Part 6 (1/2)
More than an hour later they saw a light buggy drawn by two horses approaching them; then they distinguished Wilson and the Sergeant. As the horses were reined in, Wilson jumped from the buggy.
”All right,” he said, laughing. Then to the guards, ”Thanks for your company, boys. Let's have our guns.”
The guards looked at the Sergeant, puzzled. ”Yep,” said the Sergeant, ”give the revolvers. These men are all right. The Captain says that we're to forget that we've ever seen 'em.” He winked at Wilson, then reached out and slapped him on the back.
As the soldiers walked away, Wilson said: ”Andrews arrived at Wartrace early this morning, just after these men left, and told the Captain to be watching for any of his men who might get caught by the sentries. When I went into the Captain's room, he looked at me and said, 'Andrews?' I said, 'Yes, sir.' In about two minutes I was on my way back. We have to cut down along a road about a hundred yards from here. I have a pa.s.s to get us by the Sentry. We have to make Manchester tonight.”
Without wasting any time in talking, the three men hurried to the road that would take them past the Union lines and into the enemy country. A few minutes later a Sentry challenged them. Wilson produced his pa.s.s, the Sentry nodded and they went forward.
As they pressed on across the strip of country between the Northern and Southern pickets, General Mitchel's army of ten thousand men broke camp. Tents were struck, wagons loaded, knapsacks swung into place ... and the army stretched out to crawl wearily through that sea of jelly-like mud towards Huntsville.
It was early in the afternoon when Tom, Shadrack, and Wilson reached Manchester. They were tired and wet, but far worse than being tired and wet, they were hungry. They resolved that the first thing they should do was forage for food, and so they made their way directly to the small store in the center of the village. But there was little food to be had there. The storekeeper, a wizened old man who had lost all interest in selling things, told them that they might be able to buy something from one of the village people-he didn't know who had food for sale. Perhaps the Widow Fry-he indicated the general direction of the Widow Fry's house-might give them something. They turned away from the store disconsolately.
”It's raining again,” remarked Shadrack. He turned his round face upward and gazed at the sky so solemnly that the others laughed. But there was no disputing the fact: the drizzle had commenced. To the south, in the direction of Chattanooga, the clouds had formed a dark, ominous wall, as though nature were raising a barrier to the expedition.
A man, hurrying to be home and out of the rain, came abreast of them. Tom stopped him.
”Can you tell us where the Widow Fry lives?” he asked.
”Yes,” answered the man, and he glanced from Tom to Shadrack and Wilson deliberately. ”But tell me why everyone is going to the Widow Fry's!”
”Everyone?” asked Wilson.
”Well, three men stopped me 'bout a minute ago and asked the same thing,” the man replied. ”Friends of yours, maybe?”
”No,” answered Wilson. It was a truthful answer, too, for even if the men belonged to Andrews' party, they would not have recognized them. ”The storekeeper said we could get something to eat there.”
”Just traveling, are you!” persisted the man.
”So to speak,” replied Wilson. He was determined not to risk trouble again, not to say that they were on their way to join the Southern army until they were well within the Southern lines.
”Come on, let's be getting in out of the rain,” said Tom suddenly. ”Don't let's stand here getting wet. Where is the Widow Fry's?”
”'Fraid of the wet, young man?” asked the native of Manchester.
”Yes,” answered Tom bluntly.
”Well,” drawled the man. He turned away from them sufficiently for Tom to nudge Wilson and motion up the street. Andrews was riding toward them! He was mounted upon a tired-looking bay, whose head drooped from hard riding. Andrews looked equally tired, for he sat hunched up in the saddle, his cape drawn tightly around him and his head bowed. ”Y'see that clump of trees down yonder!” asked the man. ”The Widow Fry's house is just beyond that. Are you journeyin' far?”
”Thank you,” answered Tom. ”No, we're not going far.” They strode away, leaving the inquisitive citizen of Manchester staring after them. ”The old fool!” Tom exclaimed. ”He'd keep us there for an hour. I wonder where Andrews is going?” He hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Andrews was almost up to them.
”We'd better not speak to him until we're farther away from these houses,” said Wilson.
”When we get down almost to the trees, I'll hail him.”
They quickened their pace so that Andrews would come abreast of them near the Widow Fry's. Several times Tom glanced back to see if Andrews was watching them, but the leader's eyes seemed never to waver from the pommel of his saddle. The village street narrowed down to a country road, and the ”plock-plock-plock” of the horse's hoofs on the mud sounded directly behind them.
”This is all right,” said Wilson. ”Let's slow down.” Then, as the horse came up to them, Wilson said: ”Andrews!”
”Follow me,” Andrews answered. He touched his horse with his spurs. The animal was too tired to do more than quicken its step, but it carried Andrews ahead of them rapidly.