Tom of the Raiders Part 1

TOM OF THE RAIDERS.

by AUSTIN BISHOP.

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 pa.s.s!" The Sentry's rifle, with its long gleaming bayonet, snapped into a menacing att.i.tude.

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 pa.s.sing. 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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.