Читать книгу Who Goes There? - B. K. Benson - Страница 12

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"Why, then, let's on our way in silent sort."--SHAKESPEARE.

Lydia was kept busy in the hospital; her evenings, however, were spent with her father.

Before the Army of the Potomac began to arrive, I had recovered all my old vigour, and had become restless through inaction. Nobody could say when the Eleventh would come. The troops, as they landed, found roomy locations for their camps, for the rebels were far off at Yorktown, and with only flying parties of cavalry patrolling the country up to our pickets. I had no duty to do; but for the Doctor's company time would have been heavy on my hands.

About the last of March the army had reached Newport News, but no Eleventh. What to do with myself? The Doctor would not move his camp until the eve of battle, and he expressed the opinion that there would be no general engagement until we advanced much nearer to Richmond.

On the 2d of April, at supper, I told Dr. Khayme that I was willing to serve in the ranks of any company until the Eleventh should come.

"General McClellan has come, and your regiment will come in a few days," he replied; "and I doubt if anybody would want you; the troops now here are more than are needed, except for future work. Besides, you might do better. You have good eyes, and a good memory as long as it lasts; you might make a secret examination of the Confederate lines."

"A what? Oh, you mean by myself?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it practicable?" I asked.

"Should I have suggested it if I do not?"

"Pardon me, Doctor; but you were so sudden."

"Well, think of it," said he.

"Doctor, if you'll put me in the way to do it, I'll try it!" I exclaimed, for, somehow, such work had always fascinated me. I did not wish to become a spy, or to act as one for a day even, but I liked the thought of creeping through woods and swamps and learning the positions and movements of the enemy. In Charleston, in my school days, and afterward, I had read Gilmore Simms's scouting stories with, eagerness, and had worshipped his Witherspoon.

"When will you wish to begin?" asked the Doctor.

"Just as soon as possible; this idleness is wearing; to-day, if possible."

"I cannot let you go before to-morrow," said he; "I must try to send you off properly."

When Lydia came in that night, and was told of our purposes by the Doctor, I fancied that she became more serious instantly. But she said little, and I could only infer that she might be creating in her brain false dangers for a friend.

By the next afternoon, which, was the 3d of April, everything was ready for me. The Doctor showed me in his stores-tent a sober suit of gray clothes, not military clothes, but of a cut that might deceive the eye at a distance, yet when closer seen would exonerate the wearer from any suspicion that he was seriously offering himself as a Confederate.

"Now, I had to guess at it," said the Doctor; "but I think it will fit you well enough."

It did fit well enough; it was loose and comfortable, and, purposely, had been soiled somewhat after making. The Doctor gave me also a black felt hat.

"Have you studied the map I gave you?" he asked.

"Yes, I can remember the roads and streams thoroughly," I answered.

"Then do not take it; all you want is a knife and a few trivial things such as keys in your pocket, so that if you should be searched nothing can be proved. Leave all your money in bills behind; coin will not be bad to take; here are a few Confederate notes for you."

"Do I need a pass?"

"Yes; here is a paper that may hang you if you are caught by the Confederates; use it to go through your lines, and then destroy it; I want you to get back again. If you should be captured, a pass would betray you; if your men got you and will not let you go, it will not be difficult to explain at headquarters."

"I suppose you have already explained at headquarters?"

"Don't ask questions. Now you must sit down and eat; you don't know when you will get another meal."

At dusk I started. My purpose was to avoid our own pickets and reach before dawn a point opposite the right of the rebel line, which was believed to rest on James River, near or at Mulberry Island, or Mulberry Point; I would then watch for opportunities, and act accordingly, with the view of following up the rebel line, or as near to it as possible.

I took no gun or anything whatever to burden me. I was soon outside the guard line of the camp. My way at first was almost due north by the Young's Mill road. Darkness quickly came, and I was glad of it. The stars gave me enough light. My road was good, level, sandy--a lane between two rail fences almost hidden with vines and briers. At my left and behind me I could hear the roar of the surf.

When I had gone some two miles, I thought I heard noises ahead, I stopped, and put my ear to the ground. Cavalry. Were they our men, or rebels? I did not want to be seen by either. I slipped into a fence corner. A squad rode by, going toward Hampton, no doubt. I waited until they had passed out of sight, and then rose to continue my tramp, when suddenly, before I had made a step, another horseman rode by, following the others. If he had looked in my direction, he would have seen me; but he passed on with his head straight to the front. I supposed that this last man was on duty as the rear of the squad.

Now I tore up my pass into little bits and tossed them away. The party of cavalry which, had passed me, I believed, were our patrol, and that I should find no more of our men; so I was now extremely cautious in going forward, not knowing how soon I might run against some scouting party of the rebels.

The road soon diverged far from the shore; the ground was sandy and mostly level; and in many places covered with, a thick, small growth. The imperfect light gave me no extended vision, but from studying the map before I had set out I had some idea of the general character of the country at my right, as well as a pretty accurate notion of the distance I must make before I should come near to the first rebel post; though, of course, I could not know that such post had not been abandoned, or advanced even, within the last few hours.

I went on, then, keeping a sharp lookout to right and left and straight ahead, and every now and then stopping to listen. My senses were alert; I thought of nothing but my present purposes; I felt that I was alone and dependent upon myself, but the feeling was not greatly oppressive.

Having gone some four or five miles, I saw before me a fence running at a right angle to the road I was on; this fence was not continued to the left of my road, so I supposed that at this fence was the junction of the road to Little Bethel, and as I had clearly seen before I started that at this junction there was danger of finding a rebel outpost, or of falling upon a rebel scouting party, I now became still more cautious, moving along half bent on the edge of the road, and at last creeping on my hands and knees until I reached the junction.

There was nobody in sight. I looked long up the road toward Little Bethel; I went a hundred yards or so up this road, found nothing, and returned to the junction; then continued up the road toward Young's Mill. The ground here I knew must be visited frequently by the rebels, and my attention became so fixed that I started at the slightest noise. The sand's crunching under my feet sounded like the puffing of a locomotive. The wind made a slight rippling with the ends of the tie on my hat-band, I cut the ends off, to be relieved of the distraction.

I was going at the rate of a mile a day, attending to my rear as well as to my advance, when I heard, seemingly in the road to Bethel, at my rear and right, the sound of stamping hoofs. I slunk into a fence corner, and lay perfectly still, listening with all my ears. The noise increased; it was clear that horsemen from the Bethel road were coming into the junction, a hundred yards in my rear.

The noises ceased. The horsemen had come to a halt.

But had they come to a halt? Perhaps they had ridden down the road toward Newport News.

Five minutes, that seemed an hour, passed; then I heard the hoof-beats of advancing cavalry, and all at once a man darted into my fence corner and lay flat and still.

It is said that at some moments of life, and particularly when life is about to end, as in drowning, a man recalls in an instant all the deeds of his past. This may or may not be true; but I know, at least, that my mind had many thoughts in the situation in which I now found myself.

I felt sure that the party advancing on the road behind me were rebels.

They were now but a few yards off.

An instant more, and they would pass me, or else they would discover me.

If I should spring to my feet and run up the road, the horsemen would ride me down at once.

If I should climb the fence, my form, outlined against the sky, would be a mark for many carbines.

If I should lie still, they might pass without seeing me.

But what could I expect from my companion?

Who was he? ... Why was he there? ... Had he seen me? ... Had the rebels, if indeed they were rebels, seen him? ... If so, were they pursuing him?

But no; they were not pursuing him, for he had come from the direction of Young's Mill. He would have met the horsemen had he not hidden.

If I could but know that he had seen me, my plan surely would be to lie still.

Yes, certainly, to lie still ... if these riders were rebels.

But to lie still if my companion was a friend to the rebels? If he was one of theirs, should I lie still?

No; certainly not, unless I preferred being taken to being shot at.

If the horsemen were Union troops, what then? Why, in that case, my unknown friend must be a rebel; and if I should decide to let the troops pass, I should be left unarmed, with a rebel in two feet of me.

Yet, if the cavalry were our men, and the fugitive a rebel, still the question remained whether he had seen me.

It seemed impossible for him not to see me. Could he think I was a log? Certainly not; there was no reason for a log to be in such a place; there were no trees large enough, and near enough to justify the existence of a log in this place.

All these thoughts, and more also, passed through my mind while the horsemen moved ten paces; and before they had moved ten paces more, I had come to a decision.

I had decided to lie still.

There could be but one hope: if I should run, I could not get away. I would lie still. If the unknown should prove to be a friend, my case might be better than before; if he should prove to be an enemy, I must act prudently and try to befool him. I must discover his intentions before making mine known. He, also, must be in a great quandary.

The horsemen passed. They passed so near that I could have told whether they were from the North or the South by their voices, but they did not speak.

There was not enough light for me to see their uniforms, and, indeed, I did not look at them, but instinctively kept my face to the ground.

The horsemen passed on up the road toward Young's Mill.

Now there was silence. I yet lay motionless. So did my companion. I was right in one thing; he knew of my presence, else he would now rise and go his way. He knew of my presence, yet he did not speak; what was the matter with him?

But why did not I speak? I concluded that he was fearing me, just as I was fearing him.

But why should he fear me, when, he could not doubt that I was hiding from the same persons whom he had shunned to meet?

But I was there first; he had not known that I was there; his hiding in a fence corner was deliberate, in order to escape the observation of the horsemen; his hiding in this particular fence corner was an accident.

Who is he? What is he thinking about, that he doesn't do something? He has no reason to fear me.

But fear has no reason. If he is overcome with fear, he dreads everything. He has not recovered from the fright the horsemen gave him.

But why do I not speak? Am I so overcome with fear that I cannot speak to a man who flees and hides? I will speak to him--

"Mahsa," said he, humbly, right in my ear.

I sat bolt upright; so did he.

"Speak low," said I; "tell me who you are."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you; what is your name?"

"My name Nick."

"What are you doing here?"

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you; what are you doing here?"

"I'se des' a-restin', mahsa; I'se mighty tired."

"You are hiding from the soldiers."

"What sojers, mahsa?"

Clearly Nick was no simpleton; he was gaining time; he might not yet know which side I belonged to. I must end this matter. The night was cool. I had no blanket or overcoat. While walking I had been warm, but now I was getting chilly.

Yet, after all, suppose Nick was not a friend. However, such, a supposition was heterodox; every slave must desire freedom; a slave who does not wish to be free is an impossibility.

"Who were the soldiers who rode by just now?"

"I dunno, mahsa."

"Then, why did you hide from them?"

"Who, me?"

"Yes; why did you run and hide?"

"De s'caze I dunno who dey is."

This was very simple; but it did not relieve the complication. I must be the first to declare myself.

"Were they not--" I checked myself in time, I was going to say rebels, but thought better of it; the word would declare my sympathies. I was not so ready, after all.

"W'at dat you gwine to say, mahsa?"

Neither was Nick ready to speak first; he was a quick-witted negro.

"I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers."

"You dunno who dey is, mahsa?"

Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary--more so. I knew that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants, slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy. Who could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves? My doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath. He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel camp. I must get rid of him somehow.

"Mahsa," said Nick, "is you got any 'bacco?"

"No" said I; then, "yes, I have some smoking tobacco."

"Dat's mighty good hitse'f; won't you please, sa', gimme a little?"

I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.

"Thankee; mahsa; dis 'bacoo makes me bleeve you is a--" Nick hesitated,

"A what?"

"A good man," said Nick.

"Nick," I said, "I want to go up the road."

"W'at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?"

"I want to see some people up there."

Nick did not reply. Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into the Southern lines? It looked so.

The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me. His hesitation was assuring.

I repeated, "I want to see--I mean I want to look at--some people up the road."

"Dem sojers went up the road des' now, mahsa."

"Do you think they will come back soon?"

"I dunno, mahsa; maybe dey will en' maybe dey won't."

"Didn't you come from up the road?"

"Mahsa, how come you ain't got no gun?"

This threatened to be a home-thrust; but I managed to parry it; and to give him as good.

"Do Southern officers carry guns?"

"You Southern officer, mahsa?"

"Southern officers carry swords and pistols," said I; "didn't you know that, Nick?"

"Mahsa," said Nick, very seriously.

"What is it, Nick?"

"Mahsa, fo' God you ain't no Southern officer."

"What makes you think so, Nick?"

"Caze, of you was a Southern officer you wouldn't be a-gwine on lak you is; you 'ud des' say, 'Nick, you dam black rascal, git back to dem breswucks on' to dat pick en' to dat spade dam quick, or I'll have you strung up;' dat's w'at you'd say."

Unless Nick was intentionally fooling me, he was not to be feared. He was willing for me to believe that he had run away from the Confederates.

"But suppose I don't care whether you get back or not; there are enough niggers working on the fortifications without you. I'd like to give you a job of a different sort," said I, temptingly.

"W'at dat job you talkin' 'bout, mahsa?"

"I want you to obey my orders for one day,"

"W'at I hatto do, mahsa?"

"Go up the road with me," said I.

Nick was silent; my demand did not please him; yet if he wanted to betray me to the rebels, now was his chance. I interpreted his silence to mean that he wanted to go down the road, that is to say, that he wanted, to make his way to the Union army and to freedom. I felt so sure of this that I should not have been surprised if he had suddenly set out running down the road; yet I supposed that he was still in doubt of my character and feared a pistol-shot from me. He was silent so long that I fully made up my mind that I could trust him a little.

"Nick," said I, "look at my clothes. I am neither a Southern officer nor a Northern officer. I know what you want: you want to go to Fortress Monroe. You shall not go unless you serve me first; if you serve me well, I will help you in return. Go with me for one day, and I'll make it worth your while."

"W'at you want me to go wid you fer? W'at I hatto do?"

"Guide me," said I; "show me the way to the breastworks; show me how to see the breastworks and not be seen myself."

"Den w'at you gwine do fer me?"

It amused me to see that Nick had dropped his "mahsa." Did he think it out of place, now that he knew I was not a Southern soldier?

"Nick, I will give you a dollar for your day's work; then I will give you a note to a friend of mine, and the note will bring you another dollar and a chance to make more."

Nick considered. The dollar was tempting; as to the note, the sequel showed that he did not regard it of any importance, finally, he said that if I would make it two dollars he would be my man, I felt in my pockets, and found about four dollars, I thought, and at once closed the bargain.

"Now; Nick," said I, "here is a dollar; go with me and be faithful, and I will give you another before dark to-morrow."

"I sho' do it," said Nick, heartily; "now w'at I hatto do?"

"Where is the first Confederate post?"

"You mean dem Southern sojers?"

"Yes."

"You mean dem dat's do fust a-gwine up de road, or dem dat's fust a-comin' down de road?"

"The nearest to us in this direction," said I, pointing.

"Dey is 'bout half a mile up dis road," said Nick.

"Did you see them?"

"I seed 'em fo' true, but dey didn't see me."

"How did you keep them from seeing you?"

"I tuck to do bushes; ef dey see me, dey string me up."

"How long ago was it since you saw them?"

"Sence sundown," said Nick,

"When did you leave the breastworks?"

"Las' night."

"And you have been a whole day and night getting here?"

"In de daytime I laid up," said Nick; "caze I dunno w'en I might strak up wid 'em."

"How far have you come in all?"

"'Bout 'leben or ten mile, I reckon. I laid up in de Jim Riber swamp all day."

"Did you have anything to eat?"

"Yassa; but I ain't got nothin' now no mo'."

"Do you know where we can get anything to eat to-morrow?"

"Dat I don't; how is we a-gwine to hole out widout sum'hm to eat?"

"We must risk it. I hope we shall not suffer."

"Dis country ain't got nothin' in it," said Nick; "de folks is almos' all done gone to Richmon' er summers en' I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do; I don't. I don't know w'at we's a-gwine to do fer sum'hm to eat. And I don't know w'at I's a-gwine to do fer 'bacco nudda."

"Well, Nick, I can give you a little more tobacco; but I expect you to find something to eat; if you can find it, I will pay for it."

We were wasting time; I wanted to make a start.

"Now, Nick" said I; "I want to go to Young's Mill, or as near it as I can get without being seen."

"Dat all you want to do?" asked Nick.

"No; I want to do that first; then I want to see the breastworks. First, I want to go to Young's Mill."

"W'ich Young's Mill?" asked Nick; "dey is two of 'em."

"Two?"

"Yassa; one Young's Mill is by de chu'ch on de Worrick road; de yudda one is de ole Young's Mill fudda down on de creek."

"I want the one on the Warwick road," said I.

"Den dat's all right," said Nick; "all you got to do is to keep dis straight road."

"But we must not show ourselves," said I.

"Don't you fret about dat; I don't want nobody to see me nudda; des' you follow me."

Nick left the road, I following. We went northeast for half a mile, then northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.

"Now we's done got aroun' 'em," said Nick; "we's done got aroun' de fust ones; we's done got aroun' 'em; dis is twicet I's done got aroun' 'em, 'en w'en I come back I's got to git aroun' 'em agin."

"How far is it to Young's Mill, Nick?"

"I 'spec' hit's 'bout fo' mile," said Nick.

We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death. We went on, always keeping out of the road. Nick led the way at a rapid and long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight. The night was getting cold, but the walk heated me. Here and there were dense clumps of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth. The roar of the sea was heard no longer. It must have been about midnight.

We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.

"Stop a little, Nick," said I.

Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred yards in every direction.

"Where does that road go?" I asked.

"Dat road," said Nick, pointing to the left; "hit goes to ole Young's Mill."

"How far is old Young's Mill?"

"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."

"Where does the right-hand lead?"

"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick; "en' at Mis Cheeseman's dey is calvry, on' at ole Young's Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda side o' de creek."

"How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman's?"

"I dunno ezackly; I reckon 'bout fo' mile."

We went on. The ground was again swampy. We came to a road running almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.

"Dat's Danby Chu'ch," said Nick, "en' dat road hit goes to Worrick."

"And where does the right-hand lead?"

"Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman's," said Nick.

"And where is Young's Mill?" I asked.

"Hit's right on dis same road we's on, en not fur off, nudda."

We had now almost reached my first objective. I knew that Nick was telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still before my mind's eye.

"Can we get around Young's Mill without being seen?" I asked.

"Dey's a picket-line dis side," said Nick.

"How far this side?"

"'Bout a quauta' en' a ha'f a quata.'"

"How near can we get to the picket-line?"

"We kin git mos' up to 'em, caze dey's got de trees cut down."

"The trees cut down in their front?"

"Yassa; dey's got mos' all de trees out down, so dey is."

"And we can get to this edge of the felled timber?"

"Yassa; we kin git to de falled timba', but we's got to go roun' de pon'."

"And if we go around the pond first; we shall then find the picket-line?"

"De picket-line at Young's Mill?"

"Yes."

"Ef we gits roun' de pon', we'll be done got roun' de picket-line, en' de trees w'at dey cut down, en' Young's Mill, en' all."

"Well, then, Nick, lead the way around the pond, and keep your eyes wide open."

Nick went forward again, but more slowly for a while; then he turned to the right, through the woods. We went a long distance and crossed a creek on a fallen log. I found that this negro could see in the darkness a great deal better than I could; where I should have groped my way, had I been alone, he went boldly enough, putting his foot down flat as though he could see where he was stepping. Nick said that there were no soldiers in these woods and swamps; they were all on the road and at Young's Mill, now a mile at our left.

At length we reached the road again. By this time I was very tired; but, not wanting to confess it, I said to Nick that we should wait by the side of the road for a while, to see if any soldiers should pass. We sat in the bushes; soon Nick was on his back, asleep, and I was not sorry to see him go to sleep so quickly, for I felt sure that he would not have done so if he had meant to betray me.

I kept awake. Only once did I see anything alarming. A single horseman came down the road at a leisurely trot, and passed on, his sabre rattling by his side. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had died away, I aroused Nick, and we continued west up the road. At last Nick stopped.

"What's the matter now, Nick?" I whispered.

"We's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he said.

"Again? Have we gone wrong?"

"We ain't gone wrong--but we's mos' up on dem pickets ag'in," he repeated.

"Where are we?"

"We's gittin' mos' to Worrick; ef we gits up to de place, den w'at you gwine to do?"

"I want to stay there till daylight, so that I can see them and know how many they are."

"Den w'at you gwine to do?"

"Then I want to follow their line as near as I can, going toward Yorktown."

"Den all I got to say is dat hit's mighty cole to be a-layin' out in de woods widout no fiah en' widout no kiver en' widout noth'n' to eat."

"That's true, Nick; do you know of any place where we could get an hour or two of sleep without freezing?"

"Dat's des' w'at I was a-gwine to say; fo' God it was; ef dat's w'at you gwine to do; come on."

He led the way again, going to the left. We passed through woods, then a field, and came to a farmhouse,

"Hold on. Nick," said I; "it won't do to go up to that house."

"Dey ain't nobody dah," said Nick; "all done runned off to Richmon' er summers."

The fences were gone, and a general air of desolation marked the place.

Nick went into an outhouse--a stable with a loft--- and climbed up into the loft. I climbed up after him. There was a little loose hay in the loft; we speedily stretched ourselves. I made Nick promise to be awake before sunrise, for I feared the place would be visited by the rebels.