"Well, we have done some good by coming over here," said Captain de Banyan as the officer galloped up the road above the creek.

"Hush, captain!" replied Somers. "You forget where you are."

"No, I don't; we are alone."

"Perhaps not; the trees have ears sometimes."

"Well, where are you going now?"

"Up the river. We will take a walk up to the batteries, if there are any there."

They proceeded in the direction indicated for about three miles without being molested, or even challenged by a sentinel. The Army of the Potomac had been on the other side of the river nearly a month, and had ceased to be a curiosity to the rebel inhabitants in the vicinity; and like sensible people, as they were in this respect if in no other, they devoted the hours of darkness to sleep. On the shore opposite the camp, they found a battery of artillery. Rude field-works had been constructed near the water, on which the guns of the company had been placed. Our travelers were too modest to make the acquaintance of the rebels, and kept at a respectful distance from them, crawling on the ground near enough to ascertain the force of the enemy.

Taking to the fields for greater safety, the scouts went up the river several miles farther, without making any discoveries worthy of notice. The object of the excursion had been fully accomplished; and they began to retrace their steps towards the creek, where the boat was waiting their return. When we are well employed, time passes away very rapidly; and our adventurers had taken no note of its passage. Before they had made a single mile, the bright streaks of day in the east warned them that they had remained too long for their own safety.

The prospect of being examined by rebel officers in broad daylight was not pleasant; and, increasing their speed, they walked by the shortest way towards the creek. When they had passed the battery of artillery, they abandoned the fields, through which they could make but slow progress, for the road. They had three miles farther to go, and it was now nearly sunrise.

"I think we must have lost two or three hours," said Somers as they hastened on their way. "I had no idea that it was more than two o'clock in the morning when we turned about."

"Nor I," replied De Banyan. "We must have spent two or three hours in crawling on the ground about that battery."

"I don't see where the time is all gone."

"It goes fast when we are busy. When I was in the Crimea——"

"Never mind the Crimea now," protested Somers, who was in no mood for his companion's fibs.

"Don't be crusty, Somers."

"I did not mean to be crusty; but you know my opinion about those stories of the Crimea and the Italian war, and I don't think it is a good plan to talk so much over here."

"As you please; it is your turn to speak next."

"I meant no offense."

"I know you didn't, Somers; but you reproved me, and I can only hold my peace; for you are the commander of this expedition."

"You know I like you as a brother; but I don't like those silly yarns about your impossible achievements. Hark! What's that?"

This last remark was caused by the sound of horses' feet behind them; and our travelers looked back with eager interest to ascertain what was approaching. It was a body of cavalry, which had just swept round a bend of the road, and was now in plain sight of them.

"That won't do," said De Banyan with energy. "We must conceal ourselves."

"I think they have seen us, and we may as well make the best of it. If we hide, they will certainly suspect us."

"They have not seen us yet. They are half a mile off," replied the captain, as he retired to the field by the side of the road.

Somers followed him, though he did not fully approve the policy of his friend. They walked a short distance till they came to a covert of bushes, in which they concealed themselves.

"I think we have made a mistake. The dog always bites when you attempt to run away from him," said Somers.

"I don't think they saw us," persisted De Banyan. "If they did, we can tell as good a story here as we could in the road."

"I always believe in facing the music. I have found that impudence will carry a man a great deal farther and a great deal faster than his legs can."

"Perhaps you are right, Somers. When I was in Italy——"

"Bah! Don't say Italy or Crimea again till we reach the other side of the river," interposed Somers, who was too seriously affected by the perils of their situation to be willing to listen to any of his companion's hallucinations.

"Just as you please, Somers," answered the captain, unmoved by the rebuff; "but, when I was doing scout duty before the battle of Magenta, I saw the advance of the Austrians coming up behind me. I crawled into a haystack, and remained there while the whole army of the Austrians, about four hundred thousand men, passed by me."

Somers could not but smile at the infatuation of his friend, who at such a perilous moment could indulge in such a vicious practice as that of inventing great stories. He did not even ask him how long it took the Austrian army to pass the haystack, whether they had haystacks in Italy, nor if it was probable that such an army would pass over a single road. He waited patiently, or impatiently, for the approach of the rebel cavalry, which soon reached the road near the bushes where they were hidden.

To his consternation, they came to a dead halt; and he could see the men gazing earnestly in the direction they had retired. Then half a dozen of the troopers entered the field, and rode directly towards the covert of bushes.

"We are caught!" whispered Somers.

"That's so. Just after the battle of Palestro, when I——"

"Hush!"

"Hush it is," replied De Banyan, as coolly as though he had been under his shelter tent on the other side of the James.

Taking a knife from his pocket, he began to cut away at a straight bush which grew near him, and was thus busily employed when the soldiers reached the spot. Somers stretched himself on the ground, and waited the issue of the event; deciding to let his companion, who had got him into the scrape, extricate him from it. The coolness of the captain, and the peculiar manner he assumed, convinced him that he had some resources upon which to draw in this trying emergency.

"Hallo, there!" shouted one of the troopers savagely, as though he intended to carry consternation in the tones of his voice.

"How are you, old hoss?" inquired De Banyan, as impudently as though he had been the lord of the manor.

"What ye doin' in here?" demanded the horseman, as he forced his animal into the bushes far enough to obtain a full view of both of the fugitives.

"Well, old hoss, if Heaven gin you two eyes, what were they gin to ye fur?" replied the captain, still hacking away at the sapling.

"What d'ye run for when you saw us coming?"

"Didn't run."

"Yes, yer did."

"You know best, then."

"What d'ye come in here fur?"

"Don't ye see what I came in here for?" replied De Banyan, as he finished cutting off the bush, and proceeded to trim off the branches.

"Who are you?"

"Well, old hoss, I'm the brother of my father's oldest son."

"What's yer name?"

"Hain't got any; had a difficulty with the district attorney in our county, and lost it."

"Come out here, and show yerself. The cap'n wants to see yer down to the road."

"Just goin' down there. Say, you hain't got a spare hoss in your caravan, have you? I'm gettin' amazin' tired."

"Come out, both of you. I can't stay here all day."

"Needn't wait for me; I'm in no hurry," answered the captain, as he slowly emerged from the bushes, followed by Somers.

"But I shall wait for yer; and, if yer don't step along lively, I'll let yer know how this cheese-knife feels."

"Don't distress yourself to do anything of the sort," said De Banyan; and he hobbled along on his new-made cane.

A walk of a few rods brought them to the road, where the commander of the company was impatiently awaiting their arrival. He looked daggers at the travelers, and evidently intended to annihilate them by the fierceness of his visage.

"Give an account of yourself," said he.

"We're no account," replied De Banyan.

"I've seen you before," continued the cavalry commander, gazing intently at the captain.

"No; you saw me behind."

"That sounds like you. Why, really, it is Barney Marvel."

"Who?" demanded De Banyan with an expression of humor.

"Barney Marvel! Don't you know your own name? Give us your hand, Barney," added the officer, as he extended his own.

"Well, cap'n, perhaps I'm Barney what's-his-name; but, 'pon my word, I don't think I am;" and De Banyan wore a troubled expression, even to the eyes of his anxious companion.

"Don't be modest about it, Barney. You left us rather unceremoniously; but I hope you'll be able to show that it was all right."

"'Pon my word it was all right, though I haven't the least idea what you mean."

"Haven't you, indeed, Barney?" laughed the captain, who, in spite of his present happy manner, was evidently as much puzzled as the other party.

"'Pon my word, I haven't."

"Do you mean to say you are not Barney Marvel, formerly a lieutenant in the Third Tennessee?"

"Not if I know it."

"I suppose I understood your position, Barney; but I advise you not to deny facts."

"I never deny facts, captain; you haven't told me your name yet."

"No need of that. Now, be honest, Barney. Tell us all about it. There wasn't an officer in the regiment that didn't mourn you as a brother when you left us."

"I'm very much obliged to them," replied De Banyan lightly; but even Somers began to have some doubts in regard to his popular friend.

"How are Magenta, Solferino, and the Crimea, now-a-days?" demanded the officer.

"Never heard of such places. Don't know much about geography," answered the captain.

Somers was confounded when the officer repeated these words, which was proof positive that he was the man whom the captain represented him to be.

"Sergeant, dismount, and tell me if you find B. M. on that man's right arm."

The sergeant obeyed, and, with the assistance of another, bared the captain's arm, where they found, plainly marked in India ink, the initials B. M.



CHAPTER XXI

THE THIRD TENNESSEE

Probably there was no one in either party who was so thoroughly bewildered by the incident which had just transpired as Captain Somers. The mystery of his companion's antecedents was in a fair way to be cleared up, though in a very unsatisfactory manner to those most intimately concerned. The conversation, and the verification of the rebel officer's statements, showed that De Banyan was not De Banyan; that the brave and brilliant Federal officer was not a Federal officer; that, of all he had been, only the "brave" and "brilliant" remained.

It was painfully evident that the bold and dashing captain was, or had been, a rebel officer. Somers was terribly shocked at the discovery, even while it was a satisfaction to have the mystery of his companion's previous life explained. For the time, he forgot the perils of his own situation in the interest he felt in the affairs of his friend. Perhaps De Banyan was a spy, who had been serving in the Union army for the purpose of conveying information to the enemy. He had been very glad of the opportunity to cross the river; and it seemed probable to our hero that he wished to return to his friends. It is true, the efficient services of the captain in the Army of the Potomac, his readiness at all times to fight the rebels, and especially his shooting down the enemy's pickets in the swamp, were not exactly consistent with such a record; but perhaps he had done these things to keep up appearances, and thus enable him the better to promote the objects of the rebellion.

He was anxious to hear the captain's explanation of these gross charges; but, of course, that was utterly impracticable at present. In the meantime, there was no room to doubt that the cavalry officer had all the truth on his side. He had hinted very strongly that De Banyan was a deserter; but he might have deserted for the purpose of performing the special duty which had been assigned to him. Officers and soldiers, sent out as spies, had often incurred the odium of such a reputation, in order to keep their own counsels, and serve their country the more faithfully.

If Captain de Banyan was a deserter in appearance only, he would, of course, soon be able to make his fidelity and patriotism apparent to the rebel authorities; and being a patriot, in the traitor use of the word, he could not do less than denounce his companion as a Federal spy. Whatever turn the affair might take, Somers felt that his own chances of escape were every moment becoming beautifully less. If De Banyan was a faithful rebel, there was proof positive that his companion was a spy; if not, he was in the company of a deserter, and would be subjected to all manner of suspicion.

De Banyan still held his head up, and did not lose his impudence, even after the letters had been found upon his arm. He did not appear to be at all confused by the discovery and the triumph of the cavalry officer's argument. He punched Somers in the side with his elbow; but the latter was unable to divine the significance of this movement.

"Well, Barney, I wish somebody else had caught you instead of me; for it is not pleasant to find an old friend under such circumstances."

"If you please, captain, I haven't the pleasure of knowing your name."

"Come, Barney, don't keep up this farce any longer."

"I was about to beg the favor, that you would not call me by that offensive name any longer."

"You seem to be changing your colors very rapidly," laughed the officer. "When I first saw you, you were a rough-spoken fellow; but now you use the language of a polished gentleman. Barney, you and I were good friends in the Third Tennessee; and, though I am sorry to meet you under these circumstances, we must both make the best of it."

"I tell you, captain, you are entirely mistaken in your man. I never was in Tennessee in my life."

"Good! You were always celebrated for monstrous stories; and they are fully in keeping with your past history. Well, since you refuse to recognize an old friend, of course I shall be excused for any unpleasant measures to which I may be compelled to resort."

"Anything you please, captain, so long as you refrain from calling me Barney, which in my estimation is a low and vulgar cognomen, that I am unwilling to have applied to me."

"Who is the man with you?" demanded the officer in more business-like tones.

"His name is Tom Leathers; he's a pilot on the James. We refer you to Captain Osborn for evidence of our character. We came here to do a job for him."

"All right, then. Captain Osborn lodges at the next house on this road, and we will let him speak for the other man. He can't speak for you; for I know you better than he does, or any other man who has not served in the Third Tennessee. As you were going this way, you can walk along with us."

"Thank you for the polite invitation, and this is a handsome escort for a man of my humble pretensions."

The captain of the company ordered his men to keep back, and Somers and De Banyan walked by the side of his horse, a few yards in advance of the platoons. He had evidently adopted this method to draw out his prisoners; for as such our officers were compelled to regard themselves.

"Marvel, you used to be a very sensible fellow when you were in the Third Tennessee," said the rebel captain. "I am surprised to see you adopting such a stupid method to conceal your identity."

"I had good reasons for it," replied De Banyan, casting his eyes behind him, as if to assure himself that none of the soldiers were within hearing.

"What reasons?" asked the officer curiously.

"I should think a man of your discretion would easily understand the reason, without any explanation. If I am to be tried for any offense, I don't want to be judged by a whole company of cavalry. You know I always took pride in my reputation."

"I used to think so; but, when we missed you one day, we got rid of that opinion in the Third Tennessee."

"Then you wronged me; for I have faithfully served my country from that day to this."

"I am glad to hear it, and I hope you will be able to prove what you have said. How came you here?"

"I came over from the other side of the river last night. You intimated that my departure from the Third was not all regular," added the captain.

"In a word, it was understood that you had deserted."

"That was a mistake."

"I am very glad to hear it; but you will remember that your loyalty to the Southern Confederacy was not above suspicion when you joined the regiment."

De Banyan punched Somers with his elbow at these words, as though he wished him to take particular notice of them; but his admiring friend needed no such admonition to induce him to give strict attention to the statement, for it was the most satisfactory remark he had heard during the interview. Captain de Banyan rose twenty-five per cent in his estimation at the utterance of those words, however injurious they were in the opinion of him who had spoken them. There was hope for the captain; and Somers trusted that he would be able fully to exonerate himself from the foul charge, when the occasion should permit such an exposition.

"My loyalty ought to be considered above suspicion, and those who know me best do so regard it," added De Banyan as he administered another mild punch on the ribs of his fellow-sufferer. "I was taken by the Yankees, in short; and, at the first convenient opportunity, I have come over to see you again."

"I hope it is all right, Barney; but I am afraid it is not."

"I shall be able to clear myself of every imputation of disloyalty, before the proper tribunal."

"How did you get over?"

"I have been following the fortunes of the Yankee army till last night; when I took a boat, and came over the river. On the way I met a pilot whose name was Andy, who turned me over to this man, who is also a pilot, and came down to take out a fire-ship."

"The one that was burned in the creek last night?"

"The same. I refer you to Captain Osborn for the truth of the last part of my statement; though the time was when you did not ask me to bring vouchers for what I said."

"For nothing, except your stories of the Crimea and the Italian war," replied the captain of cavalry with a significant smile. "I must do you the justice to say, that I never knew you to tell a falsehood on any matter connected with your social or business relations."

"Thank you for so much," replied De Banyan. "Now that I have made it all right, I suppose you needn't trouble yourself to attend to my affairs any further."

"No trouble at all, I assure you. Under the circumstances, I shall feel it my duty to deliver you into the hands of my superiors, and they can do as they please with you. But I sincerely hope that you will be able to vindicate your character from the stain which rests upon it."

"I don't think it needs any vindication."

"There is some difference of opinion between us on that point. Where are you going now?"

"To Richmond," replied De Banyan promptly; and perhaps he intended to go there with the Army of the Potomac, though its present prospects of reaching the rebel capital were not very favorable.

"This is not the way to Richmond. Your stories don't agree very well."

"I thought it was; or rather to Petersburg, and from there we expected to get a ride up in the cars."

"Oh, very well! I can procure you a pass to Richmond," added the rebel.

"And an escort to attend us, I suppose," replied De Banyan with a smile.

"A small one; but here is the house where Captain Osborn lodges. If he knows your friend here, and can vouch for his loyalty, all well; if not, we shall not part two such loving friends."

Captain Osborn had not risen when the company of cavalry reached his quarters; but he was called from his bed, and appeared in front of the house in the worst possible humor; for, being human, he did not like to have his slumbers disturbed by unseasonable calls. As Somers feared Captain Osborn denied all knowledge of the prisoners, except so far as related to his interview with them during the night. He had never seen either of them before; and he even took the trouble to add that he didn't believe the young fellow was a pilot, which was gratuitous and uncalled for on his part.

"Well, Marvel," added the cavalry officer rather coldly, "this business is settled very much as I supposed it would be. I shall have to send you up to Richmond, where, if your stories are all true, I doubt not you will be able to clear yourself."

"Thank you, captain. You are the same affectionate fellow you used to be when you were a lieutenant in the Third Tennessee," replied De Banyan with a sneer; for it was evident that he was not at all pleased with the result of the affair.

Four soldiers were detailed from the company to conduct the prisoners to a certain camp near the railroad at City Point, and there deliver them over to the keeping of an officer whose name was mentioned.

"Good-morning, captain," said De Banyan with forced gayety.

"Good-morning, Marvel, and success to you."

"Thank you."

"By the way, Barney, if there is anything I can do for you, don't fail to call upon me; that is, anything consistent with the duty of a faithful officer."

"Such a remark was entirely uncalled for," said De Banyan with dignity. "Do you think I would ask an officer to sacrifice his conscience?"

"Excuse me, Barney. I meant no offense," added the rebel captain, touched by the proud and dignified manner of his former friend.

"Your words and your conduct are in keeping with each other."

"Really, Barney, I meant nothing by the remark."

"Then it was the more unmanly to make it."

"I am still your friend. In proof of it, permit me to do you a favor," pleaded the rebel, much concerned at the wound he had inflicted on the sensitive nature of his late associate in the Third Tennessee.

"I ask no favors," answered De Banyan proudly.

"You are too hard upon me. Upon my word, I meant no offense. As a proof of my friendship, I will take your parole of honor not to escape, and you shall report at Richmond at your own pleasure. If you have any interest in this young man, I will allow him the same favor."

"After what has happened, I cannot accept a favor at your hands. I can't see how an officer who doubts my word should be willing to take my parole."

"As you please, Marvel," added the captain petulantly. "I can do no more for you."

Somers was greatly relieved when the rebel officer rode off, followed by his company. He had trembled with anxiety, when the parole was offered to De Banyan, lest he should accept it, and thus compel him to do the same. Although he could not see how it was to be brought about, he intended to escape from the hands of his captors at the first convenient opportunity, with or without De Banyan, as the case should demand.

One of the four troopers detailed to guard the prisoners was a sergeant, who intimated to them that they might take up the line of march for the camp where they were bound. To preclude the possibility of an escape, he ordered two of his men to ride ahead of the captives, while himself and the other followed in the rear. The little procession moved off; and there was never a sadder-hearted young man than Somers, who, were his true character discovered, was liable to the pains and penalties of being a spy.

"Sergeant, have you been to breakfast?" demanded De Banyan, after they had walked a couple of miles, and were passing a farm-house.

"No, sir."

"I smell fried bacon, and am willing to pay for breakfast for the whole party. What do you say?"

"There is nothing in my orders to prevent me from taking up your offer; and I will do it, if you will agree not to run away while we are at the house," replied the prudent soldier.

"How shall we run away, with four men watching us?" demanded De Banyan.

The sergeant seemed to be satisfied with this argument; and they entered the house, where breakfast was soon in preparation for them.



CHAPTER XXII

THE REBEL FARM-HOUSE

Somers, besides the chagrin caused by his capture, was greatly disturbed by the astounding discoveries he had made in regard to Captain de Banyan. He was extremely anxious to obtain an opportunity to converse with him in relation to his disgraceful antecedents; but the presence of the rebel soldiers prevented him from saying a word. Yet his looks must have betrayed the distrust he felt in his companion; for De Banyan seemed to study his face more than the faces of their captors.

By this time, the six trusty soldiers who had been selected to participate in the enterprise must have given them up, and returned to the camp with the sad story of their capture. It was mortifying to Somers to have such a report carried to the general of the division; for it seemed to be an imputation upon his skill and tact; but he found some consolation in believing that he should not have been taken if it had not been for his unfortunate connection with Captain de Banyan, who was rash beyond measure in venturing within the rebel lines, unless he really meant to return to the Third Tennessee.

Whatever the captain was, and whatever he intended to do, Somers could not believe that his late friend had deliberately betrayed him into the hands of the enemy. It might be so; or it might be that to save himself from the consequences of his alleged desertion, he would claim to have been always a faithful adherent of the Southern Confederacy. Somers was perplexed beyond description by the perils and uncertainties of his situation. He had, in fact, lost confidence in his companion; and the result was, that he resolved to make his escape, if he could, from the hands of the rebels without him. Under other circumstances, he would have deemed it infamous to harbor, for an instant, the thought of deserting a friend in the hour of extremity; and nothing but the remembrance of the Third Tennessee could have induced him to adopt such a resolution. Having adopted it, he kept his eyes wide open for any opportunity which would favor his purpose. His curiosity, excited to the highest pitch to know what the captain could say in defense of the heinous charge which had been fastened upon him by the rebel cavalry officer, and which he himself had substantiated, rendered the intention to part company with him very disagreeable; but the terror of a rebel prison, and perhaps a worse fate, were potent arguments in its favor.

In the course of half an hour, the breakfast was ready, and the party sat down with a hearty relish to discuss it. The fried bacon and biscuit were luxuries to Somers, and he partook of them with a keener satisfaction than he did of the costly viands of the "Continental" and the "National;" but, deeply as he was interested in this pleasant employment, he hardly ceased for a moment to think of the grand project of making his escape. For the time, this had become the great business of existence, and he banished from his mind all minor questions.

Opportunity is seldom wanting to those who are resolutely determined to do great deeds. Only the slow-molded and irresolute want a time and a place. The breakfast was finished, and the troopers and their prisoners were on excellent terms with each other long before the conclusion of the repast. Eating and drinking promote the social feeling; and Captain de Banyan was as brilliant as he had ever been in the camps of the Chickahominy. He made the rebels laugh, and excited their wonder by the most improbable stories in which even he had ever indulged. It would have been impossible to distinguish between the captives and the captors; for the latter were extremely considerate, as they had probably been instructed to be by the captain of the company.

When the meal was finished, the troopers rose, and proposed to resume the journey. De Banyan paid the bill in gold; for there was still a small portion of the precious metal in the army.

"Now we are ready," said the sergeant; "and we will get our horses. It's a pity we haven't horses for you; but, when you get tired, we will give you the use of the saddles for a time."

"Thank you, my friend. That's handsome. You remind me of a Russian major-general, who insisted that I should ride his animal while he walked by my side, after I was taken prisoner in the battle of Austerlitz."

"He was a good fellow," replied the sergeant, who probably did not remember the precise date of the celebrated battle quoted by the versatile captain. "We shall not be behind him; and, if you like, you shall have the first ride on my horse."

"Thank you; but I couldn't think of depriving you of your horse, even for a moment."

"Well, we will settle all that by and by. Come with me now, if you please," said the sergeant, as he led the way out of the house.

As very little attention seemed to be paid to Somers—for the rebels evidently did not regard him as either a slippery or a dangerous person—he was permitted to bring up the rear. Now, it is always mortifying to be held in slight esteem, especially to a sensitive mind like that of our hero; and he resented the slight by declining to follow the party. Near the outside door, as they passed out, he discovered another door, which was ajar, and which led up-stairs. Without any waste of valuable time, he slyly stepped through the doorway, and ascended the stairs. The rebels were so busy in listening to the great stories of Captain de Banyan, that they did not immediately discover the absence of the unpretending young man.

When our resolute adventurer saw the stairs through the partially open door, they suggested to him a method of operations. It is true, he did not have time to elaborate the plan, and fully determine what he should do when he went up-stairs; but the general idea, that he could drop out of a window and escape in the rear of the house, struck him forcibly, and he impulsively embraced the opportunity thus presented. The building was an ordinary Virginia farm-house, rudely constructed, and very imperfectly finished. On ascending the stairs, Somers reached a large, unfinished apartment, which was used as a store-room. From it opened, at each end of the house, a large chamber.

No place of concealment, which was apparently suitable for his purpose, presented itself; and, without loss of time, he mounted a grain chest, and ascended to the loft over one of the rooms; for the beams were not floored in the middle of the building. The aspect of this place was not at all hopeful; for there were none of those convenient "cubby holes," which most houses contain, wherein he could bestow his body with any hope of escaping even a cursory search for him.

In the gable end, on one side of the chimney, which, our readers are aware, is generally built on the outside of the structure, in Virginia, was a small window, one-half of which, in the decay of the glass panes, had been boarded up to exclude the wind and the rain. The job had evidently been performed by a bungling hand, and had never been more than half done. The wood was as rotten as punk; and without difficulty, and without much noise, the fugitive succeeded in removing the board which had covered the lower part of the window.

By this time the absence of the prisoner had been discovered, and the rebels were in a state of high excitement on account of it; but Somers was pleased to find they had not rightly conjectured the theory of his escape. He could hear them swear, and hear them considering the direction in which he had gone. Two of them stood under the window, to which Somers had restored the board he had removed; and he could distinctly hear all that they said.

"Of course he did," said one of them. "He slipped round the corner of the house when we came out."

"If he did, where is he? It's open ground round here; and he couldn't have gone ten rods before we missed him."

"The captain will give it to me," replied the other, whose voice the fugitive recognized to be that of the sergeant.

"We shall find him," added the other. "He can't be twenty rods from here now."

"I did not think of the young fellow running off, but kept both eyes on the other all the time; for I thought he wasn't telling all those stories for nothing."

"Maybe he is in the house," suggested the other.

Somers thought that was a very bad suggestion of the rebel soldier; and, if there had been any hope of their believing him, he would himself have informed them that he was not in the house, and reconciled his conscience as best he could to the falsehood.

"Can't yer find 'em?" demanded a third person, which Somers saw, through the aperture he had left between the board and the window, was the farmer.

"We haven't lost but one."

"He can't be fur from this yere."

"Isn't he in the house?" demanded the sergeant anxiously.

"No; I saw them both foller yer out."

"So did I," added the farmer's wife, who had come out to learn the cause of the excitement.

"Well, then, we must beat about here, and find him;" and the party beneath the window moved away in the rear of the house.

Thus far, the project was hopeful; but it was apparent to Somers that the rebels would not leave the place without searching the house, after they had satisfied themselves that the fugitive was not hidden in any of the out-buildings of the farm. If they did so, his situation would at once become hopeless, if he remained where he was. The remembrance of his former experience in a chimney, in another part of Virginia, caused him to cast a wistful eye at the great stone structure which adorned the end of the building. At that time, he had occupied his smoky quarters with the knowledge and consent of the lady of the house. But now his secret was lodged in his own breast alone; not even Captain de Banyan knew where he was, or what he proposed to do.

When the party beneath the window left the place, he carefully removed the board, and thrust out his head to reconnoiter the position. The only way by which he could enter the chimney, which his former experience and prejudice assured him was the only safe place in the vicinity, was by the top. To achieve such a result was a difficult piece of gymnastics, even if it could have been performed without reference to any spectators; but to accomplish it without being seen by any of the party below was as near an impossibility as any impracticable thing could be.

The rebels, both civil and military, were now out of sight; but he doubted not from his eyrie on the ridge-pole of the house, if he could reach it, they could all be seen. Somers was as prudent as he was bold, and he decided not to run any risks until necessity should absolutely compel such a course. Quietly ensconcing himself beneath the window, where he could hear what transpired below, he waited the issue; but he had studied out the precise steps which it would be necessary for him to take in order to reach the roof of the house. He knew exactly where his right and his left foot were to be successfully planted to achieve his purpose, when it could no longer be postponed. But he indulged a faint hope that the rebels would widen the area of their search, and finally abandon it when it should be unsuccessful.

A long quarter of an hour elapsed—long enough to be an hour's time as its ordinary flow is measured; so burdened with intense anxiety was each second that made up its sum total. The rebels, assisted by the farmer and his wife, who were now hardly less zealous than the soldiers, had examined every hole and corner in the vicinity of the house, without finding the escaped prisoner.

"I tell you, he must be in the house," said the sergeant, as the party paused under the window on their return to the front of the house.

"Of course, ye kin look in the house if yer like; but I see 'em both go out of the door with yer," persisted the farmer.

"We will search the house," added the sergeant resolutely.

"Yer kin, if yer like; but I hope yer won't lose the other feller while ye're looking for this one."

"I told Gordon to shoot him if he attempted to get away; and I can trust Gordon."

They passed out of hearing, and Somers felt that his time had come. But, as we have several times before had occasion to remark, strategy is successful in one only by the blunders and inertness of the other; and he cherished with increased enthusiasm his project of hiding in the chimney. Neither the farmer nor the soldiers were trained detectives, and the blunder they made which rendered Somers's strategy more available was in hunting in crowds instead of singly. They all entered the house together; and even Gordon, in charge of the other prisoner, conducted him to the interior, that he might have the pleasure of seeing the fugitive unearthed.

Taking down the board, Somers emerged from the little window, and, by the steps which he had before marked out, ascended to the roof; a difficult feat, which would have been impossible to one whose father was not the master of a vessel, and who had not explored a ship from the step to the truck of the mainmast. It was done, safely done, and without much noise, which would have been as fatal as a fall. As he sprang from the window still to a projecting stone in the chimney, he heard the steps of the whole party on the stairs below. He was not an instant too soon in the execution of his project; and, when he reached the ridge-pole of the house, he paused to recover the breath which he had lost by excitement and exertion.

The pursuers occupied some time in examining the store-room and the adjoining chambers, and he had a sufficient interval for rest before he renewed his labors. But in a few moments he heard the noise caused by the party ascending to the loft over the room beneath him, and the movement could no longer be delayed.

"I tell yer, sergeant, the feller isn't in here!" protested the farmer violently, and in a tone loud enough for Somers to hear him on the roof. "Be keerful there, or you'll break down the plastering."

Somers could not hear what the sergeant said in reply; but the farmer was so earnest in his protest against any further search of his house, that the fugitive was almost willing to believe that the protester knew he was in the house, was his friend, and meant to save him from the hands of his enemies. But this supposition was too absurd to be tolerated, for the farmer could have no possible interest in his welfare.

While watching, he had taken off his shoes, and thrust one into each side-pocket of the old blouse he wore, partly to save noise, and partly to prevent his feet from slipping on the smooth stones of the chimney. Thus prepared, he climbed to the top, and commenced the descent of the smoky avenue. He found the opening much smaller than that of his previous experience in chimneys; and, after he had descended a few feet, the place became inconveniently dark. He could no longer hear the steps or the voices of his pursuers; and he had begun to congratulate himself on the ultimate success of his stratagem, when his foot struck upon something which moved out of his way. It was an animal—perhaps a cat. He moved on.

"Quit! Lemme alone!" said a snarling voice beneath him.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE MAN IN THE CHIMNEY

"Lemme alone!" repeated the voice in the chimney several times before Somers could make up his mind as to the precise nature of the adventure upon which he had stumbled.

There was another man in the chimney; and this was the full extent of his knowledge in regard to the being who had stepped into his darkened path. A succession of exciting questions presented themselves to his mind, all of which were intimately connected with the individual with whom, for the moment, his lot seemed to be cast. Was he friend, or foe? Yankee, rebel, or neutral? What was he in the chimney for? What business had he there?

Somers had some knowledge of a useful and otherwise rightly respectable class of persons, known as chimney-sweeps, who pursue their dark trade up and down such places as that in which he was now burrowing; but the sweeps were a civilized institution, and he could hardly expect to find them in this benighted section of the Ancient Dominion. He did not, therefore, waste a moment in the consideration of the question, whether the man beneath him was a chimney-sweep or not; for the supposition was too improbable even for the pages of a sensational novel.

The individual was in the chimney; and there seemed to be the boundary of knowledge on the subject. If he was not crazy, he was there for concealment; and, thus far the two occupants of the chimney were in sympathy with each other. Why should the man wish to conceal himself? Was he a hated Yankee like himself, pursued and hunted down by the myrmidons of Jeff Davis? Certainly, if he was a rebel, he had no business in the chimney. It was no place for rebels; they had no occasion to be there.

Of course, then, the man must be a Yankee, a fellow-sufferer with Somers himself, and therein entitled to the utmost consideration from him. But, if a Yankee, what Yankee? The species did not abound on this side of the river; and he could not imagine who it was, unless it were one of his own party. Just then, induced by this train of reflection, came a tremendous suggestion, which seemed more probable than anything he had before thought of. Was it possible that the other denizen of the sooty flue could be Captain de Banyan?

His fellow-prisoner had been taken into the house by his custodian; and, while the guard was looking the other way, perhaps he had suddenly popped up the chimney, leaving the rebel soldier in charge of him to believe that he was in league with the powers of darkness, and had been spirited away by some diabolical imp.

In the range of improbable theories which the fertile mind of Somers suggested to account for the phenomenon of the chimney, this seemed more reasonable than any of the others. The personage below him very considerately dropped down a step or two, to enable our theorist to discuss the question to his own satisfaction; albeit it did not take him a tithe of the time to do his thinking which it has taken his biographer to record it.

"Captain?" said he in a gentle whisper, as insinuating as the breath of a summer evening to a love-sick girl.

"I ain't a captain; I'm nothing but a private!" growled the other, who seemed to be in very ill-humor.

Nothing but a private! It was not the captain then, after all. He had hoped, and almost believed, it was. He had told his friend all about his experience in a chimney; and it seemed to him quite probable that the valiant hero of Magenta and Solferino had remembered the affair, and attempted to try his own luck in a similar manner. It was not the voice of the captain, nor were there any of his peculiarities of tone or manner. If the other character had only said Balaclava, Alma, or Palestro, it would have been entirely satisfactory in any tone or in any manner.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Somers in the same low voice, with commendable desire to obtain further knowledge of the dark subject beneath him.

"I don't want nothin' of you; so yer kin let me alone. If yer don't let me alone, I'll be dog derned if I don't ketch hold of yer legs, and pull yer down chimley."

"Hush!" said Somers in warning tones. "They will hear you, if you speak so loud."

The man was a rebel, or at least a Southerner; and it passed our hero's comprehension to determine what he was doing in such a place.

"Hush yerself!" snarled the disconcerted rebel. "What yer want o' me? I ain't done nothin' to you."

"I don't want anything of you; but, if you don't keep still, I'll drop a stone on your head," replied Somers, irritated by the fellow's stupidity.

"Will yer?"

"Not if you keep still. Don't you see we are in the same box? I don't want to be caught, any more than you do."

"Who be yer?" asked the man, a little mollified by this conciliatory remark.

"Never mind who I am now. The soldiers are in the house looking for us; and, if you make a noise, they will hear you."

"What regiment do yer belong ter?" said the lower occupant of the chimney in a whisper.

"Forty-first," replied Somers at a venture, willing to obtain the advantage of the fellow's silence.

"Did yer run away?"

"No. Did you?"

"What yer in here fur, if yer didn't run away, then?" asked the deserter from the rebel army, which it was now sufficiently evident was his character.

"Keep still!" replied Somers, regretting that he had not given a different answer.

"I know yer!" exclaimed the rebel, making a movement farther down the chimney, thereby detaching sundry pieces of stone and mortar, which thundered down upon the hearth below with a din louder, as it seemed to Somers in his nervousness, than all the batteries of the Army of the Potomac. "Yer come to ketch me in a trap. Scotch me if I don't blow yer up so high 'twill take yer six months ter come down ag'in!"

"Keep still!" pleaded Somers, in despair at the unreasonableness of the rebel. "The soldiers are after me; and, if they catch me, they will catch you. 1 don't want to hurt you. If you will only keep still, I will help you out of the scrape."

"You go to Babylon! Yer can't fool me! What yer doin' in the chimley?"

If Somers could quietly have put a bullet through the fellow's head, and thus have punished him for the crime of desertion, he might have promoted his own cause; but the bullet would not do its work without powder, and powder was noisy; and therefore the remedy was as bad as the disorder, to say nothing of assuming to himself the duty of a rebel provost-marshal.

"Yer can't fool me!" repeated the fellow, after Somers had tried for a moment the effect of silence upon him.

It was unnecessary to fool such an idiot; for Nature had effectually done the job without human intervention. It was useless to waste words upon him; and Somers crept cautiously up out of his reach, and out of his hearing, unless he yelled out his insane speeches. Every moment he stopped to listen for sounds within the house; but he could hear none, either because the pursuers had abandoned the search, or because the double thickness of wood and stone shut out the noise.

The rebel deserter, for a wonder, kept quiet when Somers retreated from him, evidently believing that actions spoke louder than words. From his lower position in the flue, he could look up into the light, and observe the movements of him whom he regarded as an enemy. He seemed to have discretion enough to keep still, so long as no direct attack was made upon him; and to be content to wait for a direct assault before he attempted to repel it; which was certainly more than Somers expected of him, after what had transpired.

Carefully and noiselessly our fugitive made his way to the top of the chimney for the purpose of ascertaining the position of the pursuers, as well as to remove all ground of controversy with the intractable deserter. On reaching the top, he heard the voice of the sergeant at the window, who had probably just reached this point in his investigations.

"How came this board knocked off?" demanded the sergeant, who had perhaps observed some other indications of the advance of the fugitive in this direction.

"The wind blowed it off t'other day," promptly replied the farmer. "Yer don't s'pose the feller went out that winder, do yer?"

"No; but I think he has been up here somewhere."

"Well, I hope yer'll find him; but I've showed yer into every hole and corner in the house; and I tell yer he's five mile from this yere 'fore now."

The sergeant looked out of the window, looked up to the top of the chimney, and looked up to the ridge-pole of the house. He was no sailor himself; and, if the thought had occurred to him that the Yankee had passed from this window to the roof of the house, he would have been willing to take his Bible oath that not a man in the Southern Confederacy could have accomplished such an impossible feat. He could not do it himself, and consequently he believed that no other man could. After examining the situation to his entire satisfaction, he retired from the window, and with a great many impolite and wicked oaths, aimed at Yankees in general, and deserters in particular, he descended from the loft, and abandoned the search.

Somers was happy, and even forgave the deserter in the lower part of the chimney for his stupidity. He waited patiently for the troopers to depart—very patiently, now that the burden of the peril seemed to be over; for he had heard the conclusions of the sergeant at the window. From his present perch near the top of the chimney, he could hear some of the conversation in front of the house; and he even ventured to take a look at his enemies below. To his intense satisfaction, he saw them mount their horses: and he was not much disturbed by the unamiable reflections which they cast upon him.

Captain de Banyan was with them; thus proving in the most conclusive manner that the gentleman in the chimney was not this distinguished individual. Having lost one prisoner, they were particularly cautious in regard to the disposition of the other. The captain marched off in gloomy dignity, with two cavalrymen before and two behind him. Somers caught a glance at his face as he turned the corner into the road. It was sad beyond anything which he had ever observed in his countenance before, and a momentary twinge of conscience upbraided him for deserting a comrade in such an hour; he might have waited till both of them could escape together. But the captain's record in the Third Tennessee assured him that he had only done his duty; though he hoped his brilliant friend would be able, if an opportunity was ever presented, to remove the stain which now rested on his name and fame.

With a feeling of intense relief, however much he commiserated the misfortunes of his comrade, Somers saw the little procession move up the road which led to Richmond and a rebel dungeon. They disappeared; and while he was considering in what manner he should make his way down to the creek, where he hoped to find a boat in which to leave this treacherous soil, he heard a voice beneath him, and farther down than the locality of the deserter.

"Yer kin come down now, Tom," said the farmer.

Though the name was his own, the invitation was evidently not intended for him; and he remained quietly on his perch, waiting for further developments.

"Hev they all gone, dad?" asked the deserter.

"Yes; all gone. Yer kin come down now."

The renegade, then, was the son of the farmer; which accounted for the unwillingness of the latter to have the house searched by the soldiers; and, though Somers had a general contempt for deserters, he felt his indebtedness to this interesting family for the service they had unwittingly endeavored to render him.

Tom—Somers wanted to have his name changed then—Tom descended from his position in the chimney. It was an easy matter; for the kitchen was at the other end of the house, and there had been no fire on this hearth for many a month.

"Dad," said this graceless son of a graceless sire.

"Go and wash yer face, Tom. Ye're blacker than Black Jack."

"Dad, there's another man up the chimley. We come near havin' a fight up there. I told him what I would do; and he got skeered, and went up top."

"What d'yer mean, Tom?" demanded the patriarch.

Tom stated again, more explicitly than before, the subject matter of his startling communication.

"I reckon he's a Yank, dad; he talks like one, but says he b'longs to the Forty-fust Virginny. I know he's a Yank. I kin smell one a mile off."

Somers was flattered; but he was not angry at the compliment, and calmly waited for an invitation to join the family below.

"He's the feller that gin the soldiers the slip," added the father. "The sergeant says he's a Yank; but t'other prisoner says he's a James River pilot."

"I know he's a Yank. He'd 'a' killed me if I hadn't skeered him off."

"I reckon he skeered you more'n you skeered him," added the head of the family, who appeared not to have a very high opinion of his son's courage. "We'll smoke him out, Tom. Go'n git some pitch-wood and sich truck."

Somers had a very strong objection to being smoked out, and he commenced a forward and downward movement in the direction of the assailing party. Fearing that some unworthy advantage might be taken of his lower extremities before he could assume an attitude of defense, he drew his pistol, and placed himself a few feet above the fire-place. Tom returned with the fuel, and the old man ordered him to make a fire.

"One moment, if you please," said Somers. "I'll shoot the first man of you that attempts to make a fire there."

With an exclamation of terror, Tom retreated from the hearth; and Somers, improving the opportunity, leaped down from his perch. Stepping out from the great fire-place, he stood in the presence of the hopeful son and sire.



CHAPTER XXIV

A BROKEN BARGAIN

Somers was entirely satisfied with himself when he stood in the presence of the farmer and his son; and, so far as they were concerned, he had no fears for the future. The redoubtable Tom retired to one corner of the room, and, full of terror, awaited the issue. The father was the braver of the two, and stood in the middle of the floor, confronting the pestilent Yankee who had thus so unceremoniously invaded his house.

"Who be you?" demanded the old man.

"No matter who I am," replied Somers, with the pistol still in his hand. "I propose to spend the day with you, and will pay for everything I have."

"Perhaps yer will stay here, and perhaps yer won't," replied the farmer doggedly.

"There's no perhaps about it; I intend to stay here."

"I s'pose yer don't keer whether I'm willing or not."

"On the contrary, I do care. I had much rather stay with your consent than without."

"Well, then, yer won't stay with my consent."

"Then I shall stay without it," answered Somers, with a degree of decision which was exceedingly annoying to his involuntary host.

"No, yer won't," growled the farmer.

"I will pay you well for the use of this room, and for all that I eat and drink," said Somers, wishing to be fully understood.

"Yer can't stay here."

"No, yer can't," added Tom.

"I have made you a fair offer, and am willing to do what is right; and, as I said before, I intend to stay here till to-night, whether you are willing or not."

"Yer kin put up your pistol; I ain't afeerd on it."

"I have no desire to use the pistol to your injury, and shall not do so unless in self-defense. You know that I am a fugitive."

"A nigger, by gracious!" exclaimed the farmer, whose vocabulary was very limited, and who had no idea that the word "fugitive" could mean anything but a runaway negro.

"You know that the soldiers are after me, and it will not be safe for me to leave this house before dark. I'm not a nigger; and it makes no difference to you what I am."

"You are a dirty Yankee; and I'd rather hev a hundred niggers in my house than one Yankee."

"That's a matter of taste. If you are fond of negroes, I don't interfere with you for that."

"Shet up!" snarled the farmer, highly displeased with the answer of the fugitive. "I won't hev a Yankee in my house a single hour."

"Very well; we won't argue the matter. You can do anything you please about it," replied Somers with perfect indifference as he seated himself in a chair.

"Then yer kin leave."

"I shall not leave; on the contrary, I shall remain here till night."

"I reckon we'll see about that. I'll jest go down and call up two or three of them soldiers, and let 'em know you're a Yankee. I calkilate they'll tote you out of this rather sudden."

"Go ahead!" replied Somers coolly.

"I reckon ye'll tell another story by the time they git here."

"I reckon your son Tom will too," added the unwelcome guest.

"See here, dad; that won't work, nohow," interposed the hopeful son. "They'll ketch me if yer do."

"Exactly so," added Somers, who, of course, had depended upon the situation of the rebel deserter for his own safety.

The farmer looked at his intractable guest, and then upon his dutiful son; and the idea tardily passed through his dull brain that the soldiers would be just as dangerous to the welfare of the son as to the visitor. Probably he had intended, when the military force came, to send Tom up the chimney, as he had done a dozen times before; but the secret was no longer in the keeping of the family alone.

"I see you understand the case perfectly," said Somers, as he contemplated with intense satisfaction the blank dismay of both father and son. "If you had the wisdom of Solomon, you couldn't comprehend it any better."

"I reckon ye're about right, stranger," replied the farmer.

"You can see now it is for your interest as well as mine that we make friends. Tom's safety and mine are both the same thing. The best you can do is to take good care of me to-day, and at night help me to make my way over to the other side of the river."

"Then yer be a Yank?"

"I didn't say so. Tom can go with me if he likes. He will be safer there than here."

"Tom?"

"If he is a deserter from the rebel army, he will be caught sooner or later, and be shot. He will be safe on the other side of the river."

"Go over to the Yanks! He hates 'em wurs'n pizin. Don't yer, Tom?"

"Bet yer life I do, dad," replied the hopeful son. "I won't go over thar, nohow."

"Just as he pleases about that. I only wanted to do him a friendly act."

"Well, stranger, I don't mind keepin' yer to-day; but Tom can't go with yer."

"Very well; then I will stay in this room; and, if the soldiers come, I can go up the chimney with Tom," replied Somers. "I'm tired and sleepy. Didn't sleep a wink last night. I will take a nap on the floor. You will wake me, Tom, if there's any danger; won't you?"

"Yes, I'll wake yer," replied the deserter with a broad grin.

"We'll see that you don't git caught; kase, if yer do, of course, Tom'll git caught too," added the farmer.

There was something in his manner which Somers did not like. Though he was a man of dull mind, there was a kind of low cunning visible in his look and manner which warned Somers to be cautious. He stretched himself on the floor; and the farmer and his son left the room, closing the door behind them.

Our scout was, as he had before declared, both tired and sleepy; but rest and sleep were luxuries in which he could not permit himself to indulge in the midst of so much peril and so many enemies. As soon as the door closed behind the sire and the son, he rose from his reclining posture, and hastened to reconnoiter the position. The enemy—for such he was fully assured his host was—passed through the entry and out the door at the back of the house, as Somers discovered from the noise of their retreating footsteps.

There was a window in the rear of the room, which commanded a full view of them as they paused near the door to consider the situation. Somers raised the sash a little, so that he could hear what they said, not doubting that his own case would be the subject of the conversation.

"Don't you do it, dad," protested Tom in answer to some proposition which the farmer had made before the listener came within hearing distance of them.

"Don't yer be skeert, Tom. The feller's gone ter sleep in there, and the soldiers kin hurry him off afore he wakes up. Don't yer see, Tom? I reckon the Yank's an officer, and they'll give me suthin handsome fur ketchin him."

"Yes; but, dad, they'll get suthin handsome fur ketchin me too."

"You kin hide, as yer allers does when they comes."

"But the Yank will blow on me."

"What if he does?"

"He'll tell 'em I'm up chimley, and then they'll look fur me."

"Tom, ye're a bigger fool'n yer father!" said the farmer petulantly. "Can't yer hide in t'other place down suller?"

"It looks kinder skeery, dad," replied the doubtful son.

"Yer used ter hide down suller more'n yer did up chimley. But don't yer see, Tom, arter I've called in the soldiers, and give up the Yank, they'll think I'm a patriot, and won't b'leeve nothin' a dirty Yank can say agin' me."

"Well, dad, I hate the Yank as bad as you do; but yer must be keerful."

"Now go and see that the feller don't wake up and run off, and I'll go down arter a sergeant and half a dozen men. When yer hear us comin', just step down suller'n crawl inter the drean. Git the feller's pistol out of his pocket, if yer kin, while he's asleep."

"What a precious old scoundrel that man is!" thought Somers, as he retreated from the window, and threw himself on the floor where the farmer had left him.

He almost regretted that he had not used his pistol on the treacherous old villain, who had made a fair bargain with him, and agreed to the terms of the contract. The wretch had actually gone after the soldiers to entrap him, and Tom was to remain and keep watch of him in the meantime. Taking the revolver from his pocket, he thrust it under his blouse; still keeping his hand upon it, so as to make sure that the deserter did not carry out his part of the programme. Thus prepared for the conflict which might ensue, or for any other event, he closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.

Presently the door softly opened, and Tom crept into the room. He had taken off his shoes, that his step on the uncarpeted floor might not disturb his prey, and stole towards him. After approaching as near to the prostrate form as he dared, he bent over him to determine in which pocket the pistol had been placed. Somers was tempted to grapple him by the throat, as he listened to the young villain's subdued breathing; but he feared that he would scream if he did so, and it was necessary to achieve his conquest in a more gentle manner.

He moved his body a little, as if his slumbers were disturbed by unpleasant dreams; and added a noise like a snore to complete the delusion. Tom retired for a moment till his victim should again be composed; but Somers, instead of subsiding into the slumber of a sleepy and tired man, gradually opened his eyes and waked up. Slowly rising into a sitting posture, he looked around him; and apparently, as if entirely by accident, he discerned Tom.

"Can't yer sleep?" asked Tom, with extraordinary good nature for a person of his saturnine disposition.

"I've been asleep these two hours, I believe," gaped Somers. "What time is it, Tom?"

"'Tain't eight o'clock yet. Yer hain't been asleep more'n fifteen minutes."

"Haven't I?"

"Not more'n that. Better lay down, and finish yer nap; kase I s'pose yer won't git much sleep to-night, if ye're gwine over the river."

"I feel better than I did, at any rate. I think I'll get up. It's tremendous hot here. Don't you ever open your windows?"

"I reckon we do. I was just thinkin' o' that."

And it was quite probable he was thinking of it; for he certainly wanted the earliest information of the approach of the soldiers. He opened the window in the front of the house, and Somers opened that in the rear. The latter then went to the door, and took a careful survey of the entry, in order to determine the way which the deserter must take to reach the cellar, where he was to conceal himself when the soldiers came. The prudent son of the master of the house had opened the door leading to the cellar, from which he was to enter his subterranean retreat.

For more than an hour, Tom nervously watched the wakeful Yankee, and several times suggested to him that he could sleep just as well as not, promising to wake him up if there was any danger; but Somers was most provokingly lively for a man who had been up all the preceding night, and resolutely refused to take a hint or to adopt a suggestion. Both of them were fearfully anxious for the result that was pending, and each had his plan for overreaching the other. It was a long hour; but at last Tom broke the spell which seemed to rest on both of them by declaring that he was "clean choked up," and must go and get a drink of water. At the same moment, Somers heard the tramp of the soldiers in the road as they approached the house, and understood why his companion had suddenly become so thirsty.

"No," said Somers, placing himself between the deserter and the door, with the revolver in his hand. "I don't want to be left alone. Somebody is coming to the house—half a dozen men. They are soldiers!" he exclaimed, glancing out at the window.

"Run right up chimley thar, and you'll be as safe as if you was t'other side of the river."

"But they'll catch you too! Come, Tom, up chimney with you, and I'll follow. If any one attempts to follow us, I'll shoot him with my pistol. Be in a hurry, Tom! We have no time to spare," urged Somers, driving the coward before him towards the fire-place.

"You go up fust," pleaded Tom, in mortal terror of the revolver.

"Up with you, or I'll blow your brains out!" added Somers in a low, fierce tone, which frightened his companion half out of his wits.

"Don't fire, and I will," replied the wretch, as he stepped into the fire-place, and commenced the ascent of the chimney.

"Up with you!" repeated Somers. "Now, if you attempt to come down, I'll shoot you."

The voice of the farmer, leading the soldiers to their prey, was now heard close to the house; and Somers deemed it prudent no longer to remain in the room. Darting out into the entry, he made his way to the cellar, closing the door behind him just as the rebels were about to enter.

"Where is he?" demanded the sergeant, who belonged to the battery at the works near the house.

"In this room," replied the farmer, putting his hand on the door of the apartment where he had seen the victim lie down to sleep an hour before. "But yer must be keerful with him. He had a pistol, and mebbe he mought shoot some on us."

"We aren't afraid of all the Yankees this side of the north pole," added the sergeant, as he pushed the door open and entered the room, followed by his squad of soldiers. "Where is he? There aren't no Yankee here."

"Well, he was here an hour ago," said the farmer.

"See here, old man, if you've been makin' a fool of us this hot day, I'll spit you on my bayonet. We heard that a deserter and a Yankee had been taken, and that the cavalry lost one of them."

"That was the Yankee. They lost him, and I found him ag'in."

"Where is he, then?"

"He aren't far from here," said the farmer, walking up to the fire-place, and pointing up the chimney, where he had no doubt the victim had retired when he heard the soldiers approaching.

"Up there?"

"That's where the feller hid when the troopers was lookin' fur him; and yer kin be sure he's up there now. But yer must be keerful; fur he's got a pistol, and is a mighty savage fellow."

"We'll soon bring him down," added the sergeant as he stepped into the fire-place, and looked up the chimney. "I see him; but he's half way up to the top. I reckon we can smoke him out best. Come, old man, take some of this pitch-wood, that will make a big smoke, and kindle a fire."

"We'll soon have him," said the farmer as he obeyed the order.

"I say, Yank!" shouted the sergeant up the chimney; "if you don't want to be smoked out, come down."

No answer came to this polite suggestion; and then one of the soldiers proposed to fire his musket up the chimney; which so terrified the occupant thereof, that he begged for mercy.

"Don't shoot, and I'll come down!" groaned the wretch.

"The cowardly Yank! He's like all the rest of them. Come down quick, then!"

The farmer, who had stepped out for more wood, returned; and at the same moment, Tom the deserter, begrimed with soot, dropped down on the hearth, and stepped out into the room.



CHAPTER XXV

SOMERS IS COMPELLED TO BACK OUT

Very likely the Virginia farmer had some idea of retributive justice when he saw his hopeful son step out of the fire-place into the very jaws of ruin. To say that he was astonished would be expressing his state of mind too tamely; for he was overwhelmed with confusion, fear and mortification. He had expected to find the Yankee asleep on the floor; but, as he was not there, it was sufficiently evident to him that he had again resorted to the chimney for concealment. It had been distinctly arranged beforehand, that Tom, his son, should conceal himself in the cellar; and, of course, he did not expect to find him in the chimney.

In short, all his expectations had been defeated, and he himself had opened the trap for his son to enter. He probably knew how strict was the discipline of the rebel army in respect to deserters. He had frequently heard of executions of persons of this class; and he could hardly expect his son to escape the penalty of his misconduct. He had broken his bargain with the fugitive; and, in attempting to surrender him to his implacable enemies, he had deprived his heir of liberty, if not of life.

"This is your Yankee, is it?" demanded the sergeant, as he gazed at the remnants of the rebel uniform which Tom still wore.

"No, no; this ain't the Yankee!" stammered the farmer.

"Well, you needn't tell us who he is; for we know. I was told to keep a sharp lookout for one Tom Rigney, a deserter; and I reckon this is the chap. You are my prisoner, my fine lad."

"There, now, dad!—d'ye see what ye've done?" snarled poor Tom Rigney, as he glanced reproachfully at the patriarch, who had unwittingly sprung the trap upon him.

"I didn't do it, Tom," replied Farmer Rigney, appalled at the calamity which had overtaken his house.

"Didn't you bring me in here to capture this boy?" asked the sergeant, who appeared to be bewildered by the unnatural act of the father.

"I brought yer here to take the Yank, who was as sassy as a four-year-old colt."

"He promised the Yankee he'd take keer on him till night," added the vengeful Tom.

"That was only to keep him here till I could fotch somebody to take keer on him," pleaded the farmer. "The Yank must be up chimley now," he continued, reminded that his own reputation for loyalty to the great and general Southern Confederacy was now doubly compromised.

"He ain't up there, dad, nohow," said Tom.

"Where is he?" demanded the sergeant.

"Dunno."

"Where did he go?"

"Dunno."

"Didn't you see him?"

"I reckon it was too dark, up chimley, to see anything."

"Haven't you seen him?"

"I reckon I have. He woked up, and druv me up chimley right smart, with the pistol in his hand; reckon, if I hadn't gone, I'd been a dead man; I'll be dog scotched if I shouldn't."

"You say he drove you up the chimney?" demanded the sergeant.

"I reckon he did."

"Where did he go, then?"

"Dunno."

"Yes, you do know! If you don't tell, you'll get a bayonet through your vitals," said the soldier sternly, as he demonstrated with the ugly weapon he had fixed on his gun before he began to examine the chimney.

"Dunno," replied the deserter sulkily.

"Answer, or take the consequences!"

"Dunno. Jes as lief be stuck with a bagonet as shot by a file of soldiers," answered Tom, to whom the future looked even more dark than the present.

"Tell, Tom," pleaded his father.

"Dunno, dad; I was up chimley when he left. Dunno no more'n the dead."

Perhaps the sergeant concluded that Tom's position was a reasonable one, and that it would not have been possible for him to see, from his dark retreat, where the Yankee had gone. At any rate, he was saved from further persecution; and two of the men were ordered to conduct him to the camp, while the remainder stayed to continue the search for the fugitive. Farmer Rigney protested and pleaded, and even offered to warm the palms of the soldier's hands with certain pieces of gold which he had in the house; but, unfortunately for the patriotic farmer, the sergeant was above a bribe, and Tom was hurried off to his doom.

A careful search of the house and premises was now instituted; and this time the farmer was a zealous co-operator with the soldiers; for it was necessary for him to establish his own loyalty before he could do anything to save his son from the deserter's fate. The party proceeded up-stairs first, and carefully examined every closet, and every nook and corner which could by any possibility contain the form of a man. As Somers was not up-stairs, of course they did not find him; and we will not weary our readers by following them in their fruitless search.

Somers went down into the cellar, closing the door after him; and, as he may be lonesome in his gloomy retreat, we will join him there, though it was rather a tight place for more than one person. The cellar was dark when the fugitive made his advent within its somber shades; and, as he was an utter stranger in the place, he was not a little bewildered by the awkwardness of the situation. He was in darkness, and wished for light; at least, for enough to enable him to find the hiding-place of which he had heard the farmer speak.

This snug retreat, where the deserter had balked his pursuers, was undoubtedly the cellar drain; though, to Somers, it appeared to be a Virginia notion to have it long enough to admit the form of a man. Tom Rigney was a larger person than himself; and the case was hopeful enough, if he could only find the opening. The cellar contained various boxes, barrels, firkins and other articles, the mass of which were piled up in one corner.

Somers followed the wall entirely around, from the pile in the corner, till he returned to it, without finding what he desired. It was sufficiently evident, therefore, that the entrance to the drain was under the boxes and barrels, which had probably been placed over it to ward off the over-inquisitive gaze of any visitors who might explore the cellar. Our enterprising hero immediately commenced the work of burrowing beneath the rubbish, and soon had the happiness of discovering the identical road by which the original occupant of the place had entered. Before the opening, he found sufficient space to enable him to readjust the boxes and barrels, so as to hide his den from the observation of any who might be disposed to follow him in his subterranean explorations.

The drain was certainly small enough, even for the genteel form of Captain Thomas Somers; though, as his mustache was quite diminutive in its proportions, he was able to worry himself along several feet into the gloomy hole. It was a miserable place in which to spend the day; but, miserable as it was, he hoped that he should be permitted to remain there. He was fully conscious of the perils of his situation. He knew that Tom, in the chimney, must be captured; and it was not probable that the farmer would let the soldiers depart without examining the house. His retreat was known to him, and there was not one chance in a hundred for the hole to be passed by without an examination.

It would be fatal to remain where he was; and, after resting himself from the fatigue which the exertion of moving in his narrow den induced, he again pushed forward, cheered by the conclusion that a drain would be a useless institution without an opening at each end. Indeed, there was a glimmer of light at some distance before him; and he indulged the hope that he might work his way out to the blue sky.

He had scarcely resumed his progressive movement, which had to be accomplished very much after the fashion of a serpent—for the aperture was too narrow for the regular exercise of his legs and arms—he had scarcely begun to move before voices in the cellar announced the approach of the pursuers. A cold sweat seemed to deluge his frame; for the sounds were like the knell of doom to him. With desperate energy he continued his serpent march; but it was only to butt his head against the stones of the drain, where its size was reduced to less than half its proportions near the cellar.

His farther advance was hopelessly checked; and there was nothing more to be done but to wait patiently the result of the exciting event. He was satisfied that his feet were not within eight or ten feet of the cellar; for, being a progressive young man, he had entered the hole head first. It was possible, but not probable, that he might escape detection, even if the opening was examined; and, with what self-possession he could muster for the occasion, he lay, like the slimy worms beneath him, till ruin or safety should come.

"I reckon he isn't down here," said the sergeant, after the party had examined the cellar, and even pulled over some of the boxes and barrels.

"God bless you for a stupid fellow as you are!" thought Somers; for he was prudent enough not audibly to invoke benedictions, even upon the heads of his enemies; but the words of the sergeant afforded him a degree of relief, which no one, who has not burrowed in a drain in the rebel country, can understand or appreciate.

"I reckon there's a place down in that corner that's big enough to hold a man; fur my son Tom's been in there," added the farmer.

These words gave Somers another cold sweat; and perhaps he thought it was a mistake that he had not put a bullet through the patriarch's head when he had been tempted to do so in the room above. He was a double traitor; but I think the conscience of our hero was more at rest as it was than it would have been if he had shot down an unarmed man, even to save himself from prospective capture.

"Where is the place?" demanded the sergeant.

"In yonder, under them barrels and boxes. Jest fotch the trumpery out, and you'll see the hole," replied Rigney.

Somers heard the rumble of the barrels, as they were rolled out of the way, with very much the same feelings that a conscious man in a trance would listen to the rumbling of the wheels of the hearse which was bearing him to the church-yard, only that he was to come forth from a hopeless grave to the more gloomy light of a rebel dungeon.

"I can't see anything in that hole," said the sergeant. "No man could get into such a place as that."

"Blessed are your eyes; for they see not!" thought Somers. "May your blindness be equal to that of the scribes and Pharisees!"

"But my son Tom has been in there. I reckon a Yankee could crawl inter as small a hole as anybody."

The sergeant thought this was funny; and he honored the remark with a hearty laugh, in which Somers was disposed to join, though he regretted for the first time in his life that he was unable to "crawl out at the little end of the horn." He was encouraged by the skepticism of the soldier, and was satisfied, that, if he attempted to demonstrate the proposition experimentally, he would be fully convinced of its difficulty, if not of its impossibility.

"Go and bring another lamp and a pole," said the sergeant.

One of the party went up the stairs, and Somers gave himself up for lost. The extra lamp would certainly expose him, to say nothing of the pole; and it seemed to be folly to remain there, and be punched with a stick, like a woodchuck in his hole. Besides, there is something in tumbling down gracefully, when one must inevitably tumble; and he was disposed to surrender gracefully, as the coon did when he learned that Colonel Crockett was about to fire and bring him down. There was no hope; and it is bad generalship, as well as inhuman and useless, to fight a battle which is lost before the first shot is fired.

We have before intimated that Captain Somers, besides being a brave and enterprising young man, was a philosopher. He had that happy self-possession which enables one to bear the ills of life, as well as the courage and address to triumph over them. He had done everything which ingenuity, skill, and impudence could accomplish to save himself from the hands of the rebel soldiers; from a rebel prison, if not from a rebel halter. He had failed; and, though it gave him a bitter pang to yield his last hope, he believed that nothing better could be done than to surrender with good grace.

"How are you, sergeant?" shouted he, when he had fully resolved upon his next step.

"Hallo!" replied the sergeant, laughing heartily at the hail from the bowels of the earth. "How are you, Yank?"

"In a tight place, sergeant; and I've concluded to back out," replied Somers.

"Good! That's what all the Yankees will have to do before they grow much older. Back out, Yank!"

Somers commenced the operation, which was an exceedingly unpleasant necessity to a person of his progressive temperament. It was a slow maneuver; but the sergeant waited patiently till it was accomplished, by which time the extra lamp and the pole had reported for duty.

"How are you, Yank?" said the sergeant, laughing immoderately at the misfortune of his victim.

"That's the smallest hole I ever attempted to crawl through," replied Somers, puffing and blowing from the violence of his exertions in releasing himself from his narrow prison-house.

"How came you in such a place?" asked the sergeant as they walked up the stairs.

"Well, my friend, the farmer here, suggested the idea to me. He said his son had crawled in there a great many times."

"I?" exclaimed Rigney. "I never said a word about the drean."

"You must be looked after," added the sergeant, with a menacing look at the discomfited farmer. "You have concealed a deserter in your house for weeks; and now we find that you hide Yankees too."

"I didn't hide him!" protested Rigney.

"Didn't you agree to keep me here till night?" asked Somers, who despised him beyond expression.

"If I did, it was only to have the soldiers ketch yer."

The sergeant declared that Rigney was a traitor, and that he must go along with him; but Somers, with more magnanimity than many men would have exercised towards such a faithless wretch, told the whole story exactly as it was, thus relieving him of a portion of his infidelity to the Southern Confederacy; and the sergeant was graciously pleased to let him remain at home, while his victim was marched off to the rebel camp.



CHAPTER XXVI

A NIGHT IN PETERSBURG

The sergeant who had captured our hero seemed to be a very clever fellow, and appreciated the sterling merits of his captive. While he was rigidly devoted to the discharge of his duty, he treated his prisoner with all the consideration which one human being has the right to expect of another, whatever the circumstances under which they meet.

Somers was disgusted with the result of the adventure, even while he had no reason to blame himself for any want of care or skill in conducting his affairs under the trying circumstances. He was only a few hours behind his late companion, Captain de Banyan; whom he had now a reasonable expectation of meeting again before the close of the day.

If Somers was disgusted with the issue of the adventure, he did not yet despair of effecting his escape. This was all he had to live for at present; and he was determined not to lose sight of this great object of existence. Libby Prison was a flourishing institution, even at the time of which we write; and he was determined not to be sent there, if human energy and perseverance could save him from such a fate. It was easier to avoid such a trap than it would be to get out of it after he had fallen into it. As he walked along with the talkative sergeant, he kept his eyes open, ready to avail himself of any opportunity which might afford him a reasonable prospect of shaking off his disagreeable companion.

His captor asked him a great many questions in regard to himself, and to the Army of the Potomac on the other side of the river, which Somers answered with skill and discretion; though we suppose that even a rigid moralist would have excused some slight variations from the strict letter of the truth which crept into his replies. He was an officer in the Yankee army; but he dared not acknowledge his rank, lest he should be accused of being a spy. If he was a captain, he ought to have worn the uniform of his rank in order to have it recognized. As he was a private, his chance of spending the summer on Belle Isle was better than that for Libby. But, as Somers was fully resolved not to go to Richmond in advance of the noble army whose fortunes and misfortunes he had shared, he did not deem it necessary to consider what quarters he should occupy.

The sergeant was a faithful soldier. Somers found no opportunity to slip away from his guard on the way to the camp. He was duly delivered to the officer of the day, and his intimacy with his good-natured captor was at an end. The officer who was responsible for him made some inquiries in regard to the prisoner, and learned that he had escaped from the troopers in the morning. When he understood the case, as it was only eight miles to the railroad station, where the other prisoner was probably waiting a conveyance in the camp, he decided to send Somers forward at once, fearful that he might again take leave of his captors. From what he had heard from Captain Osborn and the cavalry soldiers in charge of him, he concluded that the young man was a person of more consequence than he appeared to be—that he was either high in rank, or guilty of enormous military misdemeanors.

A two-horse wagon used for general business about the camp was brought up, and Somers was sent forward in charge of two soldiers, who were especially ordered to shoot him if he attempted to escape; which they would probably have done of their own free will and accord, without any orders. The captive looked in vain for an opportunity to elude the vigilance of the guard; they hardly took their eyes off him during the ride. Possibly they thought the young fellow was President Lincoln in disguise, and that the salvation of the Southern Confederacy depended upon his safe delivery into the hands of the provost-marshal at Richmond.

The roads were very muddy from the recent rains, and it required two hours to accomplish the distance to the railroad station. On their arrival, Somers was handed over to another officer in charge of the camp at the station. Captain de Banyan had already been sent forward to Petersburg, and another train would not depart till evening. Somers was carefully guarded during the remainder of the day, and an attempt to get away would have been equivalent to committing suicide. At dark he was put into a baggage-car, with two soldiers to guard him; and in a short time reached the city of Petersburg. With several other unfortunate Union soldiers, he was placed in a small room in the station-house, to remain until a train should start for Richmond. Of course, they were carefully guarded; and Somers began to fear that he should, after all, be compelled to visit the rebel capital without the army.

The room was on the second floor, with two windows opening into the street; but the prisoners were charged, on penalty of being shot, not to look out at them. There was not the ghost of a chance to operate under such unfavorable circumstances; and Somers gave up all thoughts of doing anything that night. Stretching himself on the floor, he tried to sleep; but his spirit was too great to permit him calmly to view the prospect of a rebel prison. As he lay on the floor, he ransacked his brain for some expedient which would save him from the horrors of Libby or Belle Isle.

The best scheme that suggested itself was to leap from the cars on the way to Richmond. It involved the liability to a broken neck or a broken limb; but he determined to watch for an opportunity to execute this reckless purpose. His companions in bondage were worn out with long marches, and all of them slept on the floor around him in a few moments after they entered the room. They had asked him some questions; but he kept his own counsel, and endeavored to cheer their desponding spirits with the hope of being soon exchanged.

At last Somers went to sleep himself, after he had heard a church clock in the city strike eleven. He had slept none on the preceding night, and his slumbers were as sound as if he had been in his attic-chamber in the cottage at Pinchbrook. Even the opening of the door, and the entrance of three men with a lantern, did not disturb him. One of the party was an officer. He wore a military cloak over the gray uniform of the Confederate army.

"Which is the man?" demanded he in sharp tones of the two soldiers who accompanied him.

"I don't know which he is now," replied the corporal of the guard. "What's his name?"

"Tom Leathers," answered the officer.

The corporal then passed round among the sleeping prisoners, and roughly kicked those who were asleep, including Somers, who sprang to his feet, and was rather disposed to make a "row" on account of this rude treatment, before he remembered where he was.

"Now they are all awake," said the corporal when he had been the rounds. "Is there any such man as Tom Leathers here?"

"Tom Leathers," repeated the officer in a loud tone.

No one answered to the name; but, in a moment, Somers happened to think that this was the appellative which he had assumed when he was a pilot down on the creek by the James River. He was evidently the person intended; but he was in doubt whether to answer the summons. The antecedents of the young pilot of the James were not such as to entitle him to much consideration at the hands of the rebels; and he was disposed to deny his identity. While he was debating the question in his own mind, the corporal repeated the name.

"There's no such man here," he added, turning to the officer.

"He must be here. He came up in the night train."

"He don't answer to his name."

"Hold your lantern, and let me look these prisoners in the face."

The corporal passed from one to another of the captives till he came to Somers; thrusting the lantern into the face of each, so that the officer could scan his features.

"What's your name?" he asked, as the corporal placed the lantern before Somers.

Not having made up his mind as to the effect of acknowledging his identity with the pilot, he made no reply.

"That's the man," said the officer decidedly.

"Is your name Tom Leathers?" added the corporal, as he made a demonstration with his bayonet at the prisoner.

"Put down your musket, corporal; you needn't be a brute to your prisoners."

"I only wanted to make him answer the question. If you give me leave, I'll find a tongue for him."

"He is the man I want; bring him out," replied the officer.

"Bring him out? I beg your pardon, sir; but I don't know who you are. I can't give up a prisoner without orders."

The officer, who seemed to be suffering with a bad cold, and wore the collar of his cloak turned up so as to conceal the greater part of his face, opened the lower part of his garment, so that the corporal could see his uniform. At the same time he took from his pocket a paper, which he opened, and handed to the guard.

"That's all right," said the latter, when he had read the document. "Of course, you will leave this with me?"

"Certainly. Now bring out the man; and lose no time, for I am in a hurry."

Somers was conducted from the room to the car-house below, where the officer asked for a soldier to guard the prisoner to the office of the provost-marshal, who was waiting for him. The corporal furnished the man; and the captive walked off between his two companions, bewildered by the sudden change which had taken place in the course of events. He could not imagine why he had been singled out from the rest of the prisoners in the station-house, unless some specific and more definite charge than being in arms against the great Southern Confederacy had been laid at his door. The most unpleasant thought that came to his mind was that Captain de Banyan had betrayed the object of his mission to the south side of the river. There was good evidence that his fellow-officer had come over as a spy; and the hope of saving his own life might have induced him to sacrifice even one who had been his best friend.

It was not pleasant to think of Captain de Banyan as capable of doing so mean an act; for he had been regarded in the regiment as the soul of honor,—of worldly honor, which scorns to do a vile thing if public opinion has condemned it. But the astounding information which he had obtained among the rebels concerning his friend's antecedents had destroyed his confidence in him, and he was prepared for anything from him. In this light, his situation was almost hopeless; for the evidence would certainly condemn him before any court-martial in the Confederacy, and the chances of escape were lessened by his separation from his unfortunate companions in arms. He had probably been taken away from them to prevent even the possibility of exercising his talent in getting away, as he had done after his capture.

They walked in silence along the gloomy and deserted streets; and Somers felt just as if he were marching to his execution. He knew that the rebel officers had a summary way of dealing with cases like his own; and he was prepared to be condemned, even before another sun rose to gladden him with his cheerful light. He thought of his mother, of his father, of the other members of the family, and of the blow it would be to them to learn that he had been hanged as a spy. He thought of Pinchbrook, of the happy days he had spent there, and of those who had been his true friends. He thought of Lilian Ashford, the beautiful one, in the remembrance of whose sweet smile he had reveled every day since they parted, and which he had hoped to enjoy again when war should no more desolate the land, and he should be proudly enrolled with the heroes who had saved the nation from ruin.

All these pleasant memories, all these bright hopes, all these loving forms, though present in his heart, seemed dim and distant to him. He had nothing to hope for in the future on this side of the grave, nothing in the present but an ignominious death on the scaffold. Yet it was sweet to die for one's country; and, disgraceful as his end might be in its form, it was still in the service of the nation. He felt happy in the thought; and, if there was nothing more on earth to hope for, there was still a bright heaven beyond the deepest and darkest grave into which the hate of traitors could plunge him, where the ruptured ties of this life are again restored, never again to be subject to change and decay.

There was a tear in his eye as he thought of his fond mother; and he wept for her when he could not weep for himself. No one saw that tear, and the officer permitted him to indulge his sad revery in silence. But, after they had walked two or three squares, his companion in authority suddenly stopped.

"I have left a book, which I carried in my hand, at the depot," said he, in tones full of chagrin at his carelessness. "I must have it; for I can do nothing without it."

"Where did you leave it?" asked the soldier.

"In the guard-room. You may go back, and bring it to me. Give me your gun; you needn't carry that."

"Where shall I find you?"

"Here, where you leave me. Go quick, my man."

"I won't be gone ten minutes," replied the soldier, as he started off at a run for the missing volume.

The officer took the gun, and stood by the side of his prisoner, at the corner of the street, till the soldier disappeared in the darkness. Somers, still thinking of the sad fate which he was confident was in store for him, wished to confirm his impressions in regard to his destiny. His companion seemed to be a gentleman of a kindly nature, though stern in the discharge of his duty. It was possible that he would give him some information in regard to the probable disposal of him.

"Will you tell me, sir, why I am separated from the rest of the prisoners?" said he, as soon as the sentinel had departed upon his errand.

"Because you are an officer."

"How do you know I am?" asked Somers, very desirous of ascertaining how much Captain de Banyan had told in regard to him.

"We know all about you," answered the officer, muffling his cloak more closely around his face, as if afraid the night air might injure his lungs as he opened his mouth.

"What do you know about me?"

"All about you."

"That isn't very definite."

"In a word, you are Captain Thomas Somers, of the —th regiment."

"Who told you that?"

"That's of no consequence."

"What is to be done with me?"

"I don't know."

"I suppose I am only a prisoner of war?"

"You crossed the James River in disguise, and went into our lines for the purpose of obtaining information. I suppose you can put those two things together."

Somers's worst fears were confirmed. He was to be tried as a spy, and De Banyan had told all he knew about him. Before he had time to dwell on the dark prospect any longer, the officer said he was cold, and could not stand there any longer. Taking his prisoner by the arm, he led him down the cross-street. Somers was just thinking of an attempt to bid his companion good-night, when the latter spoke again:

"I shall catch my death from this night air," said he. "Just before the battle of Magenta——"

"Captain de Banyan!" exclaimed Somers.



CHAPTER XXVII

A FRIEND INDEED

"Hush, my dear boy! not a word!" said Captain de Banyan in an impressive whisper, as he led the way along the street.

Somers made no reply; for he readily perceived that the utmost caution was necessary, though he did not understand the position of his friend, or what complications there were in the situation. He was filled with rejoicing at finding himself again in the way of getting back to the Union army. Of course, his feelings towards Captain de Banyan, in spite of his antecedents in the Third Tennessee, underwent a sudden and agreeable change; and in the joy of his heart he was disposed to embrace his friend, and beg forgiveness for the suspicions he had entertained of him.