It was clear that Rolf could not go. He was an officer and a gentleman. Honor forbade it. Sadly, Tom left him.
On Tuesday evening, February 9, 1864, when the chosen thirty had crawled down the inverted "S" and the rope-ladder to Rat Hell, Col. H. C. Hobart, who knew the secret, but had gallantly offered to stay behind, so that he could replace the tell-tale bricks in the fireplace, replaced them. But before he could get upstairs, some hundreds of men had come down. The secret was a secret no longer. There was a fierce struggle to get to the fireplace, a struggle all the fiercer because it had to be made in grim silence, for there was a sentry but a few feet away, on the other side of the wall, in the hospital. The bricks were taken out again. In all, one hundred and nine Union officers got through the hole. Then, warned by approaching daylight, the less fortunate in the fight for freedom put back the bricks and crept stealthily upstairs, resolved to try their luck the next night, if the tunnel were not before that discovered.
Tom had wormed his way through the inverted "S" among the first fifteen. On the rope ladder he lost his hold and fell in a heap upon the floor of Rat Hell. The huge rodents swarmed upon him, squealing and biting. He almost shrieked with the horror of it, but he sprang to his feet, threw off his tormentors, and ran across the room to the opening of the tunnel. His ragged clothes were still more ragged and his face and hands were bleeding from rat-bites, but he cared nothing for all this. Was he not on his way to freedom? On his way, yes; but the way was a long one. He might never reach the end. When he had pushed and pulled himself through the tunnel; when he had come out into the yard and gone through the shed; and when, at the moment the sentry in the canal street was at the further end of his beat, he had slipped out of the doorway and turned in the opposite direction,—when all this had happened, he was out of prison, to be sure, but he was in the heart of the enemy's country, with all the risks of recapture or of death still to be run.
The men had all been cautioned to stroll away in a leisurely fashion, on no account to run or even to walk fast, and not to try to get away in groups of more than two or three. It was hard to walk slowly to the next corner. The boy made himself do so, however. Half a block ahead of him on the side street, he saw a couple of men walking with a somewhat faster stride. He hurried ahead to join them. A Confederate patrol turned the corner of Carey Street. He heard the two men challenged and he heard the little scuffle as they were seized. Their brief moment of freedom had passed. He stepped to one side of the wooden sidewalk and crawled under it. There was just space enough for him to lie at full length. Hurrying feet, the feet of men hunting other men, trampled an inch above his nose. His heart beat so that he thought it must be heard. The patrol reached the street along the canal and peered into the darkness there, a darkness feebly fought by one flickering gas-lamp. Fortunately, nobody came out of the shed just then. The sentry happened to be coming towards it and the men inside were waiting for him to turn. The patrol had no thought of a general jail-delivery. It turned back with its two prisoners, tramped back over Tom's head to Carey Street, and took its captives to the prison. The boy crawled out from under the sidewalk as the next batch of fugitives, three of them, reached the corner. He ran down to them and warned them of the Carey Street patrol. The three men turned with him and walked along the canal. It was just after midnight. Not a soul was stirring. Not a light showed. As they walked unquestioned, their spirits rose. How fine to be free.
[CHAPTER XI]
Tom Hides in a River Bank—Eats Raw Fish—Jim Grayson Aids Him—Down the James River on a Tree—Passing the Patrol Boats—Cannonaded—The End of the Voyage.
Tom had made up his mind how he would try to reach the Union lines. As he had escaped before from the locomotive-foray by pushing boldly into the enemy's country, so he would do now. He would try his luck in following the James River to the sea, for off the river's mouth he knew there lay a squadron of Northern ships, blockading Hampton Roads. The "Merrimac's" attempt of March, 1862, had never been repeated. Our flag was still there, in these February days of 1864, and Tom knew it. He had resolved to seek it there.
He explained his plan to his three comrades. They would steal a boat, row or drift down the James by night, hide and sleep by day, forage for food upon the rich plantations, many of them the historic homes of Virginia, that bordered the broad river, and finally float to freedom where our war-ships lay. But the three men would have nothing to do with it. By land the Union lines were much nearer. They meant to stick to the land. They asked the boy to go with them, but he stuck to his plan. So, with hearty handshakes and a whispered "good luck!" he left them, went over a canal-bridge, and found himself upon the bank of the river. He was again alone.