The life that Marcy Gray led during the next three weeks can be compared to nothing but a nightmare. His duties were not heavy, but the trouble was that when he tried to go to sleep he saw the inside of the prison pen as plainly as he did while he was standing in his box. He saw long lines of dead men carried out, too, and tumbled unceremoniously into the trenches outside the stockade, where they were left without a head-board to show who they were or where they came from. All this while he was losing flesh and strength as well as courage, and Bowen declared that, if they did not “make a break” very soon, Marcy would have to go into the hospital.

“I feel as though I ought to go there now,” said the latter wearily. “To tell the honest truth, I haven’t pluck enough to make a break for liberty; we are too closely watched. When I am on post after dark, I notice that an officer or a corporal comes around every hour to see if the guard is all right.”

“That happens only on pleasant nights; but I have noticed that on stormy nights the officer of the guard hugs his comfortable quarters as closely as we do our boxes,” replied Bowen. “You’ll pick up and be yourself again as soon as we are out of reach of this place, and you mustn’t give way to your gloomy feelings. The next rainy night that we are on post together we’ll skip. I have been making inquiries about the country west of here, and know just how to travel in order to reach my home. All you’ve got to do is to be ready to move when I say the word, and I will take you safely through.”

It would have been very comforting to hear Bowen talk in this confident way, if Marcy had only been able to believe that the man could keep his promise; but unfortunately he could not get up any enthusiasm. The spiritless prisoners inside the stockade were not more indifferent to their fate than he was to his. There had been no attempts at escape that Marcy knew anything about, but two unfinished tunnels had been discovered and filled up, and the pack of “nigger dogs” that the commander used in tracking fugitives had been brought into the pen and exhibited to the prisoners, so that they might know what they had to expect in case they succeeded in getting outside the stockade. But Bowen declared that the hounds would not bother him and Marcy. If they escaped during a storm the rain would wash away the scent so that they could not be tracked.

It was while Marcy was in this unfortunate frame of mind that something occurred to arouse him from his lethargy and drive him almost to desperation. It was on the morning following the day on which a fresh lot of prisoners had been received into the pen. Marcy stood near the gate when they went in, and noticed that there were not more than half a dozen blankets in the party, that some of them were barefooted, and others destitute of coats and hats.

“Them Yanks haint got nothin’ to trade,” said a Home Guard who stood near him.

“Whose fault is it?” replied Marcy. “They never looked that way when they were captured.”

“No, I don’t reckon they did. Them fellars up the country have went through ’em good fashion. But I don’t blame ’em for that. I only wish I could get the first pull at a Yank who has a good coat or a pair of number ten shoes onto his feet. I wouldn’t be goin’ around ragged like I am now, I bet you.”

It was one of these fresh prisoners who caused Marcy Gray to fall into the clutches of the commander of the prison, whom Bowen had denounced as a “heathen.” He went on post at twelve o’clock the next day, Bowen occupying the box on his right, while the Home Guard who said he would like to have a chance to steal a coat and a pair of shoes stood guard in the one on his left. The new prisoners had had time to take in the situation, and to learn that if they preferred a shelter of some sort to the bare ground, or cooked rations instead of raw ones, they were at liberty to provide themselves with these luxuries if they could, for their captors would not furnish them. But how could they be expected to build dug-outs when they did not have even pocket knives to dig with? and how could they bake corn bread when every flat stone and piece of board that could be found was in the possession of someone who would not part with it for love or money? There was a treasure lying on the ground in front of Marcy’s box, and directly under the strip of board that marked the inner edge of the dead-line. It was a battered tin cup. How it came there, and why someone had not tried to obtain possession of it, was a mystery; but it had been discovered by a party of new-comers, perhaps a dozen of them in all, who looked at the cup with longing eyes and then glanced apprehensively at Marcy, who leaned on his musket and looked down on them. One of the most daring of the party seemed determined to make an effort to secure the cup, but as often as he bent forward as if he were about to make a dash for it, his comrades seized him and pulled him back.

“Poor fellow,” thought Marcy, who admired the prisoner’s courage. “He little knows how glad I would be to tell him to come and get it. The cup isn’t inside the dead-line anyway, and if he makes a grab for it he can have it for all I will do to stop him.”

The result of this mental resolution was the same as though Marcy had announced it in words. As quick as thought the daring soldier made a jump for the dead-line, snatched the cup from the ground, and in a second more was back among his comrades, who closed around him in a body, effectually covering him from the three muskets, Marcy’s, Bowen’s, and the Home Guard’s, that were pointed in his direction. They ran among the tents and dug-outs and mingled with the other prisoners, so that it would have been impossible for the guards to identify a single one of them.

“Good for the Yank!” thought Marcy. “That’s what I call pluck. He’ll have something to dig with at any rate, and perhaps he can straighten that cup out so that he can cook his corn meal in it.”

If Marcy and Bowen had fired at the man it would have been with the intention of missing him, but not so with the Home Guard on the left, who would have drawn a fine bead in the hope of winning a thirty days’ furlough. The latter was fighting mad. He shook his fist at Marcy and shouted in stentorian tones:

“Corporal of the guard, number ’leven!”

“By gracious!” gasped Marcy. “He’s going to report it.”

He glanced toward Bowen’s box, and knew by the way his friend shook his head at him that there was trouble in store for somebody; but how could he be blamed more than anyone else? than the Home Guard, for instance, who had as fair a chance to shoot as any blood-thirsty rebel could ask for? The corporal came promptly and went into the Home Guard’s box, and Marcy could see the angry man pointing out the position of the cup and flourishing his clenched hand in the air to give emphasis to something he was saying. After the corporal had heard his story he descended the ladder and came into Marcy’s box.

“Sentry, what were you put here for, anyway?” were the first words he spoke. “Why didn’t you shoot that man?”

“There were two reasons why I didn’t do it,” answered Marcy. “My orders are to shoot if I see a prisoner trying to get over or under the dead-line, but that man didn’t try to get over or under, for the cup wasn’t inside. It was under that strip of board.”

“No matter. It was at the dead-line, and it was your business to pop him over,” said the corporal. “I am afraid the old man will give you a taste of military discipline when you come off post.”

“Why should he? I haven’t disobeyed any order. And the other reason why I didn’t shoot was because I didn’t have time. That Yank was as swift as a bird on the wing, and before you could wink twice he was back among his friends, and I couldn’t see him.”

“Then why didn’t you shoot into the crowd?” demanded the corporal.

“And kill or wound somebody who hadn’t done a thing?” exclaimed Marcy.

“Why, what’s the matter with you? I shall begin to think pretty soon that you are a Yank yourself. Of course you ought to have fired into the crowd and made an example of somebody. What’s one Yank more or less, anyway? I believe in shooting everyone who comes down here.”

“Why didn’t that man in the next box shoot?” inquired Marcy. “He had the same chance I had, and is as much to blame because that Yank made a dash to the dead-line and got the cup.”

“Not much he aint. The thing happened directly in front of your post, it was your duty to kill that man, you disobeyed orders by not doing it, and of course I shall have to report you.”

“If I get into trouble by it I shall shoot at the next man who comes within twenty feet of the dead-line,” said Marcy.

“You’ll be sorry you didn’t make that resolution long ago,” replied the corporal, as he backed down the ladder. He went into Bowen’s box to hear what he had to say about it, and then went back to headquarters; and two hours later the relief came around.

“If I had been in your box I would have been on my way home by this time to-morrow,” said the Home Guard, as he and Marcy and Bowen fell into their places in the rear of the line. “You’ll never have another chance like that to earn a furlough. Why didn’t you shoot that there Yank?”

“Why didn’t you?” retorted Marcy. “You had as good a show as I.”

“Not much, I didn’t. He was closter to you nor he was to me, and besides I didn’t have time.”

“Neither did I. I never could hit a moving object with a single bullet.”

“You could have showed your good will if you had been a mind to. That’s what I think, and less’n the old man has changed mightily sense I jined his comp’ny, it’s what he’ll think about it, too.”

The unhappy Marcy had made up his mind that he would have to stand punishment of some sort for permitting a prisoner to put his hand under the dead-line; and his worst fears were confirmed when he came within sight of the barracks and saw all the officers of the guard and the commander of the prison standing there, and three Home Guards stationed close by, with muskets in their hands. When the platoon was halted before the door and brought to a front, the captain said:

“No. 12, step out here.”

As that was the number of the post from which Marcy had just been relieved, he moved one pace to the front and saluted.

“So you are the low-down conscript who presumes to set my orders at defiance, are you?” continued the captain. “What were you put in that box for? Why did you allow that prisoner to come to the line?”

“Sir, my orders were——” began Marcy.

“Shut up!” shouted the captain, growing red in the face. “If you talk back to me I’ll put a gag in your mouth. Trice him up, and leave him that way till he learns who’s boss of this camp.”

Without saying a word, one of the three Home Guards before spoken of took Marcy’s musket from his hand, while another unbuckled the belt that held his cartridge-box. Then they laid hold of his arms, and with the officer of the guard marching in front and the third soldier bringing up the rear, led him to a tree that stood before the door of the captain’s quarters. It did not take them more than two minutes to do their cruel work, and when it was over and the officer of the guard moved away with two of his men, leaving the other to keep watch over the culprit with a loaded musket, Marcy Gray was standing on his toes, and his arms were drawn high above his head by a strong cord which had been tied around his thumbs and thrown over a limb of the tree. The pain was intense, but the boy shut his teeth hard and gave no sign of suffering till his head fell over on his shoulder and he fainted dead away. When he came to himself he was lying in his bunk, his wounded hands were resting in a basin of hot water which Bowen was holding for him, and another good-hearted conscript was keeping his head and face wet with water he had just drawn from the well. Their countenances were full of sympathy, and there were signs of rage to be seen as well.

“This is rough on me, boys,” groaned Marcy.

“While you were hanging to that tree I asked some questions about Captain Denning,” whispered Bowen, “and now I know who he is, and where he hails from. He owns a fine plantation about twenty miles from where I live when I am at home, and we shall pass it on our way to the river.”

“O Charley, let’s go to-night,” murmured Marcy. “I shall die if I stay here any longer.”

“That’s what I have thought all along, and I am with you when we go on post at twelve o’clock. It’s going to rain like smoke in less than half an hour, and when it begins it will keep it up for a day or two. I am glad if you have been waked up, but sorry it had to be done in this way.”

“Captain Denning will be sorry for it, too,” said Marcy.

In spite of the agony he was in, but one thought filled Marcy Gray’s mind, and that was that under no circumstances would he pass another day alive in that camp. No matter how great the danger might be, he would escape that very night. He would go with a musket in his hand and a box of cartridges by his side, and if he were recaptured, it would be after every bullet in those cartridges had found a lodgement in the body of some Home Guard. He did not have very much to say, but Bowen knew by the expression on his face that Marcy was thoroughly aroused at last.

Marcy did not want any supper, but managed to eat a little, and to slip a generous piece of corn bread in his pocket for the lunch he knew he would need before morning. The storm did not come in half an hour, as Bowen had predicted, but it came a little later, and when the two went on post at twelve o’clock, the night was as dark as a pocket, and the rain was falling in torrents.

“Splendid weather,” Bowen found opportunity to whisper to Marcy. “It couldn’t be better. Listen for my signal, for we must start as soon as the guard is out of the way.”

“You’ll take your gun?” said Marcy.

“Of course, and I’ll use it too, before I will allow myself to be brought back here.”

If it was a splendid night for their purpose it was a terrible one for the prisoners, especially for the new-comers who had not had time to finish their dug-outs. To make matters worse for them there had been a sudden and noticeable change in the temperature. It was almost freezing cold, and protected as he was by the walls of his box, and by his warm blanket, which he had tied over his shoulders like a cloak, Marcy shivered as he stood with his musket in the hollow of his arm and his aching, bandaged hands clasped in front of him. He stood thus for ten minutes when he heard a gentle tapping at the foot of his ladder. That was the signal agreed upon between him and Bowen, and without a moment’s hesitation Marcy wheeled around and backed to the ground.

“Is this you, Charley?” he whispered. “I can’t see a thing.”

“No more can I,” was the answer, “but I know where we are and which way we want to go, and that’s enough. Grab hold of the tail of my blanket and I will pilot you to the railroad track. Mark my words: We’ll never hear a hound-dog on our trail. They’ll think we have struck for the coast, and that’s the way they’ll go to find us.”

If we were to write a full history of the long tramp these two fugitives made before they found themselves safe at Rodney Gray’s home, as we have described in a former chapter, it would be to repeat the experience of hundreds of escaped Union prisoners whose thrilling stories have already been given to the world. Captain Denning’s “nigger dogs” never once gave tongue on their trail, and at no time were they in serious danger of falling into the hands of their enemies. Of course there were other Home Guards and other dogs in Alabama and Mississippi, and more than once they were pursued by them; but every negro they met on the road was their friend, and, believing Marcy and Bowen to be escaped Federals, took big risks to help them on their way. During the three days they rested at Bowen’s home in Georgia they were in more danger than at any other time, for Bowen’s neighbors were all rebels. They knew that he had been forced into the army, and if they had suspected that he was hiding in the loft of his father’s cotton gin, they would have left no stone unturned to effect his capture. But outside of Bowen’s family no one knew it except one or two faithful blacks, who could be trusted, and after they had made up for the sleep they had lost, and some of Marcy’s money had been expended for clothing, shoes, and blankets, the fugitives set out to pay their respects to the commander of the prison from which they had escaped. They remained on his plantation a part of one night, and when they left, everything that would burn was in flames. It was a high-handed proceeding, and many a soldier not wanting in courage would have hesitated about taking chances so desperate; but fortunately another rain storm washed out their trail and if they were pursued they never knew it.

“There’s one thing I am sorry for,” said Marcy, as he and Bowen halted for a moment on the summit of a little rise of ground from which they had a fair view of the destructive work that was going on on the plantation they had just left. “I am not revengeful, but I do think Captain Denning ought to be punished for giving me these hands that I may not be able to use for months, and I wish he could know that I had a hand in starting that fire.”

Marcy’s hands certainly were in a bad way. They needed medical attention, but if there was a surgeon in the country they had not been able to find it out. Bowen gave them the best care he could, but Marcy was so nearly helpless that he could not even carry his musket. He took no note of time or of the progress they made, but left everything to his friend Bowen, who could always tell him where they were, how many miles they had made that day, and how far they would have to travel before they could get something to eat. If he sometimes drew on his imagination, and shortened the distance to the Mississippi by a hundred miles or so, who can blame him? He knew that everything depended on keeping up Marcy’s courage.

At last, when the homesick boy became so weary and foot-sore that he could scarcely drag himself along the dusty road, he noticed with a thrill of hope that the negroes who befriended him and Bowen no longer spoke of “Alabam’” but had a good deal to say about “Mississipp’”; and this made it plain to Marcy that they were slowly drawing near to the end of their journey, and that his companion had been deceiving him.

“If you are as well acquainted with the country as you pretend to be, how does it come that you didn’t know when we passed the boundary line into the State of Mississippi?” said he. “But I don’t care. I remember enough of geography to know about where we are now, and that we will save time and distance if we strike a straight south-east course, for that is the way Baton Rouge lies from here.”

Bowen, who had long been out of his reckoning, was quite willing to resign the leadership, and it was a fortunate thing for them that he was; for the course Marcy marked out brought them in due time to the Ohio and Mobile Railroad a few miles north of Enterprise. A night or two before they got there (they always traveled at night and slept during the daytime), they were kept busy dodging small bodies of Confederate soldiers who were journeying along the same road and in the same direction with themselves. They were evidently concentrating at some point in advance, but where and for what purpose the fugitives could not determine until some negroes, to whom they appealed for assistance, told them of Grierson’s raid.

“Dat Yankee come down hyar from some place up de country, an’ he whop an’ he burn an’ he steal eberyting he see,” said one of the blacks gleefully. “But de rebels gwine cotch him at Enterprise, an’ you two best not go da’.”

This glorious news infused wonderful life and strength into Marcy Gray. He forgot his aching hands and feet, and from that time carried his own musket and moved as if he were set on springs. He would hardly consent to halt long enough to take needed rest, for he was anxious to intercept Grierson if possible, and warn him that the rebels were concentrating to resist his further advance. But as it happened Colonel Grierson was miles away, and it was Captain Forbes, with a squad of thirty-five men, who had been detached from the main body to cut the telegraph north of Macon, that the fugitives found and warned. They ran upon them by accident, and at first thought they had fallen into the hands of the rebels. One bright moonlight night they were hurrying along a road which ran through a piece of thick timber, when all on a sudden they were brought to a standstill by four men, who stepped from the shade of the trees and covered them with their guns before they said a word. They were soldiers, for their brass buttons showed plainly in the dim light; but whether they wore the blue or the gray was a momentous question that the fugitives could not answer. When one of them spoke it was in a subdued voice.

“Who comes there?” he demanded.

“Friends,” replied Marcy in tones just loud enough to be heard and understood. Then, believing that the truth would hold its own anywhere, he added desperately; “We are escaped conscripts on our way to the Mississippi, and we want to see Grierson.”

“Advance, friends, but be careful how you take them guns from your shoulders,” was the next order; and when Marcy drew nearer and saw that the speaker wore the yellow chevrons of a corporal of cavalry on his arms, his joy knew no bounds. When he and Bowen had been relieved of their muskets and cartridge-boxes the corporal inquired:

“Where are the rest of you?”

“There are no more of us,” answered Marcy. “We are alone.”

“Mebbe you are and mebbe you aint,” said the corporal. “Jones, you take ’em down to the captain and hurry back as quick as you can, for we may need you here.”

The corporal was suspicious and in bad humor about something, and so was the captain when they found him. He had been riding hard all day, and had halted in the woods to give his jaded men and horses an hour or two of rest. He knew that he had been led into a trap by false information, and by a treacherous guide who managed to escape amid a shower of bullets that was rained upon him as soon as his treachery was discovered; and while his men slept the captain rolled restlessly about on the ground, trying to think up some plan by which he could save his small command from falling into the hands of the Confederates, who were making every effort to cut him off from Grierson’s column. He had been assured that the way to Enterprise was clear, and that if he went in any other direction he would have to fight his way through, and now came these two escaped conscripts with a different story. It was little wonder that Captain Forbes did not put much faith in what they had to say, or that he spoke sharply when he addressed them.

“How do you know that the Confederate troops you say you saw along the road were striking for Enterprise?” he inquired.

“Because the negroes told us so, and during our journey we have always found that the negroes told us the truth,” answered Marcy, who did most of the talking.

“And you say you have come from Millen?”

“Yes, sir. We were on post there when we escaped.”

“Do you know where Millen is?”

“Of course we know where it is.”

“Well, now, what I want to know is this: Why did you take such a long tramp through the country when you were within less than a hundred miles of the coast?”

Bowen answered this question, giving their reasons as we have given them to the reader, but the captain acted as though he did not believe a word of it. Marcy tried to help him out by telling of the relatives he expected to meet when he reached the Mississippi River, and the story was so improbable that the captain told them bluntly that he believed they were spies, that they had come into his camp to see how many men he had under his command, and that they hoped to escape to their friends with the information. Marcy was surprised and hurt to find himself suspected by the officer he wanted to help.

“I assure you, sir——” he began.

“I’ve had that trick played on me twice during this scout, and if it is played on me again it will be my own fault,” interrupted the captain. “Consider yourselves in arrest.”

He ordered a sentry to be placed over them at once, and we may add that Marcy and his friend were under suspicion all the time, and under guard most of the time they remained with Grierson’s men.

The next morning at daylight Captain Forbes resumed his rapid march, and in two hours’ time arrived within sight of Enterprise, which, to his amazement and alarm, he found to be filled with rebel soldiers. There were three thousand of them. They were in motion too, and that proved that they were aware of his coming and making ready to attack him. A fight meant annihilation or capture, and there was but one way to prevent it. Halting his men in the edge of a piece of woods out of sight of the enemy, Captain Forbes called a single officer to his side and galloped boldly toward the town. He was gone half an hour, and when he returned he placed himself at the head of his squad and led it in a headlong retreat, which did not end until the captain reported to Colonel Grierson at Pearl River. In speaking of this dashing exploit history says: “The captain, understanding his danger, tried to bluff the enemy and succeeded. He rode boldly up to the town and demanded the instant surrender of the place to Colonel Grierson. Colonel Goodwin, commanding the Confederate force, asked an hour to consider the proposition, to which request Forbes was only too willing to accede. That hour, with rapid riding, delivered his little company from its embarrassing situation.”

That rapid retreat was about as much as Marcy and Bowen could stand after their long walk across the country. They were given broken-down plough-mules to ride, and these delightful beasts, which took every step under protest and “bucked” viciously when pressed too hard, had well-nigh jolted the breath out of them by the time they reached the main column at Pearl River. But they journeyed more leisurely after that, all the most dangerous places along their line of march having been left behind, and when the fugitives learned that they were within forty-eight hours’ ride of Baton Rouge, and that the column would pass through Mooreville on the following day, they asked and obtained permission to accompany the scouts that were sent on ahead the next morning. That was the way they came to ride into Rodney Gray’s dooryard as we have recorded.

“You have heard my story,” concluded Marcy, settling contentedly back among the pillows. “Now, who is going to give me a drink of water?”

“How you must have suffered,” said his aunt, with tears in her eyes.

“It’s all over now,” replied the young hero cheerfully, “and I am anxious to send word to mother. I wish one of you would write to her at Plymouth, care of Captain Burrows, and I am sure he will have the letter delivered.”

“Do you know that you slept for eighteen straight hours?” replied Rodney. “Well, that gave me time to write the letter and take it to Baton Rouge and mail it to the address Jack gave me before he went home. Now that you are safe I don’t see what there is to hinder Jack from carrying out his plan of becoming a cotton trader. If he wants to pay back to his mother every dollar she is likely to lose by this war, I don’t know any better thing for him to do.”

“Did you say as much in your letter?”

“I said all that and more. I am sure he will come, if it is only to see you.”

“Rodney, you’re a brick,” exclaimed Marcy. “But I wish you could tell me more about Tom Allison and Mark Goodwin.”

But Rodney couldn’t, for the very good reason that all Jack said about it was that they had been bushwhacked; and with this meagre information Marcy was obliged to be satisfied.