After six or seven miles, our bridle-path came back to the main road. "There is a nasty, secesh tavern down the road a mile or so," said Mr. Wade, "and if they are in this part of the country, they will be sure to go down there for the news and a drink. If we can only get across the road and over to old Washam's, we shall be safe."
Slowly we came out to the road. We stopped and listened—we held our breath, and bent down to catch the trampling of their horses. We moved on where the bushes grew thickest, and stopped again. Then Mr. Wade rode out and looked up and down. "There is no one in sight," he said; "come on quickly." I hurried my horse, and in a moment was across. On the other side were great trees and but little underbrush to hide us. We hurried on until we were hidden from the road, and then Mr. Wade drew a long breath, and said: "They won't come down this road; we are safe now."
The danger past, there came a great increase of pain. Each step of the horse racked me, and I felt myself grow weaker and weaker. At last came the refreshing words: "Old Washam's is the next house," and soon the next house appeared. "A true Union man," said Mr. Wade, and true he seemed, for the flag was displayed before the door. We stopped, but I was too exhausted to dismount, and had to slide off into Mr. Wade's arms. As I did so, an old lady with silver spectacles upon her nose and knitting in her hand, came out. "What is the matter with that poor man?" she cried; and then catching sight of my uniform under the butternut coat, "Why, it is a Union soldier; bring him into the house—bring him in immediately." So I was brought in and laid upon a bed, and tenderly cared for.
I lay there watching the knitting and listening to the old lady and her daughter's talk. They had a consultation upon my safety, and it was decided that I should go to the daughter's house for the night. "It is off the road," they said, "and if they make an attack, we can send you word across the fields." But later, we learnt that two spies had passed the house that day, and it was decided I should be sent on that night.
We were to start from the house of a son-in-law of Mr. Washam's, and he and his brother-in-law were to drive me. I walked up to the house, and found the wagon nearly ready. His wife was a young girl, with a sweet and gentle voice and manner. "It is too bad," she said, "too bad that you should go away so wounded and wearied. In peace, we would not let any one leave our home thus." Soon the wagon came to the door. "Mother," she said, "let us make up a bed in it."
"Oh, no," I interposed, "I am not used to a bed; I have not had one in three months, and cannot put you to such trouble."
"It is no trouble to us," she replied, so earnestly and kindly, that I could not doubt it; "do not think that of us."
"But," I went on, "I assure you, some hay in the wagon is all I want, and much more than I am accustomed to. Besides, I am dusty and dirty, and shall certainly spoil your bed clothes."
"If it had not been for you Union soldiers fighting for us," she answered, "there would be nothing in this house to spoil; and whatever we have, you shall have."
Against such goodness and patriotism, who could raise objections? The bed was made in the wagon; they helped me up, and blessed by many good wishes and kind farewells, we started. For me it was so much more safe and comfortable than usual, that I soon fell asleep; but to my two young friends, it was an unusual and an anxious drive. Frequently I was roused by the wagon stopping. Sometimes they heard dogs barking—sometimes voices, and once a gun. At length I woke, to find the wagon standing in front of a house, and young Washam thumping on the door. Soon a man came out.