©ei 8 
ANDERSONVILLE VIOLETS. 
Copyrighted by the Rural New-Yorker. 
All rights reserved. 
chapter vi —(Continued.) 
“You all never seen Stuart charge, did ye?” 
To John’s surprise, Uncle Nathan seemed to 
be suddeuly converted to the cause of the 
Confederacy—or rather Stuart. 
“Wall, I should think l had,” returned the 
old man. “I see him charge on our lines 
once, an’ I call it the grandest sight I ever see 
anywhere. He come way out ahead of his 
men waving his sword—jest like this ”— 
Uncle Nathan had started from his seat in his 
great excitement. He waved his arm above his 
head, and to give a better illustration of the 
action, he caught up a long stick with a huge 
knot at the end. The Rebel sat looking on 
admiringly ail unconscious of the fact that the 
bight of Uncle Nathan’s ambition was to 
bring his head and the kuot in close con¬ 
tact. 
“Jestlike this”—said Uncle Nathan as he 
stepped nearer and held the stick high over his 
head. There was something in the old man’s 
face that showed the Rebel that this was no 
idle feat of gymnastics. 
“Stand back”!—He shouted reaching for 
his revolver. 
But Uncle Nathan’s blood was up. It was 
life or death for him. 
“Jest like this! ” He said coolly, and the 
stick sung a song of freedom through the air, 
and fell directly upon the Rebel’s head. The 
owner of the head dropped his gun and 
fell back like a dead man. 
“What d’you ’spose he thinks about for- 
rinners now ?” asked the imitator of Stuart 
as he threw awaj T his stick. 
It is more than probable that the guard had 
a most profound respect for the fighting qual¬ 
ities of men from the “State o’ Maine” ever 
after. 
There was no time to be lost. The prisoners 
held a hasty consultation and assured them¬ 
selves that the fight had not been observed. 
With the strings of raw-hide they bound 
and gagged the stunned Rebcd. It was all 
done in a moment, and then securing the gun 
and revolver and ammunition, thej' turned to 
the North and hurried into the woods. It was 
to be a desperate race. They would never be 
.taken alive. 
CHAPTER VII. 
SOL’S victory. 
The two prisoners had hardly disappeared 
under the trees when the portly guard began 
to show signs of life. His head was evidently 
harder than the stick. He had been left in a 
most undignified position—flat on his face 
with bis hands tied behind him. First, he 
shook as much of his portly frame as could be 
shaken at one time and uttered some sound 
which lost itself in the sand. At last, with 
one supreme effort, he rolled himself over 
onto bis back, where he could view a small 
portion of the world. His mouth aud face 
were well plastered with sand and blood, and 
altogether he did not present a most agree¬ 
able appearance. He struggled desperately to 
free himself, but the tough strings held him 
fast. He did his best to call for help, but the 
gag, firmly fixed in his mouth, prevented any 
escape of sound. There was nothing for him 
to do but to lie ori his back and wait for help. 
We may very naturally expect that his 
ideas as to what constituted the heart of the 
Union army changed somewhat. His aching 
hi ad must have convinced him that the “fur- 
rinners" did not monopolize all the fightiug 
qualities of the army after all. Whatever the 
opinion of the ladles at Gettysburg might be 
in regard to the marching of the two armies, 
it was painfully evident that men from the 
“State o’ Maine” knew how to Strike a good 
blow. Our fat friend might, perhaps, have 
consoled himself with the thought that he was 
not the first rnan to be convinced so roughly 
of the truth of a proposition. There are plenty 
of men whose heads must be broken before 
the truth can enter. Truth pounded in with 
a club, however, is remarkably sure to stick. 
Our friend bad but little time, to devote to 
this thought. He was mainly occupied In 
trying to clear bis mouth of sand. He lay, as 
it seemed, a long time in his uncomfortable 
position. The sun started down behind the 
hills and the first afternoon shadows came 
creeping out from under the trees to mock 
him. it was not until the shadows had 
danced cruelly over his saudy face that he 
caught the sound of footsteps. A moment 
later the melancholy face of Bill came peer¬ 
ing over the pile of wood. Bill had never 
been called a handsome man, even by his 
wife, but his face seemed like the face of an 
angel as viewed through the mask of sand 
and blood that covered the face of the portly 
victim of the Maine men. 
Bill had marched bis patient “Pennsylvauy 
Dutch” back with their burden, aud watched 
them pass safely inside the stockade. Well 
knowing the brilliant conversational powers 
of Ids comrade, he did not wonder at first 
when tho detachment came not. When, at 
last, several hours weut by without bringing 
his friend, Bill grew anxious and with a small 
squad cattle out, to find him as left by the pris¬ 
oners. The bauds were quickly severed, and 
the wounded guard raised to his feet. He 
told the story of bis capture—giving it a col¬ 
oring that would have seemed entirely orig¬ 
inal to Uncle Nathan. He told with what ar¬ 
ticulation the sand had left him, how, after a 
a most heroic defense he had been overpow¬ 
ered. It was certainly wonderful how bravely 
be had fought the two prisoners, and how 
seriously he had, in all probability, wounded 
Uncle Nathau, The squad of soldiers marched 
back to the prison listening to his thrilling re¬ 
cital. 
Half an hour later a small company of men 
marched rapidly up the hill iu the direction 
of the scene of the struggle. Two negroes led 
the way, holding back by means of strong 
ropes a bloodhound—broadbreasted and dark. 
Long Bill led the way, his melancholy face 
glowing with something like excitement as he 
marched on ahead. The fat gentleman did 
not come. He stayed at the barracks to nurse 
his wounds and stir the patriotism of his 
comrades with his thrilling story of the con¬ 
flict. 
The company halted at the place where Un¬ 
cle Nathau had given such a careful imitation 
of Stuart’s mode of attack. The tracks of the 
prisoners were plainly visible leading off iuto 
the forest. The hound put his nose to the 
ground, and with a low, deep sound, trotted 
off into the pines—on the trail. The chase had 
begun. The soldiers followed the dog with 
their arms ready for instant service. 
Uncle Nathan aud John ran as men inn w ho 
see life held up before them as a prize. They 
had no definite route. Their great object was 
to put as mauy miles as possible between them¬ 
selves aud the stockade, and then by the aid 
of friendly negroes to determine their course. 
They well understood that they would bo fol¬ 
lowed and possibly caught up with, but they 
w r ere determined never to be takeu back. 
With the weapons they carried a good defense 
could be made. On, on they hurried as rap¬ 
idly as possible. Through sand beds, thick 
with clinging briars, over fallen logs aud 
stumps, through swamps and dense thickets, 
still ou they pressed, for freedom lay before 
—death behind. 
Uncle Nathan carried the musket. He had 
fastened the bayonet lb the end, even though 
it impeded bis progress. He was ready for 
immediate action. John carried the revolver 
loaded and capped. He followed doggedly in 
Uncle Nathan’s footsteps. He felt frequently 
for the letter under his vest Archie was ly¬ 
ing dead behind them, but Nellie was before, 
and he still pushed on,though his wounded leg 
tortured him at every step. Once, when they 
stopped to drink at a little brook, John exam¬ 
ined his leg. It was badly swollen, and was 
slowly bleeding. He bathed it iu the cool wa¬ 
ter aud drew the bandage tighter. UncleNa- 
thau watched him grimly. 
“ Cau ye make it?” he asked, pointing off in¬ 
to tho forest. 
“ I’ll make it or drop,” said John between 
his teeth, and Uncle Nathan agaiu pushed on, 
ehuckhug in his silent way at the “grit” of 
the men from “ our town.” 
Twice they came upon dwellings. Hurry¬ 
ing ou through a thick growth of young trees, 
they came suddenly to the edge of a large clear¬ 
ing, and stopped just iu time to escape detec¬ 
tion. It was a typical plantation; onee pros¬ 
perous and rich, but now, after three years of 
neglect, fallen to decay. The fields were grown 
up with weeds, the fences were down aud tho 
stock roamed id ly about. The old house seemed 
to have crept back under the trees, iuto the 
shadow 7 and gloom, where it could brood 
Over its sorrows in secret. Au old, white- 
haired man sat on the piazza with his head on 
his breast; dull, with the sense of his wrongs, 
without the euergy or courage to repair the 
damages. It was a picture of utter despair— 
of lonely helplessness. As the fugitives halt¬ 
ed at the edge of the clearing, two gauut 
hounds, in full keeping with the rest of the 
picture, rose from beside the old man’s chair 
and looked eagerly in the ilheetiou of the dis- 
turliers. At a gesture from their master 
they dropped slow ly down agaiu at his side. 
The fugitives crept back into the forest and, 
skirting the edge of the clearing, again 
plunged out of sight. 
A mile beyond the first house they came 
upon another plantation. They dropped 
under a bush to examine the premises. The 
house stood at quite a distance, but the negro 
quarters were close at baud. The same look 
of disorder and neglect pervaded the whole 
place. They were about to regain their feet 
and go back into the forest, when the sound 
of a falling axe fell on their ears. It was ap¬ 
parently close at hand, and after a moment’s 
hesitation, Uncle Nathan pushed the branches 
aside and peered out in the direction from 
which the sound came. Au old negro, white- 
haired and bent with age, was cutting wood 
from e large log. To the desperate fugitives 
this poor old darkey seemed like an auge). 
They did not hesitate to push their way 
toward him, and attract his attention. Uncle 
Nathan dropped the point of his gun and 
tried to bring his grizzled face into a smile. 
As the two ragged and desperate-looking men 
rose from beneath the bushes and moved to¬ 
ward him, the old slave dropped his axe aud 
fell upon his knees. 
“ Go ’way,” he muttered, “ I ain’t done nuf- 
fin. I jes cuttin' wood fo’ ole miss.” 
“ It’s all right, Uncle,” assured John as they 
neared the old slave. “ We are friends—pris¬ 
oners. ” 
The old man changed his manner at once at 
this announcement. He rose hastily to his 
feet and glanced around as if to assure him¬ 
self that they were alone. 
“ Does you meanter say dat you is pris’ners? 
Dat you is Massa Linkum’s men? I jes wanter 
look at youse.” And the old fellow came 
nearer and peered with dim eyes iuto their 
faces. 
John told the story of their escape with sim¬ 
ple directness. It seemed to him that he was 
talking to a child. 
“ What is our best road, Uncle, and where 
can we get something to cat?” he said at last. 
The old slave shook his head uneasily dur¬ 
ing the story, and at the question looked hesi¬ 
tatingly about him. 
" Is youse afeared of dorgs?” he asked, ner¬ 
vously. 
“ No, not a mite,” growled Uncle Nathan 
shaking his musket. “I won’t run fer no 
dog.” 
“I is mighty glad you ain’t,” suggested the 
negro, “ case I is , an’ case der’ll be dorgs arter 
youse afo’ morning slio’s yo’ bora. Dey will 
bo arter youse wid de po’fullest dorg yo' eber 
seen, I reckon. Dorgs dat jes tar you all up. 
I’s seed dem go by—I has. Dey is biz’ness 
dorgs dey is. Dey is biz’ness work ’roun 
yer when dem dorgs gits arter man, an’ dey’ll 
git arter you all fo’ you knows it I reckon” 
—and he looked nervously about him again. 
“ I tell you what boss,” he said after a little 
thinking. “Ef youse is man ’null' ter kill dat 
dorg, you is all light, 1 reckon. Ef you kin 
git sketch him. I kin see you fru. l’s got a 
boy hidin'to my cabin. He cum from wbar 
dey is fitin* at, an ef you kin git shet ob dat 
dorg you all kin go back wid him. Doy ain’t 
no safe place fer you er me jes ez long ez dat 
dorg is on yo’ track ”—and he peered out into 
tho forest as if expecting to see the terrible 
animal approaching them. 
Uncle Natban was quick to see the sense 
of the old darkey’s advice. 
“He’s right,” he said to John, “ we’ve got 
to fight ’em, an' we might jest as well do it 
fust as last. Yoij go home ole feller,” he said 
to the negro, “ an’ fix us up somethin’ t’eat. 
We’ll either leave that dog dead out yunder, 
or never come near ye agin,” and he shook his 
musket as if to add force to his declaration. 
The old negro looked at Uncle Nathau ad¬ 
miringly. “ You is a man you is,” he said as 
he picked up his axe aud moved stiflly 
away. He paused for a moment to give 
them some needed instructions. “ When 
youse come back, yo’ jes stau' where dat big 
tree is at au’ whistle, an’ I’ll send my boy out 
ter bring youse iu. But done you come yer 
ontil youse kill dat dorg,” and he hobbled off 
again. 
Ho was 600U lost to sight, for the light 
was rapidly losiug itself under the trees. The 
darkness thickened aud crowded in upon 
them as the fugitives made their plans. They 
sat for a few moments on the log talkiug earn¬ 
estly. Then they walked slowly iuto the for¬ 
est watching only fora good defensive posi 
tion. They did not hurry now for they were 
only anxious to meet their pursuers. Weary 
aud faint with hunger aud ^aiu John stum¬ 
bled on unsteadily. Uncle Nathan seemed 
tireless. Alxmt half a mile from the log they 
came upon a place most admirably suited to 
their purpose. Under a great pine a cleared 
space gave ample opportunity for defensive 
operations. A high thicket of briars aud 
heavy bushes rose in front like a wall. A lit¬ 
tle glade beyond made it impossible for pur¬ 
suers to approach unobserved. Undo Nuthau 
placed bis musket against the tree and glanced 
over the place with great satisfaction. 
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“We’ll stand ’em off here, I guess,” he said 
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anywhere.” 
Had he been perfectly acquainted with the 
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better place. 
(To be continued,) 
Jo South teMSMSf BuyaHome. 
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