Si Klegg is a Webnovel created by John McElroy.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Is it really?” said Annabel, whose tears were beginning to come. “It don’t sound like it. Sargint don’t sound near so big as Corporal. I always thought that Corporal was the very purtiest t.i.tle in the whole army. None o’ the rest o’ them big names sounded half so nice. Whenever I saw Corporal in the papers I always thought of you.”
“Well, you must learn to like Sergeant just as well,” said Si, fondly squeezing her hand. “Maria, let her read the letter.”
“Well, Mr. Gillmacfuddy does seem like a real nice, sociable sort of a man, in spite of his name,” she commented, as she finished. “And I like him, because he seems to be such a good friend o’ yours. I s’pose him and you board together, and eat at the same table when you are in the army, don’t you?”
“O, no, we don’t,” said Si patiently, for her ignorance seemed beautifully feminine, where Maria’s was provoking. “You see, dear, he’s my Captain–commands about a hundred sich as me, and wears a sword and shoulder-straps and other fine clothes, and orders me and the rest around, and has his own tent, all by himself, and his servant to cook for him, and we have to salute him, and do jest what he says, and not talk back–at least, so he kin hear it, and jest lots o’ things.”
“Then I don’t like him a bit,” pouted Annabel. “He’s a horrid, stuck-up thing, and puts on airs. And he hain’t got no business to put on airs over you. n.o.body’s got any right to put on airs over you, for you’re as good as anybody alive.”
Si saw that this task of making Annabel under stand the reason for military rank was going to take some time, and could be better done when they were by themselves, and he took her out by the kitchen-fire to make the explanation.
For the very first time in his whole life Shorty had run away from a crisis. With his genuine love of fighting, he rather welcomed any awkward situation in which men were concerned. It was a challenge to him, and he would carry himself through with a mixture of bra.s.s, bravado and downright hard fighting. But he would have much more willingly faced the concentrated fire of all the batteries in Bragg’s army than Maria’s eyes as she raised them from that letter; and as for the comments of her sharp tongue–well, far rather give him Longstreet’s demons charging out of the woods onto Snodgra.s.s Hill. He walked out into the barn, and leaned against the fanning-mill to think it all over. His ears burned with the imagination of what Maria was saying. He was very uncomfortable over what the rest of the family were thinking and saying, particularly the view that dear old Mrs. Klegg might take. With the Deacon and Si it was wholly different. He knew that, manlike, they averaged him up, one day with another, and gave him the proper balance to his credit. But Maria–there everything turned to gall, and he hated the very name of Bad Ax, the whole State of Wisconsin and everybody in it. He would never dare go back into the house and face the family. What could he do?
There was only one thing–get back to his own home, the army, as soon as possible.
Little Sammy Woggles came out presently to get some wood. Shorty called him to him. There was something fascinatingly mysterious in his tones and actions to that youth, who devoured dime novels on the sly.
“Sammy,” said Shorty, “I’m goin’ away, right off, and I don’t want the people in the house to know nothin’ of it. I want you to help me.”
“You bet I will,” responded the boy, with his eyes dancing. “Goin’
to run away? I’m goin to run away myself some day. I’m awful tired o’
havin’ to git up in the mornin’, wash my face and comb my hair, and do the ch.o.r.es, and kneel down at family prayers, and go to Sunday, school, and stay through church, and then have to spell out a chapter in the Bible in the afternoon. I’m goin’ to run away, and be a soldier, or go out on the plains and kill Injuns. I’m layin’ away things now for it.
See here?”
And he conducted Shorty with much mystery to a place behind the haymow, where he had secreted an old single-barreled pistol and a falseface.
“You little brat,” said Shorty, “git all them fool notions out o’ your head. This ‘s the best home you’ll ever see, and you stay here just as long as the Lord’ll let you. You’re playin’ in high luck to be here.
Don’t you ever leave, on no account.”
“Then why’re you goin’ to run away,” asked the boy wonderingly.
“That’s my business. Something you can’t understand, nohow. Now, I want you to slip around there and git my overcoat and things and bring ’em out to me, without n.o.body seein’ you. Do it at once.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: “SAMMY,” SAID SHORTY, “I’M GOIN’ AWAY RIGHT OFF, AND I DON’T WANT THE PEOPLE TO KNOW NOTHIN’ OF IT.” 113]
While Sammy was gone for the things Shorty laboriously wrote out a note to Si upon a sheet of brown paper. It read:
“Deer Si; ive jest red in the papers that the army’s goin’ 2 move rite off. i no tha need me bad in the k.u.mpany, for tha are short on Korprils, & tha can’t do nothin’ without Korprils. ive jest time 2 ketch the nekst traine, & ime goin’ thare ez fast ez steme kin carry me. Good-by & luv 2 all the folks.
“Yours, Shorty.”
“There, Sammy,” he said, as he folded it up and gave it to the boy; “keep that quiet until about bed time, when they begin to inquire about me. By that time I’ll ‘ve ketched the train goin’ east, and be skippin’
out for the army. By the way, Sammy, can’t you sneak into Miss Maria’s room, and steal a piece o’ ribbon, or something that belongs to her?”
“I’ve got a big piece o’ that new red Sunday dress o’ her’s,” said Sammy, going to his storehouse and producing it. “I cribbed it once, to make me a flag or something, when I’d be out fightin’ the Injuns. Will that do you?”
“Bully,” said Shorty, with the first joyous emotion since the reception of the letter. “It’s jest the thing. Here’s a half-dollar for you. Now, Sammy, kin you write?”
“They’re makin’ me learn, and that’s one reason why I want to run away,”
with a doleful remembrance of his own grievances. “What’s the use of it, I’d like to know? It cramps my fingers and makes my head ache. Simon Kenton couldn’t write his own name, but he killed more Injuns than ary other man in the country. I guess you’d want to run away, too, if they made you learn to write.”
“You little brat,” said Shorty reprovingly; “you don’t know what’s good for you. You do as they say, and learn to write as quick as you kin.”
Then, in a softer tone: “Now, Sammy, I want you to promise to write me a long letter–two sheets o’ foolscap.”
“Why, I never writ so much in all my life,” protested the boy. “It’d take me a year.”
“Well, you’ve got to, now, and it mustn’t take you two weeks. Here’s a dollar for you, and when I git the letter I’ll send you home a real rebel gun. Now, you’re to cross your heart and promise on your sacred word and honor that you’ll keep this secret from everybody, not to tell a word to n.o.body. You must tell me all about what they say about me, and partickerlerly what Miss Maria says. Tell me everything you kin about Miss Maria, and who goes with her.”
“What makes you like Maria better’n you do ‘Mandy?” inquired the boy.
“I like ‘Mandy lots the best. She’s heap purtier, and lots more fun, and don’t boss me around like Maria does.”
“That’s all you know about it, you little skeezics. She don’t boss you around half as much as she ought to.” Then gentler: “Now, Sammy, do jest as I say, and I’ll send you home a real rebel gun jest as soon as I get your letter.”
“A real gun, that’ll be all my own, and will shoot and kick, and crack loud?”
“Yes, a genuine rebel gun, that you kin shoot crows with and celebrate Christmas, and kill a dog.”
“Well, I’ll write you a letter if it twists my fingers off,” said the boy joyously.
“And you hope to be struck dead if you tell a word to anybody?”
“Yes, indeedy,” said the boy, crossing his heart earnestly. Shorty folded up the piece of dress goods tenderly, placed it securely in the breast-pocket of his blouse, and trudged over to the station, stopping on the summit of the hill to take a last look at the house. It was a long, hard walk for him, for he was yet far from strong, but he got their before train time.
It was the through train to St. Louis that he boarded, and the only vacant seat that he could find was one partially filled with the belongings of a couple sitting facing it, and very close together. They had hold of one another’s hands, and quite clearly were dressed better than they were accustomed to. The man was approaching middle age, and wore a shiny silk hat, a suit of broadcloth, with a satin vest, and a heavy silver watch chain. His face was rather strong and hard, and showed exposure to rough weather. The woman was not so much younger, was tall and angular, rather uncomfortably conscious of her good clothes, and had a firm, settled look about her mouth and eyes, which only partially disappeared in response to the man’s persistent endearments.
Still, she seemed more annoyed than he did at the seating of another party in front of them, whose eyes would be upon them. The man lifted the things to make room for Shorty, who commented to himself:
“Should think they was bride and groom, if they wasn’t so old.”
There was a vague hint that he had seen the face somewhere, but he dismissed it, then settled himself, and, busy with his own thoughts, pressed his face against the window, and tried to recognize through the darkness the objects by which they were rushing. They were all deeply interesting to him, for they were part of Maria’s home and surroundings.
After awhile the man appeared temporarily tired of billing and cooing, and thought conversation with some one else would give variety to the trip. He opened their lunch-basket, took out something for himself and his companion to eat, nudged Shorty, and offered him a generous handful. Shorty promptly accepted, for he had the perennial hunger of convalescence, and his supper had been interrupted.
“Going back to the army?” inquired the man, with his mouth full of chicken, and by way of opening up the conversation.
“Um–huh,” said Shorty, nodding a.s.sent.
“Where do you belong?”
“200th Injianny Volunteer Infantry.”
If Shorty had been noticing the woman he would have seen her start, but would have attributed it to the lurching of the cars. She lost interest in the chicken leg she was picking, and listened to the continuance of the conversation.
“I mean, what army do you belong to?”
“Army o’ the c.u.mberland, down at Chattanoogy.”
“Indeed; I might say that I belong to that army myself. I’m going down that way, too. You see, my Congressman helped me get a contract for furnishing the Army o’ the c.u.mberland with bridge timber, and I’m going down to Looeyville, and mebbe further, to see about it. We’ve just come from St. Louis, where I’ve bin deliverin’ some timber in rafts.”
“Where are you from?’