Part 41 (2/2)

”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 a.s.sumed 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 ent.i.tle him to much consideration at the hands of the rebels; and he was disposed to deny his ident.i.ty. 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 pa.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty 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 doc.u.ment. ”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.

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