Chapter XVIII: Across the Potomac Once More

To go back to Andy at the time he was slowly recovering from a bullet wound in his shoulder, inflicted by a Union soldier at the time of his capture during the battle of Ball’s Bluff.

The pain had now left him entirely, and although he was still weak from what he had experienced, yet he was able to sit up, and that was a great comfort. Every warm day a chair was placed for him upon the piazza of the Lemming homestead and here he would read, or watch the river, or play checkers and dominoes with Viola Lemming.

So the golden Virginia summer passed. In the meantime Andy heard how the great army of the North was assembling at Washington, and of what that patriotic body was expected to do. But from home, from his parents, his company, or the rebel cause, he heard nothing.

The late autumn found him walking about the plantation. Viola Lemming often accompanied him. She noticed how strong he was getting.

“I presume you will want to leave us soon,” she said, with half a smile.

“I was thinking I would go away next week,” he answered. “I have ventured on your hospitality too long already.”

“You are welcome to stay as long as you please,” she returned, quickly. “You--you seem like one of the family.”

His thin face flushed with pleasure at this. “You are very, very kind--you and your mother and your little sister,” he said, taking her hand. “As long as I live I shall never forget you, and I do trust that some day I shall be able to repay you, at least in part.” And then he turned away as he saw how red in the face Viola became. The two young folks had grown to think a great deal of each other.

That night he told Mrs. Lemming of his intention. “I will not outstay my welcome, warm as it has been,” he said. “To-morrow you can notify the army authorities, if you will. As soon as they come for me, you will no longer be responsible for my keeping.”

“But they will put you in prison!” said Viola, shuddering. “I didn’t think of that when you spoke. I thought--” she did not finish.

“Did you think I would break my word of honor?” he questioned, seriously.

“No--but--but--Oh, to go to prison! It is horrible!” She tried to speak on, but the words stuck in her throat and she rushed from the room. Her mother was scarcely less affected.

“It is terrible, this change you think of making,” said Mrs. Lemming. “Better stay here, while you can. Perhaps the war will soon be over, and then you can cross the river to your folks.”

But he was obdurate. He did not intend to go to a Union prison if it could be avoided, but at the same time he would not break his word to them and get them into trouble with the army authorities.

That afternoon a slave carried a note from Mrs. Lemming to the nearest Union camp. In this she stated that the prisoner left at her house was now almost well and had desired to be turned over to the proper authorities. She added that he was not much more than a boy, and she trusted that the commandant would treat him with as little harshness as possible, and that if he could have him exchanged for a Union prisoner in the near future, she would consider it a special favor, for the prisoner had acted so gentlemanly during his illness that he had quite won her heart.

On receiving this note the captain in charge smiled grimly. “All woman’s bosh,” he muttered. “We’ll soon have the young rebel behind the bars and give him a taste of how Union men are treated in their own foul prisons.”

It was not yet sundown when he detailed a guard of three soldiers to bring Andy to the camp. The soldiers started off on foot, and having to tramp a distance of three miles over rather rough roads, reached Mrs. Lemming’s place an hour later.

“So this is the young rebel, eh,” said the sergeant in charge. “All right, we have a description of him on file. Come on.”

“In a moment,” answered Andy, and shook hands with Mrs. Lemming, Viola, and the younger girl. “Good-by, and remember, I shall never forget your kindness. You’ll have a little more ease, I fancy, now you are no longer responsible for my safe-keeping,” he added, with peculiar emphasis, which, however, no one but Viola noticed.

“I shall regret having you go,” answered Mrs. Lemming. Viola said nothing more just then, but turned and re-entered the house. In a second more Andy was off, with the sergeant ahead and a soldier upon each side of him.

“I guess you’ll remember the sweet time you had there when you’re in a regular prison,” remarked one of the soldiers, in an effort to twit the lad. “You won’t have no sech soft bits of calico to look after you, I’ll warrant you that!”

The end of the plantation grounds had hardly been reached when Viola came rushing along the path, calling to Andy to stop. He halted, turned and took several steps toward her.

“Here is a silk neckerchief for you,” she said, handing over the gift, and then she added in a whisper, while her face was crimson: “You are no longer responsible to us--the neckerchief contains a pistol--_escape if you can_!” Before the astonished young Confederate could reply, she was speeding back to the house.

Although nearly dumbfounded, Andy did not lose his wits. He turned his back to the soldiers, slipped the little silver-mounted weapon, which had belonged to Mrs. Lemming, into his bosom, and waved the silk cloth in the air. “Thank you, and good-bye for the last time!” he cried, and gave himself up once more, and the march forward proceeded. One of the soldiers would have taken the neckerchief away from him, but the sergeant, though rough, was too fair-minded to allow anything of such a nature to take place.

On they went along a road bounded on one side by an open tobacco-field and on the other by a spare growth of wood, with here and there a patch of brush. Andy noted with satisfaction that it was growing dark rapidly and that the timber was between himself and the river.

He understood thoroughly what a risk he would run in trying to escape--that his captors would first try to catch him, and failing in this, would do their best to shoot him down. But, on the other hand, what was he to expect? A journey to a Northern prison, where perhaps he would be made to pass months, and it might be years, in some loathsome cell, crowded in with others, poorly fed, and made to suffer all sorts of indignities. He imagined things worse than they were, but the effect upon his actions was the same as though it were all true.

A mile had been covered, when they reached a bend in the road, which now turned away from the Potomac. Here stood a deserted farmhouse, set in a wilderness of pear-trees.

“Great smoke, look!” yelled Andy, shoving the soldiers away from him and pointing towards the house. “Look out, they are going to shoot us! Look out!” And with a quick dash he gained the side of the highway and leaped the worm-fence. As was natural, all three of the Union soldiers ducked their heads and strove in vain to ascertain what Andy meant. By the time they had recovered and comprehended the trick that had been played, the young Confederate was out of sight behind the trees.

“Fools! After him!” shrieked the sergeant, and clambered over the fence as rapidly as his somewhat dumpy form would permit. At the same time one of the soldiers, seeing a quiver among the trees, fired, but the bullet did not touch Andy. In a moment more all three of the Union soldiers were in full pursuit.

In the meantime, the young Confederate was making his way through the tangled undergrowth and over jagged rocks and exposed tree-roots with all the speed at his command. There was no mistaking the location of the river, for the whole neighborhood sloped in that direction, so all he had to do was to keep on going downhill until the water was gained.

It was perilous moving, too, for the undergrowth was thick with briar bushes, which scratched his face and his hands, and caught his clothing so tightly that often it was impossible to move until the offending branch had been torn completely from its bush.

“I’m bound to get away somehow,” he muttered, as he flung aside a briar which left a scratch from nose to ear. “There is one consolation, they are all larger than me, especially that sergeant, and traveling down here will be just that much more difficult for them. If only they don’t send word along the river front to watch out for me.”

The last thought gave him a chill. But he did not waste time upon it. He heard his pursuers crashing along, a hundred feet behind him. They seemed to be getting closer, or else it was only his imagination. Coming to a clear spot, he crossed it like a deer chased by dogs and hunters.

Bang! bang! He was seen, and the sergeant and one of the privates had fired. He felt one bullet clip his shoulder, directly over the spot where he had been wounded before. It was agony to think of this. What if he had to suffer the awful pain of being shot again? He was almost tempted to give up.

But before he could reach such a conclusion he was safe among the trees again. He was now descending into a hollow, thick with undergrowth, and here it was as dark as though the time was midnight instead of eight o’clock of a summer evening.

At the bottom of the hollow he paused, and at a spring that was handy, procured a drink. On the opposite side of the hollow was another clearing. Should he attempt to cross it at once, or wait until a more favorable opportunity presented itself? While he pondered the situation, the voices of the three soldiers broke upon his ear.

“See anything of him, sergeant?”

“No, Fosdick, do you?”

“Nary a hair.”

“How about it, Cramer?”

“He came down into the hollow, I’m sure of it,” replied the third soldier. “But I guess he’s up the other side now.”

“We’ll go around and see.”

The trio moved off, one to one side, the remaining two to the other. Andy, fairly holding his breath, crouched low behind a bush overhanging the spring. What if they should surround him and call upon him to give himself up.

“I’ll sell my life as dearly as I can,” he thought, and drew forth the silver-mounted pistol Viola Lemming had given him. It was a six-barrelled affair, in those days something quite up to date, and every barrel was loaded. With great caution he raised the hammer.

An anxious ten minutes passed. The men had gone beyond sight and hearing, and he was beginning to think they would not return, when he again heard the voice of the sergeant.

“Fosdick! Cramer! Where are you?” was the cry. “Confound the luck, where can that young fellow be? I’ll take a look into the hollow on my own account.” And the sergeant began to descend.

He was almost upon the young Confederate when Andy thought it time to act. Leaping to his feet with marvelous swiftness, he thrust his pistol into the sergeant’s face.

“Throw down your gun, quick!” he commanded, in a whisper. “Down--or I fire!”

The words and the flash of the silver-mounted pistol took the Union soldier by surprise and he started back with lowered gun. Then Andy sprang upon him, and with a shove and a twist of the foot sent the dumpy figure headfirst into the spring.

“Wough!” came in a splutter from the sergeant, but the youth did not hear him. With nimble steps he made his way up the hollow’s side, and once more began the race for the river bank.

Andy now felt that he must be alert for the enemy in front as well as behind, for the two soldiers not having come back, must have gone forward. He strained his eyes to their utmost and clutched his pistol tighter. A half-articulated prayer for deliverance arose to his lips. Oh, if only he could get safely into Virginia again!

Presently a welcome sound broke upon his ears. It was the murmur of the swollen river, as it rushed over the rocks in the shallows and made a bend southward. Soon he parted the final line of brush and saw the dancing water before him. Catching the hammer of the pistol in his hat, so as to hold the weapon dry, he jammed the headgear down tightly and waded into the stream.

He advanced with extreme caution, knowing how treacherous the Potomac is at certain times of the year, and aware that the whole northern side was picketed by Union soldiers, while the southern shore was guarded by men of his own stamp. To be shot by one or the other of the military guards would be equally unpleasant and, perhaps, equally fatal.

“If I only had some way of letting our men know that I am all right,” he thought, as he paused when about one-fourth of the stream had been passed. He knew they could not see his uniform in the gloom, and, having lost his cavalry hat, he was now wearing one which had formerly belonged to Mr. Lemming, and which Mrs. Lemming had kindly given him.

A few steps farther and he suddenly went down almost to his armpits. The current now took him off his feet and sent a shiver over him. He felt very cold, and realized that he was not yet half as strong as he had imagined. But turning back was out of the question, and he struck out boldly for the opposite bank, a distance of over a hundred and fifty feet.

The middle of the stream had been gained and he was congratulating himself on the fine progress made, when suddenly a challenge rang out from a point some distance below him.

“Hullo, there, in the river! Who are you?”

“A friend!” cried Andy, but instead of halting, he swam on faster than ever.

“If you are a friend, turn in here and give the countersign.”

“I can’t turn in--I’m bound for the other shore,” answered Andy, but the last words were so low the picket did not hear them--nor did the young Confederate intend that he should.

“Can’t turn in?” queried the guard. “Yes, you can. Come now, or I’ll fire.”

“Don’t fire!” yelled back Andy, and then having swam a few more strokes he clutched his pistol and dove out of sight.

He was none too soon, for feeling he was being duped, the Union picket brought his gun into range and pulled the trigger. From under the surface of the stream Andy heard a muffled report, but the bullet passed wide of its mark.

The young Confederate remained under as long as possible, at the same time reaching out with desperate efforts for the southern shore. He felt himself carried downward by the current and this in itself tended to bring him closer to the picket than ever. At last, unable to hold his breath a second longer, he came up and gave a gasp.

The firing of the gun had aroused the picket line for several hundreds of feet up and down the river and on both sides. A rush was made on the Union side, and the picket was asked to explain matters, which he did as well as he could.

“We’ll have him yet,” cried the officer in command. “Bring out the flatboat, Carriwell, quick!”

His order was obeyed, and the officer and two men entered. But all this had taken time and now Andy was once more where he could touch bottom. He looked back and saw the boat put out.

“Save me, brother Confederates!” he cried. “Save me! Shoot the Yankees!”

“We will!” came an answer from almost in front of him, and then two guns spoke up spitefully. A groan came from the flatboat, which was immediately turned back. The pursuit was over. Several shots were fired, but in the gloom they went wild, and then the shooting came to an end.

Not until it was all over did Andy fully realize what a tremendous strain he had been under. He waded out of the water and up the muddy bank, to find himself confronted by half a dozen anxious men in gray.

“What does this mean? Who are you?” demanded one of the number.

“I am a Confederate, like yourselves. I have been a prisoner and I just escaped,” answered Andy. “My name is Andy Arlington, and I belong to the Montgomery Grays, cavalry, of Lee Run. If some of you will help--”

He could get no further. Everything danced before his eyes, trees, soldiers, and guns, and he fell back into a pair of outstretched arms, utterly exhausted.

“A brave youngster, I’ll wager a fortune,” was the comment of the Confederate who held him. “Come, men, let us take him to camp and do the best we can for him.”