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 that
Mitchel was moving this very minute."
Mitchel _was_ moving. 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.