Wednesday dawned in a drizzle of rain. It had seemed to Tom, riding through the long night on a horse whose legs trembled at every step, that the dawn would never come; that the world had been conquered by the downpour. At least it had seemed so until the monotony of the rain and cold deadened his senses, allowing him to fall into a doze.
He straightened in the saddle, and stretched. A chill seized him, and he commenced to shiver violently. His clothes were wet and heavy.
"This won't do," he said aloud, with his teeth chattering. At the sound of his voice the horse pricked up his ears feebly. "Poor fellow! You're just about ready to drop, aren't you?" He reined in, stroking the horse's shoulder; then dismounted. For a few seconds he clung to the saddle, supporting himself; his numbed legs refused to hold him until he brought them to life by stamping and kicking. Even then he was none too sure of his step.
"Poor boy!" he said to the horse. "It's been a hard trip for you. Poor boy! Here, let's take that bit out of your mouth and see if you can find something to eat. There's not much around here, is there?" The horse commenced chewing at some weeds which had sprung up along the roadside. Tom pulled out the sodden remains of the food Andrews had given him, gave the bread to the horse and ate the meat. Then, leading the horse, he walked along the road. He had passed Coal Mines shortly after midnight, but without coming upon Brown. Probably, he thought, Brown and his companion had found a house or barn in which they were spending the night, which meant that he was ahead of them and would be in Chattanooga when they arrived.
A half-hour later he tried to remount, but the horse was too exhausted to bear his weight. They rested for a few minutes and then walked for another half-hour. Several times the horse stumbled. When they stopped to rest again, the horse braced his legs as though it took all his strength to stand. His head was hanging, and his eyes were dull.
"Poor fellow," Tom repeated. "It's cruel to make you do this, but I can't leave you here." If he had to abandon the animal, he wanted to leave him where there was some chance of finding food. Here there was nothing.
They pressed on again, walking for a few minutes, then resting. It was nearly seven o'clock when they came to a big house, standing several hundred yards from the road. Tom turned up the driveway. Presently the odor of frying bacon came to his nostrils, and he felt faint and dizzy.
"Lan' sakes alive," exclaimed the negro woman who came to the door. "Lan' sakes, have you all been out in this rain storm. Jasper!"
"Yas'm," came the answer. A little negro boy appeared from around his mother's skirts.
"Take this gentleman's horse 'round to de stable. Come right in, sir."
"Thank you," answered Tom wearily. "Can you give me something to eat?"
"Yassir. You come right in."
"I'd better unsaddle the horse first, mammy," replied Tom.
"Jasper, you tell yo' pa to unsaddle this gentleman's horse. You come right in here, sir. I'll tell the white folks."
Tom needed no second urging. He entered the big kitchen, his stomach wrenching and aching at the odor of food. "Don't bother about telling the white folks that I'm here, mammy," he said. "Just give me something to eat. I'm starving."
"Yassir, yassir," replied the old woman, "but a kitchen ain't no place for white folks to eat. I'll just run an' tell Mr. Beecham you all is here." She disappeared through the door leading to the back part of the house.
Tom decided that it was no time for ceremony. On the table lay a loaf of bread—the colored woman had been slicing it when he knocked—and in the pan sizzled a dozen slices of bacon. In less than five seconds, Tom was eating a bacon sandwich. And he was halfway through the second sandwich when the colored woman came back to the kitchen.
"Sakes!" she exclaimed. "I guess you is suh-tainly hungry. Mr. Beecham he's coming right away."
Mr. Beecham proved to be an elderly, stern-faced gentleman. He stood in the doorway gazing at Tom.
"Well, sir," he said at last. "Do you prefer my kitchen to my dining-room, sir?"
"No, Mr. Beecham, I don't," answered Tom. "But in these clothes, wet to the skin, it would be an intrusion to go farther than the kitchen."
It was an answer that Mr. Beecham appreciated. Tom was glad that the last evidences of the stolen bacon sandwiches had disappeared down his throat. He stood waiting for Mr. Beecham to speak—and wondering if he was to be invited for breakfast.
"Will you come with me, please?" asked Mr. Beecham. They passed through a corridor, and into the big entrance hall, where logs were blazing In a fireplace. "In these days," continued Mr. Beecham, "it is customary to ask people who they are. You understand, I trust."
"Certainly, sir," said Tom. "My name is Thomas Burns, and I'm from Fleming County, Kentucky. I'm on my way to Atlanta to enlist." He had been bracing himself for the past minute to tell that story, and it came smoothly, convincingly. For a moment after it was out, he hated himself.
Mr. Beecham pursed his lips and nodded. "Excellent!" he exclaimed. "Will you be my guest at breakfast, sir?"
"Thank you, sir," Tom replied. "But in these clothes…."
"I daresay we will be able to find other clothes for you. If you will come with me?"
"First I'd like to go to the stable and see my horse. I gave him a hard ride last night to put distance between me and the Union pickets."
"Certainly." Mr. Beecham called another colored boy, who guided Tom to the stable. There he found his horse munching hay, wearily but contentedly. The stableman approached, armed with grooming implements.
"That's good," said Tom. "Give him a good grooming, and a blanket. Then, in a half-hour, give him a feed of oats."
"Yassir."
He slipped a dollar into the negro's hand, and left him beaming.
Mr. Beecham escorted him to a room upstairs, where, with the aid of another negro servant, they found clothes to replace the wet things he was wearing. They left him to wash and dress.
"We will have breakfast just as soon as you are ready," said Mr. Beecham as he closed the door.
Tom wondered if all these negroes were slaves. He had seen an occasional negro in the North, but of course they were freed. He had expected to find them different; less cheerful, perhaps, and carrying an air of oppression. And it disturbed him slightly not to find them so.
Mr. Beecham had provided him with a suit of his own clothes. They were about the same size, but a suit cut for a man of more than fifty looks strange on a boy of eighteen. Tom glanced at himself in the mirror and laughed. However, it was part of the adventure he had been tossed into.
As he left his room and started down the stairs, the chatter of women's voices struck his ears. Then he saw two women standing with Mr. Beecham before the fire. One of them was elderly, and the other was a girl—about his own age, Tom thought. She was strikingly pretty, standing there in the glow of the fire, glancing up out of the corners of her eyes, as though she could not restrain her curiosity.
"May I present Mr. Burns, my dear," said Mr. Beecham. "My wife and my niece, Miss Marjorie, Mr. Burns."
Tom bowed, muttering "Mrs. Beecham, Miss Marjorie." When he caught the girl's eyes, he saw a twinkle of amusement. Then he remembered his clothes, and he blushed. The formalities of introduction over, they turned to the dining-room, where two negro girls were already arranging breakfast. It was a feast: coffee, hot cakes, eggs … everything that Shadrack in his wildest moments of hunger could have dreamt of.
Mr. Beecham's conversation about the war, conditions in the South, his hatred of the North and the abolitionists, occupied most of Tom's attention. It was difficult to play the role of Southerner; he wanted to protest against some of the things the older man said. There was slight opportunity for him to reply, however, and so he simply nodded, apparently agreeing heartily.
"Did you ride far last night?" asked Miss Marjorie finally.
"From Wartrace," he said. "I came through the lines there."
"And weren't there any Union sentries?"
"I didn't stop to investigate."
Mr. Beecham broke in upon their conversation at that point with some observations of his own upon the subject of Northern politics. Then he drifted to war manoeuvers: "I tell you, Beauregard will smash that man Mitchel to a million pieces. Mitchel is so frightened that he dares not move. Whichever way he moves, he is lost. He is trapped like a man at chess. The best thing he can do is to surrender before he loses his troops. He dares not move."
And Tom was thinking to himself: "How surprised you'd be if you knew thatMitchel was moving this very minute."
Mitchelwasmoving. Under the weight of their water-soaked equipment, his men were plodding wearily through the mud, marching slowly and steadily upon Huntsville. While Tom had been riding through the night, Mitchel's men had slept on the flooded ground between Shelbyville and Fayetteville. Now they were prying the heaving wagons from the mud holes, while the cavalry swept out on the flanks to clear the country of enemy scouts. Skirmishers were advancing through the woods and over the hills, protecting the troops, with their thousands of wagons and guns, from surprise attack. General Mitchel, riding through the drizzle, announced to his aides: "Regardless of the weather, we will attack Huntsville Friday."
Even Andrews, underrating Mitchel's relentless determination to do what he said he would do, if all the forces of the weather were against him, thought himself safe in delaying the raid at least one day.
"I must leave, sir, as soon as my horse is fit to travel," replied Tom to Mr. Beecham's questions regarding his plans. "That will give me more than enough time if the ferry is running, and just enough time if I must follow the river to the Chattanooga ferry."
Mr. Beecham's house was only ten miles from the town, figured on the map; but the weather made map figuring hazardous. The Tennessee River had mounted to a torrent under the continual rains, and the ferries which customarily provided short-cuts were, for the most part, not operating. Tom gathered that information at breakfast. He had no intention of trying to cross at the Chattanooga ferry, for the Confederate guards there would be dangerously strong, and it remained to find some ferryman who could be bribed to risk the trip. That might take time.
"I'll look at your horse while I'm out," said Mr. Beecham. He was preparing, regardless of the storm, for his usual walk about his estate. He went out, and Mrs. Beecham turned to her household duties. Miss Marjorie and Tom were alone, standing before the blazing fire in the hall. There was still that disconcerting twinkle of amusement in her eyes.
"I suppose I do look funny," he said, glancing down at his clothes.
"It's not kind of me to laugh," she replied. "Were you very wet!"
"As wet as one person can possibly be. I absorbed at least half of the rainstorm between Wartrace and here. No more water would stick to me—it just rolled off, finally."
"I don't think I should like being a soldier," she said. "Do you?"
"I haven't tried it. I'm just beginning."
"Do you want to fight?"
"It isn't a question of wanting to fight," he replied. "It's a question of duty."
"Oh." She sat down and he took a chair beside her. "But you were out of it. No one would have said that it was your duty to run the danger of going through the Union pickets."
He wished that she would not talk about the war. It was unpleasant, this lying to a girl. With Mr. Beecham it was different. Then he remembered that she had said "Union pickets," instead of "Yankee pickets." It struck him as strange, coming from a Southern girl.
"Tell me about your home," she asked.
He gave a rather sketchy description of his imaginary home in Fleming County, Kentucky—a none too convincing description. Then he tried to change the subject by asking her if she had always lived with the Beechams.
"No—not always," she answered. "Is Fleming Cou…."
"And is your name Beecham?" he interrupted, anxious to avoid the subject ofFleming County.
"My name is Landis," she answered. "Marjorie Landis. Is Fleming County very large?"
"No—no. Not very large. And where did you live before you came here?"
"With mother." It seemed to be her turn for evasion. "I presume," she continued, "that you know all the people in the county?"
He wondered if, by some chance, she knew people there, if she was going to pin him down to persons and definite places in Fleming County.
"No, indeed," he answered. "You see, I haven't been there all the time."
"I never was very good at geography," she began apologetically. "Where isFleming County?"
"Oh, it is in the southern part of the state," he said. He decided to study the first map he could get his hands upon.
"Let's do as we used to do in school," she said. "Bound Fleming County for me."
Tom decided that he hated all girls, and Miss Marjorie Landis in particular. She had trapped him, easily and pleasantly.
He forced himself to laugh, and the laugh sounded mirthlessly in his ears. "Oh, I've forgotten," he said. "I can't remember what counties are around us there. I wonder when this rain will stop? We'll have to build us an ark if it keeps on much longer. Wouldn't a war on an ark be a strange thing? The ark would keep turning in the current—the North would become the South and the South would become the North, and so rapidly that we wouldn't know which side we were fighting on. Do you think we'd have to stop and change uniforms every time the ark turned?" He arose and went to the window. "I wonder if my poor horse is getting rested! It's a pity to ride him again this afternoon. Perhaps I'd better go out and see him."
She, too, arose. "Never mind about the horse, Mr. Burns," she said. "You'd much better be studying geography! Wait here a moment."
She turned and ran up the stairs. Tom, his head pounding, watched her disappear. What was she going to do, now that she had trapped him? Of course she knew that he had not been telling the truth. Presently she returned with a book under her arm. Scarcely glancing at him, she approached, opened the book—it was a geography—turned the pages to a map of Kentucky.
"There!" she said. He looked at her, rather than the book. "No—study it."
He did as she bade him—and found Fleming County in the north-eastern part of the state. It had been a bad guess. Then he glanced at the names of the counties surrounding it.
"But why…." he began.
"Give me the map!" she demanded. "Now can you remember them!"
"But…."
"Please! Say them—the counties!"
"Lewis, Carter, Morgan, Bath, Nicholas, Mason."
As the door opened and Mr. Beecham entered, they turned. "Mr. Burns has been showing me on the map where he lives," said Miss Marjorie sweetly.
"Ah, yes—ah, yes," answered Mr. Beecham. "Ah, yes, indeed."
Tom scarcely heard him, or saw him.
"Your horse will be ready to carry you in a few hours, I think," said Mr.Beecham. "You must have ridden him easily, sir."
"I didn't press him harder than was necessary," responded Tom.
"I tell you," announced Mr. Beecham, divesting himself of his storm coat, "it takes a Southern man to get the most out of horse flesh, without hurting the horse. A good reason for the superiority of our cavalry! I trust you are going to join the cavalry."
"Yes, sir," answered Tom. He was thoroughly sick of deception. At that moment, if he could have found an adequate excuse for departure, he would willingly have walked the remaining distance to Chattanooga—and swum the river in the bargain.
Mr. Beecham settled himself before the fire. "I've not known many gentlemen from Kentucky," he announced. "For the most part I stay at home, and we have few travelers along this road. There was a Mr. Charles, of Floyd County. Isn't that just east of Fleming County!"
"No," answered Tom, "Carter County is on our east." He glanced at Miss Marjorie. She was watching him intently, alive to the dangerous ground he was treading.
"Ah, yes," answered Mr. Beecham, "so it is—so it is. Let me see the geography a moment, dear." Miss Marjorie gave him the book, opened to the map of Kentucky. "Quite so—quite so. Floyd County is here." He pointed.
"Yes," answered Tom. "Does there seem to be any chance of the storm ending, sir?"
The weather provided a safer subject of conversation, which lasted for nearly a half-hour. Then Tom became intensely interested in Mr. Beecham's estate, and the difficulties of handling crops in war time. Miss Marjorie sat near them, sewing. Tom would have given everything he possessed for two minutes alone with her. Why was she befriending him? He asked the question over and over again.
It was decided that one of Mr. Beecham's servants should go with Tom to the ferry landing. The servant, carrying a note from Mr. Beecham to the ferryman, would show him the way, and, more than that, it would be additional proof to the ferryman that Mr. Beecham was especially desirous of Tom's being taken across the river. "Then I'll know if old Jones who runs the ferry does as I tell him to do," explained Mr. Beecham. "They don't like to cross when the river's high."
Dinner was served, and still Tom had no opportunity to speak with Marjorie alone. The glances they exchanged were charged with meaning—but it was an unexplainable meaning. Several times as he pondered over it, Tom lost the thread of Mr. Beecham's remarks, and had to grope for the right answers.
"Your horse will be ready for you in a few minutes," said Mr. Beecham as they arose from the table.
"And your clothes are dried and in your room," added his wife.
It was time to be going. He mounted to his room, changed into the rough suit he had bought in Shelbyville, and forced his feet into his soggy shoes. They were waiting for him before the fire as he came down. After a moment, Mrs. Beecham left them. Tom hoped desperately that Mr. Beecham would do likewise.
"I'll see if Sam is bringing your horse," he said.
Tom's eyes met Marjorie's as the older man entered the next room, where he could look out toward the stables. He had no sooner disappeared than Tom asked in a low voice: "Why did you do that?"
"You're not a Southerner, are you?" she asked.
"No," he answered bluntly. "But what…?"
"I'm not either," she replied. Her glowed with excitement. "I'm fromAlbany…."
They were interrupted by Mr. Beecham's returning. "The horse is coming," he announced. Mrs. Beecham entered the room.
"Thank you for your hospitality," said Tom.
"It has been a pleasure," replied Mrs. Beecham.
"A pleasure, sir—a pleasure," responded her husband.
Tom's dislike for the deception he was practising made him want to run from the house. For the moment he hated the idea of the expedition.
He put out his hand to Marjorie. She gave him a cool, firm clasp, and looked straight into his eyes. "I wish you the best of luck for everything you undertake," she said slowly.
"Thank you," he replied. "I'll need luck." Her hand gave his a quick pressure. Once again the railroad raid became a great, thrilling adventure in which he was to play a part.
"He bowed and left the house.
"Sam!" called Mr. Beecham.
"Yassah!" answered the negro boy who was mounted upon another horse.
"You stay there until this gentleman is across the river."
"Yassah."
Tom mounted and they started down the road. He looked back, saw Marjorie at the window, and waved. She answered him.
Despite the rain which beat in their faces, Tom studied the country through which they were passing, and asked the negro boy innumerable questions. But he found his mind slipping back constantly to Marjorie. A Northern girl in the South! Surrounded by "rebs" but still true to her country! And she wished him luck!
"Whose place is that?" asked Tom, pointing to a small house which was almost hidden from the road by trees.
An expression of dislike came over the negro's face. "Mistah Murdock's," he answered.
"A farmer?"
"No, suh," replied the negro. The expression of dislike changed visibly to repugnance and fear. He added: "He keeps dawgs!"
There was no need to ask more. The negro's tone was sufficient. Dogs! There was only one reason why a man made a business of keeping dogs—to chase escaping slaves. The thought was horrible to Tom, and he turned away.
They found the ferryman in his shanty, hugging a stove.
"No crossing today," he announced. "Look at that there river. No crossing today. Besides that, it's forbidden by the law. No Sentry, no crossing."
That was good news! No Sentry! "Mr. Beecham thought that you would take me across," said Tom. "Sam, give him Mr. Beecham's note."
"Yassuh." Sam produced the note.
The ferryman read it, scratching his head. "That man'll be my death yet," he said. "Take a horse across today? No, sir! I'll take you across if you and the nigger'll handle oars, but not the horse! No, sir! It's against the law, anyways. No Sentry, no crossing. No, sir! I'll risk the river an' the law, just because Mr. Beecham asks it, but I can't take that there nag."
"Well, then we'll leave the horse behind," answered Tom. "I can pull an oar. Can you row, Sam?"
The negro backed against the wall, shaking his head, terrified at the thought of the rough crossing.
"Just like all of 'em," said the ferryman. "When there's any danger, don't count onthem. Mr. Beecham treats his niggers too easy, anyways. I always say if he'd lick 'em they'd be better."
"He's pretty easy with them, is he?" asked Tom.
"Treats 'em as though they were prize stock," answered the ferryman in disgust. "I guess you and I can get across," he grumbled. "Two white men're better 'an a dozen of 'em."
"Sam, you take my horse back to Mr. Beecham. I'll write a note for you to carry." Tom wrote a message, explaining that the horse could not be ferried across, and asking that it be disposed of in any manner that suited Mr. Beecham's convenience.
The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river. Tom, swinging on his big oar in answer to the ferryman's cries of "Ho!" "Now!", saw the other bank creeping nearer. At last they cleared the full flood of the stream. On the other shore, Sam stood open-mouthed, watching them.
[Illustration: The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river.]
It was eight o'clock that evening when Tom, soaked to the skin again, cold, hungry, and tired, tramped into the little town of Chattanooga. A few lamps shone through the windows into the deserted street, making dull splotches of yellow in the mist. Three or four people passed him, hurrying to be out of the storm.
He stopped one man and asked: "Where can I find a hotel?" Then he gasped as the man straightened and threw back the coat he had thrown over his head and shoulders: it was a Confederate soldier!
"That's about as good as any place," answered the Confederate, pointing across the street. "Where you see the two lights burning."
"Thank you."
"Welcome." He pulled the coat about his face again and disappeared into the storm.
Tom crossed the street to spend his first night behind the Confederate lines.
Tom awoke dazed from twelve hours of sleep. For a moment he could not remember where he was; then it flashed across his mind. In Chattanooga! He sprang from bed, dressed and went downstairs. It was late, but the proprietor of the hotel gave him breakfast, after some grumbling about people who had nothing to do but sleep.
The train from Marietta did not leave until two o'clock, and as the hotel clock had just struck ten, Tom began to wonder what he should do with himself. For a half-hour he sat in the hotel watching the people who passed in and out. The sight of so many young men in civilian clothes reassured him, for it meant that there was less chance of being questioned by the military authorities. Finally he went out to the street. The rain had stopped, and the sun was struggling through the clouds.
There were crowds of civilians and soldiers upon the narrow sidewalks, and through the streets lumbered the heavy wagons of the Southern army. Tom walked along slowly, scanning the faces of the people he passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brown. Finally he reached the station.
A train had just come in, and the station was crowded with passengers, struggling out with the bags and packages, and townspeople who had come to get the news. Tom listened closely to the chatter. The train was from Memphis and had passed over the line which Mitchel was about to attack. There was no suggestion of excitement or activity along the route. Then the news of Mitchel's movement had not advanced before him, thought Tom. To him, that was the best news in the world. Mitchel's plans were successful.
He followed the crowd from the station and once again began wandering about the streets. Not far away was a big shed labeled Commissary Department. The army wagons were backed up to a loading platform, and Confederate soldiers were busy transferring boxes of supplies. By this time Tom had lost the first sense of strangeness at being in the enemy country, and so he went over to watch the soldiers work.
Presently it was noon, and time for dinner. He returned to the hotel.
There, sitting apart from the others at one end of the long table, were Brown and his companion! They glanced at him, and then continued eating. It dawned upon Tom that while he knew Brown, Brown did not know him. He took a seat opposite them.
"How d'you do?" said Tom.
Brown and the other man nodded, but did not speak.
"Just traveling through?" asked Tom.
"Yes," said Brown.
"Where are you from?" Tom's manner was casual and friendly.
"Kentucky," answered Brown.
"Oh, is that so? Coming through to enlist?"
"Yes."
"Whereabouts in Kentucky do you hail from?" persisted Tom.
"Fleming County."
"Well, that's good news! I'm from Fleming County myself. Let's see, I think I remember you. Your name is Brown, isn't it?" Brown's eyes were wide; the other man's jaw was drooping. "Surely I remember you," continued Tom. "You're a locomotive engineer, aren't you? I presume you'll be running a locomotive here in the South. We need engineers."
Brown was speechless; his companion was rising from the table.
"That's all right," said Tom. "Sit down! I'm Burns. We met at the same place last Monday night, Brown."
"Young man!" said Brown, slowly recovering his power of speech. "When I get my revenge on you, you'll feel it!"
"Whew!" breathed the other.
When dinner was finished, they left the hotel to find a spot where they could talk. Tom told them of the change in plans. It was decided that they should leave for Marietta on the afternoon train, rather than spend the extra day in Chattanooga. Dorsey, who was traveling with Brown, thought that there might be some others who had not been told of the change and who would be on the train.
As they threaded their way through the crowd at the station, Tom caught the first intimation of Mitchel's drive upon Huntsville. "The train is jam-full," a man was saying. "There isn't a seat left. All those soldiers who went through here this morning are being sent back."
"Why is that?" asked his companion.
"They don't seem to know," the man continued. "They got as far as Stevenson—that's a little place down the line about thirty miles—and then they received orders to go back. They're to join Beauregard at Corinth as fast as they can by the way of Atlanta and Meridian."
"Hm-m-m, that's strange!"
"Perhaps there's a wreck between here and Corinth."
Tom whispered the news to Brown and Dorsey after they were aboard the train. They exchanged glances.
It was ten o'clock that night when the brakeman of the train called, "Marietta!" Dorsey was asleep on the coal box of the car, while Tom and Brown dozed against the door. They had taken turns at the coal box for eight hours. Now they moved stiffly out to the platform, relieved that the journey had ended. For several minutes they waited at the station, slowly circulating among the people to see if they could recognize any other members of the expedition.
"I guess we're the only ones here," said Tom.
"Looks that way," replied Brown. "Let's go to the hotel."
"I'd give a good deal to know where Mitchel is at just this minute," saidTom.
"So would I," replied Dorsey. "I hope we're not making a mistake by delaying a day."
"It's my opinion," said Brown, "that when Mitchel starts to do a thing, it takes more than mud to stop him."
They walked on silently toward the hotel.
While they drifted off to sleep that night, General Mitchel was perfecting the last details of the attack upon Huntsville. Every road was blocked by scouts to prevent the news of the advance going before them. Ten miles to the south lay Huntsville, unaware of the approaching army.
The last rush of the advance commenced at two o'clock in the morning. Mitchel's weary army struggled to its feet, and stood ready to march. The cavalry was the first away, and disappeared silently into the night. There were no bugle calls, and no shouting. Even the noise of the horses' hoofs was deadened by the deep mud of the road. The four cannons which the cavalry took with it fell into position; then the infantry moved forward. As each regiment passed, General Mitchel addressed his men; then when the last of them was on the road, he and his aides pressed towards the front.
When daylight came, the cavalry was four miles from Huntsville. The first section of cavalry galloped to the west of the town, the second to the east, while the remaining cavalrymen, led by General Mitchel, dashed for the station. Now all restraints upon noise were removed. The shouting of the cavalrymen drifted back to the infantrymen to quicken their steps, and the cannons hammered along the road.
A few minutes later, Huntsville was in the control of the Union troops. At the station, Mitchel found fifteen locomotives, eighty cars, and a cipher message from Beauregard to the Confederate Secretary of War. Beauregard was desperately in need of troops, said the decoded message.
"I have no positive information, but I think that Mitchel capturedHuntsville today!"
Andrews was speaking. An exclamation of surprise came from the men who were clustered about him in a room of the hotel at Marietta. There were nineteen of them; travel-worn, tired and still wet from the incessant rain. It was their last conference before the raid.
"The line between Chattanooga and Corinth is blocked," continued Andrews, "and no one knows the cause of it. No trains and no telegraph messages are coming through. Of course it may be that Beauregard has heard of Mitchel's advance and has chosen to operate in silence. All that we can do is hope and pray for the best, and carry out our orders. If we can destroy the railroad between here and Chattanooga, it will put the city at Mitchel's mercy. Then our work is done. It will remain for Mitchel and Beauregard to fight it out."
He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence while the men considered the situation. Then Andrews spoke again:
"The fact that action has started between Chattanooga and Corinth means that our task is additionally hazardous. The odds we must overcome are greater than I expected. If we have made a mistake in delaying a day, we must work the harder to keep that mistake from costing Mitchel his victory. The train we are to capture leaves Marietta at six o'clock tomorrow morning. I will see that you are called before five so that you will have plenty of time to get to the station. Carry food with you, for there's no telling when you'll sit at a table again. Buy tickets for points north of Big Shanty—Allatoona, Etowah, Calhoun and Dalton—so that you won't excite suspicion. Get aboard the same car in groups of two and three, and don't show that you are acquainted. Avoid all talk about the raid. We must say everything that is to be said here tonight before we separate. I will be in the same car, and if trouble starts, follow me.
"At Big Shanty we will seize the train. The train stops at Big Shanty for the crew and passengers to have breakfast. Stay in the car until the others have left; then, when you see me leave, follow me to the head of the trains. Walk slowly, and carelessly, as though you were simply out to stretch your legs. Brown and Knight will go with me to the engine, and you, Burns"—he pointed to Tom—"you come with us, too. I want you as fireman. Ross will uncouple the train after the third box-car. The box-cars are empties being sent to Chattanooga for supplies which the rebs are storing in Atlanta. The doors will be unlocked. The rest of you are to climb aboard the last box-car. Do all of you understand?" The men nodded. "Have your guns ready to use in case there is any interference, but don't fire unless you must. After the train has started…."
He paused; then, with a gesture which told them that he would not even try to guess what might happen, he added: "We will succeed or leave our bones in Dixie! That is all I can tell you. Tonight, before you go to sleep, examine your guns and make sure that they are not clogged or rusty."
The meeting was over, and each man, as he stepped from the room, realized that he was on the verge of a great adventure. They made their way silently along the dark corridors of the hotel.
"I'm about ready to explode," said Tom. "Think of it! I'm going to be fireman!"
"I'll make you heave wood so fast that you'll be sorry for that trick you played in Chattanooga," replied Brown. "Did I tell you about that, Knight?"
Knight, Brown, Dorsey, Wilson, and Tom were all occupying the same room. The hotel at Marietta was crowded, and the men were sleeping wherever they could squeeze themselves in. Tom, Dorsey, and Brown, having had several nights of good rest, had relinquished the bed and sofa to the three newcomers, and had spread blankets on the floor.
"Let's lock the door, and look at our guns," suggested Tom. The lock was broken, and so he barred the door with a chair. Then they sat on the bed, with the lamp beside them, and talked while they unloaded their revolvers, wiped away the rust and mud, and reloaded. Each told of his experiences and narrow escapes. Knight had been arrested as a deserter from the Confederate army. Wilson and Shadrack had stolen a ferryboat and crossed the Tennessee River at night, Brown and Dorsey had shared their food with two Confederate sentries who had stopped them as they crossed the railroad bridge at Stevenson. "Most sociable sentries I ever found," said Dorsey. "They believed our story, and told us all about Bull Run. It was mighty interesting to hear their side of it, because we were both in the fight." But it was Tom who had been most royally entertained. He told them about Mr. Beecham, and how Marjorie Landis had trapped him.
"But what did you do?" demanded Dorsey. "How did you get out of it?"
"She wished me luck when I left," said Tom. "She was a Northern girl."
The others whistled. "Whew!" said Brown. "That's about enough luck to last you for a year."
They talked until midnight; then divided the bedding between them and lay down to sleep. It seemed to Tom that sleep would never come. The plan of the raid went racing through his mind again and again; he could see every move as Andrews had described it. His thoughts carried him back to the other side of the lines. What was Bert doing? He supposed that Bert had been left behind when Mitchel advanced. His parents in Cleveland? What would they think if they were told that he was a hundred miles behind the Confederate picket lines? What a story to tell them when he returned! And Marjorie Landis? Would she realize, when the news of the raid swept over the country, that he had taken part in it? She was a plucky girl!
The next thing he knew was that there was a terrific pounding in some remote part of the world. He sat up in the darkness and tried to recall himself. Then someone said, "All right—wait a second." The chair which had been placed against the door was yanked away, and Andrews entered, holding a lamp.
"Wake up, men," he said. "It's just five. You have an hour."
Brown lighted the lamp on the table; the others climbed stiffly to their feet, stretching.
"You can get breakfast downstairs," said Andrews. "The proprietor always has some packages of food prepared for people who are traveling. Stuff your pockets." He vanished down the corridor.
"That's the hardest floor I've ever slept on," said Brown. The others muttered in response.
To Tom, the scene was strange and unreal. The yellow light of the lamp and the faint dawn which was stealing in through the windows made the men seem ghost-like as they moved about the room, dressing. Huge shadows loomed on the walls, swaying and disappearing.
"Shall we go together, Brown!" asked Knight.
"You'd better not," said Tom. "Engineers are too valuable. If you go together you might both be stopped before you could reach the engine."
"The boy's right," replied Brown. "You and I'll go together, eh, Tom?"
"Yep."
"Are you ready?"
"All ready. Come on."
Tom and Brown left the room, found the way along the corridor to the stairs. "Now for it!" exclaimed Tom, clutching the other's arm.
"You bet!"
Breakfast finished, they left the hotel and went toward the station. Tom looked anxiously at the sky, and saw that the clouds were broken. They had a chance, at least, of good weather for the raid. At the station they bought tickets for Kingston. There were about thirty people moving restlessly about in the dark, waiting for the train. Tom recognized Andrews and five of their men. Then the remainder appeared suddenly. Andrews paced up and down, his head slightly bowed.
The whistle of the train came shrieking through the night. Tom's throat tightened and his heart thumped. Presently they could hear the engine, and see the sparks above the trees. Then the train came sweeping down the track towards them, the wheels rumbling and the brakes whining. The engine, with its name,General, painted upon the side of the cab, passed them.
Tom's eyes followed the engine. He saw the engineer in the light of the flames from the firebox; the fireman was in the act of sliding fresh logs upon the flames.
Several passengers stepped from the train. Andrews boarded the second coach, and the men followed him, distributing themselves through the car. Ahead of them were four freight cars and another coach. Brown and Tom found a seat not far from Andrews; Wilson and Knight settled themselves across the aisle. Tom glanced back and saw the others scattered through the car. His eyes met Shadrack's and, mindful of Andrews' warning, he turned away before he laughed outright. Shadrack's expression was comical: his eyes were wide and he was gazing about him apprehensively, yet still with that twinkle of amusement.
"'Board—'board," cried the conductor.
Tom could hear the rapid puffing of the engine as the wheels slipped on the wet rails; then the puffing became more laborious. There was a rattle of loose couplings, and the train jerked forward. It was lighter now. To the west, the Kennesaw Mountains made a splotch of black against the dark blue sky, and the houses and woods along the track were visible in the half light.
The train gathered speed, then settled down to a steady pace. The smoke from the engine drifted back to them. The forward door of the car opened and the conductor entered. He stood for a moment looking down the length of the car, then commenced to take tickets, scrutinizing each passenger closely. The conductor was a young man—about twenty-six—and the men of Andrews' party found his gaze disturbing. Tom met his eyes, and wondered if he knew anything of their purpose, suspected anything.
"I don't like the looks of that conductor," he whispered to Brown.
"Probably wondering why so many people got aboard at Marietta."
Andrews arose, as though to stretch, but Tom could see that he was watching the conductor. At last they heard the rear door of the car slam. The conductor had not stopped to ask questions, regardless of what he suspected.
"Big Shanty! Big Shanty! Twenty minutes for breakfast." It was like a bugle call to Andrews' men. Their eyes were turned toward him. He sat as though he were sleeping. The other passengers stirred in their seats, making ready to race to the restaurant.
The speed of the train slackened, and the train glided into the town. Bordering the tracks on the west was an encampment of Confederate soldiers. Rows of white tents stretched down the slope towards a thick woods. On the east were the houses of Big Shanty. The train stopped opposite a long shed, before which a man stood ringing a bell. There was no need to call the passengers to breakfast; they tumbled off the train and ran to get places at the counter. And at the head of the crowd was the conductor. The engineer and fireman brought up the rear, wiping their hands on pieces of waste. Except for three passengers who were sleeping, Andrews' men had the car to themselves.
It was several minutes before Andrews showed any signs of stirring. Then he arose and walked to the rear of the car.
"Not yet," he said, as he passed Tom. Presently they saw him strolling beside the train. Then he boarded the front platform, opened the door and nodded. They got up and went out.
"Ross, you come with me," said Andrews. "Brown, Knight, and Burns follow.The rest go up the other side of the engine."
Andrews and Boss walked slowly towards the engine.
"Uncouple here, Ross," ordered Andrews. "Then cross over and get aboard with the rest." His tone was calm and untroubled.
Tom saw Ross pull the coupling pin, and duck under the train. He glanced back to the shed where the train crew was at breakfast. There was no sign of alarm.
They approached the engine as indifferently as though they were walking for exercise.
"Wait here," said Andrews when they were beside the engine cab. He went forward, crossed in front of the train and looked back on the other side to see if the men were aboard. Then he came sauntering back.
"Get aboard!" he snapped. "Knight at the throttle."
Knight mounted first; then Brown, with Tom and Andrews following. Knight jumped to the engineer's seat, and grabbed the throttle. There came the hissing of steam: the engine trembled and puffed. Brown lunged for the sand lever, yanked it open. The wheels spun on the track, then grabbed it, and the engine sprang forward like a beast unchained.
The sudden jerk of the engine sent Tom spinning against the side of the cab. Andrews, who was mounting the wood-pile in the tender to see what was happening behind them, was thrown flat. He scrambled to his feet, his hands bleeding from the splinters, and climbed up the pile. Then he waved his arms and yelled in exultation. The yell sounded faintly through the noise of the engine.
Tom swung from the cab and looked back. The crowd was spilling from the shed. Several men raced after the train. Others stood watching, dumfounded.
Knight was bending over the throttle, urging the train forward as though he were putting his own strength into the flying pistons. His lips were drawn back from his set teeth, and his left hand upon the throttle was white from its grip. With his right hand he was pounding upon the sill of the cab.
Brown was studying the steam gauge. He had opened the forced draft and the smoke stack had become a fountain of sparks.
"More wood!" he yelled.
Tom stripped off his coat. TheGeneralwas pounding upon the rails, swaying from side to side. It was almost impossible to stand without clinging to the side of the cab. Tom lurched cautiously toward the tender, grabbed a log and dragged it back after him. Brown swung the door of the fire-box open. Tom gasped as the heat struck him. The red flames seemed to leap out at him, enveloping him, smothering him. He slid the log into the fire. The door crashed shut again. "More! More!" yelled Brown.
Again and again Tom fed logs into the flames. Each time, Brown opened and closed the door as though an instant's heat were too precious to be lost. Brown's eyes were constantly upon the wavering needle of the steam gauge.
Andrews, sitting in the fireman's seat, was leaning from the window, glancing first ahead and then back. Except for that first shout of triumph, he had been calm and deliberate.
"Enough for now," shouted Brown. "Rest!"
Tom, panting and weak, climbed up beside Andrews and put his head out so that the cool wind would strike it. The violent effort of dragging those logs from the tender to the fire-box, together with the heat that played upon him each time, had made his legs seem like jelly beneath him. But the cool air revived him, and he watched Brown constantly for the signal that more wood was needed. Once he looked back and saw Shadrack leaning from the door of the boxcar. They waved excitedly to each other.
"Stop!" yelled Andrews to Knight.
Brown repeated the order. Knight, aroused from his intense purpose of forcing the last ounce of speed out of theGeneral, shut the throttle. Brown gave the whistle a blast, and began twisting at the brake. Gradually the train lost its speed. The men in the box-car leaned from the door, asking why they were stopping.
"Come up here," yelled Andrews. "One of you men climb that telegraph pole and knock the insulating cap off. Then break the wire."
A little fellow named Scott scrambled up the pole. Telegraph communications were broken ahead of them.
"There's no telegraph station at Big Shanty," explained Andrews. "The best they can do is to go on horseback to Marietta and telegraph to Atlanta for an engine to pursue us. But they can't telegraph ahead of us! At Kingston we'll meet the regular freight train, which is traveling against us. While we're standing in the yards the door of the box-car must be closed. Do you understand?"
"Yes!" shouted the men.
"Hop aboard then!"
Once again theGeneralstarted forward. Brown was at the throttle.
"More wood!" yelled Knight.
With Knight at the door of the fire-box, Tom yanked a half-dozen logs from the tender and slid them into the flames.
"Not too fast," Andrews called to Brown. "We're out of the worst of it now, and we don't want to get to Kingston too soon. Have to wait in the yards."
Brown nodded and slackened the speed. Now they could talk without yelling.Presently Andrews ordered another stop and they drew up beside MoonStation. He jumped out and came back with an iron bar. "Go ahead," heyelled, then, pointing to the bar: "Good for pulling up track."
Tom added more fuel, and then stood at the door of the cab to see Allatoona as they went through. Brown opened the throttle gradually. The outskirts of the town whizzed past them; then the station. The crowd upon the station platform, expecting that this was the passenger train, stared uncomprehendingly as the train thundered in and out of town.
They rounded a bend which cut Allatoona off from view; then Andrews motioned to Brown to stop. Tom grabbed the brake and tightened it. The train stopped abruptly. Andrews pointed to the telegraph line.
"Tear it down, Scott. Let's pull up some rails here."
They ran to the rear of the train and pried one rail from the track. After ten minutes of feverish work, Andrews called:
"Load the rails on the box-car. Come on!"
They climbed aboard again, and theGeneralcarried them onward.
Tom was standing at the door of the cab, resting and watching the country, when Andrews came up behind him suddenly and exclaimed: "Look at that!" He pointed over Tom's shoulder to a locomotive that was standing, steam up, on a spur. "That's serious business," said Andrews quickly. "I wonder where it came from. I didn't think there was another locomotive between Atlanta and Kingston."
As they passed the locomotive, Tom read its name,Yonah, painted upon the side of the cab.
"Hadn't we better destroy the track?" asked Tom.
"No," Andrews replied, "we're only thirteen miles to Kingston. We better get there and past the freight without losing any time."
"More wood!" yelled Brown. Knight was at the throttle again.
The supply of wood was running low. A dozen sticks remained and those would soon be gone.
"Water's low, too," said Brown.
"We'll stop at Cass Station," replied Andrews. "It's a wood and water station—seven miles this side of Kingston."
As they drew up at Cass Station Andrews jumped from the engine. The old man who had charge of the wood and water came out to meet him.
"I'm running a special ammunition train to Beauregard and I have to have fuel," he said. "Tom, call the boys from the box-car and get them to work."
Tom raced back to the car and opened the door. "Give a hand on this wood," he shouted. They streamed out after him, and attacked the wood pile. Knight and Brown filled the tanks with water. Before the old station agent knew what had struck his little place, theGeneralwas steaming off up the road.
"We're a little ahead of time for Kingston," said Andrews anxiously. He peered ahead toward the town, and announced presently, "The freight isn't in. We'll have to wait. Let me do all the talking, boys, when we're in there. I don't like the looks of this. Run a few hundred yards up beyond the station, Knight. I'll jump off and have the switch thrown, and then you can back in on the side-track."
They coasted slowly into Kingston, and passed the station. Andrews jumped off. Tom, hanging out from the cab, saw him talking with the switchman. The latter threw the switch and waved.
"All right," said Tom. "Let her go back." Knight reversed the engine, and they cleared the track for the freight. Andrews swung aboard.
The station agent came running toward them. "What's this?" he demanded."What's this train? Who are you?"
"I'm running this train on government authority," answered Andrews calmly. "I'm rushing ammunition to Beauregard." He waved toward the box-cars. Then he demanded sternly: "Why isn't that local freight here?"
The agent was subdued. "It ought to be along any minute, sir," he answered."Is there a passenger train behind you, sir?"
"I suppose so," answered Andrews indifferently. "This engine was supposed to haul the regular train, but we had to take it for this work. Powder is more important than passengers these days. They were fitting out another passenger train at Atlanta when we left."
He handled the situation in masterful style. Tom, pretending to be busy inside the cab, listened and chuckled. Knight and Brown were out oiling the engine.
"When did the freight leave Adairsville?" demanded Andrews.
"I don't know, sir," answered the agent, "but I'll find out."
"Yes, please do—and hurry up about it."
"Yes, sir."
Before the agent returned, they heard the whistle of the freight far up the track. It approached slowly, and then crept into the station, stopping with the cars blocking the track for Andrews' train.
Brown, who was at the throttle, gave an exclamation of impatience. Andrews swung to the ground. At that moment the agent rushed out, and yelled to the freight engineer, "Draw farther up the track." The freight train started again, laboriously. Andrews jumped aboard.
"Run out of here just as soon as the switch is turned," he ordered.
The last car of the freight train rounded the trees and came into sight. On the rear of it was fastened a red flag!It was a warning that there was still another train behind!
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Andrews. He jumped to the ground again, and went toward the station. The conductor of the freight train met him. "What does this mean?" demanded Andrews. "I'm ordered to get powder up to Beauregard, and I find the track blocked ahead of me."
"It's not my fault," answered the conductor. "I haven't anything to do with it. But I don't think that you're going to get any powder to Beauregard on this road."
"Why not?"
"What will you do about Mitchel at Huntsville?"
"What do you mean?" asked Andrews.
"I mean that Mitchel broke through and captured Huntsville yesterday," answered the conductor. "If you're working for the government, you ought to know it by this time, too."
"Don't believe everything you hear," answered Andrews. "Mitchel wouldn't be fool enough to risk an attack on Huntsville in this weather."
"Then why are they bringing this special train down from Chattanooga with all the supplies?"
"That's their business, not mine," answered Andrews. "If Mitchel has captured Huntsville, then some of Beauregard's troops are split, and that's probably the reason why I'm ordered to get this powder up as far as I can. When I get there I'll find soldiers to use it."
"Maybe," answered the conductor.
"How long will it be before the special is here?"
"Probably about thirty minutes."
Forty minutes passed before they heard the whistle of the second train; then five minutes of anxious waiting before it came into the station. The first freight, in the meantime, had pulled up on another side track, waiting patiently for the arrival of the passenger train which Andrews' men had stolen.
The special train stopped, blocking the path of theGeneral, just as the first had done.
"Oh, Lord," said Andrews. He sprang from the cab. "Move up there! Get out of my way! I'm running a special powder train! Pull up ahead!"
"I'll pull up if it'll do you any good," answered the engineer. "There's another special train right behind me."
"How far behind you?"
"Oh, twenty minutes, maybe. What are you running a powder train for? Who are you going to give the powder to? The Yanks?"
"To Beauregard!"
"You've got some trouble ahead. The Yanks have captured the line between you and Beauregard—two hundred miles of it—from Tuscumbia to Bridgeport!"
The conductor and the engineer of the first train had joined them. "You'd better turn back and go the other way," said the conductor. "If you go up there, the Yanks will get your powder."
"I'll follow my orders," replied Andrews.
He walked back to theGeneral, and called Tom. "Walk down there beside the box-car and let the men know what has happened. Don't let anybody see you talking with them. Tell them that we're likely to have a fight—to be ready to jump out and use their guns."
Tom sauntered to the box-car and leaned against the door. "Hey! you men! This is Tom Burns. Andrews says that we're likely to have a fight. Get your guns ready."
"What's the trouble?" one of them asked. Tom explained as best he could the difficulties they had encountered. "There may be some more trains behind this one," he told them. "They're moving out of Chattanooga. The rebs are on the run!"
The whistle of the second special train sounded as Tom walked back toward Andrews. He stood beside the engine, listening to the argument between Andrews and the three railroad men. The first special had pulled far down the track, leaving ample room for the second to come in and for Andrews to get out.
The station agent came running toward them. "I've just had Chattanooga on the wire," he said, "and they don't know anything about this powder train. I tried to get Atlanta, but the wire is down!"
"Of course Chattanooga doesn't know anything about my train," answered Andrews calmly. "If they did, they wouldn't be sending these trains down blocking me. My orders came from Beauregard at Corinth, through Montgomery to Atlanta."
"Chattanooga orders you to wait here until the order is confirmed," said the agent.
"I don't care a rap for Chattanooga's orders," Andrews responded. "I have my own orders."
"I won't turn that switch to let you out."
"Then I'll turn the switch myself, and if you try to stop me I'll have you up for treason!" Andrews said it so calmly, so quietly, that the agent's jaw drooped.
The second special came creaking into the station. Andrews ran forward and shouted: "Run down until you clear the switch." The engineer nodded. "Tom, get down there and throw that switch!"
"Yes, sir."
Tom ran to the switch and waited. The station agent, with the other trainmen, had withdrawn to one side; they were holding an excited discussion as to what he should do.
The last car of the train rounded the bend. It carried no red flag! The road was clear ahead of them!
Tom threw the switch as the wheels of the last car passed. He waved to Andrews and theGeneralrolled toward him. Then, just as he was aboard and their train was twisting into the main track, they heard a piercing whistle from the south.
"They're after us!" exclaimed Andrews. "Probably a train from Atlanta pursuing us! As fast as you can make her go, Knight."
TheGeneralwent lunging down the track, gathering speed.