The rain had ceased. Dawn, flooding above the heavy clouds, was at last filtering through, and the world rested tranquilly in a bluish, shadowless light. Tom, as he stepped from the shanty, with his arms held by two Union soldiers, glanced about him in wonderment. This unfamiliar scene, which had been an endless blackness the night before, was like a dream country into which he was straying half awake. The events of the previous day became remote and unreal. He paused for a moment, but the apprehensive tightening of fingers upon his arms made him suddenly aware of the fact that he was a prisoner, and he fell into step with the soldiers.

"So you were a-goin' to fight the Yanks, were you!" asked one of them.

"We'll talk about that later," answered Tom.

"'Pears to me that it ain't anything I'd want to talk about at any time if
I was you," answered the other soldier.

Tom, with his guards, was in the lead; then came Wilson, with Shadrack a few paces behind him. The Sergeant was with Shadrack. Tom glanced back, and his eyes met Wilson's. There was a flash of understanding between them; then Wilson turned to look at Shadrack, as though cautioning silence. No one spoke as they picked their way along through the ooze of mud in the direction of the main road. To their left was another shanty, much like the one in which they had spent the night, and before the door stood a man, with his wife and child, gazing at them dumbly. The man was dressed, but the woman and child had wrapped tattered blankets over them for protection against the cold. Tom, as he watched them, reconstructed the drama of the night before. They, he thought, were "poor whites," like the man in whose shanty they had slept—Smith, the soldiers had called him—and their hearts were with the Northern army. Smith, when he had left on the pretext of attending to his chickens, had probably gone to them, routed them out of bed to tell them of the rebels he was harboring. The man had dressed and floundered through the mud until he came to the Union pickets, brought the soldiers back with him to Smith's shanty. That was his service to the Northern cause, and he must feel proud now, thought Tom. There, huddling together on the doorstep of their miserable, rain-soaked hut, they had visible proof of having helped the North, of having rendered their service. And their pride, lifting them for a brief moment from the pitiful squalor of their lives, seemed such a fine thing to Tom that he hoped they would never know of the mistake they had made. He glanced back and saw them still watching, silent and motionless.

When the procession had come to a spot where it was hidden both from the shanties and the road, Wilson spoke:

"Sergeant, I'd like to have a word with you."

"All right," answered the Sergeant. "What is it?"

"Alone, I mean," answered Wilson. "It's important. I'm not trying to escape. It's so important that I can't let the rest of your men hear it."

"You men stand by these two prisoners while I hear what the reb has to say," ordered the Sergeant. "Come over here."

Wilson went to the Sergeant and talked earnestly for several minutes. The Sergeant watched him narrowly, frowning. A few of Wilson's words drifted over to the others; "…not asking you to take my word … to some person of authority … not lose a minute about it…." The Sergeant was visibly impressed. He tilted his cap and scratched his head; shifted his weight from one leg to another; stroked his whiskers. Finally, after a brief discussion, they came to a decision.

"This man and I are going to take the wagon," announced the Sergeant. "We have to get to Wartrace as quick as we can. You others 'll have to walk. It'll take too long if we all ride—too much of a pull for the horses."

There was some grumbling among the guards at the prospect of trudging through the mud when they had expected a comfortable ride in the wagon. However, without understanding what it all was about, they accepted the Sergeant's decision. When they reached the road where the wagon was standing, Wilson said to Tom:

"I'll try and meet you before you get to Wartrace. Take your time."

"Yep," added the Sergeant, "don't hurry."

They saw the wagon, drawn at a trot, disappear down the road, the mud spurting out from the wheels. Tom and Shadrack exchanged glances and laughed.

"Now I call that extraordinary!" exclaimed one of the guards. Then, as if he liked the word, he repeated, "Extraordinary!"

"If we give you our words not to try escaping," asked Tom, "will you let go our arms? You have the guns, anyhow. It'll make walking easier."

"All right," drawled a guard. "That's a good idea." He turned to the other soldiers, and asked, "What do you think? Let 'em walk a couple of paces ahead, eh?" It was agreed.

Tom and Shadrack went ahead, while the guards followed, speculating among themselves on this new turn of affairs.

"Wilson is probably going to the officer in command and have him rush through a message," said Tom. "I suppose they have a telegraph line between Wartrace and headquarters."

"I hope so," replied Shadrack. "I wonder how far the others got?"

Tom had been wondering the same thing. "Probably not much farther than we did," he answered.

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 pass 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 pass, 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.

"He didn't seem surprised," said Wilson.

"He knew who we were when he saw us on the street, I think," answered Tom.

"Good-by, warm food," wailed Shadrack, for they were passing the Widow
Fry's. "Hot coffee, a plate full of stew, bread…."

"Don't talk about it," begged Tom.

"Fried eggs and ham," continued Shadrack.

"We'll put you down and feed you mud, if you say another word. Won't we,
Wilson!"

"If we don't starve to death first," Wilson replied.

"Good-by, food," Shadrack wailed again. He picked up a stick from the roadside and commenced to gnaw it; then, surprised because the others were not eating, he broke the stick in three parts, and said: "Do have some of the nice tender steak, Mr. Burns and Mr. Wilson." They threw the sticks at him. He ran ahead of them. They finished the bombardment with hunks of mud, and chased after him, slipping and splashing along the road.

Andrews had dismounted, and they saw him leave the road, leading his horse. They followed, and found him standing at the horse's head, waiting for them.

"How did you fare, men?" he asked. After they had told him of their adventures, he continued: "This rain is bad. I'm afraid of it. If it keeps up, General Mitchel will be delayed one day, perhaps two days. It will be impossible for him to reach Huntsville in time—impossible."

He appeared to be thinking aloud, rather than talking to them. His head was bowed, and he stroked the horse's neck mechanically.

"I dare not go back now in hopes of getting into communication with General
Mitchel. It would never do to leave my men scattered about the country,
waiting for me to return. Do you men, from your experience, think that the
General can reach Huntsville on Friday?"

Wilson was first to answer. "I don't think so," he said. "Some of the forces might reach there in time, but I don't think the General can concentrate at Huntsville for an attack before Saturday. Not with this mud to wade through."

"I agree with Wilson, sir," said Shadrack.

The three men turned to Tom. He felt suddenly embarrassed. Three veterans asking him, a soldier of one day's campaigning, for an opinion! "From what I've heard of General Mitchel," he said, "I think he will do whatever he says he will do—even if he has to attack Beauregard's army single handed." Then he added, as though to explain away what he had said: "But that is nothing more than my opinion of the man. I … I enlisted just yesterday."

"Yesterday!" exclaimed the three older men.

"Yes. My cousin was going on the raid, but he sprained his ankle. I came to enlist, and I begged the Captain to send me."

"I see," answered Andrews, studying him. After a moment he plunged again into consideration of the problems which lay before him. "I am going ahead on the theory that Mitchel will be one day late in reaching Huntsville," he said at last. "We must find all the men and tell them, so that there will be no confusion in Marietta."

"There are three men at the Widow Fry's back there," said Shadrack. "I don't know if they're some of ours or not."

Andrews nodded. "We'll find out presently. I'm worrying most about our engineers. I think I know where I can find Knight, but Brown has gone on ahead. Do any of you know Brown?"

"I do, sir," answered Tom. "We met at the same place last night, and then I got a good look at him in the lightning."

"Hm-m-m! That may help."

"Mr. Andrews," commenced Tom.

"Yes? What is it?"

"If we're going to delay a day, shouldn't someone be sent back with a message for General Mitchel?"

"I've been considering that," answered Andrews. "Will you volunteer?"

"No," Tom answered flatly. "Of course, I'll go if I'm ordered, but I'll not volunteer."

"Hm-m-m … well, never mind about that. I have some other work for you." Andrews seemed to emerge from a fog of indecision. "I want you to take my horse and travel south as rapidly as you can. If you come across any of our men who may be ahead of us, tell them that the raid is postponed one day. I—if I can—will get word back to the General. I want you to locate Brown. I was told that he and the man who is traveling with him—I don't know who it is—managed to get a ride in a farmer's wagon. They left here this morning, and the farmer was going to take them as far as a village called Coal Mines. You'll probably overtake them, but if you don't find them on the road, go into Chattanooga and catch the train for Marietta Thursday. Brown will probably catch that train. Tell him about the change in plans, and wait in Marietta for us. We will be there Friday night. In the meantime, I will locate Knight. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," answered Tom. "What shall I do with the horse?"

"The poor brute is just about ready to drop now," replied Andrews. "Ride him as far as he'll carry you, then turn him loose. Throw the saddle and bridle into the bushes. It's after four o'clock now. You'd better be getting along."

"Yes, sir." Tom took the reins.

"Say!" Shadrack broke in, "he'd better have something to eat, or he'll fall off the horse. We were just going to the Widow Fry's to persuade her to give us a meal."

Andrews reached into his pockets, and drew forth two paper packages. "Here's some bread and meat. I'm sorry I haven't anything more, or anything better. You can eat it while you ride."

Tom thanked him and mounted the horse. "Good-by, sir. Good-by, Wilson and Shadrack. Luck to you." He turned the horse into the road, and started southward. Now he was alone, with the South before him.