It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. Marcy Gray was in Williamston jail at last, and this was the way he was welcomed when the heavy grated door clanged behind him. Much to his relief he was not thrust into a cell as he thought he would be, but into a large room which was already so crowded that it did not seem as though there could be space for one more. The inmates gathered eagerly about him, all asking questions at once, and although some of them affected to look upon their capture and confinement as a huge joke, Marcy saw at a glance that the majority were as miserable as he was himself. While he told his story in as few words as possible he looked around for the two foragers who had been captured on the night that Ben Hawkins was surprised in his father’s house, and failing to discover them he shouted out their names. They had had a few days’ experience as prisoners, and could perhaps give him some needed advice.
“Oh, they’re gone,” said one.
“Gone where?” inquired Marcy.
“Nobody knows. This room was cleaned out on the very day they were brought in, and your two friends went with the rest to do guard duty somewhere down South. All of us you see here have been captured during the last two or three days.”
“How long do you think it will be before we will be shipped off?”
“It won’t be long,” said the prisoner, “for this room is about as full as it will hold. What are you anyway? Union or secesh?”
Before Marcy could make any reply to this unexpected question, someone who stood behind him gave him a gentle poke in the ribs. He took it for a warning, as indeed it was intended to be, and turned away without saying a word. The incident frightened him, for it proved that there were some among the prisoners whom their companions in misery were afraid to trust. He began to wonder how it would be possible for him to secure possession of the gold pieces which his thoughtful mother had placed in his vest pocket. There were some hard-looking fellows among the prisoners, men of the Kelsey and Hanson stamp, and Marcy was not far wrong when he told himself it would never do to let them know or suspect that he was well supplied with good money. Holding fast to his blanket and valise he freed himself from the crowd as soon as he could, and taking his stand by an open grated window, began looking about in search of a face whose owner seemed to him worthy of confidence; for Marcy felt the need of a friend now as he had never felt it before. As good fortune would have it, the first man who attracted his notice was Charley Bowen, and he turned out to be the one who had given him the warning poke in the ribs. His was an honest face if there ever was one, and Marcy liked the way the man conducted himself. He took no part in the joking and laughing. He looked as serious as Marcy felt, but did not seem to be utterly cast down, as many of the prisoners were, because he knew he was going to be forced into the army. When he saw that Marcy’s eyes were fixed upon him with an inquiring look, he gradually worked his way out of the crowd and came up to the window.
“You look as though you had been used to better quarters than these and better company, too,” was the way he began the conversation.
“And so do you,” replied Marcy.
“I never was shut up in jail before, if that is what you mean. You see I don’t belong in this part of the country. I got this far on my way up from Georgia, intending to get outside the Confederate lines if I could, but I was gobbled at last, and within sight of the Union flag at Plymouth.”