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. The paper 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 their clothes 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 cover when 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.
They wagged 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.