“Libby Prison,” sneered the lieutenant.
“Tell my mother to come and see me at Libby,” said Tom, half stupidly. Upon this the chorus naturally raised an insulting shout, and one poor brute indulged in some ribald remark. In an instant, Tom had struck him across the face; in another instant, Tom himself lay on the ground senseless and stunned by a blow from the butt of one of the rebel rifles. It was at this instant, while Ned in anguish and desperation was struggling with his captors, that the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard coming nearer and nearer, and three or four officers rode quickly up. The central figure of the group was a compact, sinewy man, of medium height, with a full, untrimmed beard, and a face, as Ned could see by the dim light of the fire which some of the men were now lighting a little distance off, furrowed with the lines of thought, of care, and anxiety. The eyes were large and expressive, the features clearly cut, and the mouth, even though partially hidden by a thin mustache, showed indomitable firmness. A grand head in many respects, and one which made it evident to Ned that he was in the presence of the dreaded Stonewall Jackson.
“What is the matter here?” he asked briefly.
“They have destroyed the bridge, general,” was the reply.
Stonewall Jackson turned, and whispered to one of his companions who rode away. Then he continued:—
“Are these prisoners?”
“Yes, general,” said the lieutenant,—“these four.”
“A lieutenant-colonel, I see?” said Stonewall Jackson.
Ned simply bowed in reply. Then Stonewall Jackson looked at Tom, and said:—