The Red Acorn [70]
Debby that the enemy had fallen back to London, from which point he was sending out wagons into the surrounding country, to gather up food, forage, arms, clothing, ammunition, etc., with the double object of depriving the Union men of them, and adding the same to the Rebel resources. A long train had also been sent out to the Goose Creek Salt Works--twenty-five miles northeast of London--to bring away a lot of salt stored there, of which the Rebels had even more need than of food.
Fortner proposed to go out in the morning, and endeavor to capture some of these wagons. It seemed altogether probably that a few might be caught in such a position that their guards could be killed or driven off.
All readily agreed to this plan, Aunt Debby leading off by volunteering to ride ahead on her mare, as a scout.
Harry suddenly remembered that he was weaponless. "What shall I do for a gun?" he asked, anxiously.
"I declar, I done forgot all 'bout gittin' ye a gun," said Fortner with real concern. "My mind was disturbed by other things," he added with a suspicion of a grin at Edwards and Bolton; but they were leaning back in their chairs fast asleep. Apple jack, fatigue and a hearty supper together made a narcotic too potent to resist.
Fortner rose, spread a few blankets on the floor, added a sack of bran for a pillow, and with some difficulty induced the two sleepers to lie down and take their slumbers in a more natural position.
"I'll find ye a gun," said Aunt Debby, as this operation was finished, and walking to a farther corner of the room, she came back bearing in her hand a rifle very similar to the one Fortner carried.
"Thar," she said, setting the delicately-curved brazen heel down upon the hearth, and holding the muzzle at arm's length while she gazed at the gun with the admiration one can not help feeling for a magnificent weapon, "is ez true a rifle ez ever a man put to his shoulder. Ef I didn't b'lave ye ter be ez true ez steel ye shouldn't tech hit, fur hit b'longed ter the truest man in this livin' world."
"Hit wuz her husband's," explained Fortner, as her lips met firmly, as if choking down bitter memories.
"I'm givin' hit ter ye ter use ez he'd a-used hit ef he war a-livin'," she said, steadying her tones with a perceptible effort. "I'm glad thet my hands can put inter yours the means ter avenge him."
Harry tried in vain to make an appropriate response.
"I'll clean hit up for ye," she said to Harry, as she saw Fortner beginning to furbish up his own rifle for the next day's duties.
That she was no stranger to the work was shown by the skill with which she addressed herself to it. Nothing that a Kentucky mountaineer does has more of the aspect of a labor of love, than his caring for a find rifle, and any of them would have been put to shame by the deftness of Aunt Debby's supple hands. Removing the leathern hood which protected the lock, she carefully rubbed off the hammer and nipple with a wisp of soft fine tow, and picked out the tube with a needle. Wrapping another bit of tow around the end of a wiping-stick, she moistened it slightly in her mouth, and carefully swabbed out of the inside of the barrel every suspicion of dust and dirt. Each of the winding rifles was made clean and free along its whole course. Then the tow swab was lightly touched with sweet, unsalted goose-fat, that it might spread a rust-preventing film over the interior surface. She burnished the silver and brass ornaments, and rubbed the polished stock until it shone. When not a suspicion of soil or dirt remained any where, the delicate double triggers were examined and set so that they would yield at the stroke of a hair, a tuft of lightly-oiled tow was placed over the nipple and another closed the muzzle.
"Thar," said Aunt Deby, setting the gun back against the logs, "is a rifle that'll allers do hits duty, ef the man a-holt of hit does his. Let's see how the ammunition is."
The powder horn was found to be well filled with powder, and the box with caps, but there were only a few bullets.
"I'll
Fortner proposed to go out in the morning, and endeavor to capture some of these wagons. It seemed altogether probably that a few might be caught in such a position that their guards could be killed or driven off.
All readily agreed to this plan, Aunt Debby leading off by volunteering to ride ahead on her mare, as a scout.
Harry suddenly remembered that he was weaponless. "What shall I do for a gun?" he asked, anxiously.
"I declar, I done forgot all 'bout gittin' ye a gun," said Fortner with real concern. "My mind was disturbed by other things," he added with a suspicion of a grin at Edwards and Bolton; but they were leaning back in their chairs fast asleep. Apple jack, fatigue and a hearty supper together made a narcotic too potent to resist.
Fortner rose, spread a few blankets on the floor, added a sack of bran for a pillow, and with some difficulty induced the two sleepers to lie down and take their slumbers in a more natural position.
"I'll find ye a gun," said Aunt Debby, as this operation was finished, and walking to a farther corner of the room, she came back bearing in her hand a rifle very similar to the one Fortner carried.
"Thar," she said, setting the delicately-curved brazen heel down upon the hearth, and holding the muzzle at arm's length while she gazed at the gun with the admiration one can not help feeling for a magnificent weapon, "is ez true a rifle ez ever a man put to his shoulder. Ef I didn't b'lave ye ter be ez true ez steel ye shouldn't tech hit, fur hit b'longed ter the truest man in this livin' world."
"Hit wuz her husband's," explained Fortner, as her lips met firmly, as if choking down bitter memories.
"I'm givin' hit ter ye ter use ez he'd a-used hit ef he war a-livin'," she said, steadying her tones with a perceptible effort. "I'm glad thet my hands can put inter yours the means ter avenge him."
Harry tried in vain to make an appropriate response.
"I'll clean hit up for ye," she said to Harry, as she saw Fortner beginning to furbish up his own rifle for the next day's duties.
That she was no stranger to the work was shown by the skill with which she addressed herself to it. Nothing that a Kentucky mountaineer does has more of the aspect of a labor of love, than his caring for a find rifle, and any of them would have been put to shame by the deftness of Aunt Debby's supple hands. Removing the leathern hood which protected the lock, she carefully rubbed off the hammer and nipple with a wisp of soft fine tow, and picked out the tube with a needle. Wrapping another bit of tow around the end of a wiping-stick, she moistened it slightly in her mouth, and carefully swabbed out of the inside of the barrel every suspicion of dust and dirt. Each of the winding rifles was made clean and free along its whole course. Then the tow swab was lightly touched with sweet, unsalted goose-fat, that it might spread a rust-preventing film over the interior surface. She burnished the silver and brass ornaments, and rubbed the polished stock until it shone. When not a suspicion of soil or dirt remained any where, the delicate double triggers were examined and set so that they would yield at the stroke of a hair, a tuft of lightly-oiled tow was placed over the nipple and another closed the muzzle.
"Thar," said Aunt Deby, setting the gun back against the logs, "is a rifle that'll allers do hits duty, ef the man a-holt of hit does his. Let's see how the ammunition is."
The powder horn was found to be well filled with powder, and the box with caps, but there were only a few bullets.
"I'll