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.
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