ON ACCOUNT OF THE DEAD-LINE.
The life that Marcy Gray led during the next three weeks can be compared
to nothing but a nightmare. His duties were not heavy, but the trouble
was that when he tried to go to sleep he saw the inside of the prison
pen as plainly as he did while he was standing in his box. He saw long
lines of dead men carried out, too, and tumbled unceremoniously into the
trenches outside the stockade, where they were left without a head-board
to show who they were or where they came from. All this while he was
losing flesh and strength as well as courage, and Bowen declared that,
if they did not “make a break” very soon, Marcy would have to go into
the hospital.
“I feel as though I ought to go there now,” said the latter wearily. “To
tell the honest truth, I haven’t pluck enough to make a break for
liberty; we are too closely watched. When I am on post after dark, I
notice that an officer or a corporal comes around every hour to see if
the guard is all right.”
“That happens only on pleasant nights; but I have noticed that on stormy
nights the officer of the guard hugs his comfortable quarters as closely
as we do our boxes,” replied Bowen. “You’ll pick up and be yourself
again as soon as we are out of reach of this place, and you mustn’t give
way to your gloomy feelings. The next rainy night that we are on post
together we’ll skip. I have been making inquiries about the country west
of here, and know just how to travel in order to reach my home. All
you’ve got to do is to be ready to move when I say the word, and I will
take you safely through.”
It would have been very comforting to hear Bowen talk in this confident
way, if Marcy had only been able to believe that the man could keep his
promise; but unfortunately he could not get up any enthusiasm. The
spiritless prisoners inside the stockade were not more indifferent to
their fate than he was to his. There had been no attempts at escape that
Marcy knew anything about, but two unfinished tunnels had been
discovered and filled up, and the pack of “nigger dogs” that the
commander used in tracking fugitives had been brought into the pen and
exhibited to the prisoners, so that they might know what they had to
expect in case they succeeded in getting outside the stockade. But Bowen
declared that the hounds would not bother him and Marcy. If they escaped
during a storm the rain would wash away the scent so that they could not
be tracked.
It was while Marcy was in this unfortunate frame of mind that something
occurred to arouse him from his lethargy and drive him almost to
desperation. It was on the morning following the day on which a fresh
lot of prisoners had been received into the pen. Marcy stood near the
gate when they went in, and noticed that there were not more than half a
dozen blankets in the party, that some of them were barefooted, and
others destitute of coats and hats.
“Them Yanks haint got nothin’ to trade,” said a Home Guard who stood
near him.
“Whose fault is it?” replied Marcy. “They never looked that way when
they were captured.”
“No, I don’t reckon they did. Them fellars up the country have went
through ’em good fashion. But I don’t blame ’em for that. I only wish I
could get the first pull at a Yank who has a good coat or a pair of
number ten shoes onto his feet. I wouldn’t be goin’ around ragged like I
am now, I bet you.”
It was one of these fresh prisoners who caused Marcy Gray to fall into
the clutches of the commander of the prison, whom Bowen had denounced as
a “heathen.” He went on post at twelve o’clock the next day, Bowen
occupying the box on his right, while the Home Guard who said he would
like to have a chance to steal a coat and a pair of shoes stood guard in
the one on his left. The new prisoners had had time to take in the
situation, and to learn that if they preferred a shelter of some sort to
the bare ground, or cooked rations instead of raw ones, they were at
liberty to provide themselves with these luxuries if they could, for
their captors would not furnish them. But how could they be expected to
build dug-outs when they did not have even pocket knives to dig with?
and how could they bake corn bread when every flat stone and piece of
board that could be found was in the possession of someone who would not
part with it for love or money? There was a treasure lying on the ground
in front of Marcy’s box, and directly under the strip of board that
marked the inner edge of the dead-line. It was a battered tin cup. How
it came there, and why someone had not tried to obtain possession of it,
was a mystery; but it had been discovered by a party of new-comers,
perhaps a dozen of them in all, who looked at the cup with longing eyes
and then glanced apprehensively at Marcy, who leaned on his musket and
looked down on them. One of the most daring of the party seemed
determined to make an effort to secure the cup, but as often as he bent
forward as if he were about to make a dash for it, his comrades seized
him and pulled him back.
“Poor fellow,” thought Marcy, who admired the prisoner’s courage. “He
little knows how glad I would be to tell him to come and get it. The cup
isn’t inside the dead-line anyway, and if he makes a grab for it he can
have it for all I will do to stop him.”
The result of this mental resolution was the same as though Marcy had
announced it in words. As quick as thought the daring soldier made a
jump for the dead-line, snatched the cup from the ground, and in a
second more was back among his comrades, who closed around him in a
body, effectually covering him from the three muskets, Marcy’s, Bowen’s,
and the Home Guard’s, that were pointed in his direction. They ran among
the tents and dug-outs and mingled with the other prisoners, so that it
would have been impossible for the guards to identify a single one of
them.
“Good for the Yank!” thought Marcy. “That’s what I call pluck. He’ll
have something to dig with at any rate, and perhaps he can straighten
that cup out so that he can cook his corn meal in it.”
If Marcy and Bowen had fired at the man it would have been with the
intention of missing him, but not so with the Home Guard on the left,
who would have drawn a fine bead in the hope of winning a thirty days’
furlough. The latter was fighting mad. He shook his fist at Marcy and
shouted in stentorian tones:
“Corporal of the guard, number ’leven!”
“By gracious!” gasped Marcy. “He’s going to report it.”
He glanced toward Bowen’s box, and knew by the way his friend shook his
head at him that there was trouble in store for somebody; but how could
he be blamed more than anyone else? than the Home Guard, for instance,
who had as fair a chance to shoot as any blood-thirsty rebel could ask
for? The corporal came promptly and went into the Home Guard’s box, and
Marcy could see the angry man pointing out the position of the cup and
flourishing his clenched hand in the air to give emphasis to something
he was saying. After the corporal had heard his story he descended the
ladder and came into Marcy’s box.
“Sentry, what were you put here for, anyway?” were the first words he
spoke. “Why didn’t you shoot that man?”
“There were two reasons why I didn’t do it,” answered Marcy. “My orders
are to shoot if I see a prisoner trying to get over or under the
dead-line, but that man didn’t try to get over or under, for the cup
wasn’t inside. It was under that strip of board.”
“No matter. It was _at_ the dead-line, and it was your business to pop
him over,” said the corporal. “I am afraid the old man will give you a
taste of military discipline when you come off post.”
“Why should he? I haven’t disobeyed any order. And the other reason why
I didn’t shoot was because I didn’t have time. That Yank was as swift as
a bird on the wing, and before you could wink twice he was back among
his friends, and I couldn’t see him.”
“Then why didn’t you shoot into the crowd?” demanded the corporal.
“And kill or wound somebody who hadn’t done a thing?” exclaimed Marcy.
“Why, what’s the matter with you? I shall begin to think pretty soon
that you are a Yank yourself. Of course you ought to have fired into the
crowd and made an example of somebody. What’s one Yank more or less,
anyway? I believe in shooting everyone who comes down here.”
“Why didn’t that man in the next box shoot?” inquired Marcy. “He had the
same chance I had, and is as much to blame because that Yank made a dash
to the dead-line and got the cup.”
“Not much he aint. The thing happened directly in front of your post, it
was your duty to kill that man, you disobeyed orders by not doing it,
and of course I shall have to report you.”
“If I get into trouble by it I shall shoot at the next man who comes
within twenty feet of the dead-line,” said Marcy.
“You’ll be sorry you didn’t make that resolution long ago,” replied the
corporal, as he backed down the ladder. He went into Bowen’s box to hear
what he had to say about it, and then went back to headquarters; and two
hours later the relief came around.
“If I had been in your box I would have been on my way home by this time
to-morrow,” said the Home Guard, as he and Marcy and Bowen fell into
their places in the rear of the line. “You’ll never have another chance
like that to earn a furlough. Why didn’t you shoot that there Yank?”
“Why didn’t you?” retorted Marcy. “You had as good a show as I.”
“Not much, I didn’t. He was closter to you nor he was to me, and besides
I didn’t have time.”
“Neither did I. I never could hit a moving object with a single bullet.”
“You could have showed your good will if you had been a mind to. That’s
what I think, and less’n the old man has changed mightily sense I jined
his comp’ny, it’s what he’ll think about it, too.”
The unhappy Marcy had made up his mind that he would have to stand
punishment of some sort for permitting a prisoner to put his hand under
the dead-line; and his worst fears were confirmed when he came within
sight of the barracks and saw all the officers of the guard and the
commander of the prison standing there, and three Home Guards stationed
close by, with muskets in their hands. When the platoon was halted
before the door and brought to a front, the captain said:
“No. 12, step out here.”
As that was the number of the post from which Marcy had just been
relieved, he moved one pace to the front and saluted.
“So you are the low-down conscript who presumes to set my orders at
defiance, are you?” continued the captain. “What were you put in that
box for? Why did you allow that prisoner to come to the line?”
“Sir, my orders were——” began Marcy.
“Shut up!” shouted the captain, growing red in the face. “If you talk
back to me I’ll put a gag in your mouth. Trice him up, and leave him
that way till he learns who’s boss of this camp.”
Without saying a word, one of the three Home Guards before spoken of
took Marcy’s musket from his hand, while another unbuckled the belt that
held his cartridge-box. Then they laid hold of his arms, and with the
officer of the guard marching in front and the third soldier bringing up
the rear, led him to a tree that stood before the door of the captain’s
quarters. It did not take them more than two minutes to do their cruel
work, and when it was over and the officer of the guard moved away with
two of his men, leaving the other to keep watch over the culprit with a
loaded musket, Marcy Gray was standing on his toes, and his arms were
drawn high above his head by a strong cord which had been tied around
his thumbs and thrown over a limb of the tree. The pain was intense, but
the boy shut his teeth hard and gave no sign of suffering till his head
fell over on his shoulder and he fainted dead away. When he came to
himself he was lying in his bunk, his wounded hands were resting in a
basin of hot water which Bowen was holding for him, and another
good-hearted conscript was keeping his head and face wet with water he
had just drawn from the well. Their countenances were full of sympathy,
and there were signs of rage to be seen as well.
“This is rough on me, boys,” groaned Marcy.
“While you were hanging to that tree I asked some questions about
Captain Denning,” whispered Bowen, “and now I know who he is, and where
he hails from. He owns a fine plantation about twenty miles from where I
live when I am at home, and we shall pass it on our way to the river.”
“O Charley, let’s go to-night,” murmured Marcy. “I shall die if I stay
here any longer.”
“That’s what I have thought all along, and I am with you when we go on
post at twelve o’clock. It’s going to rain like smoke in less than half
an hour, and when it begins it will keep it up for a day or two. I am
glad if you have been waked up, but sorry it had to be done in this
way.”
“Captain Denning will be sorry for it, too,” said Marcy.
In spite of the agony he was in, but one thought filled Marcy Gray’s
mind, and that was that under no circumstances would he pass another day
alive in that camp. No matter how great the danger might be, he would
escape that very night. He would go with a musket in his hand and a box
of cartridges by his side, and if he were recaptured, it would be after
every bullet in those cartridges had found a lodgement in the body of
some Home Guard. He did not have very much to say, but Bowen knew by the
expression on his face that Marcy was thoroughly aroused at last.
Marcy did not want any supper, but managed to eat a little, and to slip
a generous piece of corn bread in his pocket for the lunch he knew he
would need before morning. The storm did not come in half an hour, as
Bowen had predicted, but it came a little later, and when the two went
on post at twelve o’clock, the night was as dark as a pocket, and the
rain was falling in torrents.
“Splendid weather,” Bowen found opportunity to whisper to Marcy. “It
couldn’t be better. Listen for my signal, for we must start as soon as
the guard is out of the way.”
“You’ll take your gun?” said Marcy.
“Of course, and I’ll use it too, before I will allow myself to be
brought back here.”
If it was a splendid night for their purpose it was a terrible one for
the prisoners, especially for the new-comers who had not had time to
finish their dug-outs. To make matters worse for them there had been a
sudden and noticeable change in the temperature. It was almost freezing
cold, and protected as he was by the walls of his box, and by his warm
blanket, which he had tied over his shoulders like a cloak, Marcy
shivered as he stood with his musket in the hollow of his arm and his
aching, bandaged hands clasped in front of him. He stood thus for ten
minutes when he heard a gentle tapping at the foot of his ladder. That
was the signal agreed upon between him and Bowen, and without a moment’s
hesitation Marcy wheeled around and backed to the ground.
“Is this you, Charley?” he whispered. “I can’t see a thing.”
“No more can I,” was the answer, “but I know where we are and which way
we want to go, and that’s enough. Grab hold of the tail of my blanket
and I will pilot you to the railroad track. Mark my words: We’ll never
hear a hound-dog on our trail. They’ll think we have struck for the
coast, and that’s the way they’ll go to find us.”
If we were to write a full history of the long tramp these two fugitives
made before they found themselves safe at Rodney Gray’s home, as we have
described in a former chapter, it would be to repeat the experience of
hundreds of escaped Union prisoners whose thrilling stories have already
been given to the world. Captain Denning’s “nigger dogs” never once gave
tongue on their trail, and at no time were they in serious danger of
falling into the hands of their enemies. Of course there were other Home
Guards and other dogs in Alabama and Mississippi, and more than once
they were pursued by them; but every negro they met on the road was
their friend, and, believing Marcy and Bowen to be escaped Federals,
took big risks to help them on their way. During the three days they
rested at Bowen’s home in Georgia they were in more danger than at any
other time, for Bowen’s neighbors were all rebels. They knew that he had
been forced into the army, and if they had suspected that he was hiding
in the loft of his father’s cotton gin, they would have left no stone
unturned to effect his capture. But outside of Bowen’s family no one
knew it except one or two faithful blacks, who could be trusted, and
after they had made up for the sleep they had lost, and some of Marcy’s
money had been expended for clothing, shoes, and blankets, the fugitives
set out to pay their respects to the commander of the prison from which
they had escaped. They remained on his plantation a part of one night,
and when they left, everything that would burn was in flames. It was a
high-handed proceeding, and many a soldier not wanting in courage would
have hesitated about taking chances so desperate; but fortunately
another rain storm washed out their trail and if they were pursued they
never knew it.
“There’s one thing I am sorry for,” said Marcy, as he and Bowen halted
for a moment on the summit of a little rise of ground from which they
had a fair view of the destructive work that was going on on the
plantation they had just left. “I am not revengeful, but I do think
Captain Denning ought to be punished for giving me these hands that I
may not be able to use for months, and I wish he could know that I had a
hand in starting that fire.”
Marcy’s hands certainly were in a bad way. They needed medical
attention, but if there was a surgeon in the country they had not been
able to find it out. Bowen gave them the best care he could, but Marcy
was so nearly helpless that he could not even carry his musket. He took
no note of time or of the progress they made, but left everything to his
friend Bowen, who could always tell him where they were, how many miles
they had made that day, and how far they would have to travel before
they could get something to eat. If he sometimes drew on his
imagination, and shortened the distance to the Mississippi by a hundred
miles or so, who can blame him? He knew that everything depended on
keeping up Marcy’s courage.
At last, when the homesick boy became so weary and foot-sore that he
could scarcely drag himself along the dusty road, he noticed with a
thrill of hope that the negroes who befriended him and Bowen no longer
spoke of “Alabam’” but had a good deal to say about “Mississipp’”; and
this made it plain to Marcy that they were slowly drawing near to the
end of their journey, and that his companion had been deceiving him.
“If you are as well acquainted with the country as you pretend to be,
how does it come that you didn’t know when we passed the boundary line
into the State of Mississippi?” said he. “But I don’t care. I remember
enough of geography to know about where we are now, and that we will
save time and distance if we strike a straight south-east course, for
that is the way Baton Rouge lies from here.”
Bowen, who had long been out of his reckoning, was quite willing to
resign the leadership, and it was a fortunate thing for them that he
was; for the course Marcy marked out brought them in due time to the
Ohio and Mobile Railroad a few miles north of Enterprise. A night or two
before they got there (they always traveled at night and slept during
the daytime), they were kept busy dodging small bodies of Confederate
soldiers who were journeying along the same road and in the same
direction with themselves. They were evidently concentrating at some
point in advance, but where and for what purpose the fugitives could not
determine until some negroes, to whom they appealed for assistance, told
them of Grierson’s raid.
“Dat Yankee come down hyar from some place up de country, an’ he whop
an’ he burn an’ he steal eberyting he see,” said one of the blacks
gleefully. “But de rebels gwine cotch him at Enterprise, an’ you two
best not go da’.”
This glorious news infused wonderful life and strength into Marcy Gray.
He forgot his aching hands and feet, and from that time carried his own
musket and moved as if he were set on springs. He would hardly consent
to halt long enough to take needed rest, for he was anxious to intercept
Grierson if possible, and warn him that the rebels were concentrating to
resist his further advance. But as it happened Colonel Grierson was
miles away, and it was Captain Forbes, with a squad of thirty-five men,
who had been detached from the main body to cut the telegraph north of
Macon, that the fugitives found and warned. They ran upon them by
accident, and at first thought they had fallen into the hands of the
rebels. One bright moonlight night they were hurrying along a road which
ran through a piece of thick timber, when all on a sudden they were
brought to a standstill by four men, who stepped from the shade of the
trees and covered them with their guns before they said a word. They
were soldiers, for their brass buttons showed plainly in the dim light;
but whether they wore the blue or the gray was a momentous question that
the fugitives could not answer. When one of them spoke it was in a
subdued voice.
“Who comes there?” he demanded.
“Friends,” replied Marcy in tones just loud enough to be heard and
understood. Then, believing that the truth would hold its own anywhere,
he added desperately; “We are escaped conscripts on our way to the
Mississippi, and we want to see Grierson.”
“Advance, friends, but be careful how you take them guns from your
shoulders,” was the next order; and when Marcy drew nearer and saw that
the speaker wore the yellow _chevrons_ of a corporal of cavalry on his
arms, his joy knew no bounds. When he and Bowen had been relieved of
their muskets and cartridge-boxes the corporal inquired:
“Where are the rest of you?”
“There are no more of us,” answered Marcy. “We are alone.”
“Mebbe you are and mebbe you aint,” said the corporal. “Jones, you take
’em down to the captain and hurry back as quick as you can, for we may
need you here.”
The corporal was suspicious and in bad humor about something, and so was
the captain when they found him. He had been riding hard all day, and
had halted in the woods to give his jaded men and horses an hour or two
of rest. He knew that he had been led into a trap by false information,
and by a treacherous guide who managed to escape amid a shower of
bullets that was rained upon him as soon as his treachery was
discovered; and while his men slept the captain rolled restlessly about
on the ground, trying to think up some plan by which he could save his
small command from falling into the hands of the Confederates, who were
making every effort to cut him off from Grierson’s column. He had been
assured that the way to Enterprise was clear, and that if he went in any
other direction he would have to fight his way through, and now came
these two escaped conscripts with a different story. It was little
wonder that Captain Forbes did not put much faith in what they had to
say, or that he spoke sharply when he addressed them.
“How do you know that the Confederate troops you say you saw along the
road were striking for Enterprise?” he inquired.
“Because the negroes told us so, and during our journey we have always
found that the negroes told us the truth,” answered Marcy, who did most
of the talking.
“And you say you have come from Millen?”
“Yes, sir. We were on post there when we escaped.”
“Do you know where Millen is?”
“Of course we know where it is.”
“Well, now, what I want to know is this: Why did you take such a long
tramp through the country when you were within less than a hundred miles
of the coast?”
Bowen answered this question, giving their reasons as we have given them
to the reader, but the captain acted as though he did not believe a word
of it. Marcy tried to help him out by telling of the relatives he
expected to meet when he reached the Mississippi River, and the story
was so improbable that the captain told them bluntly that he believed
they were spies, that they had come into his camp to see how many men he
had under his command, and that they hoped to escape to their friends
with the information. Marcy was surprised and hurt to find himself
suspected by the officer he wanted to help.
“I assure you, sir——” he began.
“I’ve had that trick played on me twice during this scout, and if it is
played on me again it will be my own fault,” interrupted the captain.
“Consider yourselves in arrest.”
He ordered a sentry to be placed over them at once, and we may add that
Marcy and his friend were under suspicion all the time, and under guard
most of the time they remained with Grierson’s men.
The next morning at daylight Captain Forbes resumed his rapid march, and
in two hours’ time arrived within sight of Enterprise, which, to his
amazement and alarm, he found to be filled with rebel soldiers. There
were three thousand of them. They were in motion too, and that proved
that they were aware of his coming and making ready to attack him. A
fight meant annihilation or capture, and there was but one way to
prevent it. Halting his men in the edge of a piece of woods out of sight
of the enemy, Captain Forbes called a single officer to his side and
galloped boldly toward the town. He was gone half an hour, and when he
returned he placed himself at the head of his squad and led it in a
headlong retreat, which did not end until the captain reported to
Colonel Grierson at Pearl River. In speaking of this dashing exploit
history says: “The captain, understanding his danger, tried to bluff the
enemy and succeeded. He rode boldly up to the town and demanded the
instant surrender of the place to Colonel Grierson. Colonel Goodwin,
commanding the Confederate force, asked an hour to consider the
proposition, to which request Forbes was only too willing to accede.
That hour, with rapid riding, delivered his little company from its
embarrassing situation.”
That rapid retreat was about as much as Marcy and Bowen could stand
after their long walk across the country. They were given broken-down
plough-mules to ride, and these delightful beasts, which took every step
under protest and “bucked” viciously when pressed too hard, had
well-nigh jolted the breath out of them by the time they reached the
main column at Pearl River. But they journeyed more leisurely after
that, all the most dangerous places along their line of march having
been left behind, and when the fugitives learned that they were within
forty-eight hours’ ride of Baton Rouge, and that the column would pass
through Mooreville on the following day, they asked and obtained
permission to accompany the scouts that were sent on ahead the next
morning. That was the way they came to ride into Rodney Gray’s dooryard
as we have recorded.
“You have heard my story,” concluded Marcy, settling contentedly back
among the pillows. “Now, who is going to give me a drink of water?”
“How you must have suffered,” said his aunt, with tears in her eyes.
“It’s all over now,” replied the young hero cheerfully, “and I am
anxious to send word to mother. I wish one of you would write to her at
Plymouth, care of Captain Burrows, and I am sure he will have the letter
delivered.”
“Do you know that you slept for eighteen straight hours?” replied
Rodney. “Well, that gave me time to write the letter and take it to
Baton Rouge and mail it to the address Jack gave me before he went home.
Now that you are safe I don’t see what there is to hinder Jack from
carrying out his plan of becoming a cotton trader. If he wants to pay
back to his mother every dollar she is likely to lose by this war, I
don’t know any better thing for him to do.”
“Did you say as much in your letter?”
“I said all that and more. I am sure he will come, if it is only to see
you.”
“Rodney, you’re a brick,” exclaimed Marcy. “But I wish you could tell me
more about Tom Allison and Mark Goodwin.”
But Rodney couldn’t, for the very good reason that all Jack said about
it was that they had been bushwhacked; and with this meagre information
Marcy was obliged to be satisfied.