Dawn found Tom near the house of the ferryman who had taken him across on
his trip South. Rather than risk another walk through fields and woods, he
had chosen to follow the bank of the river until he came to a road. That
course, even though it was longer, made less demand upon his strength, for
the walking was easier.
He skirted the ferryman's house and took to the road. For a little while at
least he would be safe from interference; then, when light came, he would
forage for food. Food.... It had been thirty-six hours since he had
eaten--so long ago that the pains in his stomach had stopped. He was weak
and dizzy, and the importance of ever reaching the Union lines shrunk as he
thought of finding something to eat--anything. Security? What good was
security if it meant starvation? "Oh, shut up, and keep your legs moving,"
he said to himself wrathfully, shaking such thoughts from his head. He took
another twist at the improvised hunger belt. It really did help, he
decided.
At his left he saw Murdock's house, and the words of the negro boy came
back to him: "He keeps dawgs." Dogs for tracking down escaping slaves or
Yankees. Now, for the first time, it seemed to Tom that the rain which had
fallen during the past week was befriending him. The ground was too wet to
hold a scent. If Murdock's "dawgs" were brought out to chase him, they
would become hopelessly muddled and lost. Nevertheless, his step quickened.
After he had walked another mile, the faster pace began to tell upon him
and he lagged.
"Have to rest, I guess," he said, and he entered the woods. A chill seized
him as soon as he sat down. He arose, and remarked: "If I sit down, I'm
finished, and I can't walk much farther. I wonder...."
He had been fighting the idea of going to the Beecham's, or, rather, to
Marjorie. She was the one person he knew south of the lines who would help
him, yet he had been trying to keep the thought of going to her out of his
mind. It might involve her in danger. Three miles above the Beecham's there
was another farm. He had planned to go there, to tell them that he had just
come through the Union lines to enlist with the South, and ask for food.
But now he realized that he could not walk four miles--one mile to the
Beecham's, then three more to the farm. If his legs would carry him for one
mile, they would be doing well. It was difficult even to stand, and the
woods and sky lurched and whirled about him.
"I'll go to Marjorie," he muttered. "Get word to her some way. She'll
help." He started for the road, then stopped. If an alarm were raised, and
Murdock's dogs were brought out, they might track him along the road.
Somewhere behind the Beecham's house, running through the woods, there was
a small stream. It came within three hundred yards of the house; then there
was a long row of thick bushes which led up to the garden. The negroes'
shanties were far to the other side. He had taken all of them in at a
glance when he rode away. It seemed that years had passed since that day.
He stumbled through the woods until he came to the stream; then he splashed
along through the water. That would kill the scent. He had read of slaves
wading through streams to throw dogs off. He was just like an escaping
slave now, he thought. It was curious that he should know all the dread and
terror that they felt, that he should be experiencing the same sort of
man-hunt. He felt sick at the thought of all the brutality men were showing
to each other--the killing, the destruction of war, the gigantic effort to
bring ruin down upon each other. Such ideas went streaking through his mind
as he stumbled along the rough bed of the stream. It was incredible,
unbelievable. The railroad raid seemed like some sick man's dream, crazy,
tortured, and awful.
He knelt down in the water and splashed it over his face, took a drink. His
head became clear again. He pulled himself to his feet.
Through the trees he could see the Beecham's house, stark white in the
early morning light. It was after seven o'clock, he thought, and the family
would soon be at breakfast. A small stream of smoke drifted up from the
kitchen chimney, wavering and drooping in the still air.
Tom left the stream and entered the bushes. When he was within fifty yards
of the house, he dropped to the ground. An instant later, he felt himself
going to sleep. It was like whirling through a great dark space to
oblivion.
He awoke two hours later, and felt the warm sun beating down upon him. He
raised his head and glanced about, recollecting how he had come here. Then
he squirmed through the branches and looked toward the house. There, in the
garden, stood Marjorie, snipping at a rose bush with a pair of scissors.
"Marjorie!" he called hoarsely. She glanced at the house, as though she
thought that someone there had called her. "Marjorie!" She turned in his
direction. "It's Tom Burns--over here. Down at the end of this row--in the
bushes." Her scissors dropped to the ground and her hands went to her
throat in a gesture of alarm. "Come here," he said. "But slowly--so that
they won't know."
She recovered the scissors hurriedly and came toward him. "Where are you?"
she gasped.
"Here--hiding. Stop at that last rose bush and pretend to be working."
"Oh, Tom--you escaped! You got away!"
"Yes, but I'm famished. Crossed the Tennessee last night--nothing to eat
since night before last. Can you...?"
"Yes, I'll get you something," she gasped. "I'm so glad you escaped. I've
been worried.... Wait there."
She walked toward the house and entered. Presently she came out of the
kitchen door and sauntered into the garden again.
"I told Mattie, the cook," she said as she came near him and went to
trimming the rose bush again. "She understands. Her little boy is going to
bring you something to eat. Here he comes."
He looked out and saw the little colored boy, Jasper, running to the
stable. He entered and appeared a second later out of the rear door; then
he made a wide detour to avoid being seen from the house, and disappeared
in the woods.
"As soon as he comes, go back until you're out of sight of the house. I'll
meet you there. Watch for me."
"Yes--I understand."
She turned away, walked idly through the garden, and entered the kitchen
again. Presently Tom heard the crackle of branches, and Jasper, his eyes
and mouth wide open, came through the bushes.
"Here, Jasper," said Tom. "Come on--I won't hurt you." The boy had stopped,
suddenly terror-stricken. "Come on, Jasper." He approached cautiously, step
by step, holding a package before him. He dropped it when Tom put his hand
out, and hurried back a few feet. "Now, Jasper, you go right back to your
mammy again," said Tom. "Don't say a word to anyone."
Jasper nodded vigorously, then fled.
In the package Tom found bread and chicken. At first he revolted at the
odor of food, then his appetite awoke and he wanted to wolf it down. But he
ate slowly, making his way toward the wood as Marjorie had said. He stopped
beside the stream, where he could watch for her.
Soon he caught a glimpse of her white dress, and he called. She hurried
toward him.
"I read all about it in the Atlanta paper," she said. "You were in the
railroad raid, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"I knew.... Oh, you're all wet. What happened to you? Oh, Tom!"
"Wet?" he said. "I've been wet for so long I've forgotten about it. You sit
down there where you can see if anyone is coming." He pointed to a log.
"I'll lie here and rest." He wrapped his cape about him, and stretched out
on the ground. "I didn't want to come here, Marjorie, for fear I'd get you
into trouble, but I was starved into it. Will you forgive me?"
[Illustration: "I didn't want to come here, Marjorie, for fear I'd get you
into trouble."]
"Oh, I'm glad you came. I've been worrying ever since you left. I didn't
know what you were going to do, and I was afraid you'd be caught. Then the
news of the raid and the stolen engine came. I knew that you were one of
the men. Uncle didn't guess it until yesterday when he read about it in the
Atlanta paper. Tell me about it--please!"
"What did your uncle say? How did he guess that I was one of them?"
"The paper said that some of the men were captured, and that they told the
story about coming from Kentucky. When Uncle read that, he ... he...."
"What did he do?"
"He swore terribly," answered Marjorie. "Aunty sent me from the room. But
tell me about it. Oh, what's the matter, Tom?"
He had risen on his elbows, then fallen back on the ground. "Nothing," he
said. "I'm dizzy, that's all. Every once in a while it strikes me. Wait a
second, and I'll be all right."
She knelt beside him and touched his forehead. "You're feverish," she said.
"Oh, Tom ... I ... can't I do anything?"
"Feverish!" exclaimed Tom. "I'm so cold that I can't move. I'm frozen!" His
teeth were chattering, and he commenced to shiver. "I'll be all right in a
minute. Guess I'd better get up." He arose, then sat down abruptly on the
log, for his legs felt too weak to support him. "I'm sorry, Marjorie," he
said. "I'm pretty tired."
She watched him, too alarmed to speak. She exclaimed: "But you are
feverish, Tom. Oh, I didn't know. I might have seen that you were sick...."
The rest of her words were lost in the great buzzing noise which filled his
head. Everything turned black before him--black filled with a thousand
shooting colors; then the world gave a vicious lurch which toppled him
over. He awoke, flat on the ground, with Marjorie leaning above him, crying
and dabbing his forehead with a wet handkerchief.
"Fainted!" he mumbled disgustedly. "Fool to faint!" He closed his eyes
again to rid himself of dizziness. "Big baby! Sorry, Marjorie."
"You must come to the house, Tom," cried Marjorie. "It doesn't make any
difference about Uncle. I'll tell him that he must take you in. He must!...
he must!"
"No--be all right in a minute. Terribly hot! Take this cape off." He tried
to get out of the cape, but she stopped him. "It's too hot," he protested,
but he let her draw the cape up more tightly about him.
"Won't you let me take you to the house?" she begged.
"No--have to get back to the lines."
"But you can't, Tom. You're sick. It's the fever that makes you hot. Oh,
Tom...."
"Got to get back to the lines," he interrupted. "Start in a few minutes. I
guess ... sleep a little first. Mustn't be captured. You wake me up if
anyone comes. Murdock's dogs...."
It was night when his brain cleared again. He was wrapped in blankets,
lying comfortably on the ground. Overhead the branches of the trees, black
against the sky, waved solemnly.
"You 'wake, massah?"
Tom started at the voice. An old negro was sitting beside him.
"Yes--what...?"
"You jes' rest quiet," said the negro. "Ev'thing's all right. Miss
Marjorie, she comin' soon."
Tom closed his eyes and began to unravel the tangle of the day's events. He
could remember voices which had circled around him, babbling endlessly; two
negroes who had taken off his wet clothes, put him in dry things and
wrapped him in blankets; and Matty, the cook, who had soothed him and given
him hot drinks. Then Marjorie had come. Twice he had awakened and found her
sitting there. The afternoon was all confusion, like some half-forgotten
thing of his imagination. But he was comfortable now, and he didn't care.
He drifted off into an untroubled sleep, and awoke again with the sound of
voices in his ears. In the faint light of the moon, he saw two negroes
squatting near him. They were talking in whispers. One of them was saying:
"Ol' Murdock's dawgs is a-cryin' and a-moanin'--"