“Keep up your nerve, fellows,” said Watson, who had become the leader of the party, “and remember that all depends upon the quietness with which we conduct things on this floor, so that the guard below won’t take the alarm.”
As he spoke there was a rattling of keys and a creaking of locks. The heavy door of the room opened, and in walked Waggie. He had been having a walk, with a daughter of the jailer, and one of the negro servants had taken him up-stairs and unlocked the door. The next moment the key was turned; the prisoners were again shut in from the world.
“Poor little Waggie,” said Macgreggor. “Is he going too?”
“I’ve taken him through too much to leave him behind now,” said George fondly. “Look. This is as good as a kennel.” He pointed to an overcoat, which the East Tennessee Captain had given him, and showed on one side a large pocket. The side of the latter was buttoned up closely to the coat.
The minutes dragged along. Finally Watson said, with a sort of mournful impressiveness: “Boys, let us all bid each other good-bye. For some of us may never meet again!”
The men clasped one another by the hand. In the eyes of most of them were tears—not timid tears, but the tears of soldiers who had become attached to one another through suffering and hoping together. It was a solemn scene which the rays of the dying sun illumined, and George would never forget it.
Watson brushed a drop from his cheek.
“I feel better, now,” he said cheerfully; “I’m ready for anything. Remember one thing. Treat the jailer as gently as possible. He has been a kind fellow where some would have been the reverse.”
“Aye,” murmured his companions. It was an order which had their hearty sympathy.
In a little while there was the long-expected creaking at the door. It was supper time! Two negroes entered and placed some pans containing food upon the table. Then they retired, and the door was locked.