Chapter III

When the Reverend Laomi Smull displayed unexpected agility on Mrs. Ashley’s staircase, Ashley himself, hearing the ascending footsteps, cowered under the bed quilts and turned cold to the marrow of every bone.

“It’s me,” said the reverend gentleman, entering the bed-room and waving his fat hands at the pile of quilts under which Ashley squirmed in fear: “it’s me, Ashley,” he repeated, disregarding the finer points of grammatical construction: “Moseby’s men is in the hills and I don’t know what to do.”

Ashley’s dissipated face emerged from the bed-covers. Fear stamped every feature with a grimace that amused Smull.

“What did you say about Moseby’s men?” stammered Ashley.

“They’re in the hills across the river,” repeated Smull: “I seen smoke on Painted Rock.”

“It’s a blockade still,” suggested Ashley.

“No it ain’t,” retorted Smull; “it’s green wood burnin’—don’t I know a still, hey? It’s Confederate cavalry, an’ they’ve ridden around the Yankee army, that’s what they’ve done.”

Ashley protruded his long pallid neck, looked around like an alarmed turkey in a weed patch, and finally stared at Smull.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

The fat cunning on Smull’s face was indescribable.

“Do?” repeated Smull.

“Yes, do! Didn’t Moseby tell you to ring the church bell on Sunday as many times as there was Yankee companies in Slow-River? Didn’t he tell you to hang out your washing according to code,—a shirt, ‘come,’ two shirts ‘run,’ a red undershirt, ‘run like the devil’—say, didn’t he and you fix up the code?”

Smull’s small eyes rested on the door, then on Ashley.

“The Yankee Battery Captain came to look at the bell. I threw the clapper out into the bushes,” he said.

After a moment he added: “He came near falling through the plank floor. Frightened me to death—most.”

Ashley’s eyes met his; Smull raised a fat white hand to conceal the expression of his mouth.

“That’s all very well,” said Ashley petulantly, “but I reckon you’d better go. If I’m caught I’m toted out to a shootin’ match—and I’ll be the target too.”

This observation appeared to start a new train of thought in Smull’s mind. And, as he cogitated, his expression changed from sly malice to complacence, and then to that sanctimonious smirk with which, in the garden below, he had greeted Mrs. Ashley.

“Ashley,” he said gravely, “I can’t give no signals to Moseby, nohow. I regret,” he continued piously, “I regret and see the error that the South has made in this here unchristian war.”

Ashley started and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Smull, who immediately raised his own to the ceiling and addressed it unctuously: “This here unchristian war to disrupt the sacred union of the States is a offence against God and man, my young friend, and I now am brought to see, by God’s grace, the sin of secession an’ slavery, an’ Jefferson Davis an’ his wicked ways. Surely the wicked shall perish and be cut down like the grass; in the morning it flourisheth and groweth up, in the evenin’ it is cut down an’ withereth, my young fren’.”

Ashley had grown paler and paler; his fingers clutched at the bedclothes, and he watched Smull’s increasing exaltation with a horror that pinched every feature in his face.

“No!” bawled Smull: “no! no! I have took the oath of allegiance to these here United States! Blessed is the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy!”

“Shut up!” gasped Ashley, “do you want to have the Yankee provost here?”

Smull raised his hands and wept on; “Behold I am utterly enlightened! Blessed are the meek for they”—

“Stop!” shrieked Ashley, starting up in bed.

Smull glanced sharply at him, then sat down with a sigh.

“Are you going to give me up to the provost-marshal because you took the oath?” quavered Ashley, beside himself with fright and fury.

“No,” said Smull wagging his double chin and meeting Ashley’s glance squarely; “no, I will not bring the centurions for fear they utterly destroy thee with the sword.”

Ashley, sweating with terror, looked at the reverend gentleman and wondered whether he could kill him without undue disturbance. That fat neck could not be strangled with Ashley’s slender fingers; the revolver under the pillow was surer—and surer still to bring the Yankee soldiers pell-mell into the house. He had been jealous of Smull when that gentleman made his weekly call on Mrs. Ashley. He, besotted as he was, noticed the expression of Smull’s small eyes when Mrs. Ashley entered the room, her innocent heart filled with plans for charities suggested by the minister. Would the Reverend Laomi like to see Mrs. Ashley a real widow? Would he even aid fate toward the accomplishment of her widowhood?

“What the hell made you holler like that!” stammered Ashley fiercely. “Damn you,” he added, “if the Yankees had come into this room, you would have left it feet first an’ fit for a hole in the ground?”

The Reverend Laomi Smull looked sadly at the young man. There were tears on his fat cheeks.

“Yes, I tote a gun,” sneered Ashley, tapping the pillow under his head. “Don’t be a fool. Hang out your shirt and let Moseby come and clean out these Yankees, for God’s sake, before they shoot me and hang you on my evidence.”

“Moseby’s men can’t face cannon,” observed Smull with sudden alacrity.

“Then lock the cannoniers in the church when Moseby signals. You can do it; you’ve got the keys, haven’t you?”

Smull nodded.

“They’ll come at night, of course; you can go and whine hymns in the church by special permit, and lock the door when the first carbine goes off.”

“And the bell on Sunday?” inquired Smull: “the clapper’s gone, the ropes are cut, and the Yankee Battery Captain wouldn’t let me ring it nohow.”

“Never mind the bell. If Moseby sees the shirt he’ll attack by night, unless he’s in force. If the whole Confederate cavalry has ridden around Wilson, then he’ll come by day and send the Yankees packing, battery or no battery. All you’ve got to do is to hang out that shirt. Now go away, d’you hear?”

Smull rose and walked softly to the door.

“And,” added Ashley, “if you play tricks on me you’ll hang on my evidence.”

Smull opened the door.

“And you’ll not get my wife anyway, damn you!” finished Ashley triumphantly from the bed.

Smull turned and looked at him, then went out, quietly closing the door behind him.

At the foot of the stairs he met Mrs. Ashley, and he smirked and opened his thick moist lips to speak, but the young wife’s face startled him and he closed his mouth with a snap of surprise.

“You intend to betray my husband,” she said breathlessly.

“You have been listening at your husband’s door,” he retorted savagely.

She clenched her small hands: “What of it! With cowards and traitors and hypocrites as guests, honest people need be forewarned! Shame on you! Shame on your cloth! Shame on your oath of allegiance! You’ll sell my husband to steal his wife! You’ll break your oath to bring the rebel cavalry down on us!”

She brushed the tears from her eyes with both trembling hands.

“God knows,” she said, “I thought I was right to hide my husband, and I think so now. Yet, if he or you betray these soldiers I shall denounce you both to the first picket!”

“Madame,” began Smull in thick persuasive tones, “you wrong me—”

“Leave this house!” she said, trembling.

The Reverend Laomi bowed low, raised his eyes to the sky, sighed, and stepped out into the garden. There, before he could rearrange his expressive features, Smith met him face to face and returned the clergyman’s disconcerted salute gravely.

“One moment, my dear young friend,” stammered Smull.

Smith wheeled squarely in his tracks and stood rigid. Smull hesitated, passed a fat tongue over his lips, and weighed the chances. The next moment he made up his mind, glanced at the door, saw Mrs. Ashley entering the house, then leaned swiftly toward Smith and whispered.

Smith drew himself up sharply; the Reverend Laomi Smull turned and left the garden, head bowed on his breast as though in anguish of spirit. A few minutes later he brought a wash basket out of his house and pinned a single shirt to the line with a wooden clothespin. Then he ran to the woods, as fast as he could, and squatted under a rock where a tangle of brambles fell like a curtain to screen him from the eyes of the impious, indiscreet, and importunate.