Low Twelve

CAMPING ON HIS TRAIL

(It is proper to state that in the following sketch the names of the places and persons for good reasons are fictitious. "Jerry Chattin," who related the incidents to me, is a prominent Free Mason, no doubt well known to many of my readers.)

I once firmly believed that Jim McGibbon and I were ordained to be the bitterest of enemies, and it did seem to me that everything joined to increase the intensity of hatred which began in boyhood. Jim was about my age and lived at the small town of Champlain, in southwestern Missouri, while my home was at Verneau, some twenty miles away.

We first clashed as the captains of rival baseball clubs. Nowhere in the world is the struggle in our national game so determined and often so unfair as between near-by towns and villages. Nothing in the professional world can compare with it. The championship struggle between Champlain and Verneau was as bitter as bitter could be. One season we secured the coveted honor and the next year it went to our rivals. More than once the strife became a veritable battle, in which the inoffensive umpire, who strove to be just, was mobbed and would have suffered grave injury but for the rally of the club whom he was accused of favoring to his defense. Several times the games broke up in rows, in which the spectators were involved. It was shameful, but I am grieved to say that the same disgraceful scenes are still seen in other parts of the country.

It was natural in the circumstances that Jim and I should collide. Strict truth compels me to admit that in these bouts I generally got the worst of it, for Jim was taller, more active and a better boxer than I. Without giving any of the particulars, suffice it to say that the last season which saw the struggle for the championship ended in a tie. I cannot help believing that his was the result of an unfair decision on the part of the umpire against us, but since such is the invariable explanation, I shall let it go at that.

In the autumn of 1860, Jim and I were sent East to college. As proof of our mutual dislike, I may say that after I had matriculated at Princeton, Jim, who appeared at the same place two days later with a similar purpose, deliberately insulted me by the remark:

"I have lived too long in the same State with you; New Jersey isn't big enough for both of us. I'd rather go to Tophet than abide in any college with the like of you."

With which he deliberately packed his trunk and went off to New Haven, without waiting for me to get back a suitable reply, which I didn't think of until he was aboard of the cars on the way to the Junction, there to board the New York train and to go farther eastward.

We had each been in college a year when the great Civil War came. It was not long before I saw that Missouri was sure to become one of the most harried States in the Union. Nowhere was the strife so merciless and vicious as in the border States, where hundreds of families were broken up by the fratricidal struggle.

I was not sorry when my father sent for me to leave college, but I was pained to learn upon arriving home that the general disarrangement of business had brought a reverse to him which made it impossible to keep me longer at Princeton. He, like myself, was strongly Union in his sentiments, and neither he nor my mother nor my sister made any objection when I announced my purpose of enlisting under the old flag, whose supporters in that part of the country at first were at great disadvantage. It seemed to me that the Secessionists were more numerous and more resolute, and for a time they had the upper hand. You know they came within an ace of burning the city of St. Louis, and we could make little headway against Sterling Price, and the governor and authorities who were back of him.

I was with Colonel Mulligan in his desperate but hopeless battle against Price at Lexington, and was taken prisoner, but soon afterward exchanged. It was at that time that I learned Jim McGibbon was a lieutenant under Price. I suspect that if he had discovered I was serving on his side, he would have joined the Union forces. I saw him but once during my captivity, and each sneered at the other without speaking. The situation was one of those to which words could not do justice.

Well, six months later I was at the head of a troop of irregular cavalry raiding through southwestern Missouri. I had two-score men under me, and they were as brave fellows as ever rode in saddle. There was hardly a man among them who was not inspired by one or more personal grievances. One had had a brother shot after surrender, another's home had been laid in ashes, others had suffered in some way, and they were not the men to let any chances at reprisals pass unimproved. Truth compels me to say that the outrages perpetrated by us were as much outside the pale of civilized warfare as were those of our enemies. It is a sad, sad story upon which I do not wish to dwell. How many memories linger with our gray-headed men of that bitter strife which they would fain forget! If, according to General Sherman, war is hell, civil war is hell-fire and damnation.

From reports that reached me, McGibbon was also in command of a squad of irregular cavalry that was about the equal in numbers to my company. There was no questioning his personal courage, and he was as anxious to meet me as I was to meet him. A number in both commands were old acquaintances, and half of my fellows would have given their right hands for the chance of a set-to with his raiders. They were as fierce and at times as merciless as - well, as ourselves.

Now a situation came about, or, rather, several situations, which I have never been able to explain. For weeks and months McGibbon and I raided through southwestern Missouri, over an area several hundred miles in extent, with the yearning prayer on the part of each for a fair stand-up fight between our companies. I was searching for him and he was hunting just as assiduously for me, and yet it looked as if fate had ordained we should never meet. More than once we missed each other by less than an hour. I was hot on his trail one autumn day, and had actually caught sight of his horsemen as they raised a hill less than a mile away, when another body of cavalry, larger than both of us together, and all red-hot Secessionists, debouched on the scene and we had to gallop for our lives.

On another occasion I broke camp just north of the town of Jasonville, and rode off at a leisurely pace to the eastward. Unsuspected on my part, McGibbon and his men dashed into the camp I had left, and came after us like so many thunderbolts. I did not learn the fact till a week later, and then heard that he, too, was turned off almost in the same manner that I had been diverted from my game. We managed to send exasperating messages to each other, in which there were mutual charges of cowardice accompanied by red-hot challenges. As I said, how we failed to meet in the circumstances is and has always been beyond my comprehension.

One dismal, drizzly day in October, finding myself within a short distance of Verneau, I decided to ride into the town and call on my folks. The place contained about a thousand inhabitants, almost equally divided in sentiment. We cared nothing for that, since nearly all the able-bodied men were absent fighting on one side or the other.

While still some distance from the town, I was disturbed to observe smoke rising in heavy volumes. We spurred our horses into a gallop, and had not yet reached the outskirts when what I dreaded proved true. Three dwelling houses were in flames, and among them was the home in which I was born and which was all that was left of my father's former wealth. The other dwellings were those of prominent Unionists, and in each case a young man of my command was a member of the suffering household. Although most of those who had been spared were disunion in principles, they were good neighbors and gave shelter to all who had been so cruelly robbed of their homes.

I found father, mother and my sister with one of these families, without whose kindness it would have gone hard with them, for the raiders who had done this savage thing would not allow their victims to save the most insignificant part of their furniture or effects.

It proved as I suspected. Jim McGibbon and his band had made a flying visit to Verne au, looted a number of houses, and burned the three that we found in ruins. He was especially exultant over my parents and sister.

"Tell that coward son of yours," he said to my father, "that I've been looking a long time for him, but he always skulks out of my way. Don't forget to let him know that it was I, Jim McGibbon, who put the torch to this shack, and that if he wants to settle with me, he knows where to look. He's the chump I'm after."

"Did he say where he could be found?" I asked, pale faced and doing my utmost to restrain my rage.

"He said something,"' replied my father, "but in the confusion and excitement of the moment I did not catch the words, and if I did, have forgotten them."

I appealed to mother and sister, but they professed equal ignorance. Good souls, each one knew where the miscreant was waiting, but purposely kept the knowledge from me. They understood too well what would follow, and they shuddered at the thought of a meeting between us.

The houses which had been burned stood so apart from the others that there was no danger of the flames communicating with those toward whose owners the guerrillas were friendly. McGibbon was careful in that respect.

When I found that nothing was to be gained from my people, I formed a resolution which I took care to keep from them. I did not wish to have them beg and plea with me, and therefore gave no hint of what was in my mind. I whispered it to several of my comrades, and they eagerly agreed with me.

I stayed in the town for an hour or so, and the communion with my people would have been sweet but for what I had seen and learned. It was my custom, where my duties allowed, to make these hurried, stolen visits, though they were always accompanied by great danger. There was more than one person in Verneau who would have been glad to betray me to my enemies, and I know that in several cases the attempt was made. Consequently, upon leaving my men encamped at some distance, I had to use extreme care to avoid the traps that were set for me of course, it was different when I took my men along. We were able to look out for ourselves, and would have welcomed a brush.

Up to this time there had been something in the nature of neutrality between McGibbon and me concerning our own homes. I had kept away from Champlain and he had not molested Verneau. Each could find plenty to do elsewhere. But my enemy had broken this truce, and I determined to strike back. Consequently, after riding a short way from town, the troop turned their horses toward Champlain, and we arrived there late in the afternoon.

I knew where the home of McGibbon stood. Striking the heavy knocker on the door, I told his crippled father, who answered the summons, what his son had done and that I had come to retaliate. Jim had no brothers or sisters, but only his aged parents. What pity I might have felt for them in other circumstances was destroyed by the bitter memories of what he had done to my people. The couple were so mild and gentle, and refrained so carefully from protests and appeals, that I could not help feeling a pang or two, after all, when, after they had found refuge elsewhere, I applied the torch to their dwelling with my own hand. Two other buildings were fired by my men, and then we considered the accounts balanced.

We had all cherished the hope that when McGibbon found himself so near his own home he would pay it a visit, and the fight for which we both longed would come off, but he had not been there, and I had no more idea of where to look for him than if we had been dropped into the middle of the Atlantic.

"You will doubtless see your son before long," I said to his father, as I sat in the saddle with my horse reined up in front of his new quarters. "Don't forget to let him know that I, Jerry Chatten, did this because he burned my own home. He began the game and he will find I can play at it as well as he. I'm only sorry that he isn't here himself, but we shall meet before long."

The good man stood at the gate, gazing up in my face, which was illumined by the glare from his own burning home. I can never forget the picture, for he held his battered hat in his hand, looking for all the world like a patriarch of old. He had no words of reproach to utter, nor did he seem to feel the slightest ill-will toward me. I even fancied I saw a mournful smile upon his beneficent countenance as he said in a voice as gentle as that of a woman "I am sorry, Jeremiah, that you and James are not friends. I hope you will become so before either of you passes away. I shall pray that it may be thus."

What a strange farewell from one whose home I had just destroyed! It made me feel queer all over, and I muttered as I rode off in the gathering gloom:

"How can such a father have such a son?"

Lieutenant Maraden, riding at my aide, had a habit of speaking his mind. Discipline in that respect was never very strict in our company.

"I wonder now, cap, whether McGibbon isn't thinking the same about you."

"It may be," I growled; "none the less, I'd give anything in the world to meet him."

"So would I; don't forget that he burned my folks out of house and home."

Since McGibbon had left definite word with my parents where I could find him and his band and I did not go there, he had good reason to proclaim that I was afraid of him. He had given the information only to my people, so it was useless for me to apply elsewhere. I could not blame my friends for their silence, but all the same, it roiled me.

A week went by, during which I was unable to get any trace of my enemy. He seemed to be raiding in the neighborhood, and I did my share, but the same unaccountable perverse fate kept us apart, when, as I have said, each was straining every nerve to get at the other.

The peculiar conditions of this local civil war compelled the combatants to rely to a great degree upon surreptitious information. It may be said that there wasn't a village, however small, in a large part of Missouri which did not hold a number of Secessionists and Unionists. It was risky for them to give out information, but they gave it, and some of them paid the penalty with their lives.

One day word upon which I relied came to me that McGibbon and his company were to spend that night with friends in Jasonville, only eight or ten miles away. Most of the people there were disunionists, and it was not to be expected that he intended any kind of raid. He would probably go thither for a night or two for rest, for his men had been so continuously in the saddle that they needed it, as our own fellows often did.

I quickly formed my plan. As soon as it was dark we would ride to within a mile or so of the town and take our position in a dense wood, with which we were all familiar. Then late at night we would make a dash into the town and set things humming. Perhaps the long hoped - for meeting between McGibbon and me would follow. At any rate, we should be able to strike a blow that would tell.

In a situation like the one I have described the utmost care was necessary. It might be that my informant was mistaken. It might happen, also, that with all the circumspection I could use, McGibbon would get wind of what was afoot and would turn the tables on us. Matters could not have been more critically delicate. The wood to which I have alluded extended for several miles, almost to the edge of the town. If McGibbon should learn of my coming, it would be the easiest thing in the world for him to form an ambuscade and empty half of my saddles at the first fire.

Because of this fact, I halted my men a mile out, and rode forward alone until close to the town, when I dismounted and tied my horse in the shadow of the trees, for the night was a bright, moonlight one. I was doing a risky thing, for I was taking the chances which I would not permit my men to run, but I relied upon the partial disguise of my slouch hat and the fact that forty or fifty men would not be likely to fire upon a single horseman whose identity they did not know, when they were waiting to receive a whole company of raiders.

I didn't see or hear a thing to cause misgiving, and strode down the main street of Jasonville, which was well lighted, and went up the porch of the single tavern and entered the bar-room. The bartender was off to the war, doing what he could for President Davis, and the heavy, waddling landlord was presiding, with two countrymen too decrepit to serve in the ranks sitting in front of the old-fashioned fireplace, smoking their corncob pipes. They looked up, but did not recognize me. The landlord, Uncle Jed, as he was known, scrutinized me sharply for a minute, and then grinned on one side of his face, as he had a queer habit of doing, came round from behind the bar and shook hands.

Uncle Jed was a genuine, old-fashioned publican, who felt that he had no right to hold radical views on politics or religion. He was equally friendly with everybody, but I always fancied that he had a special liking for me. So when we had talked together apart for some minutes, I asked him whether there were any strangers in town.

"No," he replied with another side grin; "about everybody except two or three of us have gone to war."

"Have you seen anything of Jim McGibbon?"

"He had a drink here one day last week, but I haven't seen or heard of him since."

"I understood he was in town tonight."

"If that's so I haven't seen him. It may be he's here. You know he's like you - he has lots of friends all over. I say, Jerry, if you haven't anything special on hand tonight, why don't you visit our lodge?"

"Is this regular meeting night? I hadn't thought of it."

"Yes; I'd like to go down, but can't leave the house these times."

"Are they working any degree?"

"I believe not; jest the regular communication."

Now, I felt quite certain that if Jim McGibbon was in Jasonville Uncle Jed would know of it, and if he knew of it, he would tell me. He was friendly to both, and if my enemy should drop in at the tumble-down tavern with an inquiry regarding me, he would learn the truth.

In my tempestuous life I did not often get a chance to attend lodge, though I had been a member of the order ever since attaining my majority, two years before. A sudden impulse came over me to make amends so far as I could for my neglect.

"I think I'll drop in for a while. I can't stay long. Where does the lodge meet?"

"Just round the corner, down Lodge Alley. You'll see the lights on the second floor. Can't miss it."

When I presented myself and asked through the tyler for admission, word was sent out that one of the brethren, having sat with me in my own lodge, vouched for me. Consequently I was admitted without the examination through which I should have been compelled to pass had the case been different.

The moment the tyler ushered me through the door, after I had been suitably clothed and told that the lodge was on the third degree, I glanced around, and saw that between twenty and thirty members were present. When the proper salutations had been made, the Master welcomed me in the usual form and invited me to a seat among the brethren.

Directly on my left I perceived a vacant space, with a large, burly fellow at the farther side of the vacancy. With a cursory glance I dropped into this opening and then looked toward the East to hear what the Master had to say. It was at that moment I heard a queer, chuckling sound from the man who sat nearest me. I looked at him, wondering what it could mean. His face was so heavily bearded that I did not recognize him, but saw from the movement of the beard that he was grinning. Again I heard the chortling, and he thrust his hand toward me.

"How are you, Jerry?"

You might have knocked me over with a feather. It was Jim McGibbon!

After our months of raiding and hunting for each other's life, we had met at last, but it was in a Masonic lodge. I had not dreamed that he belonged to the order, and, as he afterward told me, the thought never entered his head that I was a Free Mason.

"I guess the laugh is on you, Brother Chattin," added McGibbon, shaking with silent laughter, which, however, was so hearty that the Master gave a slight warning tap with his gavel.

"I'll admit it," I replied. "I'll be hanged if I hardly know whether I am awake or dreaming."

Despite our care, we attracted so much notice that McGibbon proposed we should withdraw from the lodge and talk things over. The Master gave permission, and we passed outside, down the stairs and halted on a corner of the street, where we were safe from cowans. Before speaking, McGibbon offered his hand again and we shook heartily.

"Now, Jerry," said he in his genial way, "I reckon things are on a little different footing from what they have been ever since - say, we played ball against each other. Are you with me, old boy?"

"I am, heart and soul," I replied with an enthusiasm that surprised myself. "I never thought you and I could be anything but sworn enemies, but now -"

"We are sworn brothers," he said, taking the words from my mouth. "I'm going to give you a proof of it. You have stationed your men a little way outside of town, with the intention of making a dash into the place and having a whack at me and my boys. You have come in alone to spy around, and when you found out how the land lies, you meant to go back and bring your chaps in."

"That is 'true, Jim; but how in thunder did you find it out?"

"One of my spies got on the track of your spy. How far out are your men?"

"A mile or so."

"Mine are only a half mile-hardly that, on the Turner road; they are lying in the wood waiting for your fellows to come within range."

"Then I must have ridden in front of them!"

"Beyond a doubt you did. More than likely some of my boys recognized you. If they did they kept it to themselves. You see," added McGibbon with another chuckle, "they're after more than you, captain. To make everything right, Jerry, I guess I had better ride a part of the way back with you."

McGibbon had left his horse not far from where mine was tethered. We mounted and rode out of town together, chatting over old baseball times and war matters as if never a cloud had come between us. It seemed to me that after we had ridden some way Jim became more boisterous than ever. His laughter rang out in the still night air, and as he evidently intended, was identified by several of his sentinels, one of whom came forward from the darkness of the wood to learn the meaning of it all. "It's all right, Ben," he remarked offhand to the man, who saluted and withdrew into the gloom again.

We rode on until we were close to where my men were impatiently awaiting my return. I invited McGibbon to call on my company, but he replied:

"I wouldn't hesitate a minute, Jerry, with you, but it will be better not to do so yet awhile. Well, good-by, Brother Chattin."

"Good-by, Brother McGibbon. God bless you!"

So we parted. Neither of us uttered the slightest hint as the future; it wasn't necessary. We kept up our raiding, but henceforward tried to avoid each other. We couldn't expect many of our men to understand the changed situation, and I know that Jim McGibbon purposely dodged a fight with me when nothing would have been easier than to bring the meeting about. As for myself, I steered out of his path several times when it had a queer look to my men. Finally McGibbon made a shift of quarters, passing over into Arkansas, and thus relieved the situation of its peculiar tensity. We never met again during the war."

"Have you met since the war?" I asked.

To this natural question Jerry Chattin made answer:

"If you ever visit the flourishing town of Jasonville, make a call at 234 Main Street, at the large grocery store of Chattin & McGibbon. More than likely you will find a big whiskered fellow smoking his corncob pipe at the rear and giving orders now and then, as if he is boss. Fact is, he is half-boss, for Jim McGibbon and I have been equal partners for twenty years. He married my sister - the very one whose home he burned during those lurid days in Missouri - and their oldest boy bears my name. The parents of both Jim and me have been dead for several years, but it is pleasant to remember that Jim's father made his home with his son long after he had become a merchant. I can see that handsome, saintly face now as he looked from one to the other, and with his sweet smile and gentle voice said:

"'I was sure you two would some day become friends. I told you I meant to pray for it, and my prayer has been answered.'"