THE PICKET GUARD.
It was sufficiently obvious to Tom that, on the present occasion, the
suspicions of his host were awakened. It is possible that, if he had
depended upon his impudence, he might have succeeded in deceiving the
Confederate officer; but his evident intention to retire from the contest
before an investigation could be had, proved him, in the estimation of the
captain, to be either a spy or a deserter, and shooting him was preferable
to losing him.
The officer fired quick, and with little attention to the important matter
of a steady aim; and Tom had to thank his stars for the hasty shot, for,
though it went within a few inches of his head, "a miss was as good as a
mile," and the brains of our hero remained intact and complete. But he was
not willing to be the subject of any further experiments of this
description, and without waiting further to express his gratitude to the
host for the bountiful supper he had eaten, he threw open the door, and
dashed off at the top of his speed.
The revolver he carried was a very good implement with which to bully a
negro, or an unarmed farmer; but Tom had more confidence in his legs than
in his skill as a marksman, and before the captain could transfer the
second pistol from his left to his right hand, he had passed out of the
house, and was concealed from his pursuers by the gloom of the night. He
felt that he had had a narrow escape, and he was not disposed to trifle
with destiny by loitering in the vicinity of the house.
He had not proceeded far before he heard a hue and cry behind him; and if
the captain of cavalry had not stopped to put on his boots, it is more
than possible that our humble volume might have contained a chapter or two
upon prison life in Richmond. Undoubtedly it was quite proper for the
officer to put on his boots before he went out; a decent regard for his
individual sanitary condition, and a reasonable horror of ague and
rheumatism, would have induced him to do it, even at the risk of losing a
Federal prisoner, or a rebel deserter, as the case might be. At any rate,
if Tom had known the cause of the delay, he would freely have forgiven him
for wasting his time in healthful precautions.
The fugitive retraced his steps to the river by the same route he had
taken in approaching the hospitable roof of the farmer. As nearly as he
could judge by the sounds that reached him from the distance, the officer
and his father were gathering up a force to hunt down the fugitive. Tom
jumped into the bateau, and pushed off. Keeping under the shadow of the
bank of the river, he plied his paddle vigorously, and by the time his
pursuers arrived at the river, he was a couple of miles from the spot. He
could hear a shout occasionally in the deep silence of the night, but with
the distance between him and the enemy, he felt entirely secure. The
danger had passed, and he floated leisurely on his voyage, buoyant as his
light bark, and hopeful as the dream of youth.
Hour after hour, in the gloom of the solemn night, he was borne by the
swift tide towards the lines of the loyal army. The day was dawning, and
he was on the lookout for a suitable place to conceal himself, until the
friendly shades of night should again favor his movements. After the
experience of the former night near the ford, he was very cautious in the
selection of a hiding place. It is not always safe to be fastidious; for
while Tom was rejecting one location, and waiting for another to appear,
the river bore him into a tract of very open country, which was less
favorable than that through which he had just been passing.
The prospect began to make him nervous; and while he was bitterly
regretting that he had not moored the boat before, he was startled to hear
a sharp, commanding voice on the bank at his left.
"Who comes there? Halt!"
Tom looked up, and discovered a grayback, standing on the shore, very
deliberately pointing his musket at him.
"Who comes there?" demanded the picket; for at this point were stationed
the outposts of the rebel force in the Shenandoah valley.
"Friend!" replied Tom.
"Halt, then!"
"I would, if I could," answered Tom, as hastily as possible.
"Halt, or I'll fire!"
"I tell you I can't halt," replied Tom, using his paddle vigorously, as
though he was trying to urge the bateau to the shore. "Don't fire! For
mercy's sake, don't fire."
Tom appeared to be intensely frightened at the situation in which he was
placed, and redoubled his efforts apparently to gain the bank of the
stream; but the more he seemed to paddle one way, the more the boat went
the other way. However much Tom appeared to be terrified by the peril that
menaced him, it must be confessed that he was not wholly unmoved.
"Stop your boat, quick!" said the soldier, who had partially dropped his
musket from its menacing position.
"I can't stop it," responded Tom, apparently in an agony of terror. "I
would go ashore if I could."
"What's the matter?"
"The water runs so swift, I can't stop her; been trying this two hours."
"You will be inside the Yankee lines in half an hour if you don't fetch
to," shouted the picket.
"Gracious!" exclaimed Tom, redoubling his efforts.
But it was useless to struggle with the furious current, and Tom threw
himself into the bottom of the boat, as if in utter desperation. If
Niagara Falls, with their thundering roar and fearful abyss, had been
before him, his agony could not have been more intense, as judged from the
shore.
By this time, the sentinel on the bank had been joined by his two
companions, and the three men forming the picket post stood gazing at him,
as he abandoned himself to the awful fate of being captured by the
blood-thirsty Yankees, to whose lines the relentless current of the
Shenandoah was bearing him.
When Tom was first challenged by the grayback, the boat had been some
twenty rods above him; and it had now passed the spot where he stood, but
the rebels were still near enough to converse with him. Tom heard one of
them ask another who he was. Of course neither of them knew who he was, or
where he came from.
"Try again!" shouted one of the pickets. "The Yankees will have you in a
few minutes."
Tom did make another ineffectual effort to check the progress of the
bateau, and again abandoned the attempt in despair. The rebels followed
him on the bank, encouraging him with words of cheer, and with dire
prophecies of his fate if he fell into the hands of the cruel Yankees.
"Can't you help me?" pleaded Tom, in accents of despair. "Throw me a rope!
Do something for me."
Now, this was a suggestion that had not before occurred to the picket
guard, and Tom would have been infinitely wiser if he had not put the idea
of assisting him into their dull brains; for it is not at all probable
that they would have thought of such a thing themselves, for the south,
especially the poor white trash, are not largely endowed with inventive
genius.
"Save me! Save me!" cried Tom, as he saw the rebels engaged in a hasty
consultation, the result of which was, that two of them started off upon
the run in a direction at right angles with the stream.
"Try again! Stick to it!" shouted the picket left on the shore.
"I can't do any more; I'm all tired out," replied Tom, throwing himself
for the fourth time in the bottom of the boat, the very picture of
despair.
The picture was very much exaggerated and over-drawn; but as long as the
bullet from the rebel's musket did not come his way, Tom was satisfied
with his acting, and hopeful for the future. The man on the shore, full of
sympathy for the distressed and exhausted voyager, walked and ran so as to
keep up with the refractory barge, which seemed to be spitefully hurling
its agonized passenger into the Federal lines, where death and dungeons
lurked at every corner.
While this exciting drama was in progress, the stream bore Tom to a sharp
bend in the river, where the current set in close to the shore. His
attentive guardian on the bank ran ahead, and stationed himself at this
point, ready to afford any assistance to the disconsolate navigator which
the circumstances might permit.
"Now's your chance!" shouted he. "Gosh all whittaker! put in now, and do
your pootiest!"
Tom adopted this friendly advice, and "put in" with all his might; but the
more he "put in," the more he put out--from the shore, whither the
inauspicious eddies were sweeping him. If Tom had not been born in
Pinchbrook, and had a home by the sea, where boating is an appreciated
accomplishment, he would probably have been borne into the arms of the
expectant rebel, or received in his vitals the ounce of cold lead which
that gentleman's musket contained. As it was, he had the skill to do what
he seemed not to be doing. Mr. Johnny Reb evidently did not suspect that
Tom was "playing 'possum," as the Tennessee sharpshooters would have
expressed it. The voyager's efforts appeared to be made in good faith; and
certainly he applied himself with a degree of zeal and energy which ought
to have overcome the inertia of a small gunboat.
The bateau approached the point not more than a rod from the waiting arms
of the sympathizing grayback. As it passed, he waded a short distance into
the water, and stretched forth his musket to the unhappy voyager. Tom
threw down his paddle, and sprang with desperate energy to obtain a hold
upon the gun. He even succeeded in grasping the end of the bayonet. For a
moment he pulled so hard that it was doubtful whether the bateau would be
hauled ashore, or Secesh drawn into the deep water.
"Hold on tight, my boy! Pull for your life!" shouted the soldier, highly
excited by the probable success of his philanthropic efforts.
"Save me! Save me!" groaned Tom, as he tugged, or seemed to do so, at the
bayonet.
Then, while the united exertions of the saver and the saved, in
anticipation, were on the very point of being successful, the polished
steel of the bayonet unaccountably slipped through the fingers of Tom, and
the bateau was borne off towards the opposite shore.
"Save me! Save me," cried Tom again, in tones more piteous than ever.
"What d'ye let go fur?" said the grayback, indignantly, as his musket,
which he had held by the tip end of the stock, dropped into the water,
when Tom let go of the bayonet.
The soldier indulged in a volley of peculiarly southern oaths, with which
we cannot disfigure our page, even in deference to the necessity of
painting a correct picture of the scene we have described. Tom had a vein
of humor in his composition, which has already displayed itself in some of
the rough experiences of his career; and when he saw the rebel soldier
deprived of all power to make war upon him, either offensive or defensive,
he could not resist the temptation to celebrate the signal strategical
victory he had obtained over the picket guard. This triumphal
demonstration was not very dignified, nor, under the circumstances, very
prudent or sensible. It consisted in placing the thumb of his right hand
upon the end of his nose, while he wiggled the four remaining digital
appendages of the same member in the most aggravating manner, whistling
Yankee Doodle as an accompaniment to the movement.
If Secesh did not understand the case before, he did now; and fishing up
his musket, he emptied the water out of the barrel, and attempted to fire
it. Luckily for Tom, the gun would not go off, and he swept on his way
jubilant and joyous.