IN WILLIAMSTON JAIL.
“Fresh fish! where did you come from? Are you a deserter or a
conscript?”
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. Marcy Gray was in Williamston
jail at last, and this was the way he was welcomed when the heavy grated
door clanged behind him. Much to his relief he was not thrust into a
cell as he thought he would be, but into a large room which was already
so crowded that it did not seem as though there could be space for one
more. The inmates gathered eagerly about him, all asking questions at
once, and although some of them affected to look upon their capture and
confinement as a huge joke, Marcy saw at a glance that the majority were
as miserable as he was himself. While he told his story in as few words
as possible he looked around for the two foragers who had been captured
on the night that Ben Hawkins was surprised in his father’s house, and
failing to discover them he shouted out their names. They had had a few
days’ experience as prisoners, and could perhaps give him some needed
advice.
“Oh, they’re gone,” said one.
“Gone where?” inquired Marcy.
“Nobody knows. This room was cleaned out on the very day they were
brought in, and your two friends went with the rest to do guard duty
somewhere down South. All of us you see here have been captured during
the last two or three days.”
“How long do you think it will be before we will be shipped off?”
“It won’t be long,” said the prisoner, “for this room is about as full
as it will hold. What are you anyway? Union or secesh?”
Before Marcy could make any reply to this unexpected question, someone
who stood behind him gave him a gentle poke in the ribs. He took it for
a warning, as indeed it was intended to be, and turned away without
saying a word. The incident frightened him, for it proved that there
were some among the prisoners whom their companions in misery were
afraid to trust. He began to wonder how it would be possible for him to
secure possession of the gold pieces which his thoughtful mother had
placed in his vest pocket. There were some hard-looking fellows among
the prisoners, men of the Kelsey and Hanson stamp, and Marcy was not far
wrong when he told himself it would never do to let them know or suspect
that he was well supplied with good money. Holding fast to his blanket
and valise he freed himself from the crowd as soon as he could, and
taking his stand by an open grated window, began looking about in search
of a face whose owner seemed to him worthy of confidence; for Marcy felt
the need of a friend now as he had never felt it before. As good fortune
would have it, the first man who attracted his notice was Charley Bowen,
and he turned out to be the one who had given him the warning poke in
the ribs. His was an honest face if there ever was one, and Marcy liked
the way the man conducted himself. He took no part in the joking and
laughing. He looked as serious as Marcy felt, but did not seem to be
utterly cast down, as many of the prisoners were, because he knew he was
going to be forced into the army. When he saw that Marcy’s eyes were
fixed upon him with an inquiring look, he gradually worked his way out
of the crowd and came up to the window.
“You look as though you had been used to better quarters than these and
better company, too,” was the way he began the conversation.
“And so do you,” replied Marcy.
“I never was shut up in jail before, if that is what you mean. You see I
don’t belong in this part of the country. I got this far on my way up
from Georgia, intending to get outside the Confederate lines if I could,
but I was gobbled at last, and within sight of the Union flag at
Plymouth.”
“That was hard luck indeed,” answered Marcy. “You earned your freedom
and ought to have had it. Why, you must have travelled four or five
hundred miles. What excuse did the rebels make for arresting you?”
“Don’t use that word here,” said the man hastily. “It’s dangerous. We
have the best of reasons for believing that there are spies among us
searching for deserters, and they will go straight to the guards with
every word you say. The man who asked if you are Union or secesh is one
of them.”
“Why are they so anxious to find deserters?” asked Marcy.
“To make an example of them, I suppose. At any rate the guards took a
deserter out of this room on the day I came, and we’ve never seen him
since. The men who captured me did not make any excuse for holding me,
if that was the question you were going to ask. They simply said that I
couldn’t be of any use to the Yanks in Plymouth, but could be of a good
deal of use in the Confederate army, and so they brought me along. Who
are you? and what’s your name?”
Marcy had not talked with the man very long before he made up his mind
that he had found the friend he needed; but still he was afraid to trust
him too far on short acquaintance. He told Bowen that he was neither a
deserter nor a conscript, but a refugee, and owed his capture to
personal enemies, who would be sure to suffer for it sooner or later;
but he did not say that he intended to escape if his captors gave him
half a chance, or that he had some good money in his valise.
Consequently he was not a little surprised and alarmed when Bowen turned
his back to the rest of the prisoners, and said in an earnest whisper:
“Have you been searched?”
“No,” answered Marcy. “What will I have to be searched for? My mother
presented my valise for Captain Fletcher’s inspection, but he was
gentleman enough to say he wouldn’t look into it.”
“Well, you’ll be searched, and that too just as soon as old Wilkins
learns something of the circumstances under which you were captured,”
continued Bowen in the same earnest whisper. “It don’t stand to reason
that your mother would have packed your carpetbag without slipping in a
little money, if she had any, and Wilkins is hot after money.”
“Who is Wilkins, anyhow?”
“The Confederate captain who commands here, and he’s a robber. He goes
through every man who comes into the jail, and you will not escape. Why,
he was mean enough to take three dollars in scrip from me. He said I
would have no use for money, for the government would furnish me with
grub and clothes. If you’ve got anything you want to save you’d better
let me have it.”
“But how do I know that it will be any safer with you than it is with
me?” demanded Marcy. “What assurance have I that you will give it back
when I want it?”
“You haven’t any. You’ll have to take my word for it.”
This was honest at any rate, and something prompted Marcy to take out
the key of his valise and slip it into Bowen’s hand.
“Look for my vest and feel in the right-hand pocket,” he whispered; and
then he turned around to engage the nearest of the prisoners in
conversation and draw their attention away from Bowen if he could. It
looked like a hopeless task. The room was so full that it did not seem
possible that any of its inmates could make a move without being seen by
somebody; but as soon as he showed a disposition to talk he found plenty
ready and eager to listen, for he was the last arrival and brought the
latest news from the outside world. He kept as many as could crowd
around him interested for perhaps five minutes, and then his narrative
was brought to a close by a commotion in the farther end of the room and
the entrance of a Confederate corporal, who elbowed his way into the
crowd, calling for Marcy Gray.
“Here!” replied the owner of that name. “What do you suppose he wants of
me?” he added in an undertone.
“Most likely he wants to take your descriptive list,” said one of the
prisoners, with a wink at his companions.
“But that was done when I came in,” said Marcy.
“Did old Wilkins do it?” said the conscript. “I don’t reckon he did, for
he has been off somewhere since morning. If he’s got back he will want
to see you himself.”
That somebody wanted to see him was made plain to Marcy in a very few
seconds, for the corporal worked his way through the crowd until he
caught sight of the new prisoner, who was ordered to pick up his plunder
and “come along down to the office”; and, what was more, the corporal
watched him to see that he did not leave any of his “plunder” behind.
“That proves that the descriptive list of your valise hasn’t been
taken,” whispered one of the prisoners, as Marcy followed the corporal
toward the door.
When he picked up his valise he noticed that the key was in the lock,
and of course Bowen must have put it there; but whether he had had time
to examine the vest and find the precious gold pieces was a question
that could not be answered now. “Old Wilkins” would no doubt answer it
in about five minutes, was what Marcy said to himself, as he followed
his guide down a flight of stairs into a wide hall, which was paved with
brick and lined on both sides with dark, narrow cells. Marcy shuddered
when he glanced at the pale, hollow-eyed captives on the other side of
the grated doors, who crowded up to look at him as he passed along the
hall.
“Who are these?” he whispered to his conductor.
“Deserters and the meanest kind of Yankee sympathizers,” was the answer.
“Men who give aid and comfort to the enemy while honest soldiers are
risking their lives at the front.”
“What’s going to be done with them, do you know?”
“The deserters will be shot, most likely, and every one of the rest
ought to be hung. That’s what would be done with them if I had my way.”
Marcy’s heart sank within him. If the corporal could have his way what
would be done with _him_? was the question that came into his mind. He
had not only given aid and comfort to the Federals but had served on one
of their gunboats; and how did he know but that the commander of the
prison would order him into one of those crowded cells after he had
taken the descriptive list of his valise, or, in plain English, had
robbed it of everything of value? While Marcy was thinking about it the
corporal pushed open a door and ushered him into the presence of Captain
Wilkins, who sat tilted back in a chair, with his feet on the office
table and a cob pipe in his mouth. Although he was resplendent in a
brand-new uniform he did not look like a soldier, and Marcy afterward
learned that he wasn’t. He was a Home Guard, and would have been a
deserter if he had seen the least prospect before him of being ordered
to the front.
“Private Gray, sir,” said the corporal, waving his hand in Marcy’s
direction.
His interview with Captain Wilkins, of whom he had already learned to
stand in fear, was not a long one, but it did much to satisfy Marcy that
the man was not as well acquainted with his history as he was afraid he
might be. His first words, however, showed that he knew all about the
fight that had taken place in Mrs. Gray’s door-yard when the boy was
captured.
“So you are the chap who cost the lives of some of my best men, are
you?” said he, after he had given Marcy a good looking over. “Do you
know what I have a notion to do with you?”
Marcy replied that he did not, being careful to address the captain as
“sir,” for he knew it would be folly to irritate such a man as he was.
He expected to hear him declare that he would put him into the dungeon
and keep him there on bread and water as long as he remained in the
jail; but instead of that the captain said:
“I would like to send you to the field without an hour’s delay, so that
the Yankees could have a chance at you. There’s where such cowards as
you belong. Why didn’t you come in when you knew you had been
conscripted and save me the trouble of sending for you?”
“I didn’t know it, sir,” replied Marcy.
“Well, it was your business to know that every able-bodied man in the
Confederacy has been placed absolutely under control of our President
while the war lasts,” continued the captain. “You were mighty good to
yourself to stay at home living on the fat of the land, while your
betters are fighting and dying for the flag, but I’ll put you where you
will see service; do you hear? How many more men are there in that camp
of refugees up there?”
“About twenty, sir,” answered Marcy.
“Twenty more cowards shirking duty!” exclaimed the captain, taking his
feet off the table and banging his fist upon it. “But I’ll have them out
of there if it takes every man I’ve got; do you hear? I say I’ll have
them out of that camp and into the army, where they will be food for
powder. Let me see your baggage.”
As Captain Wilkins said this he nodded to the corporal, who seized
Marcy’s valise and turned its contents upon the floor. There were not
many things brought to light—only an extra suit of clothes, two or three
handkerchiefs, as many shirts and pairs of stockings, and a pair of
shoes; but each of these articles was carefully examined by the
corporal, who went about his work as though he was used to it, as indeed
he was. He had examined a good deal of luggage for the captain, who had
nothing to say when he saw him confiscate any article of clothing that
struck his fancy, or which he thought he could sell or trade to his
comrades of the Home Guards. Marcy caught his breath when he saw the
corporal run his fingers into the right-hand pocket of the vest in which
his mother had placed the gold pieces, and felt much relieved when the
soldier did not pull out anything. Then his blanket, which Marcy had
rolled up and tied with strings so that he could sling it over his
shoulder, soldier fashion, was shaken out, but there was not a thing in
it to reward the corporal’s search. The latter looked disappointed and
so did Captain Wilkins, who commanded Marcy to turn all his pockets
inside out. He did so, but there was nothing in them but a broken
jack-knife that was not worth stealing.
“You must be poor folks up your way,” said the captain. “Where’s your
scrip?”
“I haven’t a dollar’s worth of scrip, sir,” said Marcy truthfully. “In
fact I’ve seen little of it during the war.”
It never occurred to Captain Wilkins to ask if Marcy had seen any other
sort of money, for gold was something he had not taken from the pockets
of a single conscript. He put his feet on the table again, touched a
lighted match to his pipe, and told Marcy that he could go back
upstairs. Glad to escape so easily the boy tumbled his clothing into his
valise, gathered up his blanket, and went; and the sentry who stood in
the hall at the head of the stairs opened the door for him.
“What did you have? What did you lose?” were the questions that arose on
all sides when he entered the room he had left a few minutes before.
“Not a thing,” answered Marcy, glancing at Charley Bowen, who stood
among the prisoners, looking as innocent and unconcerned as a man could
who had almost a hundred dollars in gold in his pocket. “And they gave
my things a good overhauling, too.”
“What did you do with your scrip, anyway? Put it in your shoe?”
“I didn’t have any,” said Marcy. “If I had the corporal would have found
it sure, for he turned everything inside out.”
Marcy elbowed his way to the nearest window to roll up his blanket and
repack his valise, and after a while Bowen came up.
“If it hadn’t been for you they would have stolen me poor,” Marcy found
an opportunity to whisper to him. “They are nothing but robbers.”
“What did I tell you?” replied Bowen. “Put your hand into my
coat-pocket, and you will find it safe; but I warn you that you will
lose it if you don’t watch out. There are some among the prisoners who
would steal it in a minute if they got a good chance. What do you intend
to do with it anyway?” he added, after Marcy had transferred the gold
coins to his own pocket without attracting anybody’s attention. “The
first time you try to spend any of it, someone will rob you.”
“It may come handy some day,” whispered Marcy. “Since you have showed
yourself to be a true friend I don’t mind telling you that I don’t mean
to serve under the rebel flag a day longer than I am obliged to.”
“Are you going to make a break?” said Bowen eagerly.
“I am, if I see the ghost of a show.”
“You’re a boy after my own heart, and if you want good company I will go
with you.”
Nothing could have suited Marcy Gray better. The fact that Bowen had
travelled hundreds of miles through a country that was in full
possession of the enemy, and had even come within sight of the Union
lines before he was captured, proved that he was not only a brave and
persevering man, but that he was skilled in woodcraft as well; and such
a man would be an invaluable companion if they could only manage to
escape at the same time. Bowen said it would be impossible for them to
escape from the jail, for in addition to the sentry, who stood in the
hall and could look through the grated door into the room and see every
move that was made among the prisoners, the building was surrounded by
guards every night. It would be folly for them to make the attempt until
they were certain of success, for no man in the rebel army ever deserted
more than once.
“But whether we escape in one month or two we’ll have something to think
about and live for, so that our minds will not be constantly dwelling
upon our misfortunes; and that’s a great thing in a case like this, I
tell you,” said Bowen. “We must keep up a brave heart by thinking about
pleasant things, or else it will not be long before we shall be moping
like those poor fellows over there in the corner. They’re all the time
worrying, and the first they know they will be down sick.”
“I suppose that is the right way to do, but it is awful hard for a
conscript to be jolly,” said Marcy, who was thinking of his mother and
of Jack, whom he might never see again.
“I know it; but it is the only way for us to do if we want to keep on
our feet.”
When five o’clock came and the long table which occupied the middle of
the room had been cleared of the men who had been sitting and lying upon
it, and the supper was brought in, Marcy Gray began to realize that
being shut up in jail meant something. While Bowen talked he had been
slowly working his way through the crowd toward the table, and now Marcy
saw what his object was in doing it. The supper, which consisted of bean
soup and corn bread, was brought in in small wooden tubs which were
placed upon the table, together with a sufficient number of pans and
spoons to accommodate about half the prisoners at once. No sooner had
these pans and spoons been set on the table than Bowen seized two of
them as quick as a flash, and filled the pans with soup with one hand,
while he passed Marcy a generous piece of corn bread with the other.
“Now get over there by the window before somebody jostles you and spills
it all,” said he; and although Marcy, acting upon the suggestion,
succeeded in reaching the window without losing his supper, it was not
owing to any consideration that was shown him by the prisoners, who made
a regular charge upon the table, pushing and crowding, and acting
altogether like men who were more than half famished. Marcy said, in a
tone of disgust, that they reminded him of a lot of pigs.
“I don’t know’s I blame them,” said Bowen, swallowing a spoonful of his
soup with the remark that it was somewhat better than common. “You will
soon learn to push and shove with the rest.”
“I hope not,” replied Marcy.
“Then you’ll have to eat out of a dirty dish; that’s all.”
“Do you mean to say that someone will have to use this pan and spoon
after I get through with them?”
“That’s just what I mean. You see there are not more than half enough to
go around.”
“Well, why don’t they wash them?”
“Too much trouble, I suppose. And besides, anything is good enough for a
conscript.”
Marcy did not in the least enjoy his supper. The soup was so badly
smoked that it was not fit to eat, and the corn bread was not more than
half baked. More than that, one of the prisoners urged him to make haste
and “get away with that soup,” for he wanted the pan as soon as he could
have it.
“Don’t mind him,” said Bowen. “Take your time. That’s the way they will
all serve you when you get left.”
Up to this time Marcy Gray had not been troubled very much with the
pangs of home-sickness. One seldom is when the bright sun is shining and
he can see what is going on around him. It is when the quiet of night
comes and everybody else is asleep that the young soldier thinks of home
and the friends he has left behind him. It was so with Marcy Gray at any
rate. When the supper dishes had been removed, and somebody had touched
a match to a couple of sputtering candles which threw out just light
enough to show how desolate and cheerless the big room really was, and
the prisoners began arranging their blankets and quilts, and the joking
and laughing ceased, then it was that Marcy’s fortitude was put to the
test. He thought of his mother, of Jack, and Ben Hawkins, who had proved
so stanch a friend to him, and told himself that he would never see them
again. He had heard that nostalgia (that is the name the doctors give to
homesickness) killed people sometimes, and he was sure it would kill him
before the month was ended.
“What are you doing at that window?” demanded Bowen, breaking in upon
his revery.
“I am watching the sentry in the yard below,” answered Marcy. “I wish I
was in his place. It wouldn’t take me long to slip away in the darkness
and draw a bee-line for home.”
“Well, you just let that sentry alone and come here and lie down,” said
Bowen.
“What’s the use? I can’t go to sleep.”
“You can and you must. Sleep and eat all you can, hold your thoughts
under control, and so keep up your strength. Come here and lie down.”
Marcy knew that Bowen’s advice was good, but it was hard to follow it.
Reluctantly he stretched himself upon the man’s blanket,—there was no
room on the floor for him to spread his own,—pulled his valise under his
head for a pillow, and listened while Bowen told of some exciting and
amusing incidents that had fallen under his observation while he was
trying to reach the Union lines. On three occasions, he said, he had
acted as guide to small parties of escaped Federals who were slowly
working their way out of Dixie, but somehow he never could induce them
to remain very long in his company.
“They had the impudence to tell me that I didn’t know anything about the
geography of my own State,” said Bowen in an injured tone.
“That’s what I think myself,” replied Marcy. “Whatever put it into your
head to come away up here to North Carolina, when you might have taken a
short cut to the coast?”
“There you go just like the rest of them,” said Bowen. “It shows how
much you know of the situation down South. The Confederacy is like an
empty egg-shell. There’s nothing on the inside—no soldiers to be afraid
of—nothing but niggers, who are only too glad to feed and shelter a
Union man. You’re safe while you stay on the inside, but the minute you
try to get out is when the danger begins, for there’s the shell in the
shape of the armies by which the Confederacy is surrounded. There was no
need of my being captured, and that’s what provokes me. When I caught
sight of the Union flag in Plymouth I thought I was safe and so, instead
of keeping to the woods, I came out and followed the road; and here I
am. If I had held to the course that I followed all through my long
journey, I’d have been among the boys in blue now instead of being shut
up in jail.”
“Did old Wilkins conscript you?”
“The minute I struck the jail. He took my descriptive list, robbed me of
the little money I had left, and told me I could make up my mind to
fight until the Confederates gained their independence.”
“You’ll die of old age before that day comes,” said Marcy.
“That’s what I think, and it’s what more than half the people down South
think. There are men and boys in the Confederate army who are as strong
for the Union as Abe Lincoln is; but if they said so, or if they shirked
their duty, they would be shot before they saw another sun rise. Now, if
they put you and me on guard duty at one of their prison pens we’ll not
stay there any longer than we feel like it.”
Bowen continued to whisper in this encouraging strain until long after
the rest of the prisoners were wrapped in slumber; and finally Marcy’s
eyes grew heavy and he fell asleep himself.