Tom of the Raiders Part 9

"Yes, sir," answered Tom. He was thoroughly sick of deception. At that moment, if he could have found an adequate excuse for departure, he would willingly have walked the remaining distance to Chattanooga-and swum the river in the bargain.

Mr. Beecham settled himself before the fire. "I've not known many gentlemen from Kentucky," he announced. "For the most part I stay at home, and we have few travelers along this road. There was a Mr. Charles, of Floyd County. Isn't that just east of Fleming County!"

"No," answered Tom, "Carter County is on our east." He glanced at Miss Marjorie. She was watching him intently, alive to the dangerous ground he was treading.

"Ah, yes," answered Mr. Beecham, "so it is-so it is. Let me see the geography a moment, dear." Miss Marjorie gave him the book, opened to the map of Kentucky. "Quite so-quite so. Floyd County is here." He pointed.

"Yes," answered Tom. "Does there seem to be any chance of the storm ending, sir?"

The weather provided a safer subject of conversation, which lasted for nearly a half-hour. Then Tom became intensely interested in Mr. Beecham's estate, and the difficulties of handling crops in war time. Miss Marjorie sat near them, sewing. Tom would have given everything he possessed for two minutes alone with her. Why was she befriending him? He asked the question over and over again.

It was decided that one of Mr. Beecham's servants should go with Tom to the ferry landing. The servant, carrying a note from Mr. Beecham to the ferryman, would show him the way, and, more than that, it would be additional proof to the ferryman that Mr. Beecham was especially desirous of Tom's being taken across the river. "Then I'll know if old Jones who runs the ferry does as I tell him to do," explained Mr. Beecham. "They don't like to cross when the river's high."

Dinner was served, and still Tom had no opportunity to speak with Marjorie alone. The glances they exchanged were charged with meaning-but it was an unexplainable meaning. Several times as he pondered over it, Tom lost the thread of Mr. Beecham's remarks, and had to grope for the right answers.

"Your horse will be ready for you in a few minutes," said Mr. Beecham as they arose from the table.

"And your clothes are dried and in your room," added his wife.

It was time to be going. He mounted to his room, changed into the rough suit he had bought in Shelbyville, and forced his feet into his soggy shoes. They were waiting for him before the fire as he came down. After a moment, Mrs. Beecham left them. Tom hoped desperately that Mr. Beecham would do likewise.

"I'll see if Sam is bringing your horse," he said.

Tom's eyes met Marjorie's as the older man entered the next room, where he could look out toward the stables. He had no sooner disappeared than Tom asked in a low voice: "Why did you do that?"

"You're not a Southerner, are you?" she asked.

"No," he answered bluntly. "But what...?"

"I'm not either," she replied. Her glowed with excitement. "I'm from Albany...."

They were interrupted by Mr. Beecham's returning. "The horse is coming," he announced. Mrs. Beecham entered the room.

"Thank you for your hospitality," said Tom.

"It has been a pleasure," replied Mrs. Beecham.

"A pleasure, sir-a pleasure," responded her husband.

Tom's dislike for the deception he was practising made him want to run from the house. For the moment he hated the idea of the expedition.

He put out his hand to Marjorie. She gave him a cool, firm clasp, and looked straight into his eyes. "I wish you the best of luck for everything you undertake," she said slowly.

"Thank you," he replied. "I'll need luck." Her hand gave his a quick pressure. Once again the railroad raid became a great, thrilling adventure in which he was to play a part.

"He bowed and left the house.

"Sam!" called Mr. Beecham.

"Ya.s.sah!" answered the negro boy who was mounted upon another horse.

"You stay there until this gentleman is across the river."

"Ya.s.sah."

Tom mounted and they started down the road. He looked back, saw Marjorie at the window, and waved. She answered him.

Despite the rain which beat in their faces, Tom studied the country through which they were pa.s.sing, and asked the negro boy innumerable questions. But he found his mind slipping back constantly to Marjorie. A Northern girl in the South! Surrounded by "rebs" but still true to her country! And she wished him luck!

"Whose place is that?" asked Tom, pointing to a small house which was almost hidden from the road by trees.

An expression of dislike came over the negro's face. "Mistah Murdock's," he answered.

"A farmer?"

"No, suh," replied the negro. The expression of dislike changed visibly to repugnance and fear. He added: "He keeps dawgs!"

There was no need to ask more. The negro's tone was sufficient. Dogs! There was only one reason why a man made a business of keeping dogs-to chase escaping slaves. The thought was horrible to Tom, and he turned away.

They found the ferryman in his shanty, hugging a stove.

"No crossing today," he announced. "Look at that there river. No crossing today. Besides that, it's forbidden by the law. No Sentry, no crossing."

That was good news! No Sentry! "Mr. Beecham thought that you would take me across," said Tom. "Sam, give him Mr. Beecham's note."

"Ya.s.suh." Sam produced the note.

The ferryman read it, scratching his head. "That man'll be my death yet," he said. "Take a horse across today? No, sir! I'll take you across if you and the n.i.g.g.e.r'll handle oars, but not the horse! No, sir! It's against the law, anyways. No Sentry, no crossing. No, sir! I'll risk the river an' the law, just because Mr. Beecham asks it, but I can't take that there nag."

"Well, then we'll leave the horse behind," answered Tom. "I can pull an oar. Can you row, Sam?"

The negro backed against the wall, shaking his head, terrified at the thought of the rough crossing.

"Just like all of 'em," said the ferryman. "When there's any danger, don't count on them. Mr. Beecham treats his n.i.g.g.e.rs too easy, anyways. I always say if he'd lick 'em they'd be better."

"He's pretty easy with them, is he?" asked Tom.

"Treats 'em as though they were prize stock," answered the ferryman in disgust. "I guess you and I can get across," he grumbled. "Two white men're better 'an a dozen of 'em."

"Sam, you take my horse back to Mr. Beecham. I'll write a note for you to carry." Tom wrote a message, explaining that the horse could not be ferried across, and asking that it be disposed of in any manner that suited Mr. Beecham's convenience.

The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river. Tom, swinging on his big oar in answer to the ferryman's cries of "Ho!" "Now!", saw the other bank creeping nearer. At last they cleared the full flood of the stream. On the other sh.o.r.e, Sam stood open-mouthed, watching them.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The little ferryboat pitched and turned in the current of the river.]

It was eight o'clock that evening when Tom, soaked to the skin again, cold, hungry, and tired, tramped into the little town of Chattanooga. A few lamps shone through the windows into the deserted street, making dull splotches of yellow in the mist. Three or four people pa.s.sed him, hurrying to be out of the storm.

He stopped one man and asked: "Where can I find a hotel?" Then he gasped as the man straightened and threw back the coat he had thrown over his head and shoulders: it was a Confederate soldier!