Tom, with his guards, was in the lead; then came Wilson, with Shadrack a few paces behind him. The Sergeant was with Shadrack. Tom glanced back, and his eyes met Wilson's. There was a flash of understanding between them; then Wilson turned to look at Shadrack, as though cautioning silence. No one spoke as they picked their way along through the ooze of mud in the direction of the main road. To their left was another shanty, much like the one in which they had spent the night, and before the door stood a man, with his wife and child, gazing at them dumbly. The man was dressed, but the woman and child had wrapped tattered blankets over them for protection against the cold. Tom, as he watched them, reconstructed the drama of the night before. They, he thought, were "poor whites," like the man in whose shanty they had slept—Smith, the soldiers had called him—and their hearts were with the Northern army. Smith, when he had left on the pretext of attending to his chickens, had probably gone to them, routed them out of bed to tell them of the rebels he was harboring. The man had dressed and floundered through the mud until he came to the Union pickets, brought the soldiers back with him to Smith's shanty. That was his service to the Northern cause, and he must feel proud now, thought Tom. There, huddling together on the doorstep of their miserable, rain-soaked hut, they had visible proof of having helped the North, of having rendered their service. And their pride, lifting them for a brief moment from the pitiful squalor of their lives, seemed such a fine thing to Tom that he hoped they would never know of the mistake they had made. He glanced back and saw them still watching, silent and motionless.
When the procession had come to a spot where it was hidden both from the shanties and the road, Wilson spoke:
"Sergeant, I'd like to have a word with you."
"All right," answered the Sergeant. "What is it?"
"Alone, I mean," answered Wilson. "It's important. I'm not trying to escape. It's so important that I can't let the rest of your men hear it."
"You men stand by these two prisoners while I hear what the reb has to say," ordered the Sergeant. "Come over here."
Wilson went to the Sergeant and talked earnestly for several minutes. The Sergeant watched him narrowly, frowning. A few of Wilson's words drifted over to the others; "…not asking you to take my word … to some person of authority … not lose a minute about it…." The Sergeant was visibly impressed. He tilted his cap and scratched his head; shifted his weight from one leg to another; stroked his whiskers. Finally, after a brief discussion, they came to a decision.
"This man and I are going to take the wagon," announced the Sergeant. "We have to get to Wartrace as quick as we can. You others 'll have to walk. It'll take too long if we all ride—too much of a pull for the horses."
There was some grumbling among the guards at the prospect of trudging through the mud when they had expected a comfortable ride in the wagon. However, without understanding what it all was about, they accepted the Sergeant's decision. When they reached the road where the wagon was standing, Wilson said to Tom:
"I'll try and meet you before you get to Wartrace. Take your time."