Lightfoot burst into a great laugh that made the mystery the more intense. “Why, comrades,” he cried, “I ought to go on the stage; I had no idea I was such a good actor. Don’t you know your friend, Walter Jenks?” The Southern accent of the speaker had suddenly disappeared.
The listeners stood dumfounded. Then the whole situation dawned upon them. They had been most gloriously and successfully duped. This Major Lightfoot was none other than Walter Jenks, a sergeant from General Mitchell’s camp, whom Andrews had sent out on the bridge-burning party. He had shaved off his beard, and assumed a Southern accent (something he was able to do because he was a Marylander), so that the guests at the Page mansion had failed to recognize him.
Jenks shook the three warmly by the hand. “It was a mean trick to play on you fellows,” he explained, lowering his voice, “but for the life of me I couldn’t resist the temptation.”
“How on earth did you turn up here in the guise of a Confederate officer?” asked Watson, who now felt a sense of exhilaration in knowing that he might yet join Andrews at Marietta.
“It is too long a story to tell,” whispered Jenks. “I’ll only say here that I got lost from the other two fellows I was traveling with—was suspected of being a spy in one of the villages I passed through—and, to avoid pursuit, had to shave off my beard and disguise myself in this Confederate uniform, which I was lucky enough to ‘appropriate.’ I was nearly starved—stumbled across this place or my way down—told a plausible story (Heaven forgive me for deceiving so delightful a lady as Mrs. Page)—and here I am! And the sooner we set off from here, the sooner we will meet at the appointed town.”
“When the war’s over,” remarked Macgreggor, “you can earn a fortune on the stage.”
Half an hour later the four Northerners had taken a grateful farewell of the unsuspecting Mrs. Page, and were hurrying along the bank of the Tennessee. By four o’clock in the afternoon they had reached a point directly opposite Chattanooga. Here they found a ferryman, just as they had been given to expect, with his flat “horse-boat” moored to the shore. He was a fat, comfortable-looking fellow, as he sat in tailor-fashion on the little wharf, smoking a corncob pipe as unconcernedly as though he had nothing to do all day but enjoy tobacco.
Watson approached the man. “We want to get across the river as soon as possible,” he explained, pointing to his companions. “This officer (indicating Walter Jenks, who retained his Confederate uniform) and the rest of us must be in Chattanooga within half an hour.”
The ferryman took his pipe from his mouth and regarded the party quizzically. “You may want to be in Chattanooga in half an hour,” he said, in a drawling, lazy fashion, “but I reckon the river’s got somethin’ to say as to that!” He waved one hand slowly in the direction of the stream, which was, without a shadow of doubt, an angry picture to gaze upon. Its waters were turbulent enough to suggest that a passage across them at this moment would be attended by great risk.
But to the anxious travelers any risk, however great, seemed preferable to waiting. If they missed the evening train from Chattanooga to Marietta their usefulness was ended. No bridge-burning adventure for them!