The Conscript's Revenge: a tale of the Great Rebellion. By Hon. Jere. Clemens. (Strange Life; or, the Life of a literary vagrant. By the author of 'The Clouds,' etc.-Wandering Menie and Life of Samuel Clugston, the Sluggard. By the author of 'The Clouds,' etc.)

Preface

. The characters of this story are real, though, of course, the names and locations are changed, so as not to wound the sensibility of the survivors, their friends, or relatives. Nothing is depicted here which did not occur as related, or which has not a parallel in some other actual occurrence. My object is to give a true and faithful picture of life during the first years of the rebellion, at least in parts of the Southern States. It is impossible for any one who has not witnessed them, to appreciate the wrongs, indignities, and outrages to which the Southern Union men have been subjected. Their property taken or destroyed, their persons constantly threatened with incarceration, if not assassination, and their sods dragged to the slaugbter-pen; these were common occurrences, whose frequent recurrence deprived them of half their horror.

The sending of our wives into exile, without the means of subsistence, and dependent for bread upon the charity of the people of the North, or of such chance refugees who had escaped under happier auspices, — this, too, in time, ceased to be a subject of complaint; but there were a thousand acts of brutality which cannot be described without giving offence to the ears of decency. From a faithful picture of such things the eyes of a modest woman would turn away with unutterable loathing. All of these are omitted from this book, and only such matter is intro duced as may be read without a blush, — unless it be a blush of indignation rather than of shame. One word more. In this volume everything has been sacri ficed to the painting of a correct portrait. If my readers look for other adjuncts to keep alive their interest in the tale, they will be apt to reap disappointment. THE AUTHOR. Philadelphia, Jan. 9, 1865.

CHAPTER L

In the wild and mountainous region of North Alabama, near the sources of Faint Rock River, there lived, in the year 1860, an old man with a widowed daughter and her only son. Time had dealt kindly with Robert Johnson ; for although he had passed his sixty-fifth year, he was yet strong and healthy, his "bearing was erect, his step firm, and his gray eyes clear and bright. His daughter, Mrs. Wilson, had inherited the strong -constitution of her father ; and now, in the thirty-eighth year of her age, her symmetrical but rather too masculine form betrayed no symptom of decay. Her face had never been beautiful, but there was about it an expression of quick intelligence and of frank good-humour, which harmonized well with her comely figure, and made her altogether a very pleasant person to look upon.

The boy, Tobias Wilson, who was about eighteen years of age, bore little resemblance to his mother or grandfather. He was light and slender — so much so that he appeared at least two years younger than he really was. His originally chestnut coloured hair, from constant exposure to sun and wind, had changed to a dingy brown ; and his features were irregular and sallow, but they were lit up by dark hazel eyes, as piercing and brilliant as those of the hawk on his native mountains. Mr. Johnson had no neighbours properly so called. The valley in which his humble cabin stood was one of the most secluded in that wild and thinly-settled region. If the reader will give attention while I describe it, the tale which I am about to relate will be better understood. It is a little low spot, of not more than a hundred acres, shut in completely on three sides by high and precipitous mountains — among the loftiest and most rugged of the Cumberland Mountain range.

At the nprth-eastern extremity, near the base of the mountain, there is an unexplored cave, from the mouth of which flows a stream of icy coldness. This stream runs along the eastern base of the mountain, and finally makes its way out through a narrow opening, of not more than twenty yards in width, at the south side of the valley. The only road by which the valley can be entered by anything on wheels is the gravelly ted of the stream. In the dry season it is nothing more than a tiny rill; but in winter and the early spring the volumes of water which rush down from the sides of the mountain convert it into a deep and dangerous torrent. On the narrow strip of land between this stream and the mountain side, and within a few yards of the cave from which the streamlet flows, stands, or rather stood, the cabin of Robert Johnson.

The dwelling was a. double cabin, built of unhewn logs, with a passage between. One room of the cabin served Mrs. Wilson as kitchen, dining room, and bedroom. The other room was occupied by the old man and his grandson, and such rare visitors as sometimes found their way to this secluded dell. It was early in October, in the year 1860, and on the day our story begins, there was a political meeting in a large valley over the mountain, about five miles from Johnson's house. At the close of the meeting Mr. Johnson cordially invited me to spend the night at his house; and as by crossing the mountain at that point I could save nearly twenty miles of my next day's journey, I gladly accepted his invitation. A bridle path was the only road leading over the mountain, and I knew it to be steep and rugged in the extreme; but I had been accustomed to scrambling over such paths from my childhood, and felt sure that I should be more than compensated for the fatigue by the glorious scenery through which it led.

There are few things in nature to equal the mingled beauty and sublimity with which the Cumberland Mountains are wrapped when autumn throws its many-coloured robe about their giant forms. In other lands, and iu our own, I have seen loftier mountain peaks, and revelled in the contemplation of landscapes as lovely and as sweet; but in the one case it was grandeur alone, and beauty in the other. Nowhere else is there such a mingling together of all that is soft and beautiful with all that is grand and sublime. As we approached the mountain the path gradually became so narrow that it was necessary to ride in single file, an inter ruption to our conversation which I bailed with joy, since it left me in undisturbed liberty to feast my senses upon that glorious panorama. It was a scene upon which a great poet or a great painter might have gazed for ever, »x>t only with undiminished, but increasing rapture.

REVEXGE. 7 We had ascended a little more than half way when we reached a bench of the mountain, upon which my companion halted to breathe his horse. When I reined up by his side, his finst remark satisfied me that he had been drinking in the rapturous delight I had fancied was all my own. " It is not often, Mr ," he said, pointing to the valley below us, — " it is not often that such a picture can be found in the galleries of the greatest masters ! " "Not often!" I exclaimed; " say rather never. No human hand can paint, — no human tongue can justly describe it!" He looked at me for a moment in some surprise, I thought, at the enthusiasm of my words and manner. " I thought," he said, in the tone of one asking a question, "that you were a native of these mountains." " So I am. I am too proud of my birthplace to conceal or deny it."

"Then you must be familiar with sights like this, and yet you speak of it with as much enthusiasm as if you had discovered a great treasure, or drank for the first time from the cup of a new joy." " I have been, indeed, familiar with such sights from a period which dates further back than memory will serve me. I even think that I know some points in this range of mountains from which the view is more striking than this ; but it is a new joy, as you term it, nevertheless, for it is one with which the soul can never be sated." " I think you are right," he replied. " When I came to this "Country, some ten years ago, and enjoyed for the first time the wild beauty of its mountain scenery, I thought that after awhile it would become so familiar as to be indifferent to me ; but years have passed, and the sensations it creates are still the same."

" But," he continued, " we must be jogging on. We have barely time to reach my cabin by sundown; and it is far more pleasant to gaze upon these mountains by daylight than to wander among them after nightfall." This was an assertion which my experience did not allow me to contradict. Some such idea seemed also to have taken pos session of our horses; for when their heads were again turned up the steep ascent, they moved forward of their own accord at such an increased rate of speed as gave unmistakable proof that shelter and food would be as agreeable to them as to their riders. Much of the beauty of the scenery still lingered about us; but the words of my companion had afforded me other themes for ■ÆE CONSCRIPT'S REVENGE. thought. I could not doubt that he was an educated and culti vated man, and that he had been reared in a different society from that about him.

Was he one of that not uncommon class who, having " seen better times," wither away at the first breath of misfortune, and become ever afterward alike useless to themselves and to society? No ; he was clearly not a man to give way to despair. There was in his tone and manner no symptom of discontent. His whole bearing was free, easy, independent, without a trace of that weak and unmanly spirit which goes about begging for even the sympathy of strangers. I had been told that he was a farmer in humble circumstances — how humble I did not know; but it was apparent that his situation was one over which he shed no tears himself, and for which he asked the sympathy of no one else. When we arrived at the summit of the mountain, the shadows had already deepened in the valley below us. The sun was still shining, but its beams were completely shut out from the little glen by the lofty mountains which everywhere hedged it in.

The domestic fowls had long since sought their roosting-places; and as we descended we were greeted by that peculiar twitter ing of birds and insects which gives notice that they have settled themselves for a night's repose. A little lower we perceived the glimmering of a light through the window of the cabin, and heard the barking of dogs, not exactly in anger, but rather in doubt. It was a notice to the inmates that some one was approaching; but whether friend or foe, these canine sentinels had not yet decided. Befoi'e we reached the gate, however, they came bound ing over the slight impediment of a rail fence which surrounded the premises, whining and leaping upon their master's horse in the exuberance of their joy. Soon afterward the boy who has been described in the preceding pages emerged from the cabin, bearing an iron lamp to light his grandfather to the house.

" Here, Tobias," said the old man, "take our horses; and when I have shown this gentleman in I will join you in the stable." I demurred to this arrangement at once, insisting on taking care of my own horse. It was so settled at last, and all three proceeded to the stable. After the horses had been well fed and rubbed down, we passed on to the cabin. Here we found Mrs. Wilson busily engaged in preparing the supper. She suspended her occupation for a minute or so when I was introduced by her father-, but almost immediately resumed her household duties. A large fire ot' logs was burning on the ample hearth of the adjoin ing room, and, much to my satisfaction, I was soon seated beforeit, enjoying to the full the animal comfort it imparted. Here the idea that my entertainer had been accustomed to more polished society than was to be found in these mountains again occurred to me.

I would not be guilty of the rudeness of putting direct questions upon the subject, but I did not hesitate so to direct the conversation as to bring it out, if he was disposed to be at all communicative. I cannot tell whether or not he suspected my object, but at all events he said nothing to gratify my curiosity, and I sat down to the supper-table not a whit wiser than before. As usual in that country, the evening meal was a bounteous one. My mountain ride and the keen air of an October evening had given me a voracious appetite, and I feasted to excess upon the solid food before me. Mrs. Wilson retired early after supper, but the old gentleman and myself talked long and earnestly of the threatening aspect of the times. " We are passing through a fearful ordeal," he said, " and I am not ashamed to confess that I am alarmed beyond measure.

You heard those men who were shouting for Breckenridge to day. They are honest and well-meaning citizens, but their minds have been poisoned by the devilish arts of those who have crept into their confidence by preaching democracy, and they are now being blindly led on to the commission of a terrible crime, which must be followed by an equally terrible retribution." "I admit," I replied, "that there is great danger; but let us work to avert it, and still hope." "Work! certainly!" he exclaimed; "but hope is not altogether a creature of the will. I have tried to hope, and cannot. I suppose that other men's neighbours are in all essential parti culars like mine, and that they are equally liable to be operated upon by like passions and like motives. Tell a Breckenridge Democrat that there is danger to the Union from him and his leading supporters, and he will believe in his heart, if he does not tell yon to your face, that you are trying to cheat him out of his vote by practising a Whig trick upon him.

To the minds of such men there is no. avenue for the entrance of unprejudiced reason. They must taste the bitter fruit before they will believe that it exista "I assume that the great body of the democracy in the Southern States are like these, and as they constitute a large majority, we may look for the worst. They are not prepared now to take the irrevocable step. If it was proposed to them, they would shrink back with horror; but they will be led on by their wily leaders from one act to another — they will so fetter themselves by the adoption of threatening resolutions, and so commit themselves to resistance upon the happening of this or that contingency, that at last it will be easy to persuade them they cannot retrace their steps with honour, and that the only hope of a peaceful settlement is to be found in presenting an united and determined front."

" Well," I asked, " may not good come from that union T May it not lead to an understanding which will effectually secure us against dangerous quarrels in the future ? Is it not better that the South should present an united front in whatever course it takes, at least until the sword is drawn, and the dark stain of a brother's blood discolours the soil, and cries out to heaven for vengeance on the wrong-doer?" "Undoubtedly," he said, "if our leaders were honest, and there was really any wrong to be redressed, the unanimity of the demand would increase the chances of a peaceful settlement; but what wrong has the Government of the United States ever done to us? What is there 'to be settled? Individuals and communities throughout the North have spoken and acted in a manner hostile to slavery.

Be it so. The Government is not responsible for that. It has discharged its whole duty, and more than its duty, in this respect. There has never been a time when our peculiar institution was hedged round with so many defences as it now is; and yet we are on the verge of a revolution, whose results no human wisdom can foresee, from no other cause than a vague and undefined fear that slavery may be destroyed by the Government which is, and has been, its only protector. But these are matters I need not discuss with you. I know that you are as fully alive to the danger as I am, and far better informed as to its causes. I supposed that you wished to hear the opinions of a clod-hopper like myself, and I have therefore expressed them freely." I assured him that I had been alike interested and instructed by his remarks, and I entered a decided protest against the application of the word " clod-hopper " to such a man.

" I did not need," I continued, walking up to some rough boards in a corner, on which his books were arranged — " I did not need this tell-tale witness to convince me that you had been accustomed to very different society from that which is to be found among these mountains." " You are right in your conjecture," he replied. " I was once better off, in the world's view, than I am now; but as my story has nothing in it which is romantic, criminal, mysterious, or unaccountably unfortunate, I will not bore you with it. There is your bed, sir. You must be content to share this chamber with my grandson and myself." I went to bed, but not to sleep. My thoughts were for a long time occupied with questions and conjectures concerning my host. How came that educated and polished gentleman in the garb of a common labourer 1 What was that clear and strong intellect doing in this seclusion ?

Why did he not go out into the world and battle with his kind for those posts of honour which he was so well calculated to adorn ? His daughter, too, though strong and healthy, could never have been mistaken for anything but a lady, and the household drudgery which she now went through with so much ease and grace, must have been in former years a deep mystery to her. But notwithstanding the great change which it was clear had come over them, the most acute physiognomist would have failed to detect a single line of discontent upon the face of either the father or the daughter. I tried in vain to find some probable solution of the enigma. First one and then another was called up, examined, and dis missed In the meantime, the effects of the heavy supper I had eaten and the warm fire still burning on the hearthstone began to be felt.

I knew that my faculties were clouded, that I did not have the full use of my reason, but still I was awake, or thought I was. After awhile I saw a large dog push open the unlatched door, and coil himself down before the fire, then another, and then the fire seemed to grow dull and indistinct, and all the various objects in the room became mingled and jumbled together. There was a strong impression upon my mind that I was not sleeping, only a little drowsy. How long I remained in this state I do not know. Suddenly, as it seemed, the drowsiness passed away. It was summer. I was standing upon a mountain side whose summit the rising sun had just begun to gild. There was a lovely valley below me, through which a little stream flowed gently toward the South. A cluster of log cabins on one side were the only signs of human habita tion.

Stacks of oats and wheat were standing in the field from which they had been cut, and a little farther off there was a field of Indian corn, which extended around a spur of the mountain that jutted into the valley, so that the upper part was in visible from the place where I stood. Then an old man, followed by a boy with a rifle on his shoulder, came out of the principal cabin and proceeded to the stable, from which they soon emerged, the old man leading a horse geared for ploughing. The boy let down the bars, and putting them up again when his companion had passed through, shouldered his rifle, and turned up the mountain, where he was soon lost to view among the thick under growth which covered its sides. I watched the old man in his progress to the field, until he had turned the spur of the mountain, and was also lost to sight.

For some time after his disappearance I remember nothing. Then, by one of those changes common in dreams, I was transferred to the opposite side of the valley. It was near noon. I could now see that part of the corn-field which had been . concealed by the spur of the mountain; and the old man I had noticed in the morning was busily ploughing in the luxuriant corn which almost con cealed both his horse and himself. Not far off, to the right, and behind him, three men were stealthily creeping through the bushes. They were armed with rifles and knives. Entering the corn-field, they followed rapidly along the furrow the old man was ploughing, until near the end of the row, when two of them, dropping their rifles, sprang suddenly upon him and pinioned his arms behind him. His face was now, for the first time, turned toward me, and I recognized the features of my host.

The next step was to bind a yellow bandana handkerchief over his eyes. This made a stronger impression upon me, because it was an article of great rarity in that countiy, and because I did not remember to have seen it used for years by any but members of the Pedo-Baptist Church. He was then hurried up a narrow gorge, cut, for the most part, out of the earth by torrents created by the winter's rain. Within thirty yards of his own corn-field they halted, two of them stepped back six or seven paces, raised their rifles, and fired. One or both balls must have touched the heart, for he fell with that peculiar doubling up of the limbs, that absence of catching for support, which, to a practised eye, is an unerring indication that life is utterly extinct. At this horrible sight I uttered a fearful cry, and sprang upright in my bed.

My host and his grandson were both upon their feet in a moment, eagerly inquiring what was the matter. For awhile I was so confused and bewildered that I could give no explanation ; but at length I made them understand that it was nothing more than a bad dream, produced, no doubt, by the inordinate supper I had eaten. Again we addressed ourselves to sleep, and again that horrid dream, with out material variation, haunted my pillow. This time, however, I did not awaken my room-mates; but rising, and drawing a rough arm-chair close to the fire, prepared to pass the night in a sitting posture. I must have slept soundly; for when I awoke it was long after daylight, and Mr. Johnson was more than half dressed The boy was not in the room ; he had gone to look after the horses; and I heard Mrs. Wilson making preparations for breakfast in the adjoining room.

In that primitive land no time is wasted upon the toilet. Ours was soon concluded ; and at the suggestion of Mr. Johnson we stepped out to breathe the fresh and bracing air of an October morning. The first glance at that lovely vale, and its magnificent mountain inclosures, made every drop of blood in my veins run icy cold. It was the valley of my dream. The reader will remember that the shadows of night shrouded the place when I descended from the mountain on the previous evening. I could not catch even an outline of the landscape ; and although I had often travelled in that neighbourhood, it so happened that I had never seen this secluded spot. I had looked upon it for the first time in a dream. Yet there it was, clear, vivid, distinct. All its marked charaeteristics were burned in on my memory as if with a brand of red-hot iron.

There was the stream, the spur of the mountain, the little nook hidden from view, where we now stood; aDd when I looked up I again saw the very ledge of rock on which, I was standing when the old man came forth to his daily labour. I shuddered, and perceiving that I was observed, muttered something about the coolness of the morning, and returned to the house.

Chapter II

Neither at the breakfast-table nor before was any allusion made to the emotion which I was sure had not passed unobserved. I could not help feeling that it must have appeared very singular to my host; but how could it be explained? Silence was the only course to be pursued. It was far better to submit to the suspicion of some extraordinary weakness than run the risk of wounding the feelings or darkening the anticipations of my kind entertainer. But, under the circumstances, conversation was necessarily restrained; and almost immediately after the meal was concluded I expressed a desire to resume my journey. Mr. Johnson interposed no objection, only remarking, with winning politeness, " I know your engagements, and suppose you must go; but it is hard for one situated as I am to be so soon deprived of the most agreeable society he has enjoyed for years."

I expressed my sense of the compliment he had paid me; and very soon afterwards I bade adieu to Mrs. Wilson and her son, Mr. Johnson having agreed to pilot me through the narrow opening in the mountains, and over the rough country immediately beyond, to the public road. At that point we parted with mutual expressions of good-will aud hopes of meeting again before long. For hours I could not drive that dream from my thoughts. How could that valley have been so faithfully and distinctly painted in sleep, when I had never seen it, never heard of it ■ — was in fact totally ignorant of its existence ? In vain I pondered upon this unaccountable phenomenon. Once the idea crossed my mind that although I could not remember to have visited that place before, I must have done so and forgotten it, and that memory had at last recalled it in a dream ; but the place was too peculiar, too remarkable, and my own organ of locality, as the phrenologists term it, was too well developed to admit of this solution.

I ran over in my mind all the stories I had ever heard or read of strange and unaccountable visions, and for the most of them I could find some possible explanation; but here there was none, and I determined that the best thing to be done was to dismiss it from my thoughts. It was easier, however, to resolve upon this than to perform it. Do what I would, it would come back at the moat uncx- THE conscri pected times, for weeks and even for months. At length I related it to a friend. He laughed at me, as I expected he would, but could give no reason for his avowed belief that it was nothing more than a common nightmare. Those were times, however, in which real events were beginning to crowd upon us, more strange and fearful than any of the creations of fancy, and the memory of my dream was gradually fading away.

The tide of war had rolled southward. Gen. A. S. Johnson had been driven from Bowling Green, through Nash ville, Huntsville, and Tuscumbia, to Corinth, the junction of the Mobile and Ohio with that of tho Memphis and Charleston Railroad. At Corinth he sustained a defeat and lost his life. With considerable skill and ability, Beauregard had withdrawn his army no one knew exactly where. It was at this period of time that I again met Mr. Johnson and his grandson. Referring to our conversation when I was his guest in the fall of 1860, he said, "You see, sir, I was some thing of a prophet." " Not much," I replied. " The probable consequences of the mad career that some of our friends and neighbours were then running were too palpable to require a prophet's ken to foretell them." " True," he answered " And yet many who are wiser than I am, and much more in the habit of mingling with the world, were deceived.

Worse even than that, they will not profit by the lesson which is now before them, full of humilia tion and of anguish as it is. They will persist in believing that the efforts of the Government to re-establish its rightful supremacy over its own subjects are nothing more nor less than a brutal exercise of power and a wicked invasion of their territory, for the purpose of reducing them to the condition of vassals or serfs." "I know it," was my response. "I know it. And I know, too, how difficult it will be at such a time to obtain a hearing for the voice of reason. Still it must be attempted, unless we are content to remain idle and inactive, while those who love us, and whom we love, are rushing madly to destruction." "The effort must indeed be made," he said »ournfullj ; " but I have dark forebodings of the result.