CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They spent their fourth morning in shelter from the rain. They had circled farms, forded dozens of streams. More than once they had ducked off country roads to avoid teams of oxen and country wagons, but as far as they knew they hadn’t been seen.
The rain had started an hour ago. Now it was coming down in torrents, swelling the streams and turning the rivers to turbid floods.
They had found a sheltered place at the edge of a deep ravine. They had bent four closely grouped saplings, tying the top of each to the base of another and covering them with the poncho Devil had given them. They had made a mush of rokeeg and water and eaten the stuff. It was tasteless now.
They had stretched their blankets on logs laid side by side, and Red was so tired that he slept like a baby on this bed that was something akin to a corduroy road.
The rain beat against the poncho and dripped through leaks, soaking Tim’s blanket and wetting his clothes.
He didn’t want to look at Kate’s map in the rain. Thepaper was thin and he was afraid if it got wet it might come apart. They were just east of the railroad line. He hoped they were close to Unionville.
They hadn’t traveled as fast as they had hoped they would, but if they could keep moving they might reach North Carolina in two or three days. They had thought about hopping a freight as one went by, but the risk was too great and they couldn’t ride the railroad very far. It ended at Spartanburg.
Tim looked across the ravine through a curtain of rain. Their prospects couldn’t seem worse. They had eaten the last two eggs and roasted and divided the last ear of corn. The rokeeg wouldn’t last long.
They couldn’t hope to find friends until they had crossed the state line, and even then they couldn’t tell a Unionist by the cut of his clothes. North Carolina might not be the promised land. They would have to travel a hundred and thirty or forty miles, crossing the Great Smokies before they would see a Yankee uniform.
Tim slept until noon and when he woke the rain had stopped and the leaden clouds were blowing away, leaving patches of clear blue sky.
Tim touched Red’s shoulder, and Red opened his eyes. He stared at the poncho above his head. His face showed no emotion. He was silent for a minute before he spoke. “Well, we bargained for this. We knew we had no more than a fifty-fifty chance.”
“Let’s push on.”
They walked north northwest for an hour or so on a narrow, overgrown road. They saw a house, then cut to the right and into a thicket where they stumbled and kicked through the thorny undergrowth and hopped over winding freshets that had come with the rain. When they broke clear at last their hands were bleeding and theirclothes were torn, but they had left the house a mile behind. Tim saw a little stream that hadn’t been muddied by the rain.
They stood for a moment and looked around. There was no sign of life as far as Tim could see. “Let’s take a bath,” he said.
“Are you out of your mind, lad? It’s chilly as the devil this afternoon.”
“I’d like a change.”
“Why don’t we go into town and have ourselves fitted for new uniforms? Why do the job halfway?”
Tim smiled. “At least we can wash our feet and change to dry socks.”
They took out clean socks and left their haversacks at the foot of a tree. At the edge of the stream they sat on a huge flat rock and washed their feet, then sat still for a while until their feet were dry.
They put on the clean socks, tied the wet ones to the flaps of their haversacks and started walking again.
They soon found a rutted wagon road that looked as if it were seldom used. They were fit for travel again, but the open land and the lack of cover along the sides of the road made Tim wonder if they should go on in the light of day.
Here they walked side by side. For the first time the ground grew stiff with frost.
A railroad whistle broke the silence.
In three or four minutes they heard the engine, faintly at first. The whistle sounded again, and they saw a freight train on high ground half a mile west, chugging and rocking toward the north, leaving a trail of smoke behind.
“That’s the way to travel,” Red said.
They watched the smoke until it disappeared, and when they turned there was a herd of cows ahead of them, lumbering across the road. Tim was about to look for coverwhen he noticed a boy of six or seven in the middle of the herd. He stared at the fugitives, openmouthed.
The cows kept moving across the road but the lad stood still until the last of the cows had passed. Then, finding himself alone in the road, still facing the men in tattered blue, he wheeled and ran.
To their right the land rose gently. It offered little cover. It would be folly to retreat along the road. Tim motioned left toward the railroad track. “That’s as good a way as any. At least there’s a little cover there.”
They ran across a field and into a grove of scrub oak and pine. They dashed pell-mell down a steep little hill and across a brook and up toward the ridge where the railroad ran. They heard the sound of horses’ hoofs crashing through the undergrowth across the stream. They ducked behind a clump of weeds. The riders came into view and jumped the stream. They reined in and looked along the little valley and up the hill.
Tim and Red watched unmoving as the men talked in low tones. One was well past middle age, thin and handsome. He was hatless, his face was tan and his head was covered with a thick mat of snow-white hair. The other man was big and burly, a giant of a man. A gray slouch hat sheltered his eyes. Both were armed.
The big man shouted, “You better show yourselves. We know you’re in this place. We saw you high-tailin’ it across the fields.”
Tim whispered, “We better give up to save our lives.”
They stood with their hands in the air and the rifles came up. The horses moved close.
The white-haired man spoke with a hint of a burr. “Are you the soldiers who escaped from the jail in Columbia?”
“We are,” said Red.
“Are you armed?”
“Not even a knife,” Tim said.
The big man spoke. “I’ll search them.” He dismounted, and leaving his rifle with the older man, moved forward with caution. “Step out from behind those weeds.”
They held their hands in the air, and the giant ordered, “Take off your haversacks and blanket rolls.” He watched them closely. “Throw them behind me on the ground.”
The soldiers did as they were told and the man slapped their pockets with the flats of his hamlike hands. Tim heard the crinkle of the map but their captor took no interest in this. He felt the diary and the book of photographs. “Unbutton your blouse.”
“That’s my diary and home photographs.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. He fumbled for the things but couldn’t find the top of the pocket and finally he said, “Bring them out yourself, but mind, if you try any funny stuff Mr. MacNeil will shoot you down.”
Tim brought out the album and the diary and held them in the palm of his hand. The man reached roughly for the leather-bound books and slipped them into his overcoat pocket.
Red lowered his hands but he held them away from his sides. “Those things are personal property.”
The big man flushed. “You dirty Yankee muck. You’d better raise your hands.”
Now the older man’s voice came sharp. “Don’t talk to the prisoners that way, Kane. These men are Union officers, prisoners of war. Give the books to me.”
The big man was sullen. “As soon as I tie the prisoners’ hands. We can carry the monkeys across our saddles.”
The white-haired man smiled, then his face grew stern. He spoke to the captives. “If we leave you unbound so you can ride behind, will you give me your word you’ll behave?”
Tim smiled. “This wouldn’t be the best time to make a break. You have our word.”
The giant’s eyes glistened like polished flint under his shaggy brows, reflecting his hate of Yankees in general and resentment of the older man.
He grumbled as the prisoners mounted freely, and was silent and brooding as they slanted up the hill and jogged through the wood and across the open fields. Tim rode behind the older man.
When they had traveled half a mile or so they approached the gate of a rambling, white two-story house with lanterns hanging at either side of the big front door. A large barn stood behind the house and other outbuildings beside the barn.
The big man spoke. “I’ll lock the Yankees in my shed and station a guard around.”
“These men are in sorry shape. They need some food and rest and a chance to dry their clothes. I’ll put them up here.” MacNeil nodded to Red. “You are free to dismount. Kane, set the bundles by the gate and find two men to act as guards and two to relieve them at suppertime and shift with them through the night. Let them stand at opposite sides of the house for now.”
“If you’ll pardon me, sir, I think you’re making a great mistake. Surely you don’t want to keep them here.”
“Do as I say.”
The giant rode off at a fast clip, looking back as he went. The others dismounted and the Scotsman said, “Kane’s a good worker or I wouldn’t keep him on.”
Two young dogs came racing around the house, wagging their tails and barking happily. They sniffed around the prisoners’ legs. One was a hound with beautiful reddish-brown eyes, and the other—whose coat was golden—looked like a cross between a sheep dog and a shaggy bear. Theywagged their tails and Tim patted them in turn. Red scratched the chin of the shaggy one and the dogs dashed off to play again.
The Scotsman smiled. “Would you believe that they had the same mother?”
Tim eyed a pistol that hung at the belt of their host.
“I think I should warn you,” the Scotsman said, “I’m the best pistol shot in Chester County. I wouldn’t like to have to try my skill on you.”
Tim said, “Thank you for your courtesy, sir. We have no mind to escape just now. By the way,” he motioned toward Red, “this is Lieutenant Kelly. My name is Bradford.”
The man said, “Let’s go along inside.”
A middle-aged colored man opened the door, as if at a prearranged sign. His voice shook as he greeted his master, and MacNeil said, “These men are prisoners but you have nothing to fear. Build fires in the west rooms so they can dry their clothes. See that the beds are made up.” MacNeil called after the retreating man, “And ask Jenny to fetch their bundles from beside the gate. Be sure they carry no pistols or knives before you take them up to the rooms.”
“Yes, Massa.”
“Would you care to join me by the fire?” MacNeil asked.
They entered a long, low living room with a ceiling of raw brown beams, plaster between them. The prisoners seated themselves at one side of a crackling fire. Their host tossed his coat across a chair and sat with his pistol in his lap. “How long have you been on the countryside?”
Red pulled his beard. “Today was our fourth day, sir.”
“How did you make your escape from the jail?”
“We’d better not say, but we didn’t give violence to any guard.”
“You were heading for Knoxville, I suppose?”
“Yes,” Tim said.
MacNeil stared at the hearth rug. “I was in a Scottish regiment years ago. Soldiering seemed quite a lark when I was young, but a war like this is a filthy thing.” He was silent a minute and then he said, “This country has been good to me, and now this war is tearing it apart. Our farms were prosperous and our people proud. I settled in Charleston when I first came out here, and when I had a bit of money I bought this land.”
The colored man stood in the door. “Jenny says the gentlemen’s sacks hold nothing much but dirty clothes. There’s a bit of brandy and a sack of ground corn.”
“Thank you, Luke.” MacNeil fingered his pistol and talked as before. “It’s no good mincing words. The War is going against us now. We’re being crushed by the industrial might of the North.” He smiled with a trace of bitterness. “My sons would never admit it, I’m sure. One of them went to medical college in the North but he’s a Southerner to the core. They are both with General Lee just now.”
Tim said, “We believe in our cause, as they do in theirs.”
Their host looked into the fire, then studied the faces of the prisoners. “You boys have had a trying time. It would grieve me sorely if I saw you come to an unhappy end. The people hereabouts hate Yankee uniforms. Twenty-two Confederate dead sleep in the churchyard down the road.”
A thumping came at a door at the back of the house. “That must be Kane,” MacNeil said.
The colored man came in again. “Mr. Kane has four guards outside. He asks would you like a word with him?”
“Tell Mr. Kane to send one of the guards to the second floor hall. I’ll see him shortly.”
MacNeil stood up, keeping his pistol in his hand. “I’ll take you to your rooms.”
MacNeil kept his prisoners ahead of him as he showed them the way. He directed Red to a door in the middle of the hall and Tim to a room that faced the front as well as the side. “Make yourselves comfortable. Would you like some tea and a bit of bread to tide you over till suppertime?”
“Don’t trouble, sir,” Tim said. “Sleep is what we need right now.”
A fresh-lit fire crackled on the hearth. Tim spread his blanket on the floor, stripped off his clothes and hung them over the fire screen to dry. He drew a ladder-back chair close to the hearth and turned out the contents of his haversack and arranged the clothes on the chair.
A pitcher and a tumbler stood on a table by the bed and a china basin steamed on a wooden stand. Tim reached for a sponge that hung with a towel at the side of the stand and washed and dried. He helped himself to a drink of water, raised a window a crack and slipped between the clean white sheets.
One window of his room faced west and he judged by the angle of the sun that it must be past midafternoon. He lay for a moment, staring at the white ceiling overhead and wishing he could find pleasure in lying between sweet-smelling sheets, but the thought of going back to the damp, cheerless walls of the jail, the petty tyranny of the guards and the boredom, was enough to make him sick.
He drifted into an uneasy sleep.