"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 of
Fleming 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 is
Fleming 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 from
Albany...."
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 on _them_. 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.