 Section 1 of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maria Melodia-Carrie. The kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories by Joel Chandler-Harris. Why the Confederacy Failed, Part 1. When the surrender of Lee's army brought the Southern Confederacy to a sudden end in 1865, not one southerner in a hundred had prepared his mind for the event. It came as a stroke of lightning out of a clear sky. But there were a few who thought they knew why the surrender came, who had anticipated it in a vague way a year or more before the event. And of these few, there were two men who regarded the outcome as a result of the direct interposition of providence. Although disbelief did not cause them to bear with resignation, the cruel wounds which the result inflicted on their hopes and their fortunes. They gave good reasons for their foreknowledge of the collapse, reasons which the attentive reader will doubtless be able to discover for himself when the facts are laid before him. When the deadly game of war began in earnest, the Southern leaders found it necessary to depend almost entirely on blockade running, as the means of communicating with their agents abroad. But this method was a skittish one at best. Comparatively few men could be induced to engage in it, and those who were willing were just the men whose services could be better employed in other directions. More than that, the blockade was becoming more real, and consequently more serious every day. No plan to elude the increasing vigilance of the blockaders could be looked upon as certain or definite. It was a game of hazard, thrilling enough to attract the reckless and adventurous, but dangerous enough to repel all others. One day with another, the advantages all lay with the grim war vessels that rocked lazily up and down just outside the Southern harbors. Therefore, it was necessary to hit upon some plan more definite and systematic to enable the Confederate government to communicate with its agents in the North, in Canada and in Europe. Communication with Washington was easy, as John Omohundro, well known after the war as Texas Jack, and his companion scouts were demonstrating every day. But it had also been demonstrated that it was a risky business for any scout or spy to walk out of Washington day or night with an incriminating map or drawing or document concealed on his person. Many an innocent countryman, going away from Washington after selling his produce, was suddenly seized and stripped naked, being compelled to remain in this plight while the lining was ripped from his coat if he had one and from his boots. He might protest tearfully or threaten loudly. It was all one to those who were submitting him to this rough investigation. Events of this kind necessarily went far to make the traffic and contraband information across the Potomac as dangerous as running the blockade. Omohundro kept it up from pure love of excitement and adventure, and played his cards with such apparent boldness and indifference that the cold eye of suspicion never once glanced in his direction. But he and the few others who followed his initiative were not equal to the necessities of the Confederate government. And so it was decided that the New York Hotel, so popular with Southerners before the war, should be the center to which information should be sent and from which it should be distributed. I saw an announcement the other day to the effect that the old hotel had been closed to the public. And by this time, no doubt, its place has been taken by one of those unsightly and ridiculous structures which stand for pretty much all that is concrete and real in our commercial environment. In that event, the old building has been demolished and carted away as so much rubbish. But if that rubbish should find a voice, how many strange stories it could tell? The flat roof covered, and the dull unattractive walls concealed, a thousand mysteries. Now, as Mr. Lincoln used to put it, no government could sleep soundly while such a man as Secretary Stanton was stamping about in the corridors, kicking chairs over, and breaking bell cords. The government consequently was not asleep. The great secretary had early knowledge that something suspicious was going on in and around the New York Hotel. And the agents of the Secret Service, as well as the most expert detectives the world could produce, gave it their undivided attention for many weary months. They followed many a promising clue to its unpretentious entrance, only to see it disappear, or entered its plain and silent corridors, only to come away baffled and amazed. For while the government was wide awake, the hotel seemed to be asleep. The porters, waiters, bellboys, even the guests moved about with a noiseless politeness. To enter the dining room of the hotel was to take refuge from the chaotic rumble and rattle of Broadway. Was to go, in fact, many steps toward a subdued literary atmosphere of Washington Square. The hotel itself, in its own proper person, was supposed to have no knowledge of the interest which the government was taking in the movements of its guests. At any rate, it betrayed no irritation, and was neither surprised nor alarmed. It went to bed early, arose at dawn, and lay sprawling in sun or rain day after day, to all appearances blissfully ignorant of the secret inquests which the government was holding over its corpus. As a matter of fact, however, there was not an hour of the 24 when the old hotel was not wide awake, and fairly quivering with eagerness to take advantage of every instant's carelessness on the part of the cordon of gentlemanly spies and detectives. Fairly quivering and quaking with eagerness, and yet as silent, as motionless, and as patient, as the animals whose instincts and necessities compel them to catch and kill their prey. No writer has ever hit off this animal characteristic in a phrase. To describe it, you need a term that is a hundred times more expressive than weariness or cunning, and that gives a new elimination and a deeper meaning to patience. On the day before Christmas, in the year 1863, about four o'clock in the afternoon, Captain Fontaine Flournoy, he was made a colonel later, alighted from a cab and entered the office of the New York Hotel. He paused in front of the clerk's desk and looked about him as if in doubt or perplexity or as if seeking for a familiar face. Though dressed in the garb of a civilian, his figure was still military. I was expecting to meet my son, he explained to the smiling clerk. I think he arrived this morning, said that functionary. Is that his handwriting? He pointed to a signature on the register, Emery W. Hunt Montpellier Vermont. Captain Flournoy gave a grunt of satisfaction and signed beneath it, Frederick J. Hunt U.S.A. A gentlemanly looking person, promenading about the office, approached the desk and inspected the signature. Showed the gentleman to 322, said the clerk to a porter, and the two went upstairs. The porter, inspecting the tag of the key, saw that it was for room 328. He did not pause to correct the error, but showed the guest to 322, went in, closed the door carefully, and proceeded to usher to the captain through connecting rooms until 328 was reached. In that apartment, a half dozen men were grouped around the table. They appeared to be playing dominoes and were so intent on the game that only one of them looked up. Meanwhile, Captain Flournoy, unfastened his valise, took out a bundle of papers and laid upon the table. Then he rearranged the contents of the satchel and was escorted back to 322, one of the group playfully throwing a kiss after him. In all this, he was simply following to the letter the careful instructions that had been given him in Washington with respect to his movements. This was his first experience in work of this kind, and the precautions he saw taken on his behalf at a return in crossing brought home to him in the most vivid way the dangerous character of his mission. If this danger had taken tangible shape or had assumed actual proportions such as may be seen when a battery of gun spits out shot and shell from its red and smoking mouths, he would have known how to face it. But to be walking in the dark, to be groping blindly as it were, with the possibility of a long imprisonment or even the gallows at the end of the tangle, this was enough to put even his stout nerves to the test. More than this, on his own responsibility, he had taken it upon himself to deliver in person to the authorities and Richmond the most important document he had received at the Federal Capitol. This document he had detached from the rest and now had it stored away in the lining of an undergarment. It would have been no relief to Captain Flournoy if he had known that the document had been missed by the War Department, not 20 minutes subsequent to its delivery into his hands, that the worthy official who had it in charge had been promptly clapped into the old Capitol Prison and that he himself had been accompanied from Washington by a special detective in whom Secretary Stanton had the utmost confidence. This official had long desired an opportunity to uncover the conspiracy that had its sight in the New York Hotel and he rejoiced now to find that he had run his gain to Earth in that quarter. His name, which was Alonza Barnum, will have a familiar sound to those who saw it on the title page of one of the most interesting volumes published directly after the war. It was entitled From Harlem to the Antarctic. Mr. Barnum shook himself as he entered the hotel and smiled when he contemplated the registry book. When did Hunt arrive, he asked, as he signed what he called his traveling name. Which one, the clerk asked blandly. Why, Frederick, of course, about 10 minutes ago. Want a room? Well, I'm sorry, but we're full to the roof. It often happens close to the holiday season. We may have one vacant before night. Shall I save it for you? Certainly, said Mr. Barnum. Will you send my cart up to Hunt? The bland and rosy clerk turned to a tall, dignified-looking man who was standing near the counter. He was an evening dress and the garb showed that he was either a gentleman preparing to attend some social function or a dining room servant. His countenance and his heir were those of a man of the world. As a matter of fact, he was the head waiter of the hotel and something more. McCarthy, said the clerk, will you shove this into room 322 on your way to the dining room? The porter will bring an answer. With pleasure, sir, replied the head waiter. He took the card and marched up the stairway. At room 322, he stopped and knocked and entered without an invitation. I beg your pardon, sir, he said. I am the head waiter. A gentleman has sent up his card. Well, I must shake hands with you, McCarthy. Omohundru has been telling me about you. What a boy that is, exclaimed the head waiter. And so this is Captain Flournoy. Upon my word, sir, we are well met. Do you know this man Barnes? Amos Barnes it is. The cab man was telling me that he came on your train from Washington. He ordered his cab to follow yours and he has no baggage. Captain Flournoy frowned slightly and then smiled. I am green in this business, he said. But my impulse is to take the bull by the horns. I shall invite this man up and then deal with him as circumstances suggest. I'll shake your hand once more, exclaimed McCarthy jubilantly. Barring Omohundru, you're the only one of the whole crew that didn't want to crawl under the bed on the first trip. He went to the door, called to the porter who was waiting outside and said, Johnny, go down and tell Mr. Barnes that Major Hunt will be glad to see him in 322. When Mr. Barnes entered the room, McCarthy, the head waiter, was standing by the fireplace talking. He was saying, that boy of yours, Major, has grown since last summer. I saw a good deal of him when I went to Montpelier and the questions he asked about the city, sir, to amaze you. He's uptown at a matinee. Excuse me, sir, this to the redoubtable Mr. Barnes or Barnum. Captain Flournoy was politeness itself. He placed the chair for his visitor and seated himself on the side of the bed in an unceremonious way. The head waiter bowed himself out. There was a moment's hesitation on the part of the detective. He also was to take the bull by the horns. My friend, he said, squaring himself in his chair, let us deal plainly with each other. Your name is not Hunt and my name is not Barnes. In regard to personal matters, you will speak only for yourself, said Captain Flournoy with a smile. Very well. I will speak now of a matter impersonal. During the last few days, a document of immense importance has been abstracted from the War Department. I am well aware of that, remarked Captain Flournoy. Otherwise, I should be elsewhere at this moment. It contains the outlines of plans that cannot be changed at a moment's notice. Precisely. Now that document, said the detective, is worth to the government at least five thousand dollars in gold, much more perhaps, certainly not less. Captain Flournoy placed one pillow on another and leaned back in a restful attitude. If I thought the government would pay no more than five thousand dollars for the recovery of that document, I wouldn't move a hand in the manner, he declared. The detective arose from his chair, and Captain Flournoy sat bolt upright on the bed. Now, what is the use of beating about the bush, asked the detective. Don't be impertinent, my friend, said the captain. You are a southerner. Why, so is General Thomas. I'll bet you ten dollars that the document is in your valice there, declared the detective. Done, said the captain, reaching out and placing a gold piece on the table. Mr. Barnum did likewise, were upon Flournoy, kicked the valice toward him, and pocketed the money. But the detective refused to search the valice. Perhaps he feared some trick. The frankness of his opponent was calculated to baffle him. I was mistaken, he said, and then hesitated. At that moment the door opened, and McCarthy stuck his head in. His face was convulsed with laughter. Excuse me, sir, he said. But I thought maybe you'd like to see a funny sight. Two government detectives have cornered a chap in 328, and they're making him unload papers enough to line the hotel pantry. If you want to see him, sir, step right this way. He came into the room, unlocked the connecting door, and pointed with his hand. Two rooms away, angry voices could be heard in altercation. The three went as rapidly as they could, McCarthy bringing up the rear. In 328 the gas was turned low. In one corner was a man apparently at bay. He had a pistol in his hand. Over against him were two men who had him covered with colts' revolvers. I'll not surrender the paper to you, he was saying. I'll see you dead and die myself first. You have treated me like a dog. What is it all about? asked Mr. Barnum, advancing into the room. The door behind him closed, and the three men lowered their weapons. The man who had been at bay in the corner launched up to the detective with a grin saying, Well, I'll be switched, Colonel, if you ain't a daisy from the county next to joinin'. Come, sir, cried the head waiter. His voice was harsh and stern, and his attitude was that of a commanding officer. Come, sir, this is no time for buffoonery. All right, Cap. I only allowed for to kiss him for his ma. The head waiter laid his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Alonso Barnum. You have no need to be told what has happened. You were doing your duty as you see it. We are doing ours. It rests with you whether you leave this house with your life. McCarthy paused, passed his hand over his face, and the gesture transformed him into a head waiter again. He turned to Captain Flournoy with a deferential smile. Will you have dinner now, sir? It is ready. It is not necessary to relate here the experience of Mr. Alonso Barnum. It is sufficient to say that he awoke one morning and found himself on a vessel that a puffy little tug was towing through the bay. In a little while the tug loosed its grip, and the vessel, a Swedish bark, swung slowly around in the current as the wind filled her sails. Slowly city and harbor faded from view, and Mr. Barnum was at the beginning of the long voyage, which he has so graphically described in his book. What a pity he did not take it upon himself to begin it by presenting the details of his experiences immediately previous to his voyage. Such an introduction would have given it a human as well as a historical interest. Captain Flournoy followed the head waiter down the stairway to the second story, and so into the dining room. He observed quite a flutter among the waiters when their chief entered. It was as if a military company had been suddenly given the command attention. Captain Flournoy was conducted to the first table to the left of the door as he entered. At this table he had no company, but before he had finished the first course, a guest had seated himself in the chair opposite. This newcomer had hardly given his order for soup and fish before the head waiter approached Captain Flournoy with the most deprecatory air remarking. I'm very sorry sir, but the sotern is out. Is there nothing else on the card to your taste? He held the card out, and across its face Captain Flournoy saw written, watch out. No, I'll have a pony of brandy after dinner, but that I can get at the bar, said the captain. I'm sorry enough sir, you could do better than that in Montpelier. At your house I mean sir, not at the hotel. No, no, not at the hotel. The head waiter went on, keeping an eye on the men under him. And yet, said the captain with a smile, transferring his thoughts to his own home in the far southern town, I used to think that the old hotel was a very fine affair. Give me your wine card, the guest opposite suddenly demanded. Certainly sir, replied the head waiter, producing it instantly. The guest took it, turned it over, and remarked why, I saw you writing on it a while ago, what I wrote sir, is in a very blunt hand. I simply marked out the pints of sotern. He pointed to the erasure with a pencil, which he had in readiness for the guest's order. Captain Flournoy leaned back in his chair, and wondered in what school of experience this hotel servant had learned his adroitness, his tact, and the composure which marked his acts and his utterances. It was also admirable and yet so simple, and there was a certain incongruity about it too, that caused the captain to laugh inwardly, though outwardly he was gravity itself. If the whole scene had been especially devised to compel the guest opposite to show his hand, it could not have succeeded better. Before the guests could return the card, the head waiter had gone to the door to usher in a number of newcomers. When these had been comfortably seated, he returned, took the card, and examined it. No order sir? A half pint of claret, said the guest, curtly. Evidently, his temper was somewhat ruffled. In fact, he was hot. Though the weather outside was cold enough to make a pig squeal, he was restless and expectant too, for he moved nervously in his chair and drummed on the table, and kept his eyes on the entrance, and his anxiety betrayed itself even when his dinner had been served. Several times the head waiter was called to the door and had conferences with persons in the corridor. After one of the interviews, he returned with a slip of paper in his hand, and went about from guest to guest, showing it and apparently making inquiries. Finally, he came to Captain Flournoy, still holding the slip of paper. Do you happen to know, sir, a gentleman by the name of Barnes? Amos Barnes? His voice was modulated to the pitch of respectful anxiety. Why, I know him casually, Captain Flournoy responded carelessly. He called at my room an hour ago. Do you see him in the dining room, sir? There is great inquiry for him. He seems to be wanted at the nearest telegraph office. The Captain turned in his chair, putting on his glasses as he did so, and glanced at the occupants of the various tables. No, he said presently, I see no one that resembles him. May I ask you an impertinent question, remarked the Captain's vis-a-vis, as the head waiter resumed his place near the entrance. If it is a necessary one, certainly. Why did Barnes go to your room? May I give you a frank reply? I should appreciate it. Well, said Captain Flournoy, he called on me because I was a stranger. Did he explain his visit? He did. He suspected that I was a confederate spy. He explained that a very important document had been abstracted from one of the departments at Washington. To take the edge off his duty, he wagered that the document was in my valice. He laid the wager and lost. If you will pardon me, sir. I'll say that you don't look like a person who would permit his valice to be searched in this way. Well, when Mr. Lincoln permits Danton to send him word that he's a fool, why should the small fry resent the liberties taken with them by those who are doing their duty? Captain Flournoy leaned back in his chair and regarded his opponent with a smile. As he did so, the head waiter came forward with a deferential bow. Two gentlemen at the father table, sir, requested you join them before you go out, he said. They have a bottle between them, sir, and it would be as well for someone to share it with them. A peel of gleeful laughter and a clinking of glasses justified the suggestion. I'll be with them in a moment, Flournoy remarked. Your venison is famous today, McCarthy. So it is, sir. So it is. Ascented the head waiter as he moved away. In a moment he had returned, ushering a new guest to the table at which Captain Flournoy sat. This new guest, by preference, took the chair next to the gentleman who had engaged Flournoy in conversation. He can't be found, said the newcomer to his neighbor. Well, he knows what he is about, remarked the other, and then the two put their heads together and engaged in a confidential talk. Flournoy took advantage of this to accept the invitation extended him by the lively occupants of another table at the father end of the room. He had never seen either of them before, but under the circumstances, this made no difference. They made a very noisy demonstration over his arrival, slapped him on the back, and displayed a familiarity which at any other time Captain Flournoy would have resented. They told jokes at his expense. Did you ever hear what Hunt said to his brigadier when the latter reprimanded him for not falling back before the rebels at Stony Creek? Asked one in a loud voice. No, no, cried the others. Let's have it. Why? said the first one, drawing himself up and screwing a good-humored countenance into an appearance of severity. He asked this question. When was a soldier ever censured for standing his ground? They were cries of good, the sound of enthusiastic thumping on the table and other symptoms of unusual hilarity that carry their own explanation with them. But in the midst of it all, one of Flournoy's unknown friends gave him to understand that the officers and detectives of the Secret Service were stationed in the corridors and that in all probability he would be placed under arrest the moment he left the dining room. Well, what is to be will be, remarked the captain. McCarthy is coming this way, said the other, and as he's smiling will watch his maneuvers. In fact, the somewhat stern features of the head waiter were beaming. He snapped his fingers, and a waiter stationed himself behind the captain's chair. The head waiter snapped his fingers again, and from the kitchen entry came swarming a dozen waiters. They moved about from table to table, crossing and recrossing one another and creating quite a stir, though the tables were now well emptied of guests. From the front of the dining room, this movement must have seemed to be very light confusion, but to an experienced eye, it was the result of much drilling and practice. What it lacked was formality. There is a towel by your chair, sir, said the head waiter to Flournoy. When you stoop to pick it up, throw it over your left shoulder, turn your back to the front, allow your head and shoulders to droop, and then go out into the kitchen. End of Section 1, Recording by Maria Melodia-Kerry Section 2 of the kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maria Melodia-Kerry. The kidnapping of President Lincoln and other war detective stories by Joel Chandler Harris. Why the Confederacy Failed, Part 2. There was no difficulty in following these instructions. The scheme was simplicity itself, so transparent indeed that even suspicion would pass it by. Before it was carried out, the head waiter had returned to the front, where he stood almost immovable until the activity of the waiter's head subsided. In a few minutes, the hilarious guest who had called Flournoy to their table came out. Didn't hunt say he'd wait for us? Asked one, as they came out. No confound him, replied another loudly. He had to go to the telegraph office. He's nothing but business. Put your toll, exclaimed the third. He's fine, seller. His voice was somewhat thick. On each side of the door, two men were stationed. They made no display of their presence, but stood in the attitude of men who had met by chance and who had something interesting to say to one another, but they narrowly eyed each guest as he came out. Presently, the last one, a stout middle-aged gentleman, a well-known habitue of the hotel, sauntered forth and took from the long rack the last hat left, and walked down the corridor to the stairway in the most amiable frame of mind. He had made a big deal at the gold exchange. He had bought the metal for a rise, and greenbacks had dropped several cents on the dollar. As he disappeared, the head waiter came to the entrance and closed one side of the double door. The four men in the corridor regarded one another with looks of mingled surprise and dismay. One of them, the man who had sat opposite to Captain Flournoy at the table, back into the head waiter. At closing the dining room, he asked, Not entirely, sir. We closed the doors at four. It is now three-fifty. The questioner went to the door and looked in. The dining room was entirely empty of guests, and some of the waiters had begun to snip at one another with their towels. What has become of the gentleman who sat at table with me? He asked with some emphasis. There were two, sir, replied the head waiter, deferentially. I mean the one who sat opposite. Major Hunt? Why? He joined a party at another table. But the bottle was moving too fast, so this taste, sir. You had been there not more than ten minutes when excused himself. I think he went out before you did, sir. That is impossible, exclaimed the man vigorously. I'm simply giving you my impression, sir. We joined the head waiter politely. Why? I'll swear. The man began excitedly. Then, as if remembering himself, he paused and stared helplessly. It seems unnatural, sir, that you shouldn't see him come out if you were standing here. The extreme suavity and simplicity of the head waiter were in perfect keeping with his position. He left me a message for his son who is here. Says he. Mack? He always calls me Mack, sir. Mack says he. When the light comes in, tell him not to be uneasy if I fail to come in tonight. Tell him, says he, that I'm engaged on some important government business, and tell him to meet me at the custom house at ten tomorrow morning. It's a pity you didn't make an engagement with him, sir, if you obliged to see him. He is a fine man. A fine man. With that, he turned and went into the dining room. In a few minutes, the door was closed and locked, but the four men in the corridor still stared at one another, through you them were amazed. The fourth seemed to be amused. Well, what did I tell you, he asked. I've made up my mind to arrest the head waiter, said the one who had questioned McCarthy. This is in Washington, said the amused one. Arrest him, and in ten minutes you'll have an Irish riot on your hands in which nobody would be hurt but ourselves. Our orders are plain on that score. We can't afford to stir up the population. I suggest a cocktail all around. It'll give us strength to admit that we are mere bunglers by the side of Barnum. I believe you, aqueous another. He has been here, got what he came for, and is by this time on his way to Washington. It was disbelief that shed a faint gleam of light over a prospect otherwise gloomy. Meanwhile, when Captain Fornoy went through the swinging doors of the dining room and found himself in the entryway leading to the kitchen, he was in a quandary as to his further movements. But every step he took seemed to have been foreseen and provided for. He knew that he had talked too freely to the guest who sat at his table. But how could this emergency have been forestalled? He had left his hat on the rack or shelf in the front of the dining room. A waiter presented it to him the moment he slipped into the entryway. He was in doubt what course to pursue. An elderly gentleman beckoned to him with a smile. Following this venerable guide, Fornoy went down a short flight of stairs and into an apartment which he recognized as the drying room of the laundry. Then he went into a narrow corridor, ascended three flights of stairs, and was ushered into the apartment which had served as a trap for Mr. Barnum, or as he chose to call himself Mr. Amos Barnes. Some changes had been made. Two hours ago the room was bare, but for a few chairs and a table. But now there was a bed in the corner, a lounge, and a comfortable-looking rocker. The table held pens, ink, and writing paper, and a brisk fire was burning in the grate. Everything had a comfortable and cozy appearance. After the strain under which he had been, it was not difficult for Captain Flournoy to adapt himself to such circumstances. He drew the rocker before the fire and gave himself up to reflections which, whether pleasing or not, were of a character to engross his mind so completely that he failed to hear the door swing open. Presently a hand was laid on his shoulder and he came back to earth with a start. The headwaiter stood over him, smiling. Have a chair, my friend, said Flournoy. He had placed me under great obligations. We have had the very close shave, and that's a fact, remarked McCarthy. But you are under no obligations to me. It's all in the way of duty. The air, the attitude of an upper servant, had vanished completely. And Flournoy was experienced enough to know that he was talking to a man of the world capable of commanding men. I am a head-waiter for precisely the same reason that you are a spy, suggested Flournoy, as the other hesitated. No, there's a flavour to that word that doesn't suit my taste. Let's call it scout, or inspector, or better still, military attaché. I am simply a messenger, said Flournoy, modestly. It is your first experience, I imagine, suggested McCarthy. You are a soldier, and you don't relish the undertaking. That is the truth, Flournoy assented. Well, I was a captain in the navy, explained McCarthy. And now I am what you see me. You are still a captain of the navy, said Flournoy. The house is your ship, and the dining room is your quarter-deck. McCarthy laughed gleefully. I have had the same conceit, oh, hundreds of times, he cried. They talked a long time, touching on a great variety of topics, and found themselves in hearty agreement more often than not. Finally, they drifted back to the matter in hand, and Flournoy confided to McCarthy that one of the papers with which he had been entrusted was of so much importance that he had decided to deliver it in person. Should this document reach Richmond by the first of February, he said, the Federal Army will be captured, Washington will fall, and the war will be over by the first of May. Are you sure? McCarthy inquired. Quite sure, the other assented. At this, McCarthy seized to ask questions or to make comments, but sat for a long time gazing in the fire. Flournoy forbore to interrupt his reflections, and the most absolute silence reigned in the room. Presently, McCarthy straightened himself in his chair. The documents she left for the committee this afternoon were rich Richmond into five days. He remarked somewhat dryly. They started midnight. This seemed to be so much in the nature of a suggestion that Flournoy was moved to ask his advice. Shall I include this document with the other papers, he inquired earnestly. McCarthy shook his head slowly and indecisively. It's a serious question, he said. Ten minutes ago, on an impulse, I should have said send it with the rest by all means, by all means. But now, do you know, he went on with great earnestness. I am getting to be superstitious about this war. Look at it for yourself. He waved his hand as if calling attention to a panorama spread out on the walls of the room. First, there was Mr. Lincoln. He went to Washington a country bore. What is he now? Why, he manages the politicians, the officials, the whole lot. Precisely as a chess player manages his pieces. And he never makes a mistake. Doesn't that seem queer? Captain Flournoy, gazing in the glowing grate, nodded his head. Some such idea had already crossed his mind. Then there's the first manassas. Bull run, McCarthy went on. Does it seem natural that a victorious army which had utterly routed its enemy would fail to pursue the advantage? Is it according to human nature? Again Flournoy nodded. Finally, tick into consideration the case of the Merrimack, continued McCarthy. She had to barely begun to perform the work that she was cut out to do when around the corner came the monitor. A match and more than a match for her. Does that look like an accident or even a coincidence? At this, Captain Flournoy turned in his chair and regarded his companion with a very grieve countenance. Do you know, remarked McCarthy, that I had everything arranged to take charge of the Merrimack? It was a very great disappointment to me when it was found that she couldn't be maneuvered to advantage. You think, then, that Providence, Flournoy hesitated to speak the words in his mind. Judge for yourself. You have the facts. I could mention all those circumstances, but these three stand out. As an old friend of mine used to say, they tilt out like putt legs. But if you think Providence has had a hand in the matter, why call yourself superstitious, Flournoy inquired. It was a convenient way of introducing what I had to say, replied McCarthy. Silence fell on the two for a time. Finally, McCarthy resumed the subject. You say this document will enable the Confederates to win the day and put an end to the war? I do, Flournoy insisted. I believe so sincerely. It embodies plans that cannot passably be altered because the success of the Federals depends upon them, and it will enable General Lee and the Confederate authorities to checkmate every move made by our enemies on land from now on. Do you know that in the early Spring Grant is to be given command of all the federal forces? That is the least important information the document contains. A truly comprehensive paper, marked McCarthy gravely. It falls directly into the category of Lincoln, Manassas, and the Mademak. And we shall see what we shall see. You are threatened the rest of the papers will reach Richmond safely, Flournoy asked. Those who turned over to the committee, as certain as I am sitting here, then let us place this other document with them, suggested Flournoy. If you think it best, certainly, said Mr. McCarthy with a laxity. Flournoy reflected a moment. No, I'll carry out my first impulse, he declared. He rose in pace to cross the room once or twice. Then he turned suddenly to McCarthy. Shall we toss a penny? he asked. No, no, cried the other with a protesting gesture. It is folly to match chance against Providence. Then the matter is settled, said Flournoy, decisively. It was settled long ago, McCarthy remarked solemnly. The southern soldier looked hard at his companion, trying to find in his countenance an interpretation of his remark. When McCarthy's face was almost grim in its impassiveness, he arose as Flournoy resumed his seat. You will have your supper here, and your breakfast also. Tomorrow morning you may be able to start on your journey. Do you go west or north? Ah, west, but it is a long way round. Did you ever try the Cumberland route? Or Mahondra would know, which is the easiest. He advised the western route, because I am familiar with it, explained Flournoy. McCarthy bowed, and in doing so became the head waiter again. The deferential smile flickered about his stern mouth, and then flared up, as it were, changing all the lines of the face. In the straight, installward shoulders, stooped forward a little, so that humility might seat itself in the saddle. I must be going about to my duty, sir, he said. I may call to bid you good night. If I should not, may your dreams be pleasant. He bowed himself out, and Flournoy sat wondering at the fortunes of war, and the curious demands of duty, which had made a spy of him, and the head waiter of Lawrence McCarthy. He mused over the matter until he fell asleep in his chair, where he nodded comfortably, until the waiter touched him on the arm, and informed him his supper was served. Did you think I had company? Flournoy asked. You've brought enough for Company B of the Third Georgia. Tissa saying, sir, that travel sharpens the appetite, said the waiter, smiling brightly, then. The Third Georgia's Colonel Nisbitt's regiment, Tissen Rents writes brigade. To be sure, I know him well, sir. Should you be going to Auguste, and chance to see James Nacol, kindly tell him you've seen Terence, and he's doing well. He's my father, sir, and he thinks I'm in my reprision. How did you get out? Did you take the oath? Bless you, sir. Toss too strong for my stomach. I'll never tell you, sir, whether I escaped by accident or designed. Toss this way, sir. I was no hospital, sir. And when I got stronger, Father Rafferty, seeing my need of trousers, brought me a pair of blue ones. The next day comes in a barouche, along with an officer. He says to me, Terence, here's a coat to go with the trousers, says he. You see the man driving the barouche, says he. Well, says he. When I go inside, he'll fall down and have a fit, says he. And do you be ready, he says, to hold the horses whilst I send out the doctor, he says. Well, sir, it was like a theater advertisement. Don comes the man with a fit, and if he had one spasm, he had 40. The horses were for edging ways, sir. But I caught him and held him. Take him inside, says the officer, and tend to him, he says. And do you aim a man, he says to me. Get up there and drive me back to quarters, he says. How about Father Rafferty, he says. Oh, as for that, he says. He'll be took with a fever. If Santeris turns out to be a driveling Egypt, he says. I looked at him hard, sir. And he looked at me, he says he. Duh, yeh, wee yeh, jive on. It was Captain McCarthy, sir. Flournoy laughed, though he would have found it difficult to explain why. The reason doubtless was that such boldness and simplicity seemed so foreign to our complex civilization that they struck the note of incongruity. He is a queer man, he remarked. Queer, sir, said the waiter. Oh, no, sir, not queer. He's simple as a little child. He's a grand man, sir. Nothing less than that. There was no doubt of Terence Nagel's enthusiastic loyalty to his employer. Supper was duly dispatched, the waiter enlivening the meal with many anecdotes of his own experience in the Confederate army and in prison. Flournoy found that they had many acquaintances in common, and more than once, when Terence was for returning to the dining room, the guest found various excuses for detaining him. But he went not last after replenishing the fire and Captain Flournoy sat long before it, wandering over the chain of circumstances by which he had been dragged, rather than led, into his present position. He took no thought of time and was surprised when he heard a clock in a distant room strike eleven. By the time the sound had died away, a gentle tap at the door attracted his attention, and, following his invitation, Terence Nagel came in, bearing a waiter on which was a bowl, a silver ladle, and three glasses. In another moment the head waiter came in. He had doffed his evening dress with the badge of his position, and with it dropped the air and manner he assumed in the dining room. He was now himself the educated Irishman, a fine specimen of a class that can be matched in few of the nations of the earth. Do you know the day, he asked, when obeying Flournoy's gesture, he seated himself? Yes, replied the Southerner. It is Christmas Eve, and hard upon Christmas, said McCarthy. I hope that our Lord, who is risen, will have mercy upon us all, and help us to carry out all our plans, and are not contrary to his own. Hey, men! responded Flournoy. It was like grace before meat, only simpler and less formal. Remembering the day, and the custom we have at the south, McCarthy explained. I have taken the liberty of brewing you a bowl of nog. Troy will be a reminder of old times, if nothing else. Flournoy's face brightened. My friend, you seem to think of everything, he declared. The very flavour of it will carry me straight home. Towards no thought of mine. I have a little ass who comes to fetch me togery in the afternoons. I was telling her of the southern gentleman so far from home, in her eyes filled with tears, and says she, Dad, darling, why not make the gentleman a bowl of nog for his Christmas gift? It is wonderful our thoughtful the women folk are, and how tender hearted. I'll fill your glass, sir. And yours, insisted Flournoy. To be sure, cried McCarthy, and one for my lieutenant. Terence Nagel. See the lad blush? You'd think he was a girl by the way he reddened. Yet with half a dozen men like him, I could meet her company of regulars. He's overdoing it, sir, Terence protested. He's overdoing it. The lad was so overcome he dropped a glass on the floor, but the carpet saved it. Were you ever drunk? McCarthy asked, after they had made away with the nog. The inquiry was bluntly put, and Flournoy looked hard at his companion. Yes, once, when I was a youngster of fourteen. It was at a corn shucking, he replied. Well, recall your feelings and actions if you can. Tamar-a-morning, you must not only be drunk, you must be very drunk. I don't understand, said Flournoy. Tamar-a-morning, a cabman will be waiting for a fare on the other side of the street, opposite this window. The blinds must be opened early, but someone will attend to that. If the sun is shining, the cabman will take out his watch. The hour will be anywhere from nine to ten. The sun will shine on the face of his watch, and the reflection will be thrown on the wall of your room. If the sun is obscured, you will hear a policeman's rattle. Then your spree must begin, and make it a jolly one. Here is a small pistol loaded with blank cartridges. Use it at your discretion. At the head of the stairs, you will fall into the arms of a big policeman, who will be joined by another. Take no offense if they hustle you. A bruise or two won't hurt you. It's all for the good of the cause, but it's our only chance. I can see that you have a temper. Don't lose it with our friends, the policeman. They will have a very critical crowd to play to, and must play as if they meant business. I must bid you good night. One moment, Sir Flournoy. He drew from his pocket a five-dollar gold piece, and laid it on the table. McCarthy drew back, his face flushing. What is that for? Yes, sternly. It is a Christmas gift for your daughter. For Nora, cried the other. Why, she'll be the happiest lass in the town. His eyes sparkled, and his whole manner changed. This must be my real good night, he went on. I've worked to do, and you will need rest. He went out, followed by Terence. Captain Flournoy was up be times. His plantation habits following him wherever he went. But he was not a man on whose hands time hung heavily. Just now, one of his windows commanded a view of about 20 feet of Broadway, and he watched, with more interest than usual, the fluctuating stream of humanity that flowed through it. When he grew tired of that panorama, he had his own thoughts for company, and the thoughts that are bred by a cheerful disposition are the best of companions. And then he had in his pocket a copy of Virgil. Under such circumstances, only a man with a bad conscience could be either lonely or gloomy. Presently his breakfast came, and by the time Terence had cleared away the fragments, nine o'clock had struck, and the sky, which had been overcast in the early morning hours, was clear. At nine too, a closed cab came leisurely from the direction of Washington Square, and took up its position in the side street opposite the ladies entrance of the hotel. From behind the curtains, Flournoy watched the driver closely, and ever once did the man give so much as a side glance at the upper windows of the hotel. His curiosity seemed to be dead. For a while he read a newspaper, nor did he cease from reading when a man, passing quickly by, pitched a small valise into the cab, but presently the paper pawled on him, and he folded it neatly and tucked it away under the cushion. Then he looked at the sun, and, as if to verify the time of day, pulled out his watch and sprung the case open. The reflection from the crystal, or from the burnished case, flashed through Flournoy's window, and danced upon the wall once, twice, thrice. Now was the time to act, and act promptly, but Flournoy paused and drew a long breath. The whole business seemed to be child's play. He seized his overcoat by one sleeve, slung it over his shoulder, threw open the door, gave a fox hunter's view halloo, the same that is called the rebel yell, fired two blank cartridges, and went staggering blindly along the corridor There he goes, there he goes, I'll shoot him, out of the way, and let me shoot him. At the head of the stairs, a policeman loomed up as big as a giant. Come out of this, you man-dering devil, he cried. They tell me you've been caping the house awake to live long night. Be easy or I'll twist your damn neck, you dribblin' idiot. Fling him down to meet him, while I whail the jimmy's out of him. Just the second time, the hole in devil has broke loose the fortnight, this from the policeman at the foot of the stairs. Now, while these policemen were talking, they were also acting. They cuffed Flournoy about between them, and knocked and dragged and bundled him along with a zeal that was almost unbearable. By the time they reached the sidewalk, he was limp and exhausted. But he did not fail to notice that Terence Nagel was prominent in the considerable crowd collected there. Took him to the hospital, Tim. Just the only way to clear the jib is from his head. The hospital, cried Terence Nagel. And if he was a poor man, he'd be hauled to the station and be left there. Hated the truth, exclaimed the keen-faced, shabby-looking man. Chased it, cried the policeman who had been left behind. Chased it and move on, every living soul of ya. By this time, the cab was rattling away up Fifth Avenue. He fell as of heavy hands, said Flournoy to his companion when he had pulled himself together. Faith, we have to limber ye upcap, why, you don't know the ABC ever, Jag. When you landed me one in a jar, I says to myself, but dad, Africa's down, hitting straight and hard like this. He'll be mad by them kinnies at the door, says I. And I tipped the wink to Mikey, and we doubled ye up same as Jinn and Improv Ardor at Redmond, sir. All we needed to give to job regularity, sir, was the power driver. At 40th Street, the cab halted. The policeman shook hands with Flournoy and got out. And in a very short time thereafter, the latter found himself at the passenger station of the New York Central. He descended from the cab and was about to pay the fare when the cab man lifted his hat with, Good luck to you, sir, touched up his horse and went whirling away. Two weeks afterward, Captain Flournoy, with a companion, a scout who knew the country well, was feeling his way southward through West Virginia. They had good horses, but traveled mainly at night. As they drew near the Virginia line, Flournoy's uneasiness became perceptible. The important document he carried became a burden almost intolerable to him, whereas the scout, one James Kirkpatrick, grew gayer and gayer with each passing hour. While Flournoy was riding gloomily along, Kirkpatrick was whistling or singing softly all the lilting tones he knew. One night, in a heavily wooded valley, the Wayfarers sent a danger. They heard a horse whinnying, the clinking of spurs, and the rattling of savers or carbines. It's the yanks, said Kirkpatrick. You know this country, you say, queried Flournoy. Like a book, replied the other. Well, here is a paper as important to the Confederacy as Lee's army. Stow it in an inner pocket, and if anything should happen to me, do you ride right on to Richmond? You have the fate of your country in your hands. Phew! whistled Kirkpatrick softly. Instantly a voice cried, Halt! Do you save yourself, said Flournoy, and spurred forward. While Kirkpatrick turned to the left, struck a footpath, and went clattering away in the gloom. Captain Flournoy spurred forward and found himself in the arms of the Confederate Videttes. In a moment, he heard shots as of skirmishers firing and falling back. In a distance, they heard the drums beating to arms. Your friend has stampeded a whole Yankee brigade! Remarked one of the Videttes. But this was a mistake. Kirkpatrick was lying dead not a mile away, killed by a stray bullet. It was his horse running wild that disturbed the Federal camp. Next morning, the Federals advanced, feeling their way cautiously. One of their skirmishers, a German, found Kirkpatrick stark and stiff. He appropriated a dead man's overcoat, searched his pockets for valuables, and found the document that was to decide the fate of the Confederacy. He looked at it critically, crumpled it in his hand, and made as if to throw it away. A second thought caused him to cram it in one of his pockets, where it remained until he needed something with which to light his pipe. On the 4th of the following March, Grant was made General-in-Chief of the Land Forces of the United States. And the program set forth in the paper, Grant's move on Virginia and Sherman's march to the sea, was promptly begun and carried out. End of Section 2, Recording by Maria Meladia Carey Section 3 of The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Greg Giordano The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories by Joel Chandler Harris In the Order of Providence, Part 1 It is impossible for the present generation to realize the nature and extent of the wound inflicted on the southern people of that day by the surrender of Lee's army in 1865. And, assuredly, it is beyond description. No historian will ever be able to explain it or make its characteristics manifest to the modern mind. It is fortunate, perhaps, that this is so. A population can go through such an experience, but once in its history. No disaster that might overtake us now could match that which marked the defeat and dissolution of the Confederate army. And the reason lies on the surface. It is an experience that makes provision against itself. On the tender hand, unused to labor, a blister is succeeded by a callus. And so it is with the heart. Sensibilities wounded and torn can never again respond as sharply and as keenly to the pangs of misfortune and disappointment. One journey through the furnace of despair gives a long vacation to those qualities that are as rare and as fine as the rainbow sheen on a piece of silk, as restless and as vivid. And there is something grievous and uncomfortable in the consolation that time offers. For qualities thus consumed will hardly be missed saved by those who have been witnesses to the beauty and perfection of their play. And who knew their import? The miracle of dissolution happened. The earthquake arose, shook itself, yawned, and fell back into its abyss, carrying with it the whole structure and fabric of a newly formed government, and the dearest hopes of those who had contributed to its upbuilding. Hundreds of men and women never recovered from the shock. Some of them pined away and died. Others lived on, as it were, in a dream, while still others cast in an adventurous mold we took themselves into self-imposed exile. Among these exiles was Colonel Fontaine Flournay, who had risked his life on many fields and in diverse ways on behalf of the Confederacy. Some of the undertakings in which he engaged were such as most men shrank from. But he, as his name implied, came from a family given over to valorous deeds and romantic adventures. For this name comes from the days of chivalry, when the night of the black flower, Flournois, made his num de guerre so famous that it usurped the place of the family's surname. Taking all these things into consideration, it is small wonder that Colonel Flournay considered himself an exile and a wanderer, a man without a country, from the moment that Lee surrendered his army. He was an officer in the Confederate army on detached service. Two weeks before the surrender he was in New York City. A week afterward he was piloting the remnants of the Confederate government southward and lending active assistance and guarding the treasure which was carried along with it. At Washington, in Wilkes County, Georgia, this treasure was divided and in an amount sufficiently large felt the Colonel Flournay's share to enable him to carry out his purposes. He pushed on to Middle Georgia, where his home was, made provision for the wants of his wife and son. A lad of sixteen made them good-bye, and with Colonel Toomes, for a companion, made his way to the Florida coast. Here the two Confederates parted company. Toomes went to Europe, while Flournay went to Cuba, and from that island found his way to South America. His adventures in these queer republics, seething with revolutions, rebellions, and riots, were numerous enough to fill a book of romance. But it is sufficient to say, that in the course of five years he returned home with a fortune considerably larger than the one which war had taken from him. He returned, bent on enjoying a life of elegant ease after his turbulent career. But the best part of his vigor was spent to sustain himself in the Civil War and in the South American Troubles, where he had seated and unseated more than one government. He had been compelled to employ the store of energy that should have been reserved for old age to draw upon. He had enjoyed the companionship of his family and his friends, not more than a year, when he fell a victim to a disease, the seeds of which she had brought with him, from the tropical swamps and jungles, where his later campaigns had carried him. It need not be said, that the death of Colonel Flournay occasioned deep grief to all who knew him. Where his personal friendship had not an opportunity to go, his gentle courtesy went. And even those who had been made the object of one of his casual salutations, regarded to him thereafter as something more than an acquaintance. His obsequies were very imposing, by reason of the multitude they gathered together to pay the last tribute of respect to the memory of the most notable private citizen of Middle Georgia. So far as Colonel Flournay's immediate neighbors were concerned, there was one disclosure following hard upon the heels of the funeral discourse, delivered with such genuine feeling and simple eloquence by Reverend Samson White, that for a time stopped him out of friendly reminiscence and put curiosity on tiptoe. He had been the Colonel's wish that, after all had been said over his remains, that grief could suggest or friendship devise. His last will and testament should be opened and read in the presence of his neighbors before they had dispersed. It was a whim, perhaps, but it was of a peace with the openness and candor of the man. The duty of reading the will devolved on Judge Vardeman, a close friend of the family, and his sonorous voice rang out even more effectively than had the soft and persuasive tones of Reverend Samson White. So much so that Mrs. Betsy Nicklin contented as long as she had lived that it would have been better and more helpful in every way if the judge had preached the sermon, leaving the preacher to read the legal document. Colonel Flournay was very rich, and it was known beforehand that he intended to add to the endowments of various institutions and to leave legacies to a number of his friends. But the bequest which gave Philip the curiosity left a large field in which gossip and inquisitiveness might play was as follows. And remembering, with constant and increasing affection, the services rendered to me personally, and to the sacred cause in which the southern people had embarked on my dear friend Lawrence McCarthy, who, from May 1st, 1862 to April 30th, 1865, acted as head waiter of the New York Hotel in New York City. I do hereby will, devise, and bequeath to him his heirs and assigns for ever the house and lot known as the Pearson Place, and the plantation lying contiguous thereto. The said lot and contiguous plantation, being fully described in the deeds, marked F and G. In addition to this bequest and devisement, I do hereby make it the duty of my executors here and after, named to pay into the hands of the aforesaid Lawrence McCarthy, or his surviving heirs, if he have any, and some of ten thousand dollars in cash, the same to be paid on the eve of the Christmas next ensuing after my death. And I hereby make it the duty of my son, Francis Flournay, to seek out the aforesaid Lawrence McCarthy, or his heirs, if he be dead, and I lay it upon him as a solemn charge to be diligent and zealous in all ways in carrying out the terms of this clause of my last will and testament. All incurred expenses to be paid equally, out of each share of my estate, save that which is herein set apart for the benefit and behoof of the said Lawrence McCarthy, his heirs and assigns. Now, assuredly, here was matter for gossip to busy itself about, for the Pearson Place was marked by one of the most elaborate and best preserved specimens of colonial architecture to be found south of the James River, as the saying is. The site was commanding, and rising two and a half stories, the old structure seemed to take a certain grandeur from its surroundings. The plantation attached to it, and made part of the bequest, comprised not less than four hundred acres of the richest land in the county noted for the fertility of its soil. And this historic old house, and this splendid plantation, which will fall into the hands of a total stranger, a man whom Rockville had never heard of, and a Yankee at that, not only a Yankee, but a hotel waiter. This is Betsy Nicklin, who is the mouthpiece of a great many people, less outspoken than she, who'd neither make head or tail to this divisement. She said as much to her husband, when the two had returned home from the funeral. I've been known in Fountain, Florida, more than forty years, she said, and if anybody had up and told me that he'd wind up his business with each doing as that, I'd have felt like knocking them down. But I'm not a bit surprised, not a bit. There never was a better man, I'll say that much. But Fountain was a man, and there never was a man that didn't have a screw loose summer. Some are too lazy to show it, and some die before they get a chance. But if they ain't shiftless and live long enough, they'll show a weak spot. Some on them show it when they get married, said Mr. Nicklin. You'd show the fire to let you, responded Mrs. Betsy. You know as well as I do, Weasley. If it hadn't there been for me, you'd have married old Maul Coy. And what would you look like now? Well, ain't so mighty certain, Betsy, that I'd look one bit better than Martin McCoy. I met him till the night, riding about in his moonlight, and whilst she couldn't speak when spoken to. I don't know about what, he looked very bit and grain as good as every other man in the county. He had on a Sunday duds, for one thing. You didn't tell me about it, Weasley? Mrs. Nicklin declared with some asperity. You didn't ask me to, her spouse responded. She gave him what she called a look. It was one of her methods of crushing her opponents. Mr. Nicklin didn't wither as he might have been expected to. One reason was that he was a man past middle age. Another reason was that he was at that moment engaged in grinding some dry tobacco cuttings, between the hard palms of his strong hands, to fit them for service in his pipe. Where did you see him, Weasley? Mrs. Nicklin inquired. Her tone was imperative, as it was always when she desired to attract her husband's undivided attention. See who, Betsy? Oh, Martin Coy? Why, I see them coming out of Colonel Floreny's front gate. Twas the night the Colonel died. You reckon he killed him? He's none too good to do that, declared Mrs. Nicklin. Her husband turned upon her with amazement in his face. Why, Betsy, he declared, you'll let your tongue run on till you have a libel tick out against you. And when that's done, don't you run to me for to bail you out? No, I'll let the law take its course. Tipsy-topsy-toddle-dolly broke its noddle, cried Mrs. Nicklin sarcastically. When did I ever run to you to get me out of trouble? Why, when you sent me word that you had set your cap for me, replied Mr. Nicklin promptly, whereupon his wife indulged in a fit of hearty laughter remarking, If there ever was a goose in this world, I got it when I got you. You tried hard to be the gander, Betsy, said Mr. Nicklin, as you lit his pipe and began to smoke with an air of supreme contentment. This couple seemed to be engaged in a chronic quarrel from year's end to year's end. And yet they had never had a seriousness understanding, and were happy in each other's company. Well, Mrs. Nicklin, trying hard to snap thumb and finger, I wouldn't give that for old Martin Coy and all the lie-bills he could fetch in again me to ex-Christmas and Christmas. But I'd give a party to know how come Fountain Flournay to have such a moral weakness for a Yankee and a hotel waiter at that. That's what pesters me. To tell the truth, it pestered a good many people in Middle Georgia when they heard of it. But when young Francis Flournay, carrying out the duty laid upon him by his father's will, had found Lawrence McCarthy in Brooklyn, where he was living with his daughter Nora in very modest circumstances, and had installed this interesting family in their new home. The public mind of the neighborhood was no longer pestered about it. The first to call was Judge Vertiman. The judge's driver said afterward that, Mars Walton seeded the other man walking about on these trees, and he went where he was. And then he fought she-yell, and they half grabbed one another round the neck, and there they had it. Right at first, a load was fighting, and I came mighty Cy Highlander for somebody to run and part him. By a soon seed day was Haudien. And such Haudien! Man, was he ex-demeten, or two sisters, out of so long a time. And, in fact, the two men had been comrades and mess-mates in the earliest campaigns in the West. And following forest out of Fort Donelson on the night of February 15, 1862, they became separated and never met again, until a Judge Vertiman, moved more by curiosity and by neighborly feelings, called to pay his respects to the new owner of the Pearson Place. Why Larry, he cried, still keeping his hand on his old comrades' shoulder, it's all over the county that you're a hotel waiter. And I came over to see how a waiter would look as a landed proprietor. My dear friend, if you only knew how glad I am to see you after all these years. There's no need to say it, Walton. I judge your feelings by my own. For my part I can truly say that God is merciful as well as bountiful. Yonder is Nora, my little girl. She'll be glad to see her father's old friend. He called, and Nora came running. And whether he was influenced by his surroundings, whether his eyes told him the simple truth, Judge Varnamon thought he had never seen as charming a girl as Nora McCarthy. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes were gray or blue as the light fell on them, and the rose tints flowed faintly or radiantly in response to her emotions. The play of her features was wonderful to see. In each movement of her body, every gesture of her white hands rhymed to the artless grace and innocence of youth. In repose, her countenance gave out those inscrutable, indescribable suggestions of old songs and old romances that are to be found in the ideal portraits painted by the great masters. Having a mind sensitive to impressions of this sort, the grave judge caught himself sighing even as he smiled. He felt irresistibly drawn to this beautiful girl, who, although she had reached the years of a young womanhood, was still a girl in whom a dash of waywardness seemed nothing more than sprightliness, happier of those whose lights falls flutter toward beauty and graciousness. Now, Captain Lawrence McCarthy, being duly installed in his possessions, it was not long before all his neighbors had an inkling of his somewhat romantic career, of the risks he had run and the devotion he had shown to the Confederate cause. He thoroughly enjoyed his new life, and he began at once to apply to the management of his plantation, the methodical skill and unerring judgment which enabled him to manipulate men and create opportunities as the manager of the secret service of the Confederacy in New York. In short, he was conspicuously successful as a farmer because he knew how to manage men, because he had the art of inspiring them with his own tireless energy. As he was a man who loved company and knew how to entertain his guests, his home soon became a social center. Whatever training as a hostess his daughter Nora lacked was more than compensated for by her sweetness and simplicity. She knew how to be natural. It is a great gift in man or woman. She had a fine voice and performed on the harp. Hardly an evening passed the judge of Artemon was not to be found at the Pearson Place, and his example was soon followed by the choice or spirits of the village. At least once and sometimes twice a week all the men and women, as well as the boys and girls who were socially inclined, met at the Pearson Place, and at such times the youngsters usually had a frolic, so that it happened that in all that region Captain McCarthy's house was the only one which old-fashioned hospitality was revived and put to his finer uses. The young people had the spacious parlor and the wide dining-room in which to dance and play the innocent games that led to love-making, while the elders had the library or in fine weather the wide veranda. For amusement there was wist or cribbage, but those who once got a taste of Captain McCarthy's room in instances or heard one of Judge of Artemon's stories prefer to sit for those two more conversing or to linger within earshot. End of Section 3, Recording by Greg Giordano, Newport Richie, Florida. Section 4 of The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Recording by Greg Giordano. Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories. By Joel Chandler Harris. In the Order of Providence, Part 2. On one occasion Nora touched young Flournoy's coat sleeve, remarking, Do you want to hear something about your father? All the young people followed the two, and listened to the story that has already been told. The story of, quote, why the Confederacy failed, end quote. I still have the gold piece he sent me, said Nora, proudly, shaking the bracelet under Flournoy's eyes. The young man thought that the arm on which the bracelet glistened was the fairest and most beautiful to be found in the world. I think you left out one of the portents, remarked Judge Vardeman. For instance, inquired the Captain. Fort Donelson, said the Judge, we were both there. Upon my word you are correct, Walton. Never before did an army, measurably victorious, surrender so tamely. You remember the rage of forest? I do, replied Judge Vardeman, laughing. A part of it fell on me. I had been his courier during the day, and he came roaring to his headquarters like a wounded lion. He cried out to those who could hear him. Do you and you and you, calling their names, go and wake up every man in my command, and you too, sir, he yelled at me. And if you ain't quick about it, I'll break him a hickory and frail the life out of you. But there was no need to hurry. The enemy was camping out of hearing, expecting to be attacked. Forest's whole command, and many others who had no stomach for prison life, marched out of the fort, and not a federal was to be seen. I heard of the proposed surrender about daylight, said Captain McCarthy, and with half a dozen others made my way out. I was not three quarters of a mile away when I heard Buckner's bugler sounding a truce. Yes, my friend, you are right. Fort Donaldson belongs high up in the list of portents. But for that surrender Grant would never have been heard of again. His enemies at Washington were preparing to make the final move that would have swept him into obscurity. But when Providence arranges a program, it is not for mortals to disturb it. That is so true, remarked Judge Vardemond gravely, that the mere words fall short of describing it. Yes, responded McCarthy, it is true of the most trivial events. But it is only when the issues are large that we can put our fingers on the connecting links in this vast chain. He paused and looked forth across the fields of night, in which the stars were blooming, sighed, and continued. I remember the occasion when, but for a most trifling accident, we call such things accidents, that we have no right to. A life of inextemable value to the whole country might have been saved. Captain McCarthy arose from his chair, walked to the farther end of the veranda, and then came slowly back, his head bent and his hands behind him. He did not resume his seat, but moved about in a small space in front of the older men in the company, while the young people were grouped in the door of the wide hallway, or sat upon the low railing that ran around the veranda. You never met John Omahundro, remarked the Captain, to Judge Vardemond. I never did, but I heard General Dabney Murray giving Forrest an account of him. Forrest's comment was, if he thought he could get Omahundro, he'd take a week off and go after him. Well, John Omahundro had gone on to the stage since the war, and now calls himself Texas Jack, said Captain McCarthy, whereat there was considerable excitement among the young folks, for some of them had seen Texas Jack and Buffalo Bill, when they performed in their Lord melodrama of the Wild West and Macon. Some of the young ladies, especially, remembered Texas Jack as perhaps the handsomest and most dashing hero they had ever seen on the stage. They remembered, too, that he had long black hair that fell in curls about his shoulders, and the loveliest moustache possible to man. And he was tall, as tall as a grenadier. Captain McCarthy listened to this enumeration of Omahundro, drove his attractions with a smile, and then continued, Well, he was a very handsome lad when I knew him. But his hair was too short to curl, and he had no moustache. In fact, the first time I saw him, he was about as droll as specimen of the country cracker as I ever laid eyes on. He wore brogues of undressed leather. His copperous colored breeches were short enough to show his woolen socks. And, as the day was warm, he carried his jeans coat on his arm, which enabled all who glanced at the droll figure to see that he had but one suspender and that made of twine. His wool hat had seen service so long that it was as limber as a dishrag. He was driving a rugged-looking mule to a small cart, which contained fresh vegetables, a basket of eggs, and a few chickens. He was chewing a straw, and his face wore a most woe-begone expression. He walked with a slight limp, and this circumstance, simple as it was, preserved the figure from exaggeration. He knew at once that here was a droll specimen of the poor white common to all parts of our common country, so familiar to Maryland, Virginia, and Pennsylvania, as it is to Georgia and Florida, or to Maine or Vermont. You saw him, then, suggested Judge Vernemont, in his native surroundings, before circumstances had combined to develop, No! replied Captain McCarthy. My first glimpse of him was in Washington City, within ten minutes' walk of the White House. Oh! I remember the very day! cried Nora. When my duty carried me north on an errand that I knew would detain me there for many weary months, I carried my family with me, my wife and daughter, and for the time being I made my headquarters in Washington, renting a very modest house there, until such moment as the plans of my superiors could be developed. Well! the Captain went on laughing. They never were developed, and I had to take matters into my own hands, and organize a sort of secret service of my own, which I never could have done, but for Omahundro. He offered his wares before many doors. The one he saw me, he stopped his cart close to the pavement, searched in it till he found three chickens tied together by the feet. These he brought to the door, remarking, I reckon you're a new man in these parts. I've been trading and trafficking run here for some time, but I never saw you before. What wants your name be? He looked at me and grinned like an imbecile. My name might be almost anything, but it happens to be McCarthy, I replied. You're right, certain it ain't, Macavit, nor Mackenzie, nor any other kind of Mack, he insisted. Because I seen a lady down the road a piece, and she says, says she, Jackie, she says, of you see Captain Larry McCarthy, just up and lead three of your best chickens at his door. As he has said this, the cracker nudged me with his thumb, made a queer noise with his mouth, and then fell into a fit of laughter. What on earth do you mean? I asked. While I don't mean no harm, not a bit in the world, he replied. I said as to the lady, says I. Is the Captain a married man? And she says, I'd do her where he is or no, and I don't care. You just give him the chickens. She did that away. She said them very words. I got a gal myself, he remarked, by way of reassuring me, and she's a thumper. He laughed in a silliest manner. Now I had, when first taking the cottage, left my address at a country shanty some miles out of the city, in accordance with instructions received at Richmond. But the gifts of the chickens conveyed no information to me. It seemed more like a trap laid for me. But the cracker left the fouls, and as he went toward his wagon, he paused long enough to say, I want you to save the biggest string, Cap. I'll come back harder at some day. Now this was a cue. The big string turned out to be about a yard and a half of thrones. Small threads loosely tied together, and in this piece of thrones was wrapped a strip of tissue paper, containing a message from one of General Stewart's couriers, an old friend of mine, saying that no satisfactory instructions could be got for Richmond, and advising me to act as I thought best. The bearer of the dispatch, the writer said, was John Omahundro, the brightest, bravest, and most trustworthy scout in the army. The statement made me laugh. I no more believed that the person who delivered me the message was John Omahundro, of whom I had heard a great deal, than I believe that I, myself, was Secretary Stanton. I never have believed it, remarked Nora emphatically. I was nothing but a greenhorn in the business then. Captain continued, smiling at Nora, who tossed her head in effect in anger. And I thought that all such practices smelt of the cheap novel and melodrama. I had not changed my own name, and never did. And I thought at that time that my contempt for all disguises and underhand methods would never permit me to employ them. But when I had seen one or two young fellows, gallant but foolhardy, snatched out of my hands, as you may say, and sacrificed Mr. Stanton's impeccable temper, I soon lost my contempt for measures intended to ensure my safety. That fellow, Stanton, was a grand rascal, remarked one of the Captain's audience. Oh, no, no, no, cried Captain McCarthy deprecatingly. You never were more mistaken in your life. I despised him heartily for many a long day. But he was honest and true. He was simply impeccable. He spent and was spent in performing his duties. He was restless and violent, running over everything and everybody that stood in his way. He knew neither friends nor foes when it came to his duties. And in like circumstances, he would have hanged or imprisoned his dearest friend as promptly as he ignored an anonymous spy. Well, the day after I had received the message from my friend in Virginia, I became aware of the fact that two men were following me. How long they had been engaged in this business before I had discovered it was impossible to say. At first I simply suspected it, and then I made assurance, doubly sure, by walking aimlessly about. But no matter where I went, I found them not far away. They made no effort to intrude themselves upon me. They were not obnoxious, as you may say. They followed me at their ease and seemed to be in high good humor. Sometimes they would pause, as if trying to settle some disputed point, or one would seem to tell a good story at which both laughed heartily. Finally, having walked around in about for an hour, I determined to take a street-car and go home. I had been walking in the direction of the capital, but the car was moving in the direction of the White House. The men who were following me waited patiently for the car, and then, as I expected they would, followed my example, and seated themselves opposite me. One was a young man of very frail appearance. His face was somewhat emaciated, and his eyes were sunken. His hair was a dirty yellow. His companion presented a striking contrast. His face was full and rosy, his hair glossy black, and his eyes brilliant with health and strength. He was six feet high, but seemed to be shorter by reason of his perfect proportions. I watched them narrowly, but they never once looked directly at me. I was not angry, but I was irritated. I knew my position, and it was by no means pleasant to be followed about by strangers. They soon began to converse, and I felt that every word they said was directed at me. The yellow-haired man rolled his cat-like eyes as he talked, and sometimes held them closed for a dozen seconds together, giving a terrible emphasis to his words. You see, it's this way, he said, speaking in a guarded, confidential tone. We know that a message came from the rebels today. We caught one of the messengers, but we didn't catch the other. We know that it had to do with three chickens, and we know it was delivered. But how? I wouldn't give a dime for the message itself, but I'd give a thousand dollars to know who brought it, and I'm going to find out. I reckon we won't have much trouble about that," replied the other, lightly. They kept up this sort of conversation for several minutes, and I assure you I was surprised at myself control. In fact, I had no need to exercise any. I felt as placid and as complacent as if I had been sitting at home listening to Nora playing jigs and reels on the mouth-harp. I seemed to be taken completely out of myself. You'll hardly believe it, but the situation seemed to have a humorous aspect, and I laughed as I left the car. I walked straight home, closed the door after me, and called Nora. "'Nora, darling,' says I, two men will knock at the door presently. Show them into the parlour, and ask them to have seats, and go into the kitchen and stay with mother. Should you hear any unusual noise, pay no attention to it. I made haste to move every chair from the parlour. We had few, moving only a small sofa. This I placed opposite the door. Well, sure enough, there soon came a knock on the door. I went into my bedroom, secured my navy revolvers—a very fine pair, by the way—and as soon as Nora came back and described the men, I motioned for her to go to the kitchen. "'I sat in there,' said Nora, laughing, with my fingers and my ears for fully half an hour. I knew, Captain McCarthy continued, that a desperate situation needed a desperate remedy. So I walked to the parlour door, covered the two men, and said, "'Gentlemen, your little game of sneak and tag is played out. The first one that raises his hand or moves from his position will be the first to die.' To my surprise, they displayed no alarm. They showed no signs of apprehension. The reason was—to make a long story short—that the Rosa youth was John Omahundro. While the other was Frank Tidwell, the quaintest wag I ever saw. You may be very sure I didn't take these gentlemen. At their word into Omahundro, I rehearsed the scene with the chickens, almost word for word. This I had to depend on, for the Rosa youngster before me bore not the slightest resemblance to the cracker who brought me the chickens. "'Why should you play a practical joke on me?' I asked. "'Well,' replied Tidwell, you had to be broke in, you know. I didn't know whether you was a stump-sucker or a thoroughbred. We can't take no chances here. If you'd have flickered on that car, you'd never lay eyes on us any more.' We're upon. After searching himself, he produced an order on a Halifax bank for five hundred dollars in gold. This, as a guarantee of good faith, was appreciated. You were talking a while ago of a trivial accident or incident that turned out to have important relations to a larger event, suggested Judge Vardeman, as the speaker paused. "'Yes, I was coming to that,' responded Captain McCarthy. I am simply trying to recall the impressions and details of a history-disturbing event. However, these impressions are merely personal. You have all heard of that unfortunate young man, John Wilkes Booth. Well, wherever there was a spark of sympathy for the South, there this young man was to be found. Omahundro knew him well, and it was natural that I should fall in with him. He was a very attractive man in every way. He had in him all the elements of genius, but seemed powerless to focus them. To say that this young man was mad would be to dispose of the problem he presents in a very unsatisfactory way. He was as mad as Hamlet was, no more, no less. And all his views and beliefs, and his designs and his hopes, he was as much a creature of fiction as any you find in books. He was so infected and unbalanced by his profession, he was an actor, that the world seemed to him to be a stage in which men and women were acting, not living, their parts. There is nothing real to him, but that which is most unreal. The theatrical and the romantic. He had a great variety of charming qualities, and his mind would have been brilliant, but for the characteristics which warped it. I soon discovered that this young man of unbalanced judgment and unbridled tongue was a person to be avoided by those who had work to do. Omahundro had already made the same discovery for himself, and he predicted that Booth would commit some act that would drag the innocent to death. For my part, I went at once to Canada, then returned to New York, and had very few opportunities after that of seeing this unfortunate young man. But I was in Washington on the 11th of April, 1865, three days after the surrender of Lee, and though I was in no enviable frame of mind, I had the greatest confidence in the wisdom, justice, and humanity of President Lincoln. I felt, as did all who knew him, that he would do the right thing, in the right way, at the right time. Omahundro, I remember, had some gloomier forebodings. He had her real love for the President, who knew the lad only is a country cracker, and relished his droleries, which, in the main, consisted of narratives and anecdotes after Mr. Lincoln's own heart. In addition to those droleries, Omahundro had a pretty good head for politics, as all our southern young men have, and he thought that Mr. Lincoln would be carried away by the radical wing of his party, which Stanton, assisted by Morton and Stevens, had already nursed into life. Now, I had some knowledge of men, and it struck me that Mr. Lincoln's excessive patience and forbearance were really the entrenchments behind which his purposes lay. I thought, I say, that while he seemed to be deferring to the judgment of others, he was engaged all the time in carrying out his own firm resolutions in unalterable plans as fast as events would justify them. That is the simple truth, exclaimed Judge Vardemond. That is the way it struck me, Captain McCarthy went on, and I really felt better after the surrender than for some time previously. For one thing, the suspense was ended. The inevitable had come to pass. Still, I was gloomy enough. Well, I arrived in Washington on Tuesday. The next Friday was Good Friday, as I was coming from morning devotions and met Omahundro, who had been waiting for me. He was nervous and excited. I'll tell you what, he declared, drawing me aside, we're going to have trouble. Sure, that fellow Booth is getting ready to do something desperate. I tell you, he's crazy. I've been talking to him, and he's wild on the subject of ridding the country of tyrants and oppressors. Poo! said I. Such talk comes natural to him. As it happened, we had not gone far before we met the unfortunate young man. He paused long enough to pass the time of day, and quite long enough for me to see that he was laboring under a great mental strain. His eyes shone with an unnatural luster, and his gestures were uncertain. I'll come to your room this afternoon, my friend. He said to Omahundro, and take a nap. For the work that is before me, I need the preparation of slumber. I, he cried, with a wild gesture, and others will sleep, envy not their dreams, envy not their dreams, my friend. I'll meet you there, said Omahundro. Now, for three long years, it had been my business to foresee possible troubles and entanglements, and to provide against them, and so when I heard this young man's remark, and noted his excitement, I began to think of some possible difficulty into which we might be dragged. Therefore I said to Omahundro, Do you go to your room, lock the door, and let it be understood that you'll not be back until late tonight. Why, Cap, I want to collar that fellow and keep him there till he gets over the tantrums. It won't be hard to straighten him out. I believe he's got the jimmies. Well, I replied. You can only restrain him for a few hours. His mania will renew itself, and if he sleeps in your room this afternoon, you will be identified with whatever he does, especially if he commits some serious crime. I reckon that's about so, said Omahundro. Nevertheless, and in spite of all this, Captain McCarthy continued, speaking gravely and with emphasis. John Omahundro did go back to his room, and permitted this unfortunate young man to sleep there that afternoon. When Booth was sound asleep, Omahundro slipped out, locked the door, and carried the key away with him. When he returned, he found that the young man had escaped by the transom. In the course of a few hours we were overwhelmed with the news of the President's assassination. It was a terrible blow to the South, but for some good purpose Providence permitted the event to occur. Omahundro was deeply affected by it. He felt that if he had remained in the room with the unfortunate young man, and had restrained his movements until the next day, his bloodthirstiness would have been dissipated. But in my opinion no earthly power could have kept the assassin in that room. He would have found some means of escape. The awful event, provided for in the mysterious order of Providence, would have come off on the moment. Just then Joe Bob Griffin drew his bow across his fiddle in the dining room, and the young people went flocking in, laughing and chattering as young people will. End of Section 4. Recording by Greg Giordano, Newport Ritchie, Florida. Section 5 of The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kay Hand. The Kidnapping of President Lincoln and Other War Detective Stories by Joel Chandler Harris. The Troubles of Martin Koi, Part 1. When Mrs. Nicklin, on the day of Colonel Florene's funeral, was informed by her husband that he had seen and spoken to Martin Koi, it is no wonder that she was astonished. Nor is it any wonder that she was ready to entertain and express a suspicion that the man was responsible for the Colonel's taking off. For Martin had, innocently and unintentionally, made for himself the most gruesome and mysterious reputation that ever attached itself to the name and character of any other human being in Middle Georgia. He was a living ghost, and it was only necessary to mention his name to send children to bed silent and shivering, and to cause negroes to remain indoors. The reason there was no Ku Klux organization in that immediate region was because it was only necessary for one white man to say, to another, within hearing of a negro. Have you heard the noise? Martin Koi has sent word that he'll walk about tonight. This was sufficient to keep every negro at home on that particular night. On one occasion, the evening before a state election, the negroes gathered together in large numbers not far from town, ready to march in early morning and mass themselves at the polls. A happy thought on the part of one of the young politicians of the community caused this plan to miscarry. He dressed himself up after the style of the Fantastics, as modern mummers were called in the South just prior to the war. Don DeHinius masked and a wig and beard of long white hair, and went to the camping place of the negroes. Who dat, cried one of their pickets. Martin Koi replied to young man in a terrible voice, striking a match as though he would see whose challenger was. But the negro gave him no such opportunity. Uttering one shriek of terror he turned and fled, pursued as he supposed by Martin Koi. The shriek, coupled with the name of Martin Koi, was sufficient to stampede the colored citizens. The noise made by their feet as they ran along the firm clay road could be heard from some distance, and it sounded like the wild rush of a drove of cattle. In a word Martin Koi was a ghost, alive and palpable, and yet as mysterious and unreal as the spooks that figure in fireside tales. No man in all that section had been better known than Martin Koi. For several years before the war he had made himself obnoxious to some and popular with others by running a distillery and keeping a doggery just outside the corporate limits of the town. This still and doggery soon became eyesores to the good citizens of the community. They attracted all the reckless and irresponsible characters in the county. Young men with no fondness for drink went there for the sake of the gaiety of the crowd, and were soon drawn into the whirlpool of intemperance. On Saturday nights, especially, the orgies that took place at Koi's still house were something to be remembered by those who lived within earshot. Various efforts were made to remove this blot upon the social order, but Martin Koi had taken sound advice so far as the legality of his business was concerned. Moreover, the attacks made on him in the courts aroused the real obstinacy of his nature, and when the citizens clubbed together and raised enough money to buy out a dozen such distilleries, he laughed at their offer. They had attacked him in the first place, and when they went at him with fair words, they found him with his bristles up as the saying is. Now, in Georgia, since the days of George Whitefield's campaign against Satan, one of the specialties of the population is the ease and certainty with which it turns out revivalist preachers, one for each generation of sinners. Uncle Jimmy Daniely, one of the most celebrated, flourished in the 30s, and Uncle Johnny Knight in the 50s. They were rough and uncouth in their ways, it may be, but they were men of genius, gifted with a power to stir the hearts of their fellows. Many strange stories are told of the result of their appeals to the consciences of their hearers. Camp meeting, when a series of services was head in mid-summer in the deep bosom of the Greenwood, was the special harvest time of these revivalists. They preached day and night, and some very astonishing scenes occurred as the result of their ministrations. Martin Koy never attended a camp meeting nor any other religious service, but it was while one of these meetings was in progress, not far away, that the good citizens of the community concluded to make him the object of special attention on the part of the preachers. Some of the young man got wind of the plan and made haste to inform Martin that a vigorous attempt would be made to convert him. Well, said Martin, I reckon I need something of that kind as bad as the next one, but they'll not pester me. But on Saturday night, while the young men who favored Martin Koy with their presence and their patronage were in the midst of one of their revels, two or three revivalists, a company by a dozen or more of the most substantial citizens of the community, suddenly made their appearance. The young men had prepared for a great time. They had secured the services of Fidelin Bill, a one-legged negro whose lack of limb and knack as a shoemaker had secured him many privileges, and had made all arrangements for what is called a stag dance. But Fidelin Bill, perceiving this grave and threatening a session to the crowd, slipped his fiddle into its bag and was slipping away. A word from Uncle Johnny Knight detained him. Don't go, William, said the great revivalist, his face beaming with smiles. The fiddle is a vile thing when its strings are tuned to sin, but can't you tune it to play a hymn, William? The young men slipped away one by one, but Fidelin Bill remained, and so did Martin Koy, who was running a doubling of low winds. If you get dry, he remarked to his new guest, you'll find a jug by the water bucket there. With that he went on attending to his business, chunking up the fire and testing the strength of the run, which was slowly dribbling through the coils of the copper pipe into a cask, or half-barrel. We have come, Martin, said Reverend John Knight, to have a little friendly talk with you about your soul. All right, neighbors and friends, responded Martin Koy cheerfully, far away. But first we'll have prayer, said the preacher, and they all knelt except Martin Koy. The fact that made Uncle Johnny Knight's prayers more impressive than those of any other person was their conversational tone. He addressed his maker as if the great infinite were standing before him. We know, Lord, that our poor friend Martin Koy has a good heart and a clear understanding. If we know that, Heavenly Father, how much better do you know it? O, touch that heart, and make that understanding clearer, and lift our poor friend out of the depths of his misery. He doesn't know, Lord, how deep his misery is, but show it to him, make him feel it, brand the knowledge of it on his dead conscience, and bring that conscience to life, all quivering with the despair that leads to repentance. The prayer was long and earnest, and grew more vivid toward the close, but it seemed to have no sort of effect on Martin Koy. Then a hymn was sung. Acting on orders, Fidlin Bill, after one or two trials, picked up the tune and carried it along very sweetly, the tones of the violin striking through the male voices with singular effectiveness. Pretty good, Bill, remarked Martin Koy with a grunt of satisfaction. I'll give you a big drink for that when the company goes. Thank you, Master, said Fidlin Bill enthusiastically. The upshot of it was that the efforts of the revivalists appeared to have no appreciable effect on Martin Koy, until at last one of them—it may have been Reverend Caleb Key—who, when all other tactics had failed, had a way of seizing sinners by the scruff of the neck, metaphorically speaking, and shaking them over the bottomless pit, raised his hand and said solemnly, Martin Koy, in the presence of your God and these consecrated brethren, I denounce you for sowing the seeds of crime and sin in this community. Your wicked heart is harder than flint, but it will be broken. The day will come, be it soon or late, when you will hide from the light of the sun, when you will slink about in the darkness, when you will be a dead man, though yet alive. Mark my word, Martin Koy, the God of the widow and orphan will take vengeance on you. These words may not seem very impressive in print, but charged with the emphasis of a sonorous and living voice, and rising and falling with the inflections of an earnestness as strong as passion itself, they proved more effective than all the prayers and preaching. As soon as the words were uttered, Martin Koy turned around and faced the revivalists, but they were already retiring. He advanced a pace or two and raised his hand as though he would attract their attention, but their backs were turned and they were swallowed by the darkness. Then Martin Koy turned and looked at Fidelin Bill. They give out some rough texts, he remarked. Desho does, said Fidelin Bill, who was staring at Martin Koy with wide open eyes. A little moaned, a peacher would have cussed you out. I wish he had had done it with his own hook, suggested Martin Koy with a sigh. Then I could have grabbed him and given him a frail and it would have lasted him till the next time he pestered me. Would you have done it, Marsa Koy? asked Fidelin Bill. As certain as guns iron, replied Martin Koy. Well, sir, commented the negro. After that there was silence for some time. The negro, narrowly watching Martin Koy, saw that he was in a soberer mood than usual, not that he was ever drunk. It was his boast indeed that though he had made thousands of gallons of spirits and had tasted nearly every gallon of it, not a drop had ever gone down his goozle. After a while Fidelin Bill ventured to make another remark. Demand show was a ranked talker. To this, Martin Koy made no reply. Whereupon, after awaiting a reasonable time, Fidelin Bill made as if to tune his violin. He had lowered the pitch to suit the solemnity of the hymn tune. But Martin shook his head. No more tunes tonight, Bill. We've had enough music to last us over Sunday. There's a jug there with a tin cup tied to the handle. Take a dram if you want one. Fidelin Bill looked at Martin Koy and then at the jug, and then for a wonder he shook his head. No, sir, I suspect I done had enough. That our man put a bad taste in my mouth. He lingered a little while, looked anxiously at the jug more than once, and then bade Martin Koy good night. The white man leaned back in his split-bottom chair and smoked his pipe. Listening intently to the thump-thump-thump of the wooden leg as the negro went along the path. When the sound died away, he turned to the boiler of the still and remarked, Well, well, well. When a nigger fiddler says no to a dram, it's about time for the stars to fall again. In Martin Koy's opinion, another fall of stars, such as he witnessed when a lad of seven, would be the prelude to the final judgment and day of doom. Now it need hardly be said that Martin Koy did not go out of the distilling business. He kept it up not only because he was a most obstinate and self-willed individual, but because he had no other business to fall back on. He kept it up until the beginning of the war and succeeded, meantime, in buying a farm close to town, and half a dozen negroes to work it. But when the war began, it opened up a new line of business for young and old, unprofitable as the event proved, but beyond all question, new. Along with many others, Martin Koy was drawn into it. He joined the company organized in the little town, the company with which Colonel Florini went to the front, and engaged in the arduous work of perfecting himself in the drill tactics and various maneuvers which are so imposing to average spectators, but which are never really employed when war actually opens its mouth and begins to drink the blood and crunch the bones of its victims. It was while Martin Koy was engaged in these duties that he received a long and an affectionate letter from his brother Harvey Koy, who, following his wife's relatives, had emigrated to Missouri. In this letter, Harvey Koy begged his brother not to enlist in any effort to destroy the union. He owned slaves himself, he said, and his wife's family was made up of slave owners, and he declared that he had good reason for saying that Mr. Lincoln had no intention of disturbing slavery. Moreover, Harvey said that the southern leaders knew this as well as he did, nay, better if such a thing could be, and they were simply trying not to preserve slavery but to destroy the union. As for himself, he proposed to join the defenders of the government, and he advised his brother to sell out in Georgia, bring his wife to Missouri, and either remain neutral or take sides for the union. Martin Koy read his brother's letter over very carefully, and then made his wife read it aloud. Well, and what do you think of that, Molly? He inquired. Why, I think the brazen fool is trying to insult us, she exclaimed. I always did hate him, she added. He was as poor as you before he married Cary Biggers, and after that he used to talk about my niggers and my property. I declare, if he hadn't been your only brother, I believe I'd have spit in his face. I felt like it over and often. And now he wants us to go up there and be Yankees along with him. If you ever meet him in a war, I hope you make it convenient to put a whole plum through him. Martin Koy winced at this. I hope not, he protested. I don't think any more of Harvey's wife than you do, but a woman's a woman the world over, and you can't blame a man for what a woman does. The capers of Harvey's wife didn't prejudice me again Harvey, but when he comes to preach in this doctrine, me and him can't gie hullerses. With that Martin Koy tore his brother's letter into little bits of pieces and set them adrift on the wind with an exclamation of bitter disgust. Time which carries all human efforts forward to their culmination, carried Martin Koy to the front, and in the beginning Providence placed him in West Virginia. The brigade to which his company was attached was stationed at Laurel Hill, and a more desolate place, especially during the winter season, could hardly be found. The snow or the sleet fell for weeks at a time, and even when the sun shone, it simply illuminated and brought into stronger relief the vast and desert loneliness that fell impartially on valley and on mountain. Martin Koy said long afterward that a million men gathered in that region wouldn't have lifted the lonesomeness of the place. It was so lonesome he declared that men chopping wood a quarter mile away made you feel like he was into other world. And when he was asked which of the other worlds he meant, his reply was, everyone would have suited me for a change. But the truth is, Martin Koy looked back on the Laurel Hill experience through a long vista of trouble and keen anguish that colored and warped his vision. In the spring of 61, a brigade or two of Federals heard of the occupation of Laurel Hill by the Confederates, and being on their way southward, concluded to pay the lonely place a visit. They carried out this intention early one morning, and their visit was so unexpected that they were right in the camp before most of the Confederates knew there was a blue coat within 25 miles of the place. It was a surprise, and according to all recognized rules of warfare should have been a very disastrous one, but American troops have a way of getting over their astonishment as was abundantly demonstrated on both sides during the war. The Confederates rallied behind the cabins they had built, rallied by two's and ten's, and then by companies, and they soon succeeded in giving the enemy a warm good morning. But the position was untenable, so the officers decided, and the Confederates retreated. This retreat, orderly enough in the beginning, soon developed into a movement in which every man was for himself. The troops were not demoralized, for there was no pursuit, but they began to straggle. If the history of that retreat has ever been written, the account has never fallen under the eyes of the present writer, but the stories told by survivors all agree that it was the most horrifying experience they were called on to endure throughout the war, and some of them, be it remembered, laid for months in prison, while others suffered from terrible wounds. The demoralization that occurred was probably the best thing that could have happened, for if any considerable body of the retreating troops had remained together, starvation would have been the result. But they scattered about in small companies and squads as they went tramping through this vast wilderness. No doubt a great deal of the country has been opened up by this time, but in 1861 there were miles and miles of forests that had never been explored by white men. The statement may seem hard to believe, because at rare intervals along the eastern fringes of this wilderness, rude huts have been built, but a veritable jungle of interminable width, which stretches for hundreds of miles along the tops and sides of a range of mountains, offers no inducement to exploration on the part of those who have even a vague idea of its extent. It was June when the retreat began. In Georgia the blackberries and other wild fruit arrived at that season. In that vast and mountainous wilderness the trees and shrubs with the exception of the laurel were just beginning to throw out leaves, and the pale green of the new foliage was but the sickening sign of barreness to the lost Confederates. Some of the unfortunates were never heard of again, but the squad with which Martin Koi found himself managed to preserve life by feeding on roots and barks, especially the inner bark of the red elm and sassafras. On several occasions they managed to shoot high flying crows and once they killed a wild pig and had a most joyous feast. Finally after roaming about for many dreary days Martin Koi and his companions came to a stream of running water, the first they had seen. By following this they not only returned to big hominy and fried chicken, which are the equivalent of civilization in that region, but fell plump upon an adventure which brought Martin Koi face to face with an event that changed his whole life, and made existence dark for him in a very real sense for many a long day. The stream which they had been following through a narrow and somewhat tortuous gorge suddenly leaped off a precipice so high that some of the water was shattered into a mist which arose from the pool below as a vaporous as though it had emanated from a steaming cauldron. There was nothing for the weary and famishing Confederates to do, but to retrace their steps a little distance and climb from the gorge the best they could. It was not an easy matter for men so torn by hunger and so burdened with fatigue, but led by Martin Koi, whose dog and energy had been the means of keeping up the spirits of his companions, they crawled out and proceeded in a direction parallel with the stream. They had not gone far before they found themselves gazing upon a scene which, after their terrible experience, seemed a foretaste and first glimpse of paradise. It was as if the vast wilderness had rolled away behind them, or as if a black veil had been lifted. In the valley below them a farm lay nestling in the sunshine, a small flock of sheep browsed busily in a field near the barn, and a number of cattle stood contentedly chewing their cuds. Fowls were running about, a small dog barked intermittently, and blue smoke curled from the chimney of the dwelling. The Confederates gazed on this scene of beauty and joyous silence until one of them, a man from Putnam County Georgia, drew to his raisin and his first principles exclaimed, Boys, I smell hogmeat a-frying. No, said Martin Coy after sniffing the air. It's chicken a-frying. Then today's Sunday, was Putnam's comment. Whereupon Coy drew from his pocket a dirty envelope, counted the marks upon it, and after a brief calculation asserted that the day was Sunday, he had kept tail of the number of times he had wound his watch so that every mark stood for twenty-four hours. The farmhouse seemed to be close at hand, one of the party said it looked like a man might back up the hill a piece, get a good run and start, and jump right sprang into the garden. Nevertheless, they had to walk nearly a mile and a half before the house was reached, and when they arrived there, they marched right into the arms of a squad of federal troopers. They had been warned of the troopers by a man who appeared to be one of the hands, who was hitching a small mule to a wagon. But as you may toll a pig into a butcher's shop with one ear of corn, so on the same principle, these famished and weary Confederates determined to risk everything in order to satisfy their hunger. If there had been a man among them of the dash and energy of forest, they could have easily captured the Federals, for there was a momentary stampede among the latter who were lounging about without their arms, and when they saw this grim and determined, looking little band, filing into the yard. But the Confederates were clean forespent, and despite of the warning cry of halt, they came shuffling toward the house, some of them staggering by reason of the reaction that had set in. The officer in charge of the Federals took in the situation at a glance, and so did the motherly looking housewife, and it was not long before they were seated around a bowl of steaming chicken broth, in which wheat and dumplings had been stewed. Simple as this was, it was more than a feast, and it restored hope and energy and gave them strength and courage. The truth is, while they had been weak from hunger, their chief trouble had come from the fact that they were lost in a wilderness that seemed endless. The interminable jungle had wracked their nerves and sapped their vitality far more completely than hunger and fatigue. And when they were once free from that incubus and had satisfied their hunger, they found themselves in a pretty good condition. Now Martin Coy's terrible experience in this mountain jungle was made more terrible still by a reason of his keen and vivid remembrance of the awful prophecy of the revivalist who, with other preachers, had visited his still house. From the moment that he realized the plight of himself and his companions, the words came back to him with piercing power. The day will come, be it soon or late, when you will hide from the light of the sun, when you will slink about in the darkness, when you will be a dead man, though yet alive. They came back to him and stayed with him. He mumbled them over to himself by day and they became living things in his dreams and flitted to and fro in his slumbers by night. And now, when he came to realize that he was a prisoner and that in all probability he would be emured for months, even years, the words of the preacher gathered fresh force. Owing to the physical condition of the Confederates, which, as has been hinted, was not nearly so bad as it seemed to be, their captors determined to remain at the farmhouse overnight. The prisoners were placed in the loft of the barn, which is half filled with hay, and here they found no difficulty in addressing themselves to slumber. Sometime during the night or it may have been toward morning, Martin Coy felt himself roughly shake him. He would have started up with an exclamation, but a hand over his mouth pressed him back with a force that was irresistible and an angry whisper sounded close to his ear. Don't speak, but listen. You're all a pack of cowardly whelps, or the yanks would be where you are. Do you hear me? The hand was still over Martin Coy's mouth, and he could only nod in affirmative. None of you is worth the powder and lead it take to blow your heads off, but I'm going to give you a chance to show what's in you tomorrow morning. Are you listening? Again, Martin Coy nodded. Well, when you get about five miles on the way, you'll see a man, a mule, and a wagon in the road. The mule will be unhitched. When your crowd comes along, she'll back right into it and begin to kick, do you hear? Pass the word to your men and tell them to keep their eyes open, and when the mule cuts her caper, let each man grab a yank and take his gun away from him. You are six to eight, and the mule will take care of the two extra men. Is it a go? Martin Coy nodded emphatically. It better be a go, said the whisper. The man that flunks will never see daylight any more. What is your name? The hand was cautiously raised, and back came the answer, Martin Coy. Well, said the other, don't be Coy in the morning. When you hear your name called out, grab the gun of the man next to you and kill him and tell your men to do the same. Good night. Martin Coy felt the straw move once, as if someone was turning over to find a more comfortable position. After that there was silence, except for the squeak of a mouse or the fluttering scamper of a rat along the rafters. He was awake at dawn. He heard someone quarreling with a mule in the same tone in language he would use with a person. It's a mighty good thing I'd come out here when I did, if I'd awaited till sun up, you'd have chewed up the whole inside of the barn. You wait till I get you or nobody can't see us. I'll cut me a stick and I'll pay you for the old and new. Thus said the man to the mule. When Martin Coy looked about him, he saw no one but his companions in misery, and when he would have told these of the information he had received, the first when he spoke to remarked sulkily, while you told us that last night, you'll keep on blabbing about it until everyone in the neighborhood knows it. The faults and weaknesses Martin Coy had, Blavin was not among them. The charge stung him so that he withdrew into his shell and had nothing more to say to his companions on any subject, whatever. End of section 5