CHAPTER

I WITH THE SECOND OHIO II THE RAIDERS START III ARRESTED IV TOM GOES ALONE V TOM ARRIVES AT THE BEEGHAM'S VI ON TO CHATTANOOGA VII IN MARIETTA VIII THE TRAIN IS CAPTURED IX THE RACE X "THEY'RE AFTER US!" XI THE PURSUIT XII SPEEDING NORTHWARD XIII FIGHTING WITH FIRE XIV THE END OF THE RACE XV CAPTURED XVI ESCAPING XVII FIGHTING THE RIVER XVIII NORTH OF THE TENNESSEE XIX THE LAST DASH XX TOM REPORTS AT HEADQUARTERS XXI THAT CERTAIN PERSON

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Again and again Tom fed logs into the flames. Frontispiece

The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river.

The men were feeding the ties they had collected, out upon the road through an opening they had broken in the rear of the car.

"I didn't want to come here, Marjorie, for fear I'd get you into trouble—"

CHAPTER ONE

WITH THE SECOND OHIO

As he rounded the last bend of the road, Tom saw the white tents of the Union army stretched out before him. He forgot how tired he was after his long walk, and pressed forward eagerly, almost running. The soldiers who were sauntering along the road eyed him curiously.

"Hey, you! You can't go by here without a pass!" The Sentry's rifle, with its long gleaming bayonet, snapped into a menacing attitude.

Tom stopped abruptly, caught his breath, and asked: "Is this the Second Ohio?"

"Maybe," answered the Sentry coldly. "What do you want to know for?"

"I've come to see my cousin—Herbert Brewster, of Company B."

The Sentry's position relaxed. He brought his rifle to the ground, leaned upon it, and gazed at the young man who stood before him. "Well now!" he said. "He'll certainly be glad to see you! We don't get many visitors down this way. What's your name?"

"Tom Burns."

"Going to enlist?"

"Yes. How'd you guess it?"

"Oh, I dunno. I just thought so. You're pretty young, ain't you?"

"Eighteen," answered Tom. "I'm old enough to fight." He looked past the Sentry, down at the even rows of tents which formed the company streets of the Second Ohio. His heart beat faster at the thought that he would be part of it after today. A soldier in the Union army!

"I'll send a messenger with you down to Company B," said the Sentry. "You'll have to get the Captain's permission before you can see your cousin."

It was early in April, 1862. The troops under the command of General O. M. Mitchel were encamped between Shelbyville and Murfreesboro, Tennessee, after a march from Nashville through a steady drizzle of rain. It had been a dreary, tedious march, made worse by long detours to avoid burnt bridges, detours over roads where the heavy wagons of the army sank hub-deep in the glue-like mud. It had been a fight against the rain and mud every inch of the way. And now, except for the details of bridge repairing, the troops were resting, drying their water-soaked knapsacks, and gathering strength for the march southward. Rumors of Chattanooga were in the air, and the camp was buzzing with talk of "Mitchel's plan of campaign." Groups of soldiers stood about exchanging views on what would happen next, speculating upon the points where they would come into contact with the rebs: others were playing games, or lying upon blankets spread before their tents, sleeping, reading and writing letters. The rows of tents gave a suggestion of military orderliness to the scene, but it was a suggestion

only, for the tents and their guy ropes were strung with blankets and clothing put out to dry.

Although it was not quite what he had expected to see, the camp was wonderful and thrilling to Tom Burns. He had expected more military pomp and precision; not simply hundreds of men, half-clothed and weather-worn, loitering and shifting between rows of tents. Even the tents were patched and dirty. But if the scene did not compare with the picture he had in his imagination—of officers mounted upon spirited horses, buglers sounding calls, companies standing at attention—there was a spirit of action and excitement in the air which made him rejoice. These men, who were half-clothed because the only garments they had to put upon their backs were tied to the guy ropes drying, were hardened campaigners; men, roughened and toughened in their months of service, pausing a moment before battle. The stains and tears of the tents were campaign badges. Tom began to feel proud that "his" regiment was not like the new, raw troops he had seen in the north—immaculately clean troops which had never known a night in the open, far from the comforts of barracks.

He was speechless as the messenger who had been detailed by the Sergeant of the Guard led him down the regimental street, where the officers' tents faced each company street. Company F … Company E … Company D…. At the head of each street was a small penciled sign telling them what company they were passing. Tom glanced ahead to Company B. In front of the officer's tent two men were talking.

"Is one of them the Captain?" he asked.

"Yep—the short one," answered the messenger. "The other's the doctor."

"What's the Captain's name?"

"Moffat—Captain Moffat."

They stopped a few paces from where the Captain and the doctor were standing, and waited. Tom hazarded a glance down the street of Company B to see if he could catch a glimpse of his cousin, but Herbert Brewster was not in sight. Presently the Captain turned toward them. He was a short man, heavily built, and his manner was that of a man who had spent a lifetime commanding soldiers.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

The messenger snapped to attention: he saluted. "This man wants to see Herbert Brewster of your company, sir."

"I'm his cousin, sir," added Tom.

The Captain dismissed the messenger with a nod. "You're Corporal Brewster's cousin, eh?"

"Corporal?" asked Tom.

The Captain laughed. "I thought that would surprise you. Yes, he was made Corporal last week. You'll find him in the third tent on your left. I don't suppose you know that he's on the sick list with a bad ankle?"

"No!"

"Yep."

"I hope it isn't serious."

"Hm-m-m"—the Captain stroked his chin—"no, the ankle isn't serious, but being on the sick list is. Run along and cheer him up. Tell him that I'll be down to see him in a few minutes."

"Yes, sir."

The Captain turned back to the doctor, and Tom threaded his way down the street. At the third tent he stopped, pulled open the flap and peered in. There was Bert, stretched out on his bedding, writing a letter. His right ankle was a mass of bandages from which his toes peered out. He did not look up from his writing.

"Does Corporal Herbert Brewster of Cleveland, Ohio, live here?" asked Tom.

"You, Tom! you!"

"Don't try to get up on that bad ankle." He rushed over and grabbed Bert's hand. "How are you?"

"What in the world are you doing at Murphytown?—or whatever they call this end of the mud-puddle. And how are all the people? When did you see mother and father last?"

Tom held up his hands in surrender; then, as he sat down on the edge of the bedding, Bert took him by the shoulders and shook him. "They're all fine. I'm here to enlist, Corporal. Will you have me in your squad?"

"You bet! Tell me about home."

Bert had been among the first to enlist, and, except for one furlough of two weeks, he had not been able to return home. Many minutes passed before Tom reached the point of his own departure from Cleveland; how he had gained the consent of his father and mother to his enlistment; his trip to Murfreesboro and all his adventures and misadventures en route. "And, by the way," he ended, "the Captain said that I was to tell you that he'd be here to see you soon. And what did you do to your ankle?"

"The Captain's coming to see me, eh? Humph! A lot of good that'll do me. Was he talking with the doctor?"

"Yes."

"Humph!" Bert plunged into thought.

"How about the ankle?" Tom reminded him. "What did you do to it?"

"I was on a bridge detail yesterday," answered Bert gloomily. "We were loading some pilings to be hauled up to a bridge, and I was on the wagon, placing them as they were shoved up to me. They were all greasy with mud, and I—well, I was thinking about some other things, and I stepped on a slippery hunk of mud. I went down; then one of the pilings rolled over when my foot struck it, and went on my ankle."

"Gee, that's hard luck!"

"I'd just as soon sprain a dozen ankles," answered Bert. "That isn't the hard luck."

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

Bert looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. "I can't tell you. It's something we were planning to do, and"—he motioned towards his ankle—"here I am. Perhaps I'll tell you later."

The flap of the tent was pushed aside and the Captain entered. He stood for a moment looking regretfully at Bert. "I'm sorry," he said, "but the doctor says it can't be done. Too bad!"

Bert glared at his ankle. "Well, sir, if it can't be done, it just can't."

Tom watched the two men, wondering what thoughts were in their minds. What was this mysterious plan that was ending so badly?

The Captain spoke at last: "It's nice that you have your cousin here to keep you company while you're waiting for your ankle to heal."

"He'll be with me longer than that, Captain. He's come to enlist."

"Good!" exclaimed Captain Moffat. He turned to Tom. "I 'll be glad to have you, my boy!"

"And I'll be glad to be with you."

"Sir!" corrected Bert. "You'll have to learn to say 'sir' in the army."

"Yes—sir!" replied Tom.

The Captain smiled: "What's your name?"

"Burns, sir. Tom Burns."

"And how old are you!"

"Eighteen, sir."

"Young," commented the Captain, "but you look strong enough to stand the life." He put out his hand. "I'm glad to have you. We need men these days, and we can always handle a few recruits. You can stay here with Corporal Brewster until you're assigned to a squad. I'll have some bedding sent down here for you to use until you draw your kit." He started out, then paused. "Don't be too disappointed, Brewster. There'll be other chances."

"Keep me in mind for the first chance, Captain."

"I'll promise you that."

"Thank you, sir," said Bert. "Do you know who will take my place?"

"Not yet," replied Captain Moffat. "I'll have to select a man."

He left the tent, his heavy sword clanking as he walked. Tom resumed his seat beside Bert.

"What is this scheme of yours, Bert?" he asked. "Can't you tell me? Is it a secret?"

Bert considered the matter for nearly a minute, while Tom watched him intently. "Yes, it's a secret," replied Bert; then he added, "But I'll tell you."

"If it's a military secret, perhaps you'd better not. Of course I wouldn't tell anyone, but…."

"No, it's all right for me to tell you." Bert put his hand into his knapsack which lay beside his bed and pulled forth a map. "Look here." Tom moved up beside him and they spread the map out on their knees. "There's a town called Corinth." Tom pointed with a brown forefinger. "Beauregard is there. And here is Atlanta, which is Beauregard's base of supplies. Here is Murfreesboro where we're camped. If Beauregard's supplies were cut off between Atlanta and Chattanooga, what would happen to Beauregard?"

"He'd been in for trouble," answered Tom.

"And Chattanooga…?"

"Chattanooga would be flying Mitchel's flag." Tom's eyes brightened, and he turned so that he could look squarely at his cousin. "But, Bert, how were you going to do it?"

Bert smiled wanly, and left Tom in suspense a moment before he answered. Then he glanced balefully at his ankle. "Some of us were going into the South, and … well, we were simply going to do it."

"The railroad between Atlanta and Chattanooga?" asked Tom.

"You've guessed it, but, on your life, don't breathe a word of it."

Tom's eyes opened wide. "Never! And aren't they going to do it now! Just because you're ankle is broken?"

"They'll do it, all right," answered Bert. "I'm not that important. There's only one man who is so important that they have to have him."

"And who's that?"

"The leader—the man who planned it. He knows the country." Bert folded the map and put it back in his knapsack.

"I'm sorry about your ankle," Tom said weakly. "With a chance like that!" He whistled, and leaned back, with his hands clasped around a knee, gazing steadfastly at the roof of the tent. Bert rested his chin in his hands and sat silently, looking at him. Tom's eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened until they were white.

"Bert…." he began, then stopped.

"Yes?"

Their eyes met. Tom leaned forward and clutched his cousin's arm. "Do you think, Bert, that Captain Moffat would let me go in your place?"

"I don't know," answered Bert. "But we can ask. Asking won't do any harm."

"Will you ask him? Will you really?"

"Do you want to go? Without knowing any more about it than that?"

"More than anything else in the world. Do you think he will let me go, Bert? Tell him that I'm not afraid—that I can be trusted to carry out orders. You know I can do it, don't you, Bert?"

"Yes, I know you can do it. And I thought that you'd probably want to do it. That's why I disobeyed orders and told you. I wanted to give you the chance to volunteer."

"I wonder if the Captain'll just laugh and say that I'm a raw recruit."

"The Captain isn't that kind of man," answered Bert. "He doesn't laugh at a fellow just because he wants to do something. And about being a raw recruit…. It's my opinion that he'd rather send a recruit, if he's a good man, than a trained soldier. Trained soldiers are too scarce. He was willing to let me go because I volunteered months ago for any expedition that was to be sent out. When the call came for a man from each company, he called me into his tent, and just told me that I was going. Of course, a man doesn't have to go. It's for volunteers only. You know what it might mean if you got caught?"

"That we'd be held as spies. And perhaps…?"

"Yes."

They were silent for a moment.

"Will you ask the Captain now?" demanded Tom.

"You go on up to his tent and ask him if he'll come down here for a minute," said Bert. "You're absolutely positive that you want to go? You wouldn't rather have me wait until tomorrow while you think it over?"

"No! Ask him now, before he decides on someone else!"

Tom clapped his cousin on the shoulder, hurried out of the tent and up the company street.

CHAPTER TWO

THE RAIDERS START

"Come with me," said Captain Moffat, as he emerged from Bert Brewster's tent. Tom had been waiting outside, while Bert and the Captain were talking. He had recognized several men from Cleveland in the company and had tried to carry on a conversation with them. But conversation was impossible. His mind was too full of hopes and plans to recall the news from home. Now, as he walked up the company street, he wondered what the Captain was thinking. Would he be allowed to take Bert's place? He hazarded a glance at the Captain's face, but he could find no answering expression there—always the same stern mask, from which black eyes flashed. Tom could feel his heart pounding as they entered the Captain's tent.

"Sit down," said Captain Moffet, pointing to a box. He called his messenger. "I don't want to be disturbed for a few minutes."

"Very good, sir," answered the messenger. He stationed himself a few yards in front.

"It strikes me," the Captain said, as he sat in a folding chair directly before Tom, "that you are entirely too young to be sent out on such an expedition as this. But I like to know that you volunteer for it. It gives me a comfortable feeling to have men in my company who are always ready for anything that comes up, who are perpetual volunteers for the dangerous jobs."

Tom felt his heart sink. Then he wasn't to be allowed to go! This was simply a nice way of telling him that he couldn't!

"But, Captain," he said explosively, "I'd rather do this than anything else on earth. I am young—I'll admit that—but that'll make me all the more valuable. If it comes to carrying messages, I can run for miles without stopping. Why, I can move faster and fight harder just because I am young! Please give me the chance!"

The Captain looked at him narrowly. "You really want to go, don't you?"

"Yes!" Tom almost shouted.

"All right," said the Captain, rising from his chair. "You are going." Tom wanted to thank him, but he was speechless. "You will hold yourself in readiness for orders." The Captain had become the quiet, stern military man again. "You will let it be known that you are here to visit your cousin, and when you leave camp you will say that you are returning home."

"Yes, sir."

"In the meantime, provide yourself with some rough clothes at Shelbyville, and some heavy shoes. I will provide you with a revolver. That will be all now."

"Yes, sir."

Tom hurried back to his cousin's tent in a daze.

The next afternoon at the general store in Shelbyville he bought a rough suit, and a heavy pair of shoes. "Just wrap the suit up," he told the clerk, "I'll be in for it tomorrow, or the next day. I'll wear the shoes." He tramped back to Murfreesboro, displayed his pass to the Sentry, and went to Bert's tent.

"The doctor has been in again," Bert told him. "He says that my ankle will be well in a week or so."

"Good!" exclaimed Tom. "Look at my pretty little shoes." He displayed the heavy, rough boots he had bought at Shelbyville.

"You ought not to start in those things," advised Bert. "New shoes will cripple you. Here, we'll trade." He produced a pair which had been worn soft in miles of marching. "And here's a waterproof cape for you."

"No, I don't want to take your things."

But Bert insisted. "I know this sort of life. You take 'em and don't argue."

Bert had told him all that he knew of the raid, but, as he remarked, "that's little enough." None of the men who had volunteered knew the details of the expedition: they knew only that they were to accept orders from an unknown man, follow him blindly and willingly into whatever he might lead them. It was to be a raid of great importance, a raid that might change the course of the war if it proved successful. So great was the secrecy that no man knew who his companions were to be. All of them, as Tom, were waiting for orders to be given without knowing when the orders would come, nor what they would be. Tom spent hours, when his cousin's tentmates were away, studying the map, memorizing minute details of it.

Orders came on his third day at camp. He was clearing away the tin plates and cups from which they had been eating dinner, when the Captain's orderly appeared at the door of the tent. "Cap'n wants to see you immediately."

Tom and Bert exchanged a glance; then Tom followed the messenger to the Captain's tent.

When the messenger had been stationed to keep intruders away, the Captain said: "You will leave tonight. Take the Wartrace road out of Shelbyville and walk about a mile and a quarter. When you come to a fork in the road go into the trees and wait until you're picked up. You should be there at eight o'clock. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Repeat my instructions."

Tom repeated them without fault.

"Good! Wait here for a moment." The Captain left the tent. He returned presently with the Major of the battalion and another Captain. From the box where the documents of Company B were kept, he produced enlistment papers. For several minutes, while Tom stood tense and erect, the Captain wrote. The other two officers talked in an undertone.

"Sign here," said the Captain. Tom signed. The Major picked up the paper and glanced through it.

"Hold up your right hand," said the Major. Then Tom heard the oath which bound him to serve the United States of America honorably as a soldier.

"I do," he replied, and let his hand drop to his side again.

The two officers signed the papers, shook hands with him, nodded to Captain Moffat and left the tent. It all happened so quickly that Tom could scarcely realize that he was now a soldier. When he had entered the tent he was a civilian, bound merely by promises of service; now he was a soldier, without a uniform, to be sure, but none the less a soldier. His eyes dimmed and he looked away from the Captain.