come as he pleased, and he did a good deal of night-prowling at this
time. He managed in that way to establish relations with certain of
Agatha's friends, whose residence was ten or a dozen miles away. He
visited them at intervals in order to hear from Agatha, and report to
her through them. He had not dared inquire concerning his master in any
direct way, or to reveal his interest in any of the hospital patients.
But when two of them had died, he had asked one of the servitors about
the place what their names were, and had thus satisfied himself that
neither of them was Captain Pegram. By keeping his ears on the alert, he
had learned also that there were not likely to be any further deaths,
and that the remaining wounded men were slowly, but quite surely,
recovering. Still further, he had heard one of the doctors, in
conversation with the other, comment upon the remarkable vitality of
Captain Pegram.
"That wound would have killed almost any other man I ever saw, but upon
my word the man is getting well. Barring accidents, I regard him now as
pretty nearly out of danger."
All this Sam duly reported to Agatha through her friends. It greatly
comforted her, but it seriously alarmed Sam. For Sam had learned the
ways of the place, and he knew that there was haste made to send every
patient North, as soon as he was in condition to be removed without
serious danger to his life; and Sam had begun to cherish hopes and lay
plans which would certainly come to nothing if his master should be
removed from the hospital to a military prison.
He determined, therefore, to find some way of getting into the hospital,
communicating with his master, and finding out for himself precisely
what the prospects were.
It was winter now, and besides the snow there was much mud around the
hospital, which was freely tracked into it by all who entered. Peter,
the rheumatic old negro man who was employed to scrub the place,
complained bitterly of this. He said to Sam one day:
"Dese heah doctahs an' dese heah 'tendants is mighty pahticklah to have
de place keeped scrumptiously clean, but dey's mighty onpahticklah to
wipe dar boots 'fo' enterin' de hospital. Ole Pete's done got mos'
enough o' dis heah job."
"Why don't yo' quit it, den?" asked Sam, with seeming indifference.
"'Case I can't 'ford to. I ain't got no udder 'ployment fer de rest o'
de wintah, an' it's a long ways to blackberry time."
"How much does dey gib yo' fer a-doin' of it?"
"'Mos' nothin' 'tall--a dollah an' a half a month an' my bo'd."
"Yes, an' de job won't las' long, nuther," said Sam, sympathetically,
"'cordin' to what I heah. De rebel officers is all a-gwine to git well,
I done heah de doctahs say, an' when dey does dat, dey'll be shipped off
Norf, an' dis heah 'stablishment'll be broke up. You'se too ole fer sich
wuk, anyways, Uncle Pete. Yo' oughter be a-nussin' o' yer knees by a
fire somewhars, 'stead o' warin' of 'em out a-scrubbin' flo's. You'se
got a lot o' prayin' to do yit, 'fo' yo' dies,--'nuff to use up what
knees you'se got left. Give up de job. Uncle Pete, and go off wha' you
kin make yer peace wid de Lawd, as de preachahs says you must."
"But I cawn't, I tell you! I ain't got no money, an' I ain't got no
'ployment, 'ceptin' dis heah scrubbin'. Ef I had five dollahs, Ole Pete
wouldn't be heah fer a day later'n day afteh to-morrow--dat's pay-day."
Sam sat silent for a time as if meditating on what he had it in mind to
say, before committing himself to the rash proposal. Finally, he turned
to the old man, and said:
"Look heah, Uncle Pete, I'se sorry fer you, sho' 'nuff I is. I'se done
'cumulated a little money, by close scrimpin', an' I'm half a mind to
help yo' out. Lemme see. You'se a-gwine to git a dollah an' a half day
after to-morrow. I kin spar yo' six dollahs mo'. Dat'll make seben
dollahs an' a half. I'll do it ef you'll take pity on yerse'f an' go to
town an' git yerse'f a easier sort o' wuk. Yo' kin owe me de six dollahs
tell you git rich enough to pay it back."
The old man was inclined to be suspicious of a generosity of which he
had never known the equal.
"Who'se a-gwine to take de job ef I gibs it up?" he asked.
"What de debbil do you k'yar 'bout dat?" asked Sam. "Anyhow, dey ain't
a-gwine to raise de wages. Yo' kin jes' bet yo' life on dat. Yo' kin do
jes' as yo' please 'bout 'ceptin' de offer I done made you. I oughtn't
to 'a' made it, but I'se always a-makin' of a fool o' myse'f, when my
feelin's is touched. Six dollahs is a lot o' money, _hit_ is. Maybe yo'
think I'm Mr. Astor, to go a-throwin' of money away like dat, or, maybe
yo'se Mr. Astor yerse'f, to be hesitatin' 'bout a-'ceptin' of it. Reckon
I bettah withdraw de offah--"
"Who'se a-hesitatin'?" broke in old Peter, hurriedly. "I ain't never
thought o' hesitatin', Sam. I'll take de money sho', an' I thank you
kindly for yer generosity, Sam. You'se a mighty fine boy, Sam, an' I'se
always liked you ever since I fust knowed you. Now dat you'se a-behavin'
jes' like as if yo' was my own chile, I reck'lec' dat I always had a
fatherly feelin' foh you, Sam. Lemme have de money now, Sam, so's I kin
go to sleep to-night a-feelin' I ain't got but one mo' day to do dis
heah sort o' wuk."
"Yo' won't change yo' mind?" asked Sam.
"Sartain sho'! Wish I may die ef I do."
Sam regarded that oath as one likely to be binding upon any negro
conscience, but he wished to take no risks; so putting on an air of
great solemnity, and pushing his face to within four inches of the old
man's, he said:
"Now you'se done swore it by de 'wish I may die,' an' you mus' keep dat
sw'ar. Ef yo' don't, it'll be my solemn duty to carry out yo' wish by
killin' you myse'f, an', 'fore de Lawd, I'll do it. Heah's de money."
XXIV
_FLIGHT_
Sam had so far commended himself by alertness and thoroughness in
whatever he did, that he had no difficulty in securing what he called
"de scrubbin' contract." He now had perfect freedom of hospital ingress
and egress, but he felt that he must be cautious, especially in his
first revelation of his presence to his master, who, he was confident,
knew nothing of his being there. He feared to surprise some exclamation
from Pegram, which would, as he phrased it, "give de whole snap away."
So on the first morning he began his scrubbing at the outer door, and
moved slowly on his hands and knees along the line of cots, taking sly
glimpses of their occupants as he went. It was not till he reached the
farther corner of the large room that he found the cot of his master.
Then with his face near the floor and scrubbing violently with his
brush, he began intoning in a low voice:
"Don't say nothin', don't say nothin', don't say nothin' when yo' sees
me. It's Sam sho' 'nuff, an' Sam's done come, an' don't you give it
away."
To any one ten feet away, all this sounded like the humming of a chant
by one who unconsciously sang below the breath as he worked. But to
Baillie, who lay within a foot or two of the boy's head, the words were
perfectly audible, and presently, without moving, and in a low murmuring
voice, he said:
"I understand, Sam. I knew you were here. I heard you singing outside,
many days ago."
Then the wounded man pretended to have difficulty in adjusting his
blankets, and Sam rose and bent over the cot to help him. While doing
so, he said:
"Mis' Agatha, she done brung me to New York, an' sent me heah to fin'
yo'. How's you a-gittin'? Tell me, so's I kin report, an' tell me every
day."
Baillie replied briefly that his wound was healing and his strength
coming back, to which Sam answered:
"Don't you go fer to tell de doctah too much 'bout dat. Jes' keep as
sick as you kin, while you'se a-gittin' well. I'll tell you why another
time. Git 'quainted wid Sam more an' more ebery day, Mas' Baillie, so's
we kin talk 'thout 'rousin' 'spicion."
In aid of this, Sam took pains, as the days went on, to establish
relations with all the other patients who were well enough to talk, and
as his inconsequent humour seemed to amuse them, the doctors made no
objection to his loquaciousness.
It was one of the articles in Sam's philosophical creed that "yo' cawn't
have too many frien's, 'case yo' cawn't never know when you may need
'em." Accordingly, he cultivated acquaintance with everybody, high and
low, about the place, including the peculiarly surly man who brought the
coal and the kindling-wood for the establishment. That personage was a
white man of melancholy temper and extraordinary taciturnity. He went in
and out of the place, wearing a long overcoat that had probably seen
better days, but so long ago as to have forgotten all about them. The
only other article of his clothing that was visible was a slouch hat,
the brim of which had completely lost courage and could no longer
pretend to stand out from the head that wore it, but hung down like a
limp lambrequin over the man's eyes. The man himself seemed in an
equally discouraged condition. He shambled rather than walked, and never
answered a question or responded to a salutation, except in Sam's case.
To him, when the two were alone, the man would sometimes speak a few
words.
Sam was daily and hourly studying everybody and everything about him,
with a view to possibilities. Nobody was too insignificant and nothing
too trivial for him to note and consider and remember. "Yo' cawn't never
know," he philosophised, "what rock will come handiest when yo' wants to
frow it at a squirrel."
As the weeks passed, Baillie Pegram so improved that he sat up, and even
walked about the place a little. One day, Sam learned that Baillie and
three others were deemed well enough to be removed from hospital to
prison, and that the transfer was to be made two days later. During the
night after this discovery was made, Sam trudged through a blinding
snow-storm--the last, probably, of the waning winter--to the house of
Agatha's friends, ten or a dozen miles away, and back again through the
snow-drifts, arriving at the hospital about daylight, as he had often
done before, after a prowling by night.
He had made all his arrangements but one, and he had armed himself for
that, by drawing upon Agatha's friends for ten dollars in small bills.
During the day, he managed to tell his master all that was necessary
concerning the emergency, and his plans for meeting it.
"To-morrow 'bout sundown, Mas' Baillie," he said, at the last. "'Member
de hour. When Sam speaks to yo' at de front do', yo' is to go ter yo'
cot. Yo'll fin' de coat an' de hat a-waitin' fo' yo'. Put 'em on quick,
an' pull de hat down clos't, an' turn de collah up high. Den walk out'n
de back do' fru de wood-shed, an' pass out de gate, jes' as ef yo' was
de ole man, sayin' nuffin' to nobody. Yo' mustn't walk straight like yo'
always does, but shufflin'-like, jes' as de ole man does. Den mount de
coal kyart an' drive up to de forks o' de road. Den shuffle out'n de
coat an' hat, an' git inter de sleigh. Yo' frien's 'ull take kyar o' de
res'."
Having thus instructed his master, Sam postponed further proceedings
until the morrow. He had not yet opened negotiations with the old
coal-man,--negotiations upon which the success of his plans
depended,--but he trusted his wits and his determination to accomplish
what he desired, and he had no notion of risking all by unnecessary
haste.
Even when the coal-man came during the next morning, Sam contented
himself with asking if he would certainly come again with his cart about
sunset of that day, as he usually did. Having reassured himself on that
point, Sam said nothing more, except that he would himself be at leisure
at that time and would help bring in the load of wood.
Then Sam finished his scrubbing, and spent the afternoon in repairing
the apparatus of his handicraft. He readjusted the hoops on his
scrubbing-bucket, scoured his brushes, and ground the knife that he was
accustomed to use in scraping the floor wherever medicines had been
spilled or other stains had been made, for Sam had a well earned
reputation for thoroughness in his work. Curiously enough, he this time
ground the knife-blade to a slender point, "handy," he said, "fer
gittin' into cracks wid."
When the coal-man came with a load of wood, a little before sunset,
dumping it outside the gate, Sam was ready to help him carry it in and
split it into kindlings within the shed. For this work, when the wood
had all been brought in, the old man laid off his overcoat and hat.
Thereupon Sam opened negotiations.
"I'se a-gwine to a frolic to-night," he said, "an' I'se a-gwine to have
a mighty good time a-playin' o' de banjo an' a-dancin', but hit's
powerful cold, an' de walk's a mighty long one."
Then, as if a sudden thought had come to him, he said:
"Tell yo' what! 'Spose yo' lemme wahr yo' overcoat. Yo' ain't got far to
go, an' I'll give yo' a dollah fer de use of it."
The old man hesitated, and Sam was in a hurry.
"I'll make it two dollahs, an' heah's de money clean an' new," pulling
out the bills. "Say de word an' it's your'n."
The offer was too tempting to be resisted, and the bargain was quickly
made.
"Reckon I better go brush it up," said Sam, taking the garment and
managing to fold the soft hat into it. He passed through the door into
the hospital, cast his bundle upon Baillie Pegram's bed, and walked
quickly to the front door, where his master was standing looking out
upon the snow, now darkening in the falling dusk.
"All ready," the negro said, in an undertone, as he passed, and Captain
Pegram wearily turned and walked toward his cot. Half a minute later,
what looked like the old coal-man passed into the wood-shed, and out of
it at the rear, whence, with shuffling steps he walked to and through
the gate, mounted the coal-cart, and slowly drove away.
Sam, hurrying around the building, entered the wood-shed just as his
master was leaving it, and confronted the owner of the coat and hat that
Pegram wore. He was none too soon, for the old man, seeing Pegram pass,
clad in his garments, thought he was being robbed, and was about to
raise a hue and cry. Sam interposed with an assumption of authority:
"Stay right whah yo' is," he commanded, "an' don't make no noise, do yo'
heah? Ef you keeps quiet-like, an' stays heah at wuk fer ha'f a hour,
an' den goes away 'bout yo' business a-sayin' nothin' to nobody, you'll
git another dollah, an' I'll tell yo' whah to fin' yo' clo'se. Ef yo'
don't do jes' as I tells yo', yo'll git dis, an' yo' won't never have no
'casion fer no clo'se no more. Do yo' heah?"
Sam held the keenly pointed knife in his hand, while the old man worked
for the appointed space of half an hour. At the end of that time, Sam
said:
"Now yo' may go, an' heah's yo' dollah. Yo'll fin' yer kyart at de forks
o' de road, an' yer coat an' hat'll be in de kyart. But min' you don't
never know nothin' 'bout dis heah transaction, fer ef yo' ever peeps,
dey'll hang yo' fer helpin' a pris'ner to escape, an' I'll kill yo'
besides. Go, now. Do yo' heah?"
Sam watched him pass out through the gate and turn up the road. When he
had disappeared, the black strategist muttered:
"Reckon dat suggestion 'bout gittin' hisse'f 'rested fer helpin' a
pris'ner 'scape, will sort o' bar itse'f in on de ole man's min'. He
won't never let hisse'f 'member nuffin' 'bout dis heah. Anyhow, Mas'
Baillie's gone, an' it's time Sam was a-gittin' out o' this, too."
With that the boy secured his banjo and bade good night to the surgeon
whom he met outside, saying that he was going to have a "powerful good
time at de frolic."
XXV
_A NARROW ESCAPE_
Baillie Pegram found little difficulty in imitating the shambling gait
of the old coal man as he walked to the hospital exit. In his weakness
he could hardly have walked in any other fashion. He managed with
difficulty to climb upon the cart, and to endure the painful drive to
the forks of the road, somewhat more than half a mile away.
There he found a sleigh awaiting him, with four women in it, all muffled
to the eyes in buffalo-robes, and a gentleman wrapped in a fur overcoat,
on the box. The gentleman gave the reins to one of the ladies, and
proceeded to help Pegram from the coal-cart, while the others stepped
out upon the hard frozen snow.
The body of the sleigh was deep, and it had been filled with fresh rye
straw. One of the gentlewomen parted this to either side, and spread a
fur robe upon the floor beneath, into which the gentleman hurriedly
helped Baillie, drawing the robe closely together over him, and
replacing the straw so that no part of the fur wrapping beneath could be
seen.
All this was done quickly, and without a word, the women resumed their
seats, the man cracked his whip, and the spirited horses set off at a
merry pace.
By way of precaution, a roundabout road was followed, and it was late
when the sleighing-party reached its destination. There the women
alighted and passed into the house. The gentleman drove the sleigh into
the barn, with Baillie Pegram still lying under the straw. When the
horses were unhitched, their owner directed the negro, who took charge
of them, to walk them back and forth down by the stables to cool them
off, before putting them into their stalls. It was not until the hostler
was well away from the barn that his master removed the seats and lifted
Baillie from his hiding-place under the straw. By that time, a young
man, perhaps thirty years old, and strong of frame, had appeared, and
the two hurriedly carried the now nearly helpless man into the house,
where a bed awaited him. Stripping him, the younger man proceeded to
examine the wound with the skilful eye of a surgeon.
"The wound has suffered no injury," he presently said to his host, "but
the man is greatly exhausted. Will you heat some flat-irons, and place
them at his feet? He must have nourishment, too, but of course it won't
do to bring any of the servants in here--"
"I'll manage that," said the host. "We are all supposed to have been out
on a lark, and I always have a late supper after that sort of thing.
I'll have it served in the room that opens out of this. As soon as it
comes, I'll send the servants away, and we can feed your patient from
our table."
In the meanwhile, the ever faithful Sam, half frozen but full of courage
and determination, was toiling over the flint-like snow, trying to reach
the house before the morning. In order that he might the better keep his
hands from freezing, he cast his banjo into a snow-filled ravine,
saying:
"Reckon I sha'n't need you any more, an' ef I does, I kin git another."
With that, he thrust his hands into his pockets, where his accumulated
earnings reassured him as to his ability to buy banjos at will.
It had been a part of the plan of rescue that Baillie should remain but
a brief while at his present stopping-place. It was deemed certain that
a search for him would be made as soon as his escape should be
discovered, and the house in which he had been put to bed that night was
likely to be one of the first to be examined, wherefore Sam was anxious
to reach that destination as soon as possible, lest he miss his master.
But when the morning came, Baillie was in a high fever, and the doctor
forbade all attempts to remove him, for a time at least. As the day
advanced, the fever subsided somewhat, and Baillie grew anxious to
continue his journey. Finally, the doctor hit upon a plan of procedure.
"You simply must not now undertake the long journey we had intended you
to make to-day, Captain," he said, "but the distance to my house in the
town is comparatively small. I might manage to take you there this
afternoon, if you think you can sit up in my sleigh for a five-mile
ride, and then get out at my door and walk into the house without
tottering on your legs."
Baillie eagerly protested his ability to endure the ride, and the doctor
proceeded to arrange for it. Some clothing had already been provided in
the house for Baillie to don in place of his uniform, and the doctor now
said:
"I'm going to drive home at once. I'll be back before three o'clock. Get
the captain into his citizen's clothes and have him ready by that time,
but let him lie down till I come, to spare his strength. I've a patient
in town, a consumptive, and I've been taking him out with me every fine
day, for the sake of the air. He is not very ill at present, but he is
one of us, and will be just as sick as I tell him to be when I get him
here. I'm afraid I shall find it necessary to ask you to keep him for a
day or two."
The hint was understood, and the doctor drove away behind a pair of good
trotters. Before the appointed time he returned, bringing his patient
with him, and at his request the sick man was put to bed in the room
where Baillie had passed the night.
A few minutes later a party of soldiers rode up and reported that they
were under orders to search the house for an escaped Confederate
officer. The doctor, with a well assumed look of professional concern on
his face, said to the officer in command of the squad:
"That is a trifle unfortunate just now. I have a patient in the
adjoining room--a young man in pulmonary consumption. Of course you'll
have to search the house, but I beg you, Lieutenant, to spare my
patient. His condition is such that--"
"I'll be very careful, I assure you. I'll go alone to search that room,
and make as little disturbance as possible."
Still wearing a look of anxiety, the doctor said:
"Couldn't you leave that room unexamined, Lieutenant? I assure you on my
honour that there is nobody there except my patient."
The physician's anxiety suggested a new thought to the officer's mind.
"I take your word for that, Doctor. I believe you when you tell me
there's nobody but your patient in that room. But your patient may
happen to be the very man we want, even without your knowing the fact.
Our man is very ill, recovering from a severe wound,--and he'd be sure
to need a doctor after walking, as he must have done, a dozen miles in
this snow. Pardon me, Doctor; I do not mean to accuse you of any
complicity; but you are a physician, bound to do your best for any
patient who sends for you, and to keep his confidence--professional
ethics requires that. I shall not blame you if I find your patient to be
my man. You are doing only your professional duty. But I must see the
man. I can tell whether he's the one we want. Our man has been shot
through the body, and the wound is not yet completely healed. My orders
are to look for that wound on every man I have reason to suspect, and I
must do my duty."
"O, certainly," replied the physician. "You'll find no wounds on my
patient, and I earnestly beg you to avoid exciting him more than is
absolutely necessary. You see, in his condition, any undue excitement--"
"O, I'll be very careful, Doctor, very careful, indeed."
"Thank you. It is very good of you. You see, as I was saying, in his
condition, any undue excitement--"
"O, yes, I know all about that. You may trust me to be careful."
"Again thank you. Come, Bob," looking at his watch, and addressing
Baillie, who was sitting by, "we must be going. I've half a dozen
patients waiting for me."
Baillie rose, nerving himself for the effort, bowed to the lieutenant,
and walked out of the house. A minute later, muffled to the ears in
furs, the two men were speeding over the snow, with Sam clinging on
behind, and playing the part of "doctah's man."
"Here," said the physician, handing Baillie a flask, "take a stiff swig
of that. You must keep up your strength." Then after he had replaced the
flask in his overcoat pocket, he chuckled:
"That was very neatly done--to have you walk away in that fashion from
under the very nose of the man who was looking for you."
Sam echoed the chuckle, and Baillie said:
"I hope your patient will suffer no harm from all this!"
"O, not a bit. He's in the game, and he'll enjoy it, especially after
they are gone, and he suddenly recovers from his extreme illness."
"But why was it necessary to take him there at all?"
"Why, under the circumstances, it would never have done for me to be
seen driving away from there with a companion when I had been seen
driving out there alone. As it is, your presence in the sleigh is
satisfactorily accounted for to everybody who sees us. But how about
your discarded uniform? Won't they find that?"
"No. Sam reduced it to ashes early this morning, and then aired the room
to get rid of the smell of burning wool."
"That was excellent. Who thought of doing it?"
"Sam."
XXVI
_MADEMOISELLE ROLAND_