Part 8 (1/2)

Mr. Beecham's conversation about the war, conditions in the South, his hatred of the North and the abolitionists, occupied most of Tom's attention. It was difficult to play the role of Southerner; he wanted to protest against some of the things the older man said. There was slight opportunity for him to reply, however, and so he simply nodded, apparently agreeing heartily.

”Did you ride far last night?” asked Miss Marjorie finally.

”From Wartrace,” he said. ”I came through the lines there.”

”And weren't there any Union sentries?”

”I didn't stop to investigate.”

Mr. Beecham broke in upon their conversation at that point with some observations of his own upon the subject of Northern politics. Then he drifted to war manoeuvers: ”I tell you, Beauregard will smash that man Mitchel to a million pieces. Mitchel is so frightened that he dares not move. Whichever way he moves, he is lost. He is trapped like a man at chess. The best thing he can do is to surrender before he loses his troops. He dares not move.”

And Tom was thinking to himself: ”How surprised you'd be if you knew that Mitchel was moving this very minute.”

Mitchel was moving. Under the weight of their water-soaked equipment, his men were plodding wearily through the mud, marching slowly and steadily upon Huntsville. While Tom had been riding through the night, Mitchel's men had slept on the flooded ground between Shelbyville and Fayetteville. Now they were prying the heaving wagons from the mud holes, while the cavalry swept out on the flanks to clear the country of enemy scouts. Skirmishers were advancing through the woods and over the hills, protecting the troops, with their thousands of wagons and guns, from surprise attack. General Mitchel, riding through the drizzle, announced to his aides: ”Regardless of the weather, we will attack Huntsville Friday.”

Even Andrews, underrating Mitchel's relentless determination to do what he said he would do, if all the forces of the weather were against him, thought himself safe in delaying the raid at least one day.

CHAPTER SIX

ON TO CHATTANOOGA

”I must leave, sir, as soon as my horse is fit to travel,” replied Tom to Mr. Beecham's questions regarding his plans. ”That will give me more than enough time if the ferry is running, and just enough time if I must follow the river to the Chattanooga ferry.”

Mr. Beecham's house was only ten miles from the town, figured on the map; but the weather made map figuring hazardous. The Tennessee River had mounted to a torrent under the continual rains, and the ferries which customarily provided short-cuts were, for the most part, not operating. Tom gathered that information at breakfast. He had no intention of trying to cross at the Chattanooga ferry, for the Confederate guards there would be dangerously strong, and it remained to find some ferryman who could be bribed to risk the trip. That might take time.

”I'll look at your horse while I'm out,” said Mr. Beecham. He was preparing, regardless of the storm, for his usual walk about his estate. He went out, and Mrs. Beecham turned to her household duties. Miss Marjorie and Tom were alone, standing before the blazing fire in the hall. There was still that disconcerting twinkle of amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

”I suppose I do look funny,” he said, glancing down at his clothes.

”It's not kind of me to laugh,” she replied. ”Were you very wet!”

”As wet as one person can possibly be. I absorbed at least half of the rainstorm between Wartrace and here. No more water would stick to me-it just rolled off, finally.”

”I don't think I should like being a soldier,” she said. ”Do you?”

”I haven't tried it. I'm just beginning.”

”Do you want to fight?”

”It isn't a question of wanting to fight,” he replied. ”It's a question of duty.”

”Oh.” She sat down and he took a chair beside her. ”But you were out of it. No one would have said that it was your duty to run the danger of going through the Union pickets.”

He wished that she would not talk about the war. It was unpleasant, this lying to a girl. With Mr. Beecham it was different. Then he remembered that she had said ”Union pickets,” instead of ”Yankee pickets.” It struck him as strange, coming from a Southern girl.

”Tell me about your home,” she asked.

He gave a rather sketchy description of his imaginary home in Fleming County, Kentucky-a none too convincing description. Then he tried to change the subject by asking her if she had always lived with the Beechams.

”No-not always,” she answered. ”Is Fleming Cou....”

”And is your name Beecham?” he interrupted, anxious to avoid the subject of Fleming County.