 
about the sick boy, and the violets ami Lucy? 
His reason must remain tied to his heart, 
for this sneering man never would believe 
him. 
He looked straight into the commander’s 
eyes, as he answered slowly : 
“Nothing. I reckon.” 
That was the end of the trial. At an order 
from tho officer, the prisoner, surrounded by 
the guards, marched out of the room. Just 
as Jack turmd, he saw his old captain rise 
from his chair to address the commander. 
Tho first words fell upon Jack’s ear : “I plead 
for mercy for this man. 1 have seen him 
in battle, and I kuow there is not a braver 
man in the army.” But here tho door closed 
and the rest was never hoard. 
Who cau tell wlmt Jack felt as he marched 
back to the guard-house < Who can tell what 
ho thought when the sentence came—“To bo 
shot at noon.” There are few men who can 
tell, few men who ever live such lives. After 
all the years of hoping aud devotion it had 
come to this. And yet down in his heart 
there was still a feeling of satisfaction. He 
was glad, after all, that he did not shoot the 
Yaukee. At last the time came. He had 
written a long disjointed letter to Lucy aud 
his mother, trying to toll thorn just how he 
had done his duty. The letter was iu his 
breast-pocket when the guards came to march 
him away. His hands were bound behind him. 
Twelve soldiers, members of his own com¬ 
pany, had been detailed to do the horrible 
work of execution. They dured not look Jack 
iu the face as they bound him. Six of the 
guns were loaded, and six were empty. No 
oue could tell which one lie held. A merciful 
provision when one's friend stood up as a tar¬ 
get. The men were silent. There was no oue 
there to offer consolation to poor Jack. He 
started to a sort of daze to tho place of execu¬ 
tion. He could hardly realize his position yet. 
The sad-faced squad had hardly taken a dozen 
stops when a messenger dashed up with a 
paper in bis band. The soldiers bulted almost 
without the order, while the ollicer glanced 
ovor tho paper. Jack waited in dull anxiety. 
“Reprieved,” tho officer said at last with a 
curious glance at Jack. The squad stmt up a 
shout which was echoed from the barracks. 
The men were happy to know that they would 
not be called upon to kill a brother soldier, 
t To be continued.) 
gHisttUaucaus 
Care for the Children 
Children feel the debility of tho changing sea- 
sons, even more than adults, and they become 
cross, peevish and uncontrollable. Tho blood 
should bo cleansed and tho system Invigorated 
by the uso of Hood’s Sarsaparilla. Olve It a trial. 
“ Last spring my two children were vaccinated. 
Soon after, they broke all out with running sores, 
so dreadful 1 thought 1 should lose them. Hood's 
Sarsaparilla cured them completely; and they 
have been h •altliy ever since. I do feci that 
Hood's Sarsaparilla saved my children to mo.” 
Mas. 0. L. Thompson, West Warron, Mass. 
Hood’s Sarsaparilla 
Sold by all druggists. $1; six for $5. Mado 
only by C. I. HOOD & CO., Lowell, Mass. 
IOO Doses One Dollar 
PURE MILK. 
WARREN 
MILK BOTTLES 
Piiteuted March S8d, 1880. 
Adapted for the Delivery 
of Milk Iu alimieH 
and Towns. 
A lONQ-NEEOED WANT 
AT LAST SUPPLIED. 
A. V. WHITEMAN, 
7» Murray St,, NEW lyUK, 
