The Problem of Rations.
The ford over which the rebel regiment was passing was only a few rods distant from the place where Tom had concealed himself and his boat. When he discovered the soldiers, he was thrilled with terror; and, fully believing that his hour had come, he dropped upon the ground, to wait, in trembling anxiety, the passage of the troops. It was a regiment of Virginia mountaineers, clothed in the most fantastic style with hunting-shirts and coon-skin caps. They yelled and howled like so many wildcats.
From his hiding place on the bank of the stream, he obtained a good view of the men, as they waded across the river. He was fearful that some of them might stray from the ranks, and stumble upon his place of refuge; but a kind Providence put it into their heads to mind their own business, and Tom gathered hope as the yells of the mountaineers grew indistinct in the distance.
“This is no place for me,” said Tom to himself, when the sounds had died away in the direction of the Blue Ridge. “A whole army of them may camp near that ford, and drive me out of my hiding place.”
Jumping into the bateau again, he waited till he was satisfied no carriage or body of troops was in the vicinity; and then plying the paddle with the utmost vigor, he passed the ford. But then he found that the public highway ran along the banks of the river, which exposed him to increased risk of being seen. A couple of vehicles passed along the road while he was in this exposed situation; but as the occupants of them seemed to take no notice of him, he congratulated himself upon his escape, for presently the boat was beneath the shadows of the great trees. Finding a suitable place, he again hauled up, and concealed himself and the bateau.
As all danger seemed to have passed, Tom composed his nerves, ate his dinner, and went to sleep as usual; but his rest was not so tranquil as he had enjoyed in the solitudes of the mountains. Visions of rebel soldiers haunted his dreams, and more than once he started up, and gazed wildly around him; but these were only visions, and there was something more real to disturb his slumbers.
“Hi! Who are you?” exclaimed a wildcat soldier, who had penetrated the thicket without disturbing the sleeper.
Tom started up, and sprang to his feet. One of the tall mountaineers, whom he had seen crossing the ford, stood before him; and the reality was even more appalling than the vision.
“Who mought you be?” demanded the tall soldier, with a good-natured grin upon his greasy face.
“Faith! I believe I’ve been asleep!” said Tom, rubbing his eyes, and looking as innocent as a young lamb.
“You may bet your life on thet, my boy,” replied the rebel, laughing. “Hi! Jarvey!” added he, apparently addressing a companion at no great distance from the spot.
Heavy footsteps announced the approach of Jarvey, who soon joined them. He was not less than six feet three inches in height, and, with two such customers as these, Tom had no hope except in successful strategy. He had no doubt they had obtained information of him from the persons in the vehicles, and had come to secure him. He fully expected to be marched off to the rebel regiment, which could not be far off.
“Who is he, Sid?” asked Jarvey, when he reached the spot.
“Dunno. Say, who are ye, stranger?”
“Who am I? Tom Somers, of course. Do you belong to that regiment that stopped over yonder last night?” asked Tom, with a proper degree of enthusiasm. “Don’t you know me?”
“Well, we don’t.”
“Didn’t you see me over there? That’s a bully regiment of yours. I’d like to join it.”
“Would you, though, sonny?” said Sid, laughing till his mouth opened wide enough for a railroad train to pass in.
“Wouldn’t I, though!” replied Tom. “If there’s any big fighting done, I’ll bet your boys do it.”
“Bet your life on thet,” added Jarvey. “But why don’t you jine a regiment?”
“Don’t want to join any regiment that comes along. I want to go into a fighting regiment, like yours.”
“Well, sonny, you ain’t big enough to jine ours,” said Sid, as he compassionately eyed the young man’s diminutive proportions.
“The old man wouldn’t let me go in when I wanted to, and I’m bound not to go in any of your fancy regiments. I want to fight when I go.”
“You’ll do, sonny. Now, what ye doing here?”
“I came out a-fishing, but I got tired, and went to sleep.”
“Where’s your fish-line?”
“In the boat.”
“What ye got in that handkerchief?”
“My dinner,” replied Tom. “Won’t you take a bite?”
“What ye got?”
“A piece of cold chicken and some bread.”
“We don’t mind it now, sonny. Hev you seen any men with this gear on in these yere parts?” asked Jarvey, as he pointed to his uniform.
“Yes, sir,” replied Tom, vigorously.
“Whar d’ye see ’em, sonny?”
“They crossed the ford, just above, only a little while ago.”
“How many?”
“Two,” replied Tom, with promptness.
“Where’s the other?” asked Jarvey, turning to his companion.
“He’s in these yere woods, somewhar. We’ll fotch ’em before night. You say the two men crossed the ford—did ye, sonny?”
“Yes, half an hour ago. What is the matter with them?”
“They’re mean trash, and want to run off. Now, sonny, ’spose you put us over the river in your boat.”
“Yes, sir!” replied Tom, readily.
The two wildcats got into the bateau, nearly swamping it by their great weight, and Tom soon landed them on the other side of the river.
“Thank’e, sonny,” said Jarvey, as they jumped on shore. “If you were only four foot higher, we’d like to take you into our regiment. You’ll make a right smart chance of a soldier one of these yere days. Good by, sonny.”
“Good by,” answered Tom, as he drew a long breath, indicative of his satisfaction at being so well rid of his passengers.
He had fully persuaded himself that he should be carried off a prisoner to this wildcat regiment, and he could hardly believe his senses when he found himself again safely floating down the rapid tide of the Shenandoah. His impudence and his self-possession had saved him; but it was a mystery to him that his uniform, or the absence of his fish-line, or the answers he gave, had not betrayed him. The mountaineers had probably not yet seen a United States uniform, or they would, at least, have questioned him about his dress.
Tom ran down the river a short distance farther before he ventured to stop again, for he could not hope to meet with many rebel soldiers who were so innocent and inexperienced as these wildcats of the mountains had been. When the darkness favored his movements, he again embarked upon his voyage. Twice during the night his boat got aground, and once he was pitched into the river by striking upon a rock; but he escaped these and other perils of the navigation with nothing worse than a thorough ducking, which was by no means a new experience to the soldier boy. In the morning, well satisfied with his night’s work, he laid up for the day in the safest place he could find.
On the second day of his voyage down the river, the old problem of rations again presented itself for consideration, for the ham and chicken he had procured at Leed’s Manor were all gone. There were plenty of houses on the banks of the river, but Tom had hoped to complete his cruise without the necessity of again exposing himself to the peril of being captured while foraging for the commissary department. But the question was as imperative as it had been several times before, and twelve hours fasting gave him only a faint hint of what his necessities might compel him to endure in twenty-four or forty-eight hours. He did not consider it wise to postpone the settlement of the problem till he was actually suffering for the want of food.
On the third night of his voyage, therefore, he hauled up the bateau at a convenient place, and started off upon a foraging expedition, intending to visit some farmer’s kitchen, and help himself, as he had done on a former occasion. Of course, Tom had no idea where he was; but he hoped and believed that he should soon reach Harper’s Ferry.
After making his way through the woods for half a mile, he came to a public road, which he followed till it brought him to a house. It was evidently the abode of a thrifty farmer, for near it were half a dozen negro houses. As the dwelling had no long windows in front, Tom was obliged to approach the place by a flank and rear movement; but the back door was locked. He tried the windows, and they were fastened. While he was reconnoitring the premises, he heard heavy footsteps within. Returning to the door, he knocked vigorously for admission.
“Who’s thar?” said a man, as he threw the door wide open.
“A stranger, who wants something to eat,” replied Tom, boldly.
“Who are ye?”
“My name is Tom Somers,” added the soldier boy, as he stepped into the house. “Can you tell me whether the Seventh Georgia Regiment is down this way?”
“I reckon ’tis; least wise I don’t know. There’s three rigiments about five mile below yere.”
“I was told my regiment was down this way, and I’m trying to find it. I’m half starved. Will you give me something to eat?”
“Sartin, stranger; I’ll do thet.”
The man, who was evidently the proprietor of the house, brought up the remnant of a boiled ham, a loaf of white bread, some butter, and a pitcher of milk. Tom ate till he was satisfied. The farmer, in deference to his amazing appetite probably, suspended his questions till the guest began to show some signs of satiety, when he pressed him again as vigorously as though he had been born and brought up among the hills of New England.
“Where d’ye come from?” said he.
“From Manassas. I lost my regiment in the fight; and the next day I heard they had been toted over this way, and I put after them right smart,” answered Tom, adopting as much of the Georgia vernacular as his knowledge would permit.
“Walk all the way?”
“No; I came in the keers most of the way.”
“But you don’t wear our colors,” added the farmer, glancing at Tom’s clothes.
“My clothes were all worn out, and I helped myself to the best suit I could find on the field.”
“What regiment did ye say ye b’longed to?” queried the man, eying the uniform again.
“To the Seventh Georgia. Perhaps you can tell me where I shall find it.”
“I can’t; but I reckon there’s somebody here that can. I’ll call him.”
Tom was not at all particular about obtaining this information. There was evidently some military man in the house, who would expose him if he remained any longer.
“Who is it, father?” asked a person who had probably heard a part of the conversation we have narrated; for the voice proceeded from a bed-room adjoining the apartment in which Tom had eaten his supper.
“A soldier b’longing to the Seventh Georgia,” answered the farmer. “That’s my son; he’s a captain in the cavalry, and he’ll know all about it. He can tell you where yer regiment is,” added he, turning to Tom, who was edging towards the door.
“I’m very much obliged to you for my supper,” said the fugitive, nervously. “I reckon I’ll be moving along.”
“Wait half a second, and my son will tell you just where to find your regiment.”
“The Seventh Georgia?” said the captain of cavalry, entering the room at this moment with nothing but his pants on. “There’s no such regiment up here, and hasn’t been. I reckon you’re a deserter.”
“No, sir! I scorn the charge,” replied Tom, with becoming indignation. “I never desert my colors.”
“I suppose not,” added the officer, glancing at his uniform; “but your colors desert you.”
Tom failed to appreciate the wit of the reply, and backed off towards the door, with one hand upon the stock of his revolver.
“Hold on to him, father; don’t let him go,” said the officer, as he rushed back into his chamber, evidently for his pistols or his sabre.
“Hands off, or you are a dead man;” cried Tom, as he pointed his revolver at the head of the farmer.
In another instant, the captain of cavalry reappeared with a pistol in each hand. A stunning report resounded through the house, and Tom heard a bullet whistle by his head.
Chapter XXII.
The Picket Guard.
It was sufficiently obvious to Tom that, on the present occasion, the suspicions of his host were awakened. It is possible that, if he had depended upon his impudence, he might have succeeded in deceiving the Confederate officer; but his evident intention to retire from the contest before an investigation could be had, proved him, in the estimation of the captain, to be either a spy or a deserter, and shooting him was preferable to losing him.
The officer fired quick, and with little attention to the important matter of a steady aim; and Tom had to thank his stars for the hasty shot, for, though it went within a few inches of his head, “a miss was as good as a mile,” and the brains of our hero remained intact and complete. But he was not willing to be the subject of any further experiments of this description, and without waiting further to express his gratitude to the host for the bountiful supper he had eaten, he threw open the door, and dashed off at the top of his speed.
The revolver he carried was a very good implement with which to bully a negro, or an unarmed farmer; but Tom had more confidence in his legs than in his skill as a marksman, and before the captain could transfer the second pistol from his left to his right hand, he had passed out of the house, and was concealed from his pursuers by the gloom of the night. He felt that he had had a narrow escape, and he was not disposed to trifle with destiny by loitering in the vicinity of the house.
He had not proceeded far before he heard a hue and cry behind him; and if the captain of cavalry had not stopped to put on his boots, it is more than possible that our humble volume might have contained a chapter or two upon prison life in Richmond. Undoubtedly it was quite proper for the officer to put on his boots before he went out; a decent regard for his individual sanitary condition, and a reasonable horror of ague and rheumatism, would have induced him to do it, even at the risk of losing a Federal prisoner, or a rebel deserter, as the case might be. At any rate, if Tom had known the cause of the delay, he would freely have forgiven him for wasting his time in healthful precautions.
The fugitive retraced his steps to the river by the same route he had taken in approaching the hospitable roof of the farmer. As nearly as he could judge by the sounds that reached him from the distance, the officer and his father were gathering up a force to hunt down the fugitive. Tom jumped into the bateau, and pushed off. Keeping under the shadow of the bank of the river, he plied his paddle vigorously, and by the time his pursuers arrived at the river, he was a couple of miles from the spot. He could hear a shout occasionally in the deep silence of the night, but with the distance between him and the enemy, he felt entirely secure. The danger had passed, and he floated leisurely on his voyage, buoyant as his light bark, and hopeful as the dream of youth.
Hour after hour, in the gloom of the solemn night, he was borne by the swift tide towards the lines of the loyal army. The day was dawning, and he was on the lookout for a suitable place to conceal himself, until the friendly shades of night should again favor his movements. After the experience of the former night near the ford, he was very cautious in the selection of a hiding place. It is not always safe to be fastidious; for while Tom was rejecting one location, and waiting for another to appear, the river bore him into a tract of very open country, which was less favorable than that through which he had just been passing.
The prospect began to make him nervous; and while he was bitterly regretting that he had not moored the boat before, he was startled to hear a sharp, commanding voice on the bank at his left.
“Who comes there? Halt!”
Tom looked up, and discovered a grayback, standing on the shore, very deliberately pointing his musket at him.
“Who comes there?” demanded the picket; for at this point were stationed the outposts of the rebel force in the Shenandoah valley.
“Friend!” replied Tom.
“Halt, then!”
“I would, if I could,” answered Tom, as hastily as possible.
“Halt, or I’ll fire!”
“I tell you I can’t halt,” replied Tom, using his paddle vigorously, as though he was trying to urge the bateau to the shore. “Don’t fire! For mercy’s sake, don’t fire.”
Tom appeared to be intensely frightened at the situation in which he was placed, and redoubled his efforts apparently to gain the bank of the stream; but the more he seemed to paddle one way, the more the boat went the other way. However much Tom appeared to be terrified by the peril that menaced him, it must be confessed that he was not wholly unmoved.
“Stop your boat, quick!” said the soldier, who had partially dropped his musket from its menacing position.
“I can’t stop it,” responded Tom, apparently in an agony of terror. “I would go ashore if I could.”
“What’s the matter?”
“The water runs so swift, I can’t stop her; been trying this two hours.”
“You will be inside the Yankee lines in half an hour if you don’t fetch to,” shouted the picket.
“Gracious!” exclaimed Tom, redoubling his efforts.
But it was useless to struggle with the furious current, and Tom threw himself into the bottom of the boat, as if in utter desperation. If Niagara Falls, with their thundering roar and fearful abyss, had been before him, his agony could not have been more intense, as judged from the shore.
By this time, the sentinel on the bank had been joined by his two companions, and the three men forming the picket post stood gazing at him, as he abandoned himself to the awful fate of being captured by the blood-thirsty Yankees, to whose lines the relentless current of the Shenandoah was bearing him.
When Tom was first challenged by the grayback, the boat had been some twenty rods above him; and it had now passed the spot where he stood, but the rebels were still near enough to converse with him. Tom heard one of them ask another who he was. Of course neither of them knew who he was, or where he came from.
“Try again!” shouted one of the pickets. “The Yankees will have you in a few minutes.”
Tom did make another ineffectual effort to check the progress of the bateau, and again abandoned the attempt in despair. The rebels followed him on the bank, encouraging him with words of cheer, and with dire prophecies of his fate if he fell into the hands of the cruel Yankees.
“Can’t you help me?” pleaded Tom, in accents of despair. “Throw me a rope! Do something for me.”
Now, this was a suggestion that had not before occurred to the picket guard, and Tom would have been infinitely wiser if he had not put the idea of assisting him into their dull brains; for it is not at all probable that they would have thought of such a thing themselves, for the south, especially the poor white trash, are not largely endowed with inventive genius.
“Save me! Save me!” cried Tom, as he saw the rebels engaged in a hasty consultation, the result of which was, that two of them started off upon the run in a direction at right angles with the stream.
“Try again! Stick to it!” shouted the picket left on the shore.
“I can’t do any more; I’m all tired out,” replied Tom, throwing himself for the fourth time in the bottom of the boat, the very picture of despair.
The picture was very much exaggerated and over-drawn; but as long as the bullet from the rebel’s musket did not come his way, Tom was satisfied with his acting, and hopeful for the future. The man on the shore, full of sympathy for the distressed and exhausted voyager, walked and ran so as to keep up with the refractory barge, which seemed to be spitefully hurling its agonized passenger into the Federal lines, where death and dungeons lurked at every corner.
While this exciting drama was in progress, the stream bore Tom to a sharp bend in the river, where the current set in close to the shore. His attentive guardian on the bank ran ahead, and stationed himself at this point, ready to afford any assistance to the disconsolate navigator which the circumstances might permit.
“Now’s your chance!” shouted he. “Gosh all whittaker! put in now, and do your pootiest!”
Tom adopted this friendly advice, and “put in” with all his might; but the more he “put in,” the more he put out—from the shore, whither the inauspicious eddies were sweeping him. If Tom had not been born in Pinchbrook, and had a home by the sea, where boating is an appreciated accomplishment, he would probably have been borne into the arms of the expectant rebel, or received in his vitals the ounce of cold lead which that gentleman’s musket contained. As it was, he had the skill to do what he seemed not to be doing. Mr. Johnny Reb evidently did not suspect that Tom was “playing ’possum,” as the Tennessee sharpshooters would have expressed it. The voyager’s efforts appeared to be made in good faith; and certainly he applied himself with a degree of zeal and energy which ought to have overcome the inertia of a small gunboat.
The bateau approached the point not more than a rod from the waiting arms of the sympathizing grayback. As it passed, he waded a short distance into the water, and stretched forth his musket to the unhappy voyager. Tom threw down his paddle, and sprang with desperate energy to obtain a hold upon the gun. He even succeeded in grasping the end of the bayonet. For a moment he pulled so hard that it was doubtful whether the bateau would be hauled ashore, or Secesh drawn into the deep water.
“Hold on tight, my boy! Pull for your life!” shouted the soldier, highly excited by the probable success of his philanthropic efforts.
“Save me! Save me!” groaned Tom, as he tugged, or seemed to do so, at the bayonet.
Then, while the united exertions of the saver and the saved, in anticipation, were on the very point of being successful, the polished steel of the bayonet unaccountably slipped through the fingers of Tom, and the bateau was borne off towards the opposite shore.
“Save me! Save me,” cried Tom again, in tones more piteous than ever.
“What d’ye let go fur?” said the grayback, indignantly, as his musket, which he had held by the tip end of the stock, dropped into the water, when Tom let go of the bayonet.
The soldier indulged in a volley of peculiarly southern oaths, with which we cannot disfigure our page, even in deference to the necessity of painting a correct picture of the scene we have described. Tom had a vein of humor in his composition, which has already displayed itself in some of the rough experiences of his career; and when he saw the rebel soldier deprived of all power to make war upon him, either offensive or defensive, he could not resist the temptation to celebrate the signal strategical victory he had obtained over the picket guard. This triumphal demonstration was not very dignified, nor, under the circumstances, very prudent or sensible. It consisted in placing the thumb of his right hand upon the end of his nose, while he wiggled the four remaining digital appendages of the same member in the most aggravating manner, whistling Yankee Doodle as an accompaniment to the movement.
If Secesh did not understand the case before, he did now; and fishing up his musket, he emptied the water out of the barrel, and attempted to fire it. Luckily for Tom, the gun would not go off, and he swept on his way jubilant and joyous.
Chapter XXIII.
The End of the Voyage.
Tom Somers’s voyage down the Shenandoah was, in many respects, a type of human life. He experienced the various reverses, the trials and hardships, which attend all sojourners here below. He triumphed over all obstacles, and when he had completely outwitted the grayback who had labored so diligently to save him from his impending fate, he was at the zenith of prosperity. He had vanquished the last impediment, and the lines of the Union army—the haven of peace to him—were only a short distance from the scene of his victory.
Prosperity makes men arrogant and reckless, and I am sorry to say that it had the same effect upon Tom Somers. If he had been content modestly to enjoy the victory he had achieved, it would have been wiser and safer for him; but when Fortune was kind to him, he mocked her, and she turned against him.
When he had passed out of the reach of the rebel soldier, whose musket had been rendered useless for the time being, Tom believed that he was safe, and that he had fairly escaped from the last peril that menaced him on the voyage. But he was mistaken; for as the current swept the bateau around the bend of the river, he discovered, to his astonishment and chagrin, the two secesh soldiers, who had left the picket post some time before, standing at convenient distances from each other and from the shore, in the water, ready to rescue him from the fate before him. The place they had chosen was evidently a ford of the river, where they intended to check the boat in its mad career down the stream. They were painfully persistent in their kind intentions to save him from the horrible Yankees, and Tom wished they had been less humane and less enthusiastic in his cause.
As soon as Tom perceived this trap, he regretted his imprudence in betraying himself to the soldier from whom he had just escaped. His sorrow was not diminished, when, a few minutes later, he heard the shouts of the third soldier, who, by hard running across the fields, had reached the ford before him.
“Shoot him! Shoot him! He’s a Yankee!” bellowed the grayback on the shore.
Tom was appalled at these words, and wondered how the soldier could have found out that he was a Yankee; but when he recalled the fact that he had entertained him with Yankee Doodle at their last meeting, the mystery became less formidable.
“Shoot him! He’s a Yankee!” shouted Secesh on the bank of the stream.
“We’ve left our guns on shore,” replied Secesh in the water.
“I’m very much obliged to you for that,” said Tom to himself, as he grasped his paddle, and set the boat over towards the right bank of the river.
No doubt the rebels in the water, when they saw with what facility the boatman moved the bateau in the swift tide, as compared with his futile efforts farther up the stream, were fully satisfied of the truth of their companion’s assertion. Tom decided to run the gauntlet between the right bank and the soldier nearest to that shore. He paddled the bateau with all his vigor, until he had obtained the desired position.
The graybacks in the water, realizing that they were engaged on an errand of peace and humanity, had left their muskets on shore. They were, therefore, comparatively harmless; but the one on shore had reached the ford, and picking up one of the muskets of his companions, without threat or warning, fired. It was lucky for Tom that he was not a Tennessee sharpshooter, nor a Texas ranger, for the shot passed harmlessly over him. The soldier dropped the gun, and picked up the other, which he instantly discharged, and with better aim than before, for the ball struck the bateau, though not within four feet of where Tom stood.
“Don’t waste your powder, if you can’t shoot better than that,” shouted one of the soldiers in the water. “You’ll hit us next.”
“Stop him, then! Stop him!” replied the grayback on the shore. “Kill him if you can.”
Tom was paddling with all his might to pass the ford before the soldier nearest to him should reach a position in which he could intercept the boat. The rebel was an enterprising fellow, and the soldier boy’s chances were growing amazingly small. Secesh had actually reached a place where he could make a dash at the boat. There he stood with a long bowie-knife between his teeth, and with both hands outstretched, ready to seize upon the unfortunate bark. He looked grim and ferocious, and Tom saw that he was thoroughly in earnest.
It was a trying situation for a boy of Tom’s years, and he would fain have dodged the issue. That bowie-knife had a wicked look, though it was mild and tame compared with the savage eye of the rebel who held it. As it was a case of life and death, the fugitive braced himself up to meet the shock. Taking his position in the stern of the boat, he held the paddle in his left hand, while his right firmly grasped his revolver. It was either “kill or be killed,” and Tom was not so sentimental as to choose the latter rather than the former, especially as his intended victim was a secessionist and a rebel.
“Keep off, or you are a dead man,” shouted Tom, as he flourished his pistol so that his assailant could obtain a fair view of its calibre, and in the hope that the fellow would be willing to adopt a politician’s expedient, and compromise the matter by retiring out of range.
“Tew kin play at that game. This yere tooth-pick will wipe you out,” coolly replied the fellow, as he made a spring at the boat.
“Stand off!” screamed Tom, as he raised the pistol, and fired.
It was a short range, and Tom would have been inexcusable if he had missed his aim. The rebel struck his chest with his right hand, and the bowie knife dropped from his teeth; but with his left hand he had grasped the gunwale of the boat, and as he sunk down in the shallow water, he pulled the bateau over on one side till the water poured in, and threatened to swamp her. Fortunately the wounded man relaxed his hold, the boat righted, and Tom commenced paddling again with all his strength and skill.
The other soldier in the water, as soon as he discovered where Tom intended to pass, hastened over to assist his associate. The shouts of their companion on shore had fully fired their southern hearts, and both of them were ten times as zealous to kill or capture a Yankee, as they had been to save a Virginian. When the wounded man clutched the boat, the other was not more than ten feet from him, but farther down the stream. His associate fell, and he sprang forward to engage in the affray.
“Stand off, or you are a dead man!” yelled Tom, with emphasis, as he plied his paddle with renewed energy, for he saw that the man could not reach him.
The bateau passed them both, and Tom began to breathe easier. The second rebel, finding he could not capture or kill the detested Yankee, went to the assistance of his companion. The soldier boy suspended his exertions, for the danger seemed to be over, and gazed with interest upon the scene which was transpiring in the water just above him. He was anxious to know whether he had killed the rebel or not. There was something awful in the circumstances, for the soldier boy’s sensibilities were too acute to permit him to take a human life, though it was that of an enemy, without producing a deep impression upon his mind. Perhaps, in the great battle in which he had been a participant, he had killed several rebels; if he had done so, he had not seen them fall. This was the first man he had consciously killed or wounded, and the fact was solemn, if not appalling, to the young soldier.
As the rebel raised his companion from the water he seemed to be dead, and Tom was forced to the conclusion that he had killed him. He had done the deed in self-defence, and in the strict line of duty. He could not be blamed even by his enemies for the act. He felt no exultation, and hoped from the bottom of his heart that the man was prepared to meet his Maker, into whose presence he had been so suddenly summoned.
Tom had heard the boys in Pinchbrook talk lightly about killing rebels, and he had talked so himself; but the reality was not so pleasant as it had seemed at a distance. He was sorry for the poor fellow, and wished he had not been obliged to kill him. It was terrible to him, even in battle, to take a human life, to slay a being created in the image of God, and for whom Christ lived and died.
While he was indulging in these sad reflections, he heard a bullet whistle near his head. The Secesh soldier on the shore had loaded up his companions’ muskets, and was doing his best to bring down the lucky fugitive. His last shot was not a bad one, and Tom could not help thinking, if the grayback should hit him, that he would not waste any fine feelings over him. He did not like the sound of those whizzing bullets, and as he had never boasted of his courage, he did not scorn to adopt precautionary measures. The water was three inches deep in the bottom of the bateau; but Tom deemed it prudent to lie down there until the current should bear him out of the reach of the rebel bullets.
He maintained this recumbent posture for half an hour or more, listening to the balls that frequently whistled over his head. Once he ventured to raise his head, and discovered, not one man, but a dozen, on the shore, which accounted for the rapid firing he heard. When he looked up again, his bateau had passed round a bend, and he was no longer exposed to the fire of the enemy.
From his heart Tom thanked God for his escape. He was religiously grateful for the aid which Providence had rendered him, and when he thought how near he had stood to the brink of destruction, he realized how narrow the span between the Here and the Hereafter. And the moral of his reflections was, that if he stood so near to the open gate of death, he ought always to live wisely and well, and ever be prepared to pass the portals which separate time from eternity.
Tom’s thoughts were sad and heavy. He could not banish from his mind the face of the rebel, as he raised his hand to his breast, where he had received his mortal wound. That countenance, full of hate and revenge, haunted him for weeks afterwards, in the solitude of his tent, and on his midnight vigils as a sentinel.
As he sat in the boat, thinking of the events of the morning, and listening to the mournful rippling of the waters, which, to his subdued soul, sounded like the requiem of his victim, he was challenged from the shore again.
“Who comes there!”
Tom jumped up, and saw a sentinel on the bank pointing his gun at him. He surveyed the form with anxious interest; but this time he had nothing to fear, for the soldier wore the blue uniform of the United States army.
“Friend,” replied he, as he grasped his paddle.
“Come ashore, or I’ll put a bullet through you,” added the sentinel.
“Don’t do it!” said Tom, with energy. “Can’t you see the colors I wear.”
“Come ashore, then.”
“I will.”
The soldier boy worked his paddle with vigor and skill, and it was astonishing to observe with what better success than when invited to land by the grayback up the river. The guard assisted him in landing and securing his boat.
“Who are you?” demanded he, as he gazed at Tom’s wet and soiled garments.
“I was taken prisoner at Bull Run, and came back on my own hook.”
“Perhaps you were, but you can’t pass these lines,” said the soldier.
Tom was sent to the Federal camp, and passed from one officer to another, till he was finally introduced to General Banks, at Harper’s Ferry. He was questioned in regard to his own adventures, the country he had passed through, and the troops of the enemy he had seen. When, to use his own expression, he had been “pumped dry,” he was permitted to rest a few days, and then forwarded to his regiment.
Chapter XXIV.
Budd’s Ferry.
Though Tom Somers had been absent from the regiment only a fortnight, it seemed to him as though a year had elapsed since the day of the battle when he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his townsmen and friends. He had been ordered to report to the provost marshal at Washington, where he learned that his regiment was at Bladensburg, about six miles from the city. Being provided with the necessary pass and “transportation,” he soon reached the camp.
“Tom Somers! Tom Somers!” shouted several of his comrades, as soon as they recognized him.
“Three cheers for Tom Somers!” shouted Bob Dornton.
The soldier boy was a favorite in the company, and his return was sufficient to justify such a proceeding. The cheers, therefore, were given with tremendous enthusiasm.
“Tom, I’m glad to see you!” said old Hapgood, with extended hand, while his eyes filled with tears. “I was afeared we should never see you again.”
The fugitive shook hands with every member of the company who was present. His reception was in the highest degree gratifying to him, and he was determined always to merit the good will of his companions in arms.
“Now, fellows, tell us what the news is,” said Tom, as he seated himself on a camp stool before the tent of his mess.
“There are letters for you, Tom, in the hands of the orderly,” added one of his friends. “I suppose you have got a bigger story to tell than any of us, but you shall have a chance to read your letters first.”
These precious missives from the loved ones at home were given to him, and the soldier boy opened them with fear and trembling, lest he should find in them some bad news; but his mother and all the family were well. One of them was written since the battle, and it was evidently penned with deep solicitude for his fate, of which nothing had been heard.
Hapgood, who sat by him while he read his letters, assured him that his mother must know, by this time, that he was not killed, for all the men had written to their friends since the battle. The captain who had escaped from Sudley church had reported him alive and well, but he had no information in regard to his escape.
“We are all well, and every thing goes on about the same as usual in Pinchbrook,” wrote one of his older sisters. “John is so bent upon going to sea in the navy, that it is as much as mother can do to keep him at home. He says the country wants him, and he wants to go; and what’s more, he must go. We haven’t heard a word from father since he left home; but Captain Barney read in the paper that his vessel had been sunk in the harbor of Norfolk to block up the channel. We can only hope that he is safe, and pray that God will have him in his holy keeping.
“Squire Pemberton was dreadful mad because his son went into the army. He don’t say a word about politics now.”
In a letter from John, he learned that Captain Barney had advanced the money to pay the interest on the note, and that Squire Pemberton had not said a word about foreclosing the mortgage. His brother added that he was determined to go into the navy, even if he had to run away. He could get good wages, and he thought it was a pity that he should not do his share towards supporting the family.
Tom finished his letters, and was rejoiced to find that his friends at home were all well and happy; and in a few days more, a letter from him would gladden their hearts with the intelligence of his safe return to the regiment.
“All well—ain’t they?” asked Hapgood, as Tom folded up the letters and put them in his pocket; and the veteran could not fail to see, from the happy expression of his countenance, that their contents were satisfactory.
“All well,” replied Tom. “Where is Fred Pemberton? I haven’t seen him yet.”
“In the hospital: he’s sick, or thinks he is,” answered Hapgood. “Ben Lethbridge is in the guard house. He attempted to run away while we were coming over from Shuter’s Hill.”
“Who were killed, and who were wounded? I haven’t heard a word about the affair, you know,” asked Tom.
“Sergeant Bradford was wounded and taken prisoner. Sergeant Brown was hit by a shell, but not hurt much. The second lieutenant was wounded in the foot, and—”
A loud laugh from the men interrupted the statement.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Tom.
“He resigned,” added Bob Dornton, chuckling.
“You said he was wounded?”
“I didn’t say so; the lieutenant said so himself, and hobbled about with a big cane for a week; but as soon as his resignation was accepted, he threw away his stick, and walked as well as ever he could.”
The boys all laughed heartily, and seemed to enjoy the joke prodigiously. Tom thought it was a remarkable cure, though the remedy was one which no decent man would be willing to adopt.
“How’s Captain Benson?”
“He’s better; he felt awful bad because he wasn’t in that battle. The colonel has gone home, sick. He has more pluck than body. He was sun-struck, and dropped off his horse, like a dead man, on the field. It’s a great pity he hasn’t twice or three times as much body; if he had, he’d make a first-rate officer.”
It was now Tom’s turn to relate his adventures; and he modestly told his story. His auditors were deeply interested in his narrative, and when he had finished, it was unanimously voted that Tom was a “trump;” which I suppose means nothing more than that he was a smart fellow—a position which no one who has read his adventures will be disposed to controvert.
A long period of comparative inactivity for the regiment followed the battle of Bull Run. General McClellan had been called from the scene of his brilliant operations in Western Virginia, to command the army of the Potomac, and he was engaged in the arduous task of organizing the vast body of loyal troops that rushed forward to sustain the government in this dark hour of peril.
While at Bladensburg the —th regiment with three others were formed into a brigade, the command of which was given to Hooker—a name then unknown beyond the circle of his own friends.
About the first of November the brigade was sent to Budd’s Ferry, thirty miles below Washington, on the Potomac, to watch the rebels in that vicinity. The enemy had, by this time, closed the river against the passage of vessels to the capital, by erecting batteries at various places, the principal of which were at Evansport, Shipping Point, and Cockpit Point. Budd’s Ferry was a position in the vicinity of these works, and the brigade was employed in picketing the river, to prevent the enemy on the other side from approaching, and also to arrest the operations of the viler traitors on this side, who were attempting to send supplies to the rebels.
It was not a very exciting life to which the boys of our regiment were introduced on their arrival at Budd’s Ferry, though the rebel batteries at Shipping Point made a great deal of noise and smoke at times. As the season advanced the weather began to grow colder, and the soldiers were called to a new experience in military life; but as they were gradually inured to the diminishing temperature, the hardship was less severe than those who gather around their northern fireside may be disposed to imagine. Tom continued to be a philosopher, which was better than an extra blanket; and he got along very well.
It was a dark, cold, and windy night, in December, when Tom found himself doing picket duty near the mouth of Chickamoxon Creek. Nobody supposed that any rebel sympathizer would be mad enough to attempt the passage of the river on such a night as that, for the Potomac looked alive with the angry waves that beat upon its broad bosom. Hapgood and Fred Pemberton were with him, and the party did the best they could to keep themselves comfortable, and at the same time discharge the duty assigned to them.
“Here, lads,” said old Hapgood, who, closely muffled in his great-coat, was walking up and down the bank of the creek to keep the blood warm in his veins.
“What is it, Hapgood?” demanded Fred, who was coiled up on the lee side of a tree, to protect him from the cold blast that swept down the creek.
“Hush!” said Hapgood. “Don’t make a noise; there’s a boat coming. Down! down! Don’t let them see you.”
Tom and Fred crawled upon the ground to the verge of the creek, and placed themselves by the side of the veteran.
“I don’t see any boat,” said Tom.
“I can see her plain enough, with my old eyes. Look up the creek.”
“Ay, ay! I see her.”
“So do I,” added Fred. “What shall we do?”
“Stop her, of course.” replied Tom.
“That’s easy enough said, but not so easily done. We had better send word up to the battery, and let them open upon her,” suggested Fred.
“Open upon the man in the moon!” replied Tom, contemptuously. “Don’t you see she is under sail, and driving down like sixty? We must board her!”
Tom spoke in an emphatic whisper, and pointed to a small boat, which lay upon the shore. The craft approaching was a small schooner apparently about five tons burden. The secessionists of Baltimore or elsewhere had chosen this dark and tempestuous night to send over a mail and such supplies as could not be obtained, for love or money, on the other side of the Potomac. Of course, they expected to run the risk of a few shots from the Union pickets on the river; but on such a night, and in such a sea, there was very little danger of their hitting the mark.
Up the creek the water was comparatively smooth; but the little schooner was driving furiously down the stream, with the wind on her quarter, and the chances of making a safe and profitable run to the rebel line, those on board, no doubt, believed were all in their favor.
“We have no time to lose,” said Hapgood, with energy, as he pushed off the boat, which lay upon the beach. “Tumble in lively, and be sure your guns are in good order.”
“Mine is all right,” added Tom, as he examined the cap on his musket, and then jumped into the boat.
“So is mine,” said Fred; “but I don’t much like this business. Do you know how many men there are in the schooner?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care,” replied Tom.
“Of course they are armed. They have revolvers, I’ll bet my month’s pay.”
“If you don’t want to go, stay on shore,” answered Hapgood, petulantly. “But don’t make a noise about it.”
“Of course I’ll go, but I think we are getting into a bad scrape.”
Tom and Hapgood held a hurried consultation, which ended in the former’s taking a position in the bow of the boat, while the other two took their places at the oars. The muskets were laid across the thwarts, and the rowers pulled out to the middle of the creek, just in season to intercept the schooner. Of course they were seen by the men on board of her, who attempted to avoid them.
“Hallo!” said Tom, in a kind of confidential tone. “On board the schooner there! Are you going over?”
“Yes. What do you want?” answered one of the men on board the vessel.
“We want to get over, and are afraid to go in this boat. Won’t you take us over?”
“Who are you?”
“Friends. We’ve got a mail bag.”
“Where did you get it?”
“In Washington.”
By this time, the schooner had luffed up into the wind, and Tom directed his companions to pull again. In a moment the boat was alongside the schooner, and the soldier boy was about to jump upon her half-deck, when the rebel crew, very naturally, ordered him to wait till they had satisfied themselves in regard to his secession proclivities.
There were five men in the schooner, all of whom were seated near the stern. Tom did not heed the protest of the traitors, but sprang on board the schooner, followed by his companions.
“Now, tell us who you are before you come any farther,” said one of the men.
“Massachusetts soldiers! Surrender, or you are a dead man,” replied Tom, pointing his gun.
Chapter XXV.
In the Hospital.
The night was very dark, so that the rebels in the boat could not distinguish the uniform of those who had applied for a passage on the schooner. Perhaps Tom Somers’s experience in the Blue Ridge and on the Shenandoah had improved his strategic ability, so that his words and his manner seemed plausible. But as strategy and cunning always owe their success to the comparative stupidity of the victims, Tom and his companions gained the half-deck of the schooner more by the palpable blundering of her crew than through the brilliancy of their own scheme.
Tom did not stop, in the midst of the exciting enterprise, to determine the particular reason of his success, as we, his humble biographer, have done. He was on the enemy’s ground, and confronting the enemy’s forces, and logic was as much out of place as rebellion in a free republican country. He was closely followed by Hapgood, and at a later period by Fred Pemberton. The nerves of the latter were not remarkably steady, and as he stepped on board the schooner, he neglected to take the painter with him; and the consequence was, that the boat went adrift. It is good generalship to keep the line of retreat open; and Fred’s neglect had deprived them of all means of retiring from the scene of action. The only alternative was to fight their way through, and find safety in success.
To Tom’s reply, that the party were Massachusetts soldiers, the rebel who had acted as spokesman for the crew, uttered a volley of oaths, expressive of his indignation and disgust at the sudden check which had been given to their prosperous voyage.
“Surrender!” repeated Tom, in energetic tones.
Two of the rebels at the stern discharged their pistols in answer to the summons—a piece of impudence which our Massachusetts soldiers could not tolerate; and they returned the fire. The secessionists evidently carried revolvers; and a turn of the barrel enabled them to fire a second volley, which the soldiers were unable to do, for they had no time to load their guns.
“O!” groaned Fred, as he sunk down upon the half-deck. “I’m hit.”
“We can’t stand this, Hapgood,” said Tom, fiercely, as he leaped into the midst of the party in the standing room. “Let’s give them the bayonet.”
“Give it to ’em, Tom!” replied the veteran, as he placed himself by the side of his young companion.
“Will you surrender?” demanded Tom, as he thrust vigorously with his bayonet.
“We surrender,” replied one of the men; but it was not the one who had spoken before, for he had dropped off his seat upon the bottom of the boat.
“Give up your pistols, then,” added Hapgood. “You look out for the boat, Tom, and I will take care of these fellows.”
Tom sprang to the position which had been occupied by the spokesman of the party, and grasping the foresheet and the tiller of the boat, he soon brought her up to the wind. Seating himself in the stern, he assumed the management of the schooner, while Hapgood busied himself in taking the pistols from the hands of the rebels, and exploring their pockets, in search of other dangerous weapons.
“How are you, Fred?” shouted Tom, when the pressing business of the moment had been disposed of. “Are you much hurt?”
“I’m afraid my time’s most up,” replied he, faintly.
“Where are you hit?”
“In the face; the ball went through my head, I suppose,” he added, in tones that were hardly audible, in the warring of the December blast.
“Keep up a good heart, Fred, and we will soon be ashore. Have you got an easy place?”
“No, the water dashes over me.”
“Can’t you move him aft, Hapgood?”
“Pretty soon; when I get these fellows fixed,” replied the veteran, who had cut the rope nearest to his hands, and was securing the arms of the prisoners behind them.
“There is no fear of them now. We have got two revolvers apiece, and we can have it all our own way, if they show fight.”
But Hapgood had bound the rebels by this time, and with tender care he lifted his wounded companion down into the standing room, and made him as comfortable as the circumstances would permit.
“Now, where are we, Hapgood?” asked Tom, who had been vainly peering ahead to discover some familiar object by which to steer. I can’t see the first thing.”
“I don’t know where we are,” replied Hapgood. “I never was much of a sailor, and I leave the navigating all to you.”
“I can navigate well enough, if I knew where we were,” added Tom, who had thus far been utterly unable to ascertain the “ship’s position.”
During the brief struggle for the possession of the schooner, she had drifted some distance, which had caused the new commander to lose his bearings. The shore they had just left had disappeared, as though it had been swallowed up by an earthquake. No lights were allowed on shore, where they could be seen from the river, for they afforded so many targets to the artillerymen in the rebel batteries. The more Tom tried to discover a familiar object to steer by, the more it seemed as though the land and everything else had been cut adrift, and emigrated to foreign parts. Those who have been in a boat in a very dark night, or in a dense fog, will be able to appreciate the bewilderment of the skipper of the captured schooner.
“Look out, Tom, that you don’t run us into some of those rebel batteries,” said Hapgood, after he had watched the rapid progress of the boat for a few moments. “A shot from a thirty-two pounder would be a pill we couldn’t swallow.”
“No danger of that, Hapgood,” answered Tom, confidently.
“I don’t know about that, my boy,” answered the veteran, in a tone heavy with dire anxiety.
“I know it. The schooner was running with the wind on her starboard quarter when we boarded her. We are now close-hauled, and of course we can’t make the shore on the other side while we are on this tack.”
Well, I don’t know much about it, Tom, but if you say its all right, I’m satisfied; that’ all. I’d trust you just as far as I would General McClennon, and you know we all b’lieve in him.”
“What are you going to do with us?” asked one of the rebels, who began to exhibit some interest in the fate of the schooner.
“I suppose you will find good quarters in Fort McHenry,” replied Tom. “Where do you belong?”
“In Baltimore.”
“What are you doing here, then?”
“We go in for the South.”
“Go in, then!” added Tom, laughing.
“You’ll fetch up where all the rest of ’em do,” said Hapgood.
“How’s that fellow that was hit?” asked Tom, pointing to the rebel who lay in the middle of the standing room.
“I guess it’s all right with him,” replied Hapgood, bending over the silent form. “No; he isn’t dead.”
“I have it!” shouted Tom, suddenly crowding the helm hard-a-lee.
“What, Tom?”
“I see where we are. We are running up the river. I see the land on the weather bow.”
The schooner was put about, and after running with the wind amidships for ten or fifteen minutes, Tom discovered the outline of Mrs. Budd’s house, which was directly under the guns of the Union battery.
“Stand by the fore halliards, Hapgood,” said Tom, as the boat came about again. “Let go!”
The foresail came down, and Tom sprang upon the pier, as the schooner came up under its lee. In a moment the boat was made fast. By this time the pickets appeared.
“Who comes there?” demanded the soldier.
“Friends!” replied Tom.
“Advance, friend, and give the countersign.”
“Little Mac,” whispered the soldier boy in the ear of the sentinel.
“Who are you?”
“Co. K.” answered Tom.
“What’s the row? The long roll was beat just now, and the whole regiment is in line. What was that firing?”
“We have captured this boat, and five prisoners, one of them wounded, if not dead.”
“Bully for you,” replied the picket.
They were soon joined by a squad of men, and Fred Pemberton and the wounded rebel were conveyed to the hospital, while the four prisoners were conducted to a secure place. Hapgood and Tom then hastened to the parade, where the regiment was drawn up, and reported the events which had just transpired. It was unanimously voted by officers and privates that the picket guard had done “a big thing,” and they were warmly and generously commended for their skill and bravery.
Hapgood and Tom requested permission to go to the hospital and see their companion. They found that the surgeon had already dressed his wound.
“Will he die?” asked Tom, full of solicitude for his friend.
“Die! no; it’s a mere scratch. The ball ploughed into his cheek a little way,” replied the surgeon. “It isn’t a bad wound. He was more scared than hurt.”
“I am glad it is no worse,” said Captain Benson, who, with fatherly solicitude for his men, had come to the hospital as soon as the company was dismissed. “But what ails you, Tom? You look pale.”
“Nothing, captain.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t think I am badly hurt. I believe one of those pistol balls grazed my side; but I hardly felt it.”
“Let me see,” said the surgeon.
The doctor opened Tom’s coat, and his gray shirt was found to be saturated with blood.
“That’s a worse wound than Pemberton’s. Didn’t you know it, Tom?”
“Well, of course I knew it; but I didn’t think it was any thing,” replied Tom, apologetically. “I knew it wouldn’t do to drop down, or we should all be in Dixie in half an hour.”
“You are my man for the present,” said the doctor, as he proceeded to a further examination of the wound.
Tom was hit in the side by one of the pistol bullets. As I have not the surgeon’s report of the case, I cannot give a minute description of it; but he comforted Hapgood and the captain with the assurance that, though severe, it was not a dangerous wound.
“Tom Somers, there’s a sergeant’s warrant in Company K for one of you three men,” said Captain Benson, when the patient was comfortably settled upon his camp bed. “The colonel told me to give him the name of the most deserving man in my company.”
“Give it to Tom,” said Hapgood, promptly. “He led off in this matter, and ef’t hadn’t been for him, we should all have been on t’other side of the river, and p’raps on t’other side of Jordan, afore this time. And then, to think that the poor fellow stood by, and handled the boat like a commodore, when the life-blood was runnin’ out of him all the time! It belongs to Tom.”
“Give it to Tom,” added Fred, who lay near the patient.
“No, Captain Benson,” interposed Tom, faintly. “Hapgood is an old soldier, and deserves it more than I do. Give it to him, and I shall be better satisfied than if you give it to me.”
“Tom Somers!” exclaimed old Hapgood, a flood of tears sliding down his furrowed cheeks, “I won’t stand nothin’ of the sort! I’d jump into the river and drownd myself before I’d take it, after what you’ve done.”
“You are both worthy of it,” added Captain Benson.
“Please give it to Hapgood,” pleaded Tom. “He first proposed going out after the little schooner.”
“Give it to Tom, cap’n. It’ll help heal his wound,” said Hapgood.
“No; it would do me more good to have you receive it,” protested Tom.
“Well, here, I can’t have this battle fought in the hospital,” interposed the surgeon. “They are good friends, captain, and whichever one you give it to, the other will be suited. You had better settle the case at head-quarters.”
“If you please, Captain Benson, I would like to have Hapgood stay with me to-night, if he can be spared.”
The veteran was promptly detailed for hospital duty, and the captain returned to his quarters to decide the momentous question in regard to the sergeant’s warrant.