CHAPTER XXXVII—Continued
But weeks passed and McArthur was forced to stay and see himself growing haggard, weak and filthy. It grew cold and the ragged quilts barely sufficed to cover the sand.
At last one day at dusk he determined to make his escape or die. A dense fog had settled down over the island, and in the growing darkness he could scarcely see the guards with their guns pointed over the stockades. It was absolute folly to attempt it, but what was a worm-fed man not willing to attempt? So, as his custom was, he went into his tent, and by his ragged pallet, asked a mercy from his God, and then went out toward the death-line. Well nigh crazed, he thought in the fog he could safely burrow a way unseen under the stockade. He chose a spot midway between a gullah negro (a lowlander from the rice fields of the Combahee) and a mulatto who spoke often of his rights and liberty, and who was as anxious that all should know of his presence as a little game bantam cockerel that has just learned how to crow. Then, kneeling upon the sand, he cautiously began work. A long, lanky man from the mountains of North Carolina saw him and followed:
“Friend, it’s death,” he whispered.
“It doesn’t matter.”
The sand was beginning to fly when he heard a noise as though some one was clambering up the poles of the stockade. Listening, he stared intently in the direction of the noise. A gust of wind had blown off the cap of the Combahee negro, and by means of a rope he was letting himself down to get it.
Was it a mercy?
At least it was a chance.
Stealing up in the darkness he slapped his hand on the guard’s shoulder.
“To whom do you belong, Jim?”
Taken by surprise, and noting instinctively the white man’s voice, the thin veneer of freedom and egotism wore off.
“To ’state of Norris—on de main, Marster.”
“Hand me that pistol from your belt.”
Still under the power of the masterful man, the negro handed it over. Scarcely had McArthur taken it, however, when the spell was broken.
“Looky ’ere, stan’ off dar. I’se one of de gyards. I b’longs to Mr. Linkum an’ myself, now. Stan’ off an’ gimme dat musket,” he quavered, trying to re-assume his self-confidence.
Then he shivered as he felt the cold steel against his temple.
“Don’t speak again, or I’ll kill you instantly.”
Terrified, the negro fell to wringing his hands, his teeth chattering convulsively.
“Take off those clothes,” ordered Ervin, “cap, trousers, coat.”
While this was being done, a dark gray form loomed up by his side out of the fog.
“You got him? I’ll help you.”
It was the mountaineer.
McArthur handed him the pistol, and divesting himself, took the negro’s blue uniform and put it on.
“If he speaks, blow his brains out!”
“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” sobbed the negro, trying hard to swallow even this sound.
“Quick, what is your regiment?”
“Secon’ South Ca’lina. Marster, please take down dat gun!”
“Who runs the ferry boat at Cumming’s Point?”
“Hatchett an’ Simpson, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts.”
“What is your company?”
“Company C, sah.”
“Who is the Captain?”
“Cap’n ain’t come, marster—name’s Brown—’spectin’ him to-morrow.”
Quickly climbing the rope, he picked up the gun of the guard, and began descending. Neither was he to be confused in the fog and darkness. Many times in the Eseeolas had he taken his bearings from a bucket, two sticks and the pole star, as though he were really lost.
“You git it?” It was the mulatto’s voice.
“Yeah, aisy,” Ervin answered in pure Combahee.
He went on down the parapet.
“Where you goin’, you blame bluegum gullah?” the mulatto called.
“Huh, you swongerrin’ mighty rash to a free nigger wid a gun!”
The mulatto laughed.
“If I c’d see you, I’d shoot you like one of them d—n rebels. That’s a fancy way you goin’ to camp.”
“’Tain’t matter about de road, so long as ’e cah’y you to de right place,” was the answer.
Thoroughly familiar with the island, McArthur veered westward and turned his face toward Battery Gregg. As he passed it he was challenged.
“Cholly Smif—”
“What regiment?”
“Secon’ South Ca’lina.”
“What duty?”
“Gyardin’ dese d—n rebels.”
“Pass on, you black nigger braggart.”
“I ain’t lahgin’, mister. Take dese white folks to lahge. Niggers cain’t lahge nuttin’ to de Buckra. Sabby?”
“Get on, Combahee monkey,” called the sentry, recognizing the low country lingo.
Ervin passed on towards Cumming’s Point, his eyes serving him in good stead. Almost in a moment he was by the landing. A towboat lay at anchor, and a couple of mulatto men were in charge of it.
“Hello!” hailed Ervin. His tone was one of easy command.
“Hello,” one of them answered.
“Where are you going?”
“Been out to the Montauk—comin’ in—”
“Lay that boat alongside.”
“We have orders against it, sir, except by special request.”
“Never mind about the orders. I guess you don’t know Captain Brown, of your own company. You are Second South Carolina, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Company C?”
“Yes, sir,” and they saluted.
“You made a splendid charge at Wagner. We nearly drove the rebs out that night. There, bring her up. You are detailed by Captain Emilio to convey me to James’ Island, within the Confederate lines. I am going to do a little reconnoitering.”
So they pulled up the anchor, and the towboat turned into the creeks between Morris’ and James’ Island.
Scarcely had they gone a hundred yards before a boat was pushed off hurriedly after them, and a voice called excitedly:
“Stop that boat! Hatchett, Simpson, he’s a rebel prisoner! Stop!”
The two boatmen instantly ceased rowing and looked at McArthur angrily. Not a feature of his face changed. Only his nostrils dilated suggestively, and two little flames of fire shot from his eyes.
“Take up those oars, men,” he said, quietly, pointing his pistol at them. “Row as if all hell were behind you.”
The men hesitated.
McArthur fired at the foremost, intentionally grazing his clothes. At the report of the pistol, they cowered in mortal terror.
“Good God, marster, doan’ shoot any mo,’ we’se rowin’!”
“Then row!” thundered the master. “If they catch us I’ll kill you both!”