Part 9 (2/2)

”You stay there until this gentleman is across the river.”

”Ya.s.sah.”

Tom mounted and they started down the road. He looked back, saw Marjorie at the window, and waved. She answered him.

Despite the rain which beat in their faces, Tom studied the country through which they were pa.s.sing, and asked the negro boy innumerable questions. But he found his mind slipping back constantly to Marjorie. A Northern girl in the South! Surrounded by ”rebs” but still true to her country! And she wished him luck!

”Whose place is that?” asked Tom, pointing to a small house which was almost hidden from the road by trees.

An expression of dislike came over the negro's face. ”Mistah Murdock's,” he answered.

”A farmer?”

”No, suh,” replied the negro. The expression of dislike changed visibly to repugnance and fear. He added: ”He keeps dawgs!”

There was no need to ask more. The negro's tone was sufficient. Dogs! There was only one reason why a man made a business of keeping dogs-to chase escaping slaves. The thought was horrible to Tom, and he turned away.

They found the ferryman in his shanty, hugging a stove.

”No crossing today,” he announced. ”Look at that there river. No crossing today. Besides that, it's forbidden by the law. No Sentry, no crossing.”

That was good news! No Sentry! ”Mr. Beecham thought that you would take me across,” said Tom. ”Sam, give him Mr. Beecham's note.”

”Ya.s.suh.” Sam produced the note.

The ferryman read it, scratching his head. ”That man'll be my death yet,” he said. ”Take a horse across today? No, sir! I'll take you across if you and the n.i.g.g.e.r'll handle oars, but not the horse! No, sir! It's against the law, anyways. No Sentry, no crossing. No, sir! I'll risk the river an' the law, just because Mr. Beecham asks it, but I can't take that there nag.”

”Well, then we'll leave the horse behind,” answered Tom. ”I can pull an oar. Can you row, Sam?”

The negro backed against the wall, shaking his head, terrified at the thought of the rough crossing.

”Just like all of 'em,” said the ferryman. ”When there's any danger, don't count on them. Mr. Beecham treats his n.i.g.g.e.rs too easy, anyways. I always say if he'd lick 'em they'd be better.”

”He's pretty easy with them, is he?” asked Tom.

”Treats 'em as though they were prize stock,” answered the ferryman in disgust. ”I guess you and I can get across,” he grumbled. ”Two white men're better 'an a dozen of 'em.”

”Sam, you take my horse back to Mr. Beecham. I'll write a note for you to carry.” Tom wrote a message, explaining that the horse could not be ferried across, and asking that it be disposed of in any manner that suited Mr. Beecham's convenience.

The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river. Tom, swinging on his big oar in answer to the ferryman's cries of ”Ho!” ”Now!”, saw the other bank creeping nearer. At last they cleared the full flood of the stream. On the other sh.o.r.e, Sam stood open-mouthed, watching them.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river.]

It was eight o'clock that evening when Tom, soaked to the skin again, cold, hungry, and tired, tramped into the little town of Chattanooga. A few lamps shone through the windows into the deserted street, making dull splotches of yellow in the mist. Three or four people pa.s.sed him, hurrying to be out of the storm.

He stopped one man and asked: ”Where can I find a hotel?” Then he gasped as the man straightened and threw back the coat he had thrown over his head and shoulders: it was a Confederate soldier!

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