"You don't really think they will fight, do you, sir?" said Rodney, who was surprised to hear the colonel talk in this strain.

"I am sure of it. When Beauregard opens his batteries upon Sumter, you will see an uprising that will astonish the world. I am sorry to part with you, but you may go. You would no doubt get a letter from your father in a few days any way, so I don't suppose it makes much difference."

Rodney went, but he did not go alone. Instead of one carriage, there were four that drove away from the academy an hour later, and they were filled as full of students as they could hold. But the departing crowd did not whoop and yell as they were in the habit of doing when they set out for home at vacation time. They were sober and thoughtful, and so were those they left behind. The events of the last few hours had made them so. Rodney Gray voiced the sentiments of all of them when he said to Marcy and Dick, as he extended a hand to each:

"I realize now as I never did before that we're not going to have the easy times we looked for. I don't back down one inch from my position. I say the South is right, and that if the North will not give her the freedom she demands, she ought to fight for it, and I'll do all I can to help her; but I don't believe, as I did once, in abusing everybody who differs from me in opinion. So let's part friends."

"We've always been friends to you," said Dick, in rather a husky voice. "But your abominable ideas—dog-gone State rights anyhow! Good-by."

"Why, Dick, you are on our side," said Rodney.

"If Missouri is, I am; if she isn't, I aint. That's me."

The parting was a good deal harder than the boys thought it was going to be; but it was over at last; the carriages rolled out of the gate, the sentry presenting arms as they passed, and the boys who remained turned sorrowfully away to take up the drudgery of school routine. After that there were no more loud, angry discussions, no shaking of fists in one another's faces, and the orderlies who raised the flag at morning and hauled it down at night, handled it tenderly out of respect to the feelings of their Union schoolmates. They could not bear to think that there might come a time when they would be called upon to face some of their comrades with deadly weapons in their hands. Every one, from the colonel commanding down to the youngest boy in the academy, seemed resolved to do what he could to make their few remaining school days as pleasant as possible.

That afternoon the guard-runners were out in greater numbers than usual. Nearly all the students were anxious to go to Barrington, for there were several things they wanted to have cleared up. What had become of the Union men who had been burned out of house and home, and what did that Committee of Safety intend to do next? Marcy Gray did not go. He was too dispirited to do anything but lounge about and read, and long for a letter from his mother telling him to come home. He missed his cousin Rodney, and wondered if fate would ever bring them together again and under different flags. He sat under the trees and tried to read while awaiting the return of Graham and Dixon, who, for a wonder, had asked for passes. The first item of information they gave him, when they came back with his mail, was one that did not much surprise him, although he did not expect to hear it so soon.

"That old darkey parson has lost his money," said Dick.

"There now," exclaimed Marcy, "I told him he would if he did not put it where it would be safe. Who's got it?"

"I didn't hear, and don't know that any one is suspected. He hid it under a log back of the garden, and when he went there to see if it was all right, the place looked as though it had been rooted over by a drove of hogs. But of course the hogs had nothing to do with it."

"Some one like Bud Goble must have been on the watch when Toby put it under the log," said Marcy, who thought he knew just how the old negro felt when he discovered his loss. "He'll not see that money again. I told him to give it to Mr. Riley."

"And that reminds me that we saw and talked with Mr. Riley, who was as smiling and agreeable as you please," said Dixon. "If I had been guilty of burning out two innocent men because they differed from me in opinion, I don't think I could have had the cheek to show myself on the street. But Mr. Riley did not seem to mind it."

"Do you really think he had a hand in that affair?" inquired Marcy. "I don't like to think that he is that sort."

"When a fellow allows himself to be carried away, as he and the rest of that committee have, by prejudice and rage, he will do some things he would not think of doing if he were in his right mind. Look at Rodney," said Dixon; and Marcy wondered if he knew or suspected that Rodney had written that mischievous letter. "It's in the mouth of every rebel in town whom we talk with that the committee burned those houses, and what everybody says must have some truth in it."

"Listen to me a minute, and I will condemn Mr. Riley out of his own mouth," said Dick, in an earnest whisper. "When Captain Wilson asked him how it came that he could reach the fire so quickly, seeing that it was more than a mile from his own house and there were no alarm bells ringing, Mr. Riley replied that it was because he happened to be awake when the fire commenced. Now, if that was the case, why did he run right by Elder Bowen's burning house to come up town? I was on post that very night, and know that the two fires were started almost at the same moment. Mr. Riley wasn't at home, I tell you. He was in Barrington; and that was the way he got to the fire before we did. Put that in your pipes."

"You have made out a pretty strong case against him so far as circumstantial evidence will go," Dixon remarked.

"Plenty strong enough to make him prove an alibi if he were prosecuted," said Marcy. "Where are those Union men now?"

"Living quietly and comfortably in two of the Elder's negro cabins," replied Dick. "Some of the rebels we talked to think they need another and larger dose, for they are as independent and saucy as ever."

"I glory in their spunk," said Marcy. "See anything of Bud or Caleb Judson? I don't care what becomes of Bud, but if you happen to run across Caleb, I wish you would send him to me. I promised to raise some money for him that night, when I thought I should have to go after Rodney and Dick alone, and I want to give it to him. We couldn't have found them without his help."

As we are almost, if not quite, through with these two gentlemen, Bud and Caleb, we may remark that, a few days after this conversation took place, Marcy went to Barrington and found opportunity to square accounts with Caleb by handing him double the amount of money the man thought he ought to have for acting as Captain Wilson's guide. But Caleb couldn't or wouldn't give him any news of Bud Goble. In after-years some of the academy boys heard of him once or twice in a roundabout way—not as a brave soldier of the Confederacy, doing and daring for the sake of the principles he had so loudly promulgated when he thought old Mr. Bailey was afraid of him, but as a sneaking conscript, hiding in the woods and living, no one knew how, but probably keeping body and soul together by the aid of the bacon and meal that his wife bought with old Toby's money.

Not another thing happened at the academy that is worth recording until it became known that President Lincoln, instead of surrendering Fort Sumter on demand of the Confederate commissioners who had been sent to Washington, decided that provisions should at once be forwarded to the garrison. It was high time, for Major Anderson and his men had nothing but a small supply of bacon and flour left, and the commissary was not permitted to purchase provisions in Charleston. The Southern people were, or pretended to be, very angry at this decision, and gave notice that they would resist it as an act of war. "My batteries are ready. I await instructions," was what Beauregard telegraphed to President Davis; and on the 11th of April the answer came back: "Demand the immediate surrender of Fort Sumter." How the brave major's reply, helpless as he knew himself to be, thrilled every heart in the loyal North! "I cannot surrender the fort," said he. "I shall await the first shot, and if you do not batter me to pieces, I shall be starved out in three days."

Now was the time for the Confederates to show to the world that they were sincere when they declared that all they desired was to be permitted to leave the Union in peace. But they did not do it. They could not wait three days. They wanted the honor of reducing Fort Sumter, and of humbling the flag which had never been lowered to any nation on earth. They wanted to "fire the Southern heart," and make sure of the secession of Virginia by "sprinkling blood in the people's faces," and so they opened their batteries upon the fort. After a long waiting, which was "symbolic of the patience, endurance, and long suffering of the Northern people," the fort replied, and the war between Union and Disunion, freedom and slavery, was fairly begun. Major Anderson knew from the first that this battle could end but in one way, and when his provisions were all gone, and his ammunition so nearly exhausted that he could not respond to the enemy's fire oftener than once in ten minutes, he hauled down his flag and marched his handful of men out with the honors of war. It wasn't a victory to be proud of, but the Governor of South Carolina must have thought it was, for that night he said to the excited people of Charleston:

"I pronounce here before the civilized world that your independence is baptized in blood; your independence is won upon a glorious battle-field, and you are free now and forever, in defiance of the world in arms."

So thought the aged Edmund Ruffin of Virginia, who claimed the privilege of firing the first gun upon Sumter; but he did not think so a little while afterward, when he was preparing to hang himself because he saw that his dreams of Southern independence could not be realized.

Of course this thrilling news, and the fiery editorials commenting upon it, had an effect upon the students at Barrington academy. The Union boys were sadly depressed; Dixon and Graham shook their heads every time their eyes met; while Billings, Cole, and the rest of the rebels were fierce for another fight, and immediately became as noisy and aggressive as they had ever been in Rodney Gray's time.

"'The proud flag of the Stars and Stripes has been lowered in humility before the Palmetto and Confederate flags,'" shouted Billings, reading an extract from the speech of Governor Pickens. "Cole, where is the flag those Taylor girls gave you? Now is the time to unfurl it to the breeze, and let the good people of Barrington see that they are not the only ones who can rejoice over this glorious news. When it is once hoisted on the tower, we will keep it there in defiance of the world in arms."

This was another quotation from the Governor's speech, and when Billings roared it out so that it could be heard by all the boys in the corridor, he looked at Marcy as much as to say: "Help yourself if you can."

It did not take Cole many minutes to produce the flag, which he had kept hidden in his trunk for just such an emergency as this; but when he and his backers got to the top of the tower with it, they were rather surprised to find Marcy, Graham, Dixon, and a good many other sturdy fellows there before them. They were walking around with their hands in their pockets, and Marcy's flag was still floating from the masthead.

"Do you mean—are you going to fight about it?" faltered Cole, who began to fear that his chances for receiving a standing invitation to visit those Taylor girls were as slim as they ever had been. "You have heard the news from Charleston, and ought to see for yourself that this flag can't stay up any longer."

"We may be of a different opinion, so far as this academy is concerned, but still we have given up the contest," replied Marcy. "Hold on, there; don't touch those halliards, please. This flag belongs to me, and when it comes down for good, I must be the one to pull it down. Major Anderson was allowed to salute his flag when he lowered it, and I claim the same privilege."

"I don't know that we have anything to say against that," replied Billings, looking around upon his friends to see what they thought about it. "Holler as much as you please. That's the only way you can salute it, for the colonel would go crazy if you asked him to lend you the battery."

"That's the only way," said Marcy as he unfastened the color-halliards from the cleat. "I shall not ask for the guns, for I shall have my trouble for my pains. Attention! Three cheers for the Star Spangled Banner; and may the traitors who caused it to be lowered in Charleston harbor for the time being be glad to turn to it for protection."

"That flag will wave over Sumter again, and don't you forget what I tell you," shouted Dixon.

It was not a very noisy salute that greeted the flag as it fluttered down from aloft, but it was a heart-felt one, and there was not a rebel on the tower who dared utter a derisive word, however much he might have felt inclined to do so. But when the Stars and Bars were bent on to the halliards and run up to the masthead, the yells of its supporters were almost deafening and their antics quite indescribable. There was an abundance of enthusiasm about that time. There wasn't quite so much one short year later, when some of those same boys learned, to their great disgust and rage, that the Confederate Congress had passed a sweeping conscription law, and that their one year's enlistment had been arbitrarily lengthened to three. Then they began to see what despotism meant.

All hope of conciliation or peace at any price was gone now. There was nothing to hold them together any longer, and the following morning saw another and larger exodus of students from the academy who were homeward bound. Among them were Cole, Graham, Billings, Dixon, and Marcy Gray. It was not quite so solemn a parting as the first one was, for the drooping spirits of the rebels had been raised to blood-heat by that glorious news from Charleston.

"Shoot high, Marcy, when you meet the Stars and Bars on the battlefield," said Billings. "There may be a Barrington boy thereabouts. But you can't deny that we've whipped you once in a fair fight, can you?"

"I don't know what you call a fair fight," replied Marcy. "Of course five thousand men, well supplied with grub and ammunition, ought to whip fifty-one soldiers and a few hired mechanics. But they held out against you as long as they had anything to eat or powder to shoot with. I wouldn't crow over it, if I were in your place."

"Well, we have given you a taste of what is in store for you, at all events."

"And you have learned something that I have tried to get through your thick heads ever since these troubles began," chimed in Dixon. "I told you the North would fight. But let's jump in if we are going home. You know the trains meet here, and we haven't much more than time to get to the depot."

The boys once more shook hands with their teachers, cheered lustily for the Barrington Military Academy and everybody connected with it, shouted themselves hoarse for their respective flags, and then sprang into the carriages and were driven away.

"We're done playing soldier," said Dick Graham. "The next time we shoulder muskets or draw sabers, there will be more reality in it than some of us will care to face. Let's keep track of one another as long as we can, and bear always in mind that we are not enemies, if we do march under different flags."

Marcy Gray was glad when his train came along and bore him away from Barrington. He wanted to settle back in his seat and think; but that was something he was not permitted to do. The passengers, with now and then a notable exception, acted as though they were fit candidates for a lunatic asylum. They were walking about the car, flourishing their hats or fists in the air, talking loudly and shaking hands as often as they met in the aisle. "Glorious news," "Southern rights," "Yankee mudsills," "Fort Sumter," were the words that fell upon Marcy's ear when he opened the door and walked into the car. In an instant his uniform attracted general attention.



CHAPTER XIV.

MARCY CHANGES HIS CLOTHES.

Marcy Gray was blessed with as much courage as most boys, but he would have been glad if he could have backed out of that car without being seen, and gone into another. Perhaps the conviction that he was "an odd sheep in the flock," and that he held, and had often published, opinions that differed widely from those that animated the excited, gesticulating men before him, had something to do with his nervousness and timidity; and it may be that the revolvers he saw brandished by two or three of the half-tipsy passengers had more effect upon him. But he could not retreat. They saw his uniform as soon as he opened the door, and some of the noisiest among them stumbled to greet him.

"Here's one of our brave fellows now," shouted one, firing his revolver out of the window with one hand while he extended the other to Marcy. "Got his soldier clothes on and going to the front before our guns in Charleston harbor have got through smoking. Young man, you're my style. I'm a member of the Baltimore Grays, and I'm on my way home to join 'em in defense of our young republic. What regiment?"

"Company A, Barrington Cadets," replied Marcy, rightly supposing that the Baltimore man was too far gone to remember, if indeed he had ever heard, that there was a military school in the town they had just left. "I'm going home on a leave of absence."

"Course you are," replied the man. "Services not needed at present and mebbe never will be. The Yankees are all mechanics and small trades-people, and there's no fight in such. We're gentlemen, and there's fight in us, I bet you. But you show your good will in putting on those soldier clothes, and that's what every man's got to do, or go up to the United States. Those who are not for us are against us, and we'll make short work with 'em. Say, we licked 'em, didn't we?"

"Of course," answered Marcy. "Fifty-one soldiers without food or powder don't stand much chance against five thousand well-equipped men."

"It would have been all the same if there had been fifty-one thousand of 'em," declared the Baltimore man. "Aint got any business there. Fort belongs to So' Car'lina. Why didn't they get out when Beau'gard told 'em to, if they didn't want to get licked? Three cheers for Southern Confed'sy!"

Much disgusted, Marcy Gray finally succeeded in releasing his hand from the man's detaining grasp and forced his way 'to a seat; but he was often stopped to hear his patriotism applauded, and President Lincoln denounced for bringing on a useless war by trying to throw provisions into Fort Sumter.

"I don't see what else he could have done," soliloquized the North Carolina boy, as he squeezed himself into as small a compass as possible in a seat next to a window. "The fort belonged to the United States, and it was the President's business to hold fast to it if he could. South Carolina wanted a pretext for firing on the flag, and she got it. She'll be sorry for it when she sees grass growing in the streets of her principal city. So I am taken for a rebel, am I? What would that Baltimore fellow do to me if he knew that I have two Union flags in my trunk, and that I mean to hoist them some day? My life wouldn't be worth a minute's purchase if these passengers knew how I feel toward them and their miserable Confederacy."

All the way to Raleigh, which was nearly three hundred and sixty miles from Barrington, Marcy Gray lived in a fever of suspense. Although he did not know a soul on board the train, he might have had companions enough if he had been a little more sociable; but he did not care to make any new acquaintances, especially among people who were so nearly beside themselves. They all took him for just what he wasn't—a rebel soldier; and being ignorant of the fact that he was going toward home as fast as steam could take him, they supposed that the reason he was so silent and thoughtful was because he was lonely, and felt sorrowful over parting from his friends; and so it came about that now and then some one would sit down beside him and try to give him a comforting and cheering word. All the ladies who spoke to him were eager for war and disunion. They were worse than the men; Marcy found that out before he had gone fifty miles on his journey.

Marcy mentally denounced these sympathetic and well-meaning rebels as so many nuisances, for they drew upon him attentions that he would have been glad to escape. They asked him all sorts of questions, and the boy adroitly managed to truthfully answer every one of them, and without exciting suspicion. Matters were even worse when the train stopped. The flags that were fluttering from the locomotive and the car windows attracted the notice of the station loafers, who whooped and yelled and crowded up to shake hands with the passengers. At such times Marcy always took off his cap; but that did no good, for some one was sure to see his gray overcoat, and propose cheers for him. Marcy trembled when he thought of what they would do to him if they learned that he was the strongest Union boy in the school he had left. But there was little danger of that. His secret was safe.

Raleigh was reached at last, and Marcy Gray, feeling like a stranger in a strange land, changed cars for Boydtown, which was a hundred and twenty miles further on. But before doing that he stepped into a telegraph office and sent the following dispatch to his mother:

"Will take a late breakfast with you to-morrow if you will send Morris to meet me at the depot. Three cheers for the right."

"How much?" he asked the operator, after the latter had read it over.

"Not a cent to a soldier," he replied, reaching out his hand, and taking it for granted that the boy was fresh from the seat of war. "Warm times in Charleston the other day, I suppose?"

"I shouldn't wonder if it was hot in the fort," answered Marcy, with a smile.

"But you happened to be on the outside."

"You're right, I did. It was no place for me in there."

"No; nor for any other man who believes in the right. Tell us all about it. Were you frightened when you heard the shells bursting over your head, and did the Yankees—"

"I must ask you to excuse me," said Marcy, hastily, "my train is ready to go, and I have barely time to catch it."

"Well, good luck to you."

Marcy hastened from the telegraph office before any one else could speak to him, and thanked his lucky stars that before another night came he would be at home where he could appear in his true character; but he was satisfied, from what his mother had said in her letters, that he would find few friends among the neighbors. They were nearly all secessionists, Mrs. Gray wrote, and those who were not were compelled to pretend that they were, in order to avoid being driven from the country. It was a bad state of affairs altogether, but Marcy knew he would have to get used to it. He slept but little that night, and it was a great relief to him when the train stopped at Boydtown, which was located on a navigable arm of Pamlico Sound, and was as far as the railroad went. As Marcy lived near Albemarle Sound, there was still a ride of thirty-five miles before him, but that would be taken in his mother's carriage, provided any of the negroes had been over to Nashville and got the dispatch he sent from Raleigh the day before. All doubts on this point were removed when the train drew up at the station, for the first person he saw on the platform was Morris, the coachman, who greeted him heartily as he stepped from the car. This faithful old slave was Marcy's friend and mentor, and Sailor Jack's as well; and the boy Julius, who had come with the spring wagon to bring home the trunk, was their playmate. Julius was just about Marcy's age. They had hunted and fished together, sailed their boats in the same mudhole, and had many a fight over their marbles, in which, we are sorry to say, Marcy did not always come out first best.

"There's my check, Julius," said Marcy, handing it over, and slipping a piece of money into the black boy's palm at the same time. "Shut the carriage door, Morris. I am going to ride on the box so that I can talk to you. I want you to tell me everything that's happened since I have been away. You are a good rebel, of course."

"Now, Marse Marcy, you know a heap better'n that," replied Morris, who plumed himself on being the "properest talking colored gentleman on the plantation." "Git up, heah," he shouted to his horses. "Don't you know that the long-lost prodigal son has come back? You don't want to say too much around heah. Everything in town got ears. Wait till we git in the country and then you can talk. Yes, sar, your mother is well; quite well. But she's powerful sorry."

"I know she is. Do you hear anything from Jack?"

"Not the first word. He's on the ship Sabine, which done sailed for some place, but I dunno where."

"I wish he was safe at home," said Marcy. "Somehow I feel uneasy about him."

He would have felt more than simply uneasy if he could have looked far enough into the future to see that Jack's ship was destined to be one of the first of a large number of defenseless vessels to fall into the hands of Captain Semmes, who, as commander of the Sumter, unfurled the Confederate flag on the high seas, June 30, 1861. But, as we shall presently see, the Sabine did not "stay captured." She escaped, and brought the prize crew that Semmes had thrown aboard of her into a Northern port as prisoners.

"There aint no secesh out on the watah, is there, Marse Marcy?" exclaimed Morris.

"I'm afraid there will be some there before long. We're going to have war, Morris. I saw by a paper I bought on the train to-day that President Lincoln has called out seventy-five thousand men."

"Shucks!" cried the negro. "That aint half enough men. The secesh done got a hundred thousand already."

"I think myself that he might as well have mustered in half a million while he was about it. But the thing that rather surprises me is that he should call upon the border States for troops," said Marcy, pulling from his pocket the paper of which he had spoken. "Of course he'll not get them. Hear what the Governor of this State says: 'Your dispatch is received; and if genuine, which its extraordinary character leads me to doubt, I have to say in reply that I regard the levy of troops made by the administration for the purpose of subjugating the States of the South, as in violation of the Constitution, and a usurpation of power. I can be no party to this wicked violation of the laws of the country, and in this war upon the liberties of a free people. You can get no troops from North Carolina.'"

"Marse Linkum oughter hang that man," exclaimed Morris wrathfully.

"That's what I say. He's a pretty fellow to talk about violating the Constitution when South Carolina has already violated it by levying war against the United States. The Southern folks seem to have little sense and less consistency. But don't let's waste any more time on politics. How are everything and everybody at home? Is my schooner all right, and has Bose got over the drubbing that big coon gave him last fall? How many of the boys have run away?"

"Now, just listen at you," exclaimed Morris. "Who going to run away from the Missus, and where he going to run to?"

"To the Yankees, of course. This war will make you black ones all free."

"Aw! Go on now, Marse Marcy."

"I really believe it. You darkies are the cause of all this fuss, and you will have to be killed off or made free before we can be a united people again."

The coachman's inimitable laugh rang out cheerily. The Northern folks need not trouble their heads about him, he said. He was better off than thousands of the poor whites in the free States, and wouldn't accept his freedom if it was offered to him. His subsequent actions proved that he meant every word he said; for when Marcy read the Emancipation Proclamation to him and his fellow-servants two years later, and told them that they were free to make their way into the Union lines if they could, Morris refused to budge an inch. A few of the slaves had already gone; a few more took Marcy at his word and slipped away by night with their bundles on their shoulders, but those who could get back to the plantation were very glad to come. Freedom wasn't such a beautiful thing after all, because it did not bring the freedom from work that they had looked for, and the Yankee soldiers were really harder task-masters than the ones from whom they had been so anxious to escape.

During the ride homeward Marcy did not see a single thing to remind him that there was a war impending—not a tent or Confederate flag or soldier in uniform was in sight. Negroes sang as they went to their work in the wide fields that stretched out on either side of the road, the birds chirped, the air was soft and balmy, the wheels hummed a melodious tune as they spun rapidly along the hard road, and all his surroundings spoke of peace and plenty.

At last an abrupt turn brought him within sight of his home,—in every respect a typical Southern home, with wide, cool halls, large and airy rooms, broad piazzas, and spacious, well-kept grounds, in which fruits, flowers, and grand old trees abounded. A few miles away, but in plain view, were the sparkling waters of the sound, peaceful enough now, but destined ere long to be plowed by the keels of hostile ships, and tossed into wavelets by shrieking shot and shell. On the left, and about three hundred yards in front of the house, was Seven Mile Creek; and the first thing in it that caught Marcy's eye was his handsome schooner, the Fairy Belle, riding safely at her moorings. Marcy would have found it hard to find words with which to express his admiration for that little craft, and the way she behaved in rough weather. With her aid, and with Julius for a companion, he had explored every nook, corner, and inlet along the dangerous and intricate coast of the sound for miles in both directions; and they were as familiar to him as the road that led from Barrington to the academy. He and Sailor Jack were good pilots for that coast as far down as Hatteras Inlet, and on one or two occasions had been fortunate enough to assist distressed vessels in finding a safe anchorage.

Old Bose, the dog that had been so roughly handled by the last coon Marcy helped dispatch, was the first to welcome him when the carriage turned into the yard, and said, as plainly as a dog could say anything, that he was both surprised and hurt because his usually attentive master had scarcely more than a word and a pat for him. The boy did not even hear the greetings of the numerous house-servants who clustered about the carriage when it was brought to a stand-still, for his eyes and thoughts were concentrated upon the pale woman in black who stood at the top of the wide steps leading to the porch. It was his mother, and in a second more she was clasped in his arms.

"Are you so sorry I've come that you are going to cry over it?" exclaimed Marcy, when he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "I know you'll not expect me to shake hands with you until I have had a chance to say a word to my mother," he added, addressing the blacks who had followed close at his heels. "I will see you all after a while. Come in, mother. I told you I would be late to breakfast, but I know you have saved a bite for me."

After a few earnest questions had been asked and answered by both of them, Marcy went up to his room, whither his trunk had already been carried. His first task was to remove some of the North Carolina dust that had settled on his hands and face, and his next to divest himself of his uniform and put on a suit of citizen's clothes. During his long ride that gray coat had brought him in pretty close contact with some people he hoped he would never meet again.

"Stay there," said he, as he hung the garment upon a hook in his closet. "I shall never wear you again, but I'll keep you to remind me of old Barrington."

The boy afterward had reason to wish he had hidden that uniform or destroyed it. A detachment of Sherman's cavalry scouted through the country, after completing their famous march to the sea, went all over the house in search of valuables and contraband goods, and one of the first things they pitched upon was that gray suit. It might have been a serious thing for Marcy, had it not been for the flag Dick Graham gave him. What became of the other, the one that was hauled down on the day the news of the surrender of Fort Sumter was received, shall be told in its proper place.

"I feel like a free man once more," he said, when he rejoined his mother in the parlor and walked into the dining-room with his arm thrown protectingly around her waist. "Where's Dinah?" he added, seeing that there was no one to wait at table.

"I preferred to have our first breakfast in private," replied Mrs. Gray. "In times like these one doesn't know whom to trust. There's been nothing like open enmity yet," she continued, noticing a shade of anxiety on her son's face. "I have thought it wise to keep my own counsel, and have taken no part in the discussions that have been held in my presence; but I have not escaped suspicion."

"I understand you perfectly," answered Marcy. "Are there no Union people at all in this country?"

"There may be, but I do not know who they are. There are some who have told me, privately, that they are opposed to secession, but having the best of reasons for believing that they said so on purpose to induce me to express my opinion, I have kept silent. You must do the same, and be constantly on your guard. If your friends, or those who were your friends once, assure you that their sympathies are all for the Union, you may listen, but you must not say one word. If you do, you may regret it when it is too late to recall it."

"Why, this is worse than Barrington," Marcy declared. "There you know who your enemies are; but here you've got to look out for everybody, or the first thing you know some sneak may get on the blind side of you. Now, mother, let's talk business. How are the darkies?"

"They seem to be as happy and contented as they ever were, and as willing to work. The overseer hasn't a word of fault to find with them."

"So far so good. How's the overseer; Union or secesh?"

"You must decide that for yourself after you have talked with him," replied Mrs. Gray. "I think he will bear watching. At any rate, I do not trust him."

"Then if I have anything to say, he shall not stay around here a minute after his contract runs out. We don't want anybody about that we are afraid of. You're going to run the plantation right along. I suppose?"

"I thought I would, unless you have something better to propose."

"Well, I haven't. This is my boyhood's home and Jack's. By the way, where is Jack?"

"On the high seas somewhere, and that is all I can tell you."

"And Rodney once said he might never get back again," replied Marcy. "He thinks the South is going to have a navy that will beat anything the world ever saw. Yes, Rodney is a rebel to the backbone," he added in response to an inquiry from his mother. "Says the Northern folks will be whipped before they can take their coats off; but for all that he showed considerable feeling when he came to say good-by. He is under a promise to enlist under the Stars and Bars within twenty-four hours after he reaches home, and I know he will do it, if he can get to a recruiting office. But to return to business. I am sure we had better keep right along as we have been going, instead of pulling up stakes and moving to some new place to meet dangers and difficulties of which we know nothing. We've got to eat, and we must have something to wear; and how are we to get things if we have no crops? Have you any money?"

Mrs. Gray started perceptibly at this abrupt question, and before replying arose to her feet and opened, in quick succession, all the doors leading out of the dining-room.

"Aha!" said Marcy, who thought he knew the meaning of this pantomime. "You remind me of old Uncle Toby. He had money which he lost because he hid it in the ground instead of putting it where it would have been safe."

"That is what I have done with ours," said his mother, in a scarcely audible whisper. "That is to say, I have concealed it."

"How much?"

"Nearly thirty thousand dollars, and it is all in gold."

"W-h-e-w!" whistled Marcy. "What put it into your head?"

"I took warning; that is all. The Southern people have often threatened to secede if a Republican President was elected, and I was sure they meant it; so when the election returns came in and this excitement began, I made several quiet business trips to Newbern, Wilmington, Norfolk, and Richmond."

"Why, you never said a word about it in your letters."

"I know it. I did not think it necessary to trouble you with it. I drew a little money each time, brought it home in safety, and I trust without exciting suspicion, though on that point, of course, I cannot be sure, and hid it in the cellar at dead of night, after I had taken the greatest pains to assure myself that every one in the house was soundly asleep."

"How did you cover up the place where you had been digging?"

"I didn't do any digging," his mother answered, with a smile. "I took a stone out of the wall as heavy as I could lift, and cemented it in place again, after keeping out a sum sufficient to meet our immediate wants. It took me three nights to do it."

"It's a shame that there wasn't someone here whom you could trust to do the work for you," said Marcy. "I am here to bear the hard knocks now."

The Southerners were careful of their women. If they had had the faintest conception of the trials and privations their mothers, wives, and sisters would be called upon to bear, they never would have fired upon Sumter. The patience and heroic endurance exhibited by these carefully nurtured women, during the dark days of the war, were little short of sublime.

Marcy and his mother sat a long time at the table, and when they arose from it Mrs. Gray knew pretty nearly what had been going on at Barrington during the last few months (not a word was said, however, concerning the letter Rodney wrote to Bud Goble), and Marcy had a very correct idea of the way matters were being managed on the plantation. He had nothing to suggest. The only thing they could do was to keep along in the even tenor of their way, and await developments. There was one thing for which he was sorry, and that was that he could not discharge Hanson, the overseer, that very day. He believed his mother was afraid of him; but the man was under contract for a year, and could have claimed damages if he had been turned adrift without good and sufficient reason. It was not the damages that Marcy cared for, but he was restrained from urging Hanson's dismissal through fear of setting the neighbors' tongues in motion.

"Hanson is secesh, easy enough," he said to himself. "If he were not, some of those officious planters would have demanded his discharge long ago. If we turn him away without a cause, they will say that we are persecuting him on account of his principles, and that would be bad for us. The man will have to stay for the present, and I'll make it my business to know every move he makes."

Marcy devoted the first few days to renewing old acquaintances among the black people on the plantation, who were overjoyed to see him safe at home, and in calling upon some of the neighboring planters; but the last proved to be rather a disagreeable duty, and one which he did not prosecute for any length of time. It seemed to him that something intangible had come between him and those who used to be on the best of terms with him something that could not be seen or felt, but which was none the less a barrier to their social intercourse. He was not of them, and they knew it; that was all there was of it. Before he had been at home ten days he began to see the force of his cousin Rodney's warning, that if he did not turn his back upon the Union and proclaim himself a secessionist, his neighbors would not have the first thing to do with him, and during those ten days two things happened that made the situation harder to bear than it was at first.

The little town of Nashville, to which Marcy sent his dispatch from Raleigh, was situated about three miles distant from the plantation. Besides the telegraph, express, and post offices it contained a court house, two hotels, and the homes of about five hundred inhabitants. The mail was received twice each day, and as often as it came in, rain or shine, there was some one from Mrs. Gray's house there to meet it. This duty was at once assumed by Marcy, who, besides having a fast horse of his own which he was fond of riding, was so impatient to see the latest papers that he could not wait for anybody to bring them to him. He always read them on his way home, allowing his filly to choose her own gait. On the day he reached home the papers told him that President Lincoln had placed an embargo upon the seaports of all the seceded States; but Marcy did not pay much attention to that. It was nothing more than those States might have expected, but it was a question whether or not the navy was strong enough to enforce the blockade. The same paper informed him that President Davis was ready to issue letters of marque and reprisal to anybody who would equip a privateer, and give bonds that the laws of the Confederate States regulating the capture of prizes should be obeyed. The boy didn't give a second thought to that either. His schooner wasn't heavy enough to engage in the business of privateering, and she would not have gone into it if she had been. She had always floated the flag of the Union, and as long as she remained in his keeping, she never would carry any other. But when on the 29th of April Marcy read that President Lincoln, two days before, had included the ports of Virginia and North Carolina in the limits of his proclamation, it made him open his eyes.

"My State hasn't seceded yet, and here he has gone and shut up her ports," exclaimed Marcy indignantly. "That's a pretty thing to do, isn't it now? Hurry up, Fanny. Let's get home and see what mother thinks about it."



CHAPTER XV.

FORCED INTO THE SERVICE.

Marcy Gray thought he had watched the movements of his native State pretty closely since the result of the presidential election became known, and perhaps he had; but there were some things connected with her recent history that must have slipped his mind, or he would have seen at once that the government at Washington was justified in closing her ports to the world. The State had been in armed rebellion ever since the month of January, when her local authorities committed treason by seizing the forts along her coast. It is true that her Governor disavowed the action, offered to restore the forts on condition that they should not be garrisoned by United States troops, and that the proposition was accepted; and it is also true that the State forces very soon took possession of the forts again, this time acting under the Governor's authority. The latter's refusal to send troops to the aid of the national government proved him to be as much of a rebel as the Governor of South Carolina was.

"So North Carolina is no whit better than the States that have joined the Confederacy, is she?" said Marcy, when his mother had reminded him of all these things. "But there's a great difference between talking and doing," he added, wisely. "Three thousand miles make a pretty long coast, the first thing you know, and I don't believe Uncle Sam has ships enough to guard it. I'll bet you that when the blockade is established, I can take the Fairy Belle and slip out and in as often as I feel like it. It will be nothing but a paper blockade; but if it could be made effectual, it would send the price of things up so that you couldn't reach them with a ten-foot pole, would it not?"

Blockading more than three thousand miles of sea-coast, some portions of which were noted for sudden and violent storms, was a gigantic undertaking, and Marcy Gray was not the only one who did not think the attempt would prove successful. To begin with, there were only ninety vessels of all classes in the United States navy, and of the forty-two in commission all except twelve had been sent to foreign stations on purpose to have them out of the way when they were wanted. Of the vessels comprising the home squadron, all except four were in the Gulf of Mexico, where they stood a fine chance of falling into the hands of the secessionists. The officers, who had been educated at the expense of the government, and who had taken a solemn oath to support that government, were so badly tinctured with disloyalty that the authorities did not know whom to trust, some of the best men in the service, the gallant Porter among the rest, being suspected of disunion sentiments. During the time that elapsed between March 4 and July 5, two hundred and fifty-nine officers resigned their commissions and went over to the Confederacy. Some of them, who had been entrusted with commands, had the grace to give their vessels up to the government instead of surrendering them into the hands of the secessionists, and one Southern writer declared, with some disgust, that they carried their notions of honor altogether too far when they did it. His exact language was:

"If a sense of justice had prevailed at the separation of the States, a large portion of the ships of the navy would have been turned over to the South; and this failing to be done, it may be questionable whether the Southern naval officers in command would not have been justified in bringing their ships with them, which it would have been easy for them to do."

But the trouble was, the government never acknowledged that there had been any "separation of the States." The war-ships belonged to the nation, and not to a discontented portion of it, and were needed to aid in enforcing the laws that had been trampled under-foot.

In spite of all these disadvantages the loyal people of the North went resolutely to work, and before the fourth day of July the blockade was rendered so effectual that "foreign nations could not evade it and were obliged to acknowledge its legality." And this was done, too, after Norfolk navy yard, with its immense stores of munitions of war, twenty-five hundred pieces of heavy ordnance, and all its ships, save one, had been doomed to destruction by the perfidious officers who surrounded and advised its loyal but too credulous commander. It was something to be proud of.

But we have anticipated events a little. On the day Marcy Gray went to Nashville after the mail the blockade was not established, except on paper; there was not a ship of war on the coast so far as he knew; Hatteras Inlet was still open to the world, and privateers and coasting vessels were free to go and come as often as they pleased. Up to this time such a thing as a privateer had scarcely been heard of, but they appeared as if by magic when it became known that President Davis had invited applications for letters of marque and reprisal from good Southerners who were able and willing to fit out armed vessels to prey upon our commerce. The first one that attracted any attention was the Savannah, which ran out of Charleston on the 2d of June, and was shortly afterward captured by a ship of war that she mistook for a merchantman; but she was not the first privateer to operate in Southern waters. As early as May 7, several light-draught steamers, mounting two or three guns each, were hastily fitted out at New Orleans, and brought in prizes that were taken off the mouths of the Mississippi. There were also some along the coast, principally sailing-vessels, and although they did not succeed in making a name for themselves or in spreading much alarm among our merchant marine, they made a few good hauls. One of them was fitted out in Seven Mile Creek, not more than a mile from Mrs. Gray's plantation, and, wide-awake as Marcy thought himself to be, he never knew a thing about it until she was almost ready to sail. Then he found it out through her owner who came up to see him. He was sitting on the porch when the man came up the walk, and something told him that he had come there for no good purpose.

"What in the world does Lon Beardsley want here?" said Marcy to his mother, who was sitting near by. "He hasn't been to see me since I came from Barrington, and I don't think he would come now if he wasn't up to some meanness."

"Don't allow him to throw you off your guard with any of his specious talk," replied his mother, in a cautious tone. "To quote from Morris, he is a mighty palavering sort of fellow."

"I'll watch him. Good-afternoon, Mr. Beardsley. Will you come up and take a chair?" The man was a visitor, and as such was entitled to civil treatment even if his company wasn't desired.

"Yes, I reckon I'll set while I talk," answered Beardsley, taking possession of the seat that was placed for him. "Rough times these."

"Yes; and they'll be rougher before we see the end of them," was Marcy's reply.

"Don't reckon there'll be any fighting, do you?"

The boy said he was sure of it.

"Well, what's one man's pizen is another man's meat," said Mr. Beardsley, with a wink that no doubt meant a great deal. "By the way, Marcy, you've been to school and oughter be posted in such things,—what is a letter of mark-we and reprisal? I've been down to Wilmington a time or two on business, but I did not like to ask the folks there what it meant. They're strangers mostly, and I sorter scringed against letting 'em see how ignorant I was."

"It's a commission granted by a sovereign of a State to his subjects, authorizing them to prey upon the property of the subjects of another State, if they happen to find any at sea," answered Marcy. "That's as near as I can tell it without looking the matter up."

"It is about what I thought it meant. Now, does that letter or commission give protection to the crew of the privateer if they happen to be caught? They won't hang 'em, will they?"

"I don't think they will. A few years ago some European powers tried to induce Uncle Sam to enter into an agreement to abolish privateering, but he wouldn't do it. Our private armed vessels gave England a good deal of trouble while she was trying to whip us, and might do the same thing again under like circumstances."

"So the United States wouldn't agree to no such bargain," exclaimed Mr. Beardsley, with something like a sigh of relief. "Then Uncle Sam can't find fault with us for going into the business, can he?"

"He'll make prisoners of you and destroy or confiscate your vessel, if he can catch you," replied Marcy.

"Of course. That's to be expected; but he'll have to catch us first, and even then he won't treat us like we was pirates. That's what I want to know."

"Why do you ask? Are you interested in the matter?"

"Somewhat," answered the man, with a laugh. "My schooner is fixed over and fitted with bunks for twenty men and three officers, and I've bargained for two howitzers in Newborn. That's what I meant when I said that one man's pizen is another man's meat. Now is the time to slip out to sea and make a prize or two before that blockade comes and stops the business."

Marcy was astonished and so was his mother; and neither of them could imagine why Mr. Beardsley had taken the pains to come to the house and tell them all this.

"Make hay while the sun shines, eh?" said he, with a chuckle. "I aint got my commission yet, and can't get it till my bond for five thousand dollars, which I give to the collector at Wilmington to send to the Secretary of State, has been approved. I've got to promise to obey the laws, you know, and that's easy."

"What do you intend to do with your prizes, if you make any?" inquired Mrs. Gray.

"Take 'em into Newbern and have 'em appraised and sold by a competent tribunal, whatever that means. I heard while I was in Newbern that there aint no admiralty court in this country like there is in England, and that the district court would most likely 'tend to the matter. As owner of the schooner I will, of course, get the lion's share of the money, and the rest will be divided up among the officers and crew. But I'll do the fair thing by you, Marcy."

"By me!" exclaimed the boy.

"Yes. You know this coast like a book—"

"There are plenty of others who know it better," interrupted Marcy, who now saw what the man's object was in coming there. It was two-fold: If Marcy would help him, he would give him good wages and a big share of prize-money to act as pilot; but if he wouldn't help him, then Mr. Beardsley would denounce him among the planters as unfriendly to the cause of the South, and that would be a bad thing for him to do. Marcy read the whole scheme as easily as he could have read a printed page, and if it had not been for his mother, he would have refused, point-blank, any offer that the owner of the privateer could have made him. But he would do anything rather than add to his mother's troubles.

"You must remember that I am not a professional pilot, and that a good many months have passed since I sailed my schooner along this coast," continued Marcy. "I might run you aground at the wrong time. You can get plenty of better men in Newbern or Wilmington."

"If I am willing to trust you it's all right, aint it? I don't want a professional pilot. I want somebody who knows Crooked Inlet. You've been through there often."

As Marcy could not deny it he said nothing.

"I aint going to follow the reg'lar routes of travel," continued Mr. Beardsley. "If I was, I could sail my own vessel without hiring anybody to act as pilot. My plan is to slip down to Newbern some dark night, after I get notice that my application has been granted, take my guns aboard, ship a good crew, and then run up to, and out of, Crooked Inlet. That will bring me a good piece above Hatteras, and out of the way of any war-ship that may be prowling along the coast. If one see me and gives chase, I'll put back through the Inlet where she can't follow on account of shoal water. What do you think of the scheme?"

Much against his will Marcy was obliged to say that he thought it would work, provided the pursuing vessel did not happen to be a steamer fast enough to cut the schooner off from the Inlet.

"And if she is, I won't go nigh her," replied Mr. Beardsley, with a grin which was intended to mean that he was altogether too sharp to be caught in that way. "We won't chase steamers, kase we know we can't catch 'em; and 'taint no ways likely that we'll go to sleep and let one of 'em get between us and the coast."

"Did you have to buy the guns you intend to put on the schooner?" asked Marcy, when the visitor paused and looked at him as if waiting for him to say something.

"No. They came from one of the forts taken by the State troops awhile ago. I borrowed 'em on condition that I give 'em back when they are wanted. They're too light for coast defense, but just the thing for our business. Well, what do you say?"

"You have not yet asked my consent," Mrs. Gray reminded him.

"I didn't think I'd have to," answered Mr. Beardsley. "I reckoned you were like all the other women folks—ready and willing to do anything for the cause."

"But if Marcy should be killed—"

"Aw! He aint going to be killed," exclaimed the visitor rudely. "Don't I tell you that we'll run the minute we sight a war-vessel."

"But you might run aground and they might capture you," answered Mrs. Gray, who knew as well as anybody how dangerous the coast was, even to those who were acquainted with it. "And if Marcy should be sent to prison, as he would if he were taken on board an armed schooner, what would become of me? My oldest boy is at sea, and it is my desire to keep Marcy with me as much as I can."

"He can run up and see you when we come into port, which will be as often as we take a prize, or see signs of a blow in the clouds outside," said Mr. Beardsley, putting on his hat, and getting upon his feet. "Come down and see the schooner, Marcy. Stop at my house, and I'll show you right where she is."

"How soon do you start?"

"Some time this week, I hope. The sooner we get outside the better our chances will be. That's why I say, make hay while the sun shines. Two or three hauls will make us so rich that we needn't do no more work the longest day we live."

"And will you feel no sorrow for those who lose their property, and perhaps their all, through your efforts to enrich yourself?" asked Mrs. Gray.

"That's why I say that one man's pizen is another man's meat," replied Beardsley. "Not a mite of sorrow will I feel for them Yankees. Let them come under our flag if they want protection. When will you be along, Marcy?"

"To-morrow about this time," answered the boy.

"All right. Think over what I've said to you, and be ready with an answer. When you learn a little more about a vessel I will give you a chance as mate. Good-by."

Beardsley walked down the steps and out of the gate, and Marcy kept his eyes fastened upon him as long as he remained in sight. Then he faced about and looked at his mother, who had dropped her sewing into her lap and sat motionless in her chair, the picture of misery and dejection.

"They're going for us, mother," said he, with a smile. "That interview with Beardsley has satisfied me that I can't live up to my principles in this country as I should like to."

"I never dreamed of anything like this," said Mrs. Gray, at length. "What are you going to do, Marcy?"

"There's only one thing I can do and keep a roof over your head," answered Marcy, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and striding up and down the porch. "I must accept his proposition; that's all there is about it."

"Oh, Marcy!" exclaimed his mother.

"It looks fair enough on the surface, but I tell you there is something back of it," said the boy, confidently. "He pretends to take it for granted that I am a rebel, but he doesn't really believe it, and this proposition of his is intended to try me and find out where I stand. Almost the last question our class debated in school was: "Is a man ever justified in acting from policy rather than principle." I took the negative, and contended that he ought to act from principle, let the consequences be what they might; but I don't think so now. I shall join that rebel privateer, and I shall do it because I am sure something will happen to your house if I don't. Now please don't say a word about it. I feel bad enough as it is."

If Mr. Beardsley really was testing the boy hoping to find him wanting, he was doomed to be disappointed, for promptly at half-past two the next afternoon Marcy rode into his yard and went with him to see the schooner, which was hidden in a bayou half a mile away. Marcy knew the little craft as well as he knew his own, but her appearance had been so greatly changed that he would not have recognized her if he had seen her on the sound. Her black hull had been painted white, so that she would not offer so fair a mark for the cannon of any cruiser she might be unlucky enough to fall in with; her midship section had been changed into a berth-deck, and she had gun-decks fore and aft. The two white men who had charge of her had hoisted her canvas to give it an airing, and Marcy saw a large figure "9" painted on her fore and main sails.

"That's to make folks believe that she is a pilot-boat," chuckled Mr. Beardsley. "We'll be almost certain to find some fellow creeping along inside of Diamond shoals, thinking of no danger, and he'll never try to sheer off when he sees us coming, kase he'll think we're friendly. He'll think different when he sees a puff of smoke go up from our bows, but then it will be too late for him to square away. Good scheme; don't you think so?"

Although Marcy had never felt greater contempt for a man in his life, he managed to get through the interview to his satisfaction; but whether or not Mr. Beardsley was satisfied, the boy could not tell. Sometimes he acted as if he was, and then again he looked and talked as if he suspected that Marcy was not half as enthusiastic as he pretended to be, and that his heart was set on something besides privateering.

"I'd like to capture this vessel, hoist Dick Graham's flag over it, and give her up to some man-of-war," he said to himself. "But if I should try it, I'd never dare show myself around home again. The game isn't worth the candle. Some of Uncle Sam's boys will knock her into kindling-wood if she stays outside long enough, and possibly they may send me to Davy's locker along with her. It's rather a desperate chance, but it's the only thing that will save mother from persecution. Perhaps the neighbors will be a little more civil to her when they find that I am in the service of the Confederacy." Then aloud he said: "When she gets her guns and stores aboard she will draw a good deal of water for Crooked Inlet, and I'd feel safer if I could have Julius at my elbow when—"

"Oh, that wouldn't do at all," interrupted Mr. Beardsley, stamping about the deck and shaking his head most emphatically. "Julius is a nigger and an abolitionist, and we don't want no such around. I've had carpenters at work on the schooner for almost two weeks, and there aint been one of my black people aboard of her."

"But they must all know that you have been doing something to her," replied Marcy.

"Of course. I told 'em that I was getting ready to go a-trading between Plymouth, Edenton, and Newbern, and that I was fixing on her up so't I could carry big cargoes."

"Mebbe they believed it and mebbe they didn't," was the boy's mental comment. "If the darkies hereabouts are as sharp as they are down Barrington way, they understand what this vessel is intended for as well as you do yourself."

"I won't have no niggers aboard my privateer," continued Mr. Beardsley, who talked and acted as if he had grown in importance since those gun-decks were put into the schooner. "I wouldn't trust the best of 'em in times like these, and so I shall man my ship with whites. These men belong to my crew, and the rest will be just as good."

Marcy thought they might be better without hurting anything, for he did not at all like the appearance of the two fellows he had found in charge of the privateer. They had probably been picked up among the sailor boardinghouses in Newbern; and if the test of the crew were going to be like them, Marcy thought he would not care to be in their company for a great while at a time. He afterward learned that one of the men was deep in Mr. Beardsley's confidence.

Before the boy took leave of the owner of the privateer they came to a plain understanding on all points, agreed upon terms, and Marcy was to hold himself in readiness to sail for Newbern at any hour of the day or night. He felt almost like a criminal when he rode home to meet his mother, but, although he was among the first, he was by no means the last, to serve the cause of the Confederacy because he could not help himself.



CHAPTER XVI.

SECRET ENEMIES.

"It's done and it can't be undone," said Marcy, after he had told his mother just what passed between him and the captain of the privateer. "I assured Mr. Beardsley that I didn't think the government would hang his men as pirates if they were taken on the high seas, but since I have seen a couple of them I have my doubts. If the ship-keepers are fair specimens of the crew, they are a hard lot, and I don't want to be captured in such company. This is being true to my colors with a vengeance."

That was what his mother thought, but she did not say a word to add to the bitterness of his feelings. Knowing the temper of the people around her as well as she did, she could not see that Marcy could have done anything else. Marcy Gray ate little supper that night, and as soon as it began to grow dark, he left the house and went out on the road to take a stroll. He wanted to be alone, even though the thoughts that crowded thick and fast upon him were anything but pleasant company. Almost without knowing it he kept on until he arrived within sight of the gate leading to Mr. Beardsley's yard, and saw three men standing close inside of it. The night was so dark he could not see who they were, and without giving the circumstance a second thought, he was about to retrace his steps, when the men moved into the road, and two of them made a few steps in his direction, but turned suddenly about as if listening to some parting instructions from the one they had left behind. Marcy waited to see no more, but walked rapidly homeward, unconscious of the fact that the men followed a little distance in his rear, although they did not see him. When he reached the carriage-way Marcy did not immediately go to the house, but paced up and down the road in a brown study, from which he was presently aroused by the sound of footsteps. A few seconds later a figure loomed up in the darkness, and Marcy thought he recognized in it one of the men he had seen on board the schooner that afternoon. The figure discovered him at the same moment, halted abruptly, and said in cautious tones, as if fearful of being overheard:

"Who's there?"

"It's no one who will hurt you," was the boy's reply. "Toddle right along about your business."

"Any dogs laying around?"

"Nary dog. I'm alone."

These answers must have satisfied the man, for he advanced without further hesitation, and peered sharply into Marcy's face.

"What you doing out here?" he asked, as though he had a right to know; and then Marcy saw that he had not been mistaken. The man was one of the ship-keepers.

"What's that to you, and who are you?" he replied, with spirit.

"I don't mean any offense—I don't really," said the man hastily. "But it is rather strange that I should find you so easy when you are the very one I was looking for. I didn't know whether it would be safe to come or not, for you have dogs in plenty, like all the rest of the planters about here. I am Sam Tierney, and I belong to Beardsley's privateer. You are Marcy Gray, and have been engaged to take the schooner through out-of-the-way inlets that the old man is not acquainted with. Let's go down the road a piece. I'd like to talk to you a minute, if you don't care."

"Why can't you say what you have to say right where you stand?" inquired Marcy. "There's no one to overhear you if your communication is private."

"Private? Well, you'll think so when you hear what it is. Come down the road."

It was right on the end of the boy's tongue to ask the man why he had come to see him so soon after holding that conversation at Mr. Beardsley's gate, and what he had done with his companion; but, on reflection, he decided that he would not say a word on these points. This might be an opportunity to learn something, he told himself, but there was one thing of which he was sure: he would not trust himself within reach of that missing ship-keeper, who might be hidden somewhere down the road, ready to pounce upon him the moment this man Tierney brought him to the ambush. He would remain right where he was, within earshot of the faithful Bose, who would be likely to make things lively for the privateersman if he attempted any violence. There was something in the wind, the boy was sure of that; but he could not, for the life of him, think what it could be.

"I don't care to go down the road," said he. "What objection can you have to this place? We can see in every direction, and there are no bushes behind which an eavesdropper could hide himself."

It was plain that Tierney was not satisfied with this arrangement. He walked about with his hands in his pockets, kicked a pebble or two out of his way, and finally wanted to know if Marcy would promise, honor bright, that he would not repeat a word of what might be said to him.

"No; I'll not make any such promise," Marcy answered promptly. "And you would be foolish to put any faith in it if I did. I don't want you to tell me anything confidentially, for I must be left free to do as I think best about repeating it."

The ship-keeper was plainly surprised at this answer, for he gave utterance to a heavy oath under his breath and kicked some more pebbles out of the road. Marcy waited patiently for him to speak, for he was positive that the man had come there with something on his mind, and that he would not go away until he had told what it was.

"You're mighty suspicious," said he, at length, "and I don't know but you have reason to be. You are a Union man."

"Who told you that?" exclaimed Marcy, somewhat startled.

"A little bird whispered it to me."

"Well, the next time you see that little bird tell him to mind his own business. My political views are nothing to him or you either."

"I wouldn't get huffy. The old man says—" began Tierney, and then he stopped and caught his breath.

"Aha! The old man says so, does he?" thought Marcy. "And he tells his foremast hands what he thinks about his neighbors, does he? I must be cautious. Well, go on; what does the old man say?"

"He says he has engaged you to act as pilot," replied the man, with some confusion.

"So he has; and if he chooses to trust his vessel in my hands in channels and inlets that he knows nothing about, what have you to say? He wouldn't do it if he did not think I would serve him to the best of my ability, would he? But what has my politics to do with the position I hold aboard that privateer?"

"Nothing much," answered Tierney, turning away. "But they have a good deal to do with the proposition I was going to make to you if I had found you to be the good Union I heard you were."

Now Marcy thought he began to see daylight, but he said not a word. Tierney acted as though he was about to go away, but the boy knew he wouldn't.

"I'm a Union man," said he.

"That's nothing to me, but if you are, I don't see why you stay about here. You've no friends in this State to speak of. Go up to the United States."

The ship-keeper was evidently waiting for Marcy to ask him about the proposition to which he had referred a moment before, but he waited in vain. It was no part of Marcy's plan to draw the conversation back into that channel. Tierney saw that he must take the initiative himself, and he did it very abruptly.

"Look here, pilot," said he. "There's no use in your mincing matters with me in this way. Just a moment," he added, seeing that the boy raised his hand as if he were about to speak. "I am a Union man all over, my pardner is another, and you are another. I know it as well as I know anything, and the old man knows it—I mean, he as good as said he had heard of it, too."

"Well, what of it?" inquired Marcy. "What did he hire me for, when he knows that it is in my power to run his schooner hard and fast aground if a ship of war gets after us?"

"But he doesn't quite believe all he has heard, and he's willing to give you a chance to prove that you are true blue," said Tierney, with an awkward attempt to undo the mischief he had done by talking too rapidly.

"I am true blue," replied Marcy, "although I confess that my actions just about this time do not show it," he added, to himself. "As long as I remain aboard that schooner I shall do my duty the best I know how."

"And will you take her out of harm's way if a ship of war heaves in sight?"

"I will if I can."

"Then it isn't of any use for me to say more, I suppose?"

"Not the slightest; that is, if you mean to propose that I shall join you in seizing the vessel for the purpose of giving her up to one of Uncle Sam's ships."

"I never said so," exclaimed Tierney. "I never said one single, solitary word that could lead you to think I meant any such thing."

"I haven't hinted that you did; but all the same that is the proposition you came here to make me. I can see through a ladder as well as you can."

"Well, I don't see that it's any good to beat about the bush," said the ship-keeper frankly. "That's just what I came here for. We could get a reward for turning the schooner over, and you could run her up as far as Fortress Monroe, couldn't you?"

"I might do it on a pinch, but I won't."

"We'll have men enough to take her without the least trouble," urged Tierney.

"I hope you'll not try it, but if you do, you will find me close by Captain Beardsley's side."

"Will you fight?"

"I'll fight till I drop before I will go near the Yankees with the crew of that privateer. They would take one look at us, and then go to work and hang the whole lot."

"Why, didn't you tell the old man that they wouldn't?" exclaimed Tierney; and if Marcy could have had a view of his face, he would have seen that the ship-keeper was both astonished and frightened. "You must have changed your mind."

He certainly had, but did not feel called upon to explain why he had done so. His idea was that the faces of the schooner's crew, if Tierney and his companion ship-keeper were to be taken as specimens, would be quite enough to condemn them, and that the United States authorities would be justified in putting it out of their power to do mischief.

"I'll not have any hand in the mutiny, but will do my best to quell it if it breaks out," Marcy declared, with emphasis. "You've had your walk for nothing."

"So that's the end of that hope," said Tierney, looking down at the ground and trying to act as though he was very much disheartened. "You won't repeat what has passed between us, of course?"

"Of course I will. I'll go to Mr. Beardsley with it the first thing in the morning."

"What's that you say?" Tierney almost shouted. "Take back those words or I'll—"

He made a step forward and raised his hands as if he were about to spring at Marcy. His actions were certainly threatening, and the boy believing that he might commit an assault just to keep up appearances, thought it best to summon a friend upon whose loyalty he could always rely. A single shrill whistle arose upon the air, an answering bark came from the direction of the house, and Bose came bounding up to see what was the matter. Tierney recoiled.

"He'll not say a spiteful word to you if you let me alone," Marcy assured him. "You see now why I did not care to go down the road. You have nothing to fear from me, but I shall tell Captain Beardsley all about this interview as soon as I can find him. And that is just what I am expected to do," he added, to himself, as the ship-keeper turned around and hurried away. "That fellow isn't half as good a Union man as Bose is. Beardsley sent him here to test me, and I saw it almost from the beginning. If I don't report the matter, Beardsley will have his suspicions confirmed, and then he will set something else on foot against me. Oh, I'm a sharp one," laughed Marcy, taking off his cap and patting his own head, "but I'd give a good deal to know when and how I am going to get rid of that man. Whatever I do I must look out for mother's comfort and peace of mind, and so I will not lisp a word of this to her."

That night Marcy's sleep was disturbed by all sorts of bad dreams, during which he was constantly detecting Captain Beardsley in some plot to injure him, and when morning came he was not much refreshed. In accordance with his usual custom he had his horse brought to the door immediately after breakfast, kissed his mother good-by, and set out for Nashville to bring the mail; but he stopped on the way to have a talk with the owner of the privateer. Under almost any other circumstances Marcy would have thought he was playing a contemptible part; but being as certain as he wanted to be that Beardsley was trying to get a hold upon him for some purpose of his own, the boy thought himself justified in adopting heroic measures for self-defense. The ship-keeper was not the Union man he pretended to be, and Marcy would tell Beardsley nothing new when he revealed the plot at which Tierney had hinted the night before. This was what Marcy believed, and the manner in which he was greeted by the privateer captain confirmed him in his belief.

"Have you been over to the schooner this morning?" inquired the boy, when he had hitched his horse and taken possession of the chair that was brought out for him. "If you will not think me too inquisitive, I should like to know where you picked up the two men you left in charge of her."

"I found them in Newbern, and they were recommended to me, by a party in whom I have all confidence, as men who could be trusted," replied the captain. "What makes you ask the question? Don't you like the looks of 'em?"

"No, I don't, and neither do I like their actions," said the boy truthfully. "Tierney came to see me last night, and tried to induce me to take a walk down the road toward the place where I think his companion was concealed."

"What did he do that for?" exclaimed the captain, who was so anxious to be surprised that he could not wait until his visitor reached the surprising part of his story.

"He probably wanted a witness to the manner in which I received the plot he intended to propose to me if I had given the chance," answered Marcy, narrowly watching the effect of his words. "But he didn't propose it; I will say that much in favor of Tierney. He simply hinted at it, and I told him I wouldn't have a thing to do with it."

"Why, the—the—brat!" cried the captain.

"You wouldn't have thought it of him, would you?"

"Indeed I wouldn't. I thought he was trustworthy."

"But you see he isn't. I told him I would tell you all about it and I have," continued Marcy, who had told nothing at all; but he had led Captain Beardsley on to acknowledge, almost as explicitly as words could have done it, that he knew all about Tierney's plan for seizing the schooner. "I think you had better discharge him. I don't want to sail with a man who is all the while watching for a chance to get me into difficulty. And then see how he is going square back on the principles he professes!"

"I should say he was. I'll discharge him as soon as I can get where the schooner is, and tell him the next time he—But what did he do? What did he propose to you?"

"He didn't propose anything, because I didn't give him time. He only hinted at it, and I thought it an outrageous piece of villainy."

"So it was; so it was. But what did he hint at?"

"Why, seizing the schooner and turning her over to the Yankees. I told you all about it."

"So you did, and I say that hanging is too good for that traitor. What would you do with him if you was me?"

"Send him up to the United States or put him in jail," replied Marcy. He knew very well that the captain would do neither one nor the other, but Marcy wanted to get rid of that man. If he would go deliberately to work to get him into trouble, as he had done the night before by his employer's advice and consent, he might try it again when Marcy was not so well prepared for him.

"It scares me to think of it," said the owner of the privateer, who did not look as though he were very badly alarmed. "Such a thing as taking the schooner could be done easy enough, and where would you be if it was attempted?"

"I should be on the side of the authorities. There's where you will always find me. I wouldn't fall into the power of the Yankees for ten times the value of all the prizes that will be captured on this coast during the war. I should never expect to see home again. I told Tierney I would fight first."

"I guess you will do to tie to, Marcy," said the captain; and the visitor told himself that those were the only truthful words he had uttered during the interview. "If all my crew is as loyal as you are, and if all the men in the army stick up for the Stars and Bars as you do, we'll gain our independence in less'n six months."

Marcy was not aware he had "stuck up" for the Stars and Bars, but it would not be safe to set the captain right, as he would have been glad to do, and besides this was the time to learn something.

"I don't know where Tierney got his information, but he has heard from several sources that I am for the Union," said he.

"That's what folks say," replied Beardsley.

"What have I said or done since I came home to lead them to think so?"

"Not a word; not a thing. It's what you haven't said and done that makes 'em suspicion you. You don't whoop and holler and yell and slosh around with your revolver, like the most of the young chaps do."

"I am not given to such antics, and these are no times for monkey-shines. We need sober, thoughtful men who will do their best to steer us safely through the difficulties by which we are surrounded, rather than whooping and yelling young ones who seemed determined to wreck us."

"That's good, sound argument," assented Captain Beardsley, as the visitor pushed back his chair and went down the steps to unhitch his horse.

"But there's one thing I want to tell you," continued Marcy. "I haven't signed any papers and consequently I am still a free man; and if you want me in that schooner worse than you want Tierney, well and good. If you don't, you can keep him and I will stay ashore."

Marcy had pinned a very slight hope of release right here. He was satisfied that the owner of the privateer must think a good deal of the man Tierney or he would not have placed so much confidence in him; and he hoped the captain would decide to keep him and let his pilot go. For a time it looked as though the hope might be realized, for the captain hesitated and stammered in such a way that there was no doubt left in Marcy's mind that he was loth to give Tierney up; but seeing the boy's eyes fastened upon him with a most searching glance Beardsley aroused himself to say:

"Of course; of course."

"Would you feel safe at sea knowing that you had a traitor among the crew—one who was waiting and watching for an opportunity to turn you and your vessel over to the Yankees?" continued Marcy.

"No, I wouldn't," and the words came out quickly and honestly. "I wouldn't live on a vessel under them conditions."

"Well, whom are you going to keep—him or me?"

"You, of course. I couldn't get along without somebody who knows Crooked Inlet better than I do. Going to Nashville after your mail? Well, when you come back ride round to the schooner and you'll find that Tierney isn't there."

"What good will it do to ride around to the schooner?" thought the boy, as he gave his horse the rein and galloped out of the yard. "Of course Tierney wouldn't be there. He would hear me coming through the bushes and have plenty of time to jump ashore and hide himself. A blind man ought to see that I did right when I went to Beardsley with my story. He never asked what the plot was until he committed himself, nor did he inquire how many there were in it, nor did he get half as mad over it as he would if Tierney were a sure-enough Union man. It was a put-up job, I tell you, and who knows but there may be others of much the same sort hanging over me at this very minute? I do despise secret enemies."

News travels rapidly when all the people in a place are thinking and talking about the same things, and Marcy saw the fact illustrated when he reached Nashville. The mail and express packages were delayed by an accident to the wagon in which they were conveyed to and from the nearest stage station; it took two or three hours to repair it, so that it was mid-day before Marcy was ready to start for home. He always dreaded an enforced delay in town, and tried to time himself so that he would reach the post-office after everybody else had left it. In the days gone by he had been on friendly terms with all the Nashville people who were worth knowing, but it was not so now. He was treated civilly enough, but rather coolly, by those he met on the street and in the office, and he noticed that few of them took the trouble to speak to him. This being the case, he wondered what influence had been at work to bring about the change he noticed before he was fairly inside the town limits. It was "Hello, Marcy!" here, and "How are you, old fellow?" there, and when he hitched his horse and went into the post-office, where there was a crowd assembled, his greeting was as cordial as any that had ever been extended to him. Marcy opened his eyes, but said little, knowing that if he had the patience to wait somebody would explain the matter to him. He got a clue to the situation when young Allison, after telling him that the mail wagon had broken down and might not be along for an hour or two, inquired:

"How's your ship, Marcy? I suppose you calculate to sweep the sea of everything that carries the Yankee flag, don't you? I shall look for astonishing reports when you get among the war-ships that are coming to blockade the coast."

Allison was a loud-mouthed young rebel who had made himself particularly obnoxious to quiet, peace-loving Marcy Gray. He did not say anything to Marcy's face that the latter could resent (he was afraid to do that, notwithstanding the fact that he always carried a loaded revolver in his pocket), but he had said a good many insulting words to others that were intended for Marcy's benefit. The latter turned upon him like a flash, and said, so that every one in the office heard it:

"We don't expect to whip the whole Yankee navy, but we shall do the best we can, and that's more than you seem inclined to do. You have had a good deal to say concerning the cowards who are stopping at home when the South is calling for their services. Why did you not go to the front yourself long ago, you noisy braggart? Put a uniform on before you speak to me again."

"Good for you, Marcy," cried a score of voices. "Actions and not frothy sentiment are what we want now."

"Hit him again and I'll help," shouted another; and Marcy's old-time friend, Wat Gifford, elbowed his way through the crowd. He was in full uniform, and was the only citizen of Nashville who had snuffed powder at the bombardment of Fort Sumter. "Talk is cheap, but it takes patriotism to face Yankees."

If Marcy had had a week in which to consider the matter, he could not have done a better thing than he did right there on the spur of the moment. Young Allison slunk away abashed, and the privateer's pilot regained at one bound all he had ever lost in the estimation of the Nashville people.



CHAPTER XVII.

MARCY GRAY PRIVATEERSMAN.

"Wat, you're just the fellow I want to see," exclaimed Marcy, taking his friend by the arm and leading him from the post-office. "When did you get home?"

"Came last night to recruit after my arduous campaign, and to spread a little enthusiasm and patriotism among you stay-at-home chaps," answered Wat. "But, say," he added, in a lower tone. "I didn't expect to find you in the service. You're Union."

"Who told you that?"

"I'll be switched if I know. It's all over the country and in everybody's mouth. I reckon you're Union about as I am. I say that secession is all wrong, that we would be better without it, and that the people who are urging it on don't know what they are about. There's Allison for one; and I'm heartily glad you gave him such a set-back. He'll talk himself hoarse, but when it comes to shouldering a musket, he'll not be there. He'll be a bully chap to stand back and holler 'St-boy'; but he won't take a hand himself."

By this time the two friends had perched themselves upon a low fence where they could be alone and talk without fear of being overheard, and Gifford showed his Yankee descent by pulling out his knife and looking around for a stick to whittle.

"And is that the reason all our old friends have gone back on us, mother and me—because they think we are for the Union?" asked Marcy.

"I believe that is the reason a good many have turned the cold shoulder upon you," replied Gifford. "You asked me a fair question, and I have given you a plain answer; but I am sorry to have to do it."

"It's all right," Marcy assured him. "I want to know where I stand—"

"And then you will know how to carry yourself," added his friend. "But every one hasn't gone back on you; I haven't."

"You are the solitary exception."

"Well, you have taken the right course to show people that they were mistaken in you," said Gifford. "I don't see but that you were well enough treated to-day."

"And joining the privateer was what worked the change?"

"I think so. Where do you stand, any way? You need not be afraid to be honest with me."

"I think as you do, only I go a little farther. The Constitution says: 'Treason against the United States shall consist in levying war against them.' Did you fellows levy war against them when you fired upon Sumter? If you did, you are traitors the last one of you."

"W-h-e-w!" whistled Gifford. "And you think we ought to be hanged?"

"I certainly hope you won't be, you especially, but you know as well as I do that the penalty of treason is death."