CHAPTER XIV.
THE PRISON PEN.
When Marcy Gray awoke the next morning he made the mental resolution that from that time forward, no matter what happened or how homesick he might be, he would follow Bowen’s advice and example to the letter, eat and sleep all he could and keep up a brave heart, so as to be in readiness to improve the first opportunity for escape that presented itself. Fortunately some things occurred that made it comparatively easy for him to hold to his resolve for a few days at least. After some more smoked bean soup and half-baked corn bread had been served for breakfast (and this time Marcy did just what Bowen said he would, and pushed and crowded with the rest in order to get a clean pan to eat from), the grated door that led into the hall was thrown open and the commander of the prison appeared on the threshold with Captain Fletcher at his side. The latter held in his hand the book in which Marcy had seen his name and descriptive list entered the day before. A hush of expectancy fell upon the prisoners, who surged toward the door in a body. Something out of the ordinary was about to happen, and they were impatient to know what it was.
“Get back there!” shouted Captain Wilkins. “You seem to be in a mighty hurry to leave these good quarters, but some of you will wish yourselves back here before many days have passed over your heads.”
These words had a depressing effect upon some of the prisoners, but they were very cheering to Marcy Gray and his friend Bowen. The captain made it plain that they were to be sent off in some direction, and anything was better than being shut up in that gloomy jail.
“As fast as your names are called pick up your plunder and go down into the yard and fall in for a march of seventy-five miles,” continued the captain. “That will be your first taste of a soldier’s life.”
“Seventy-five miles,” repeated Marcy. “We must be going to Raleigh, and from there it is about a hundred miles by rail to Salisbury. By gracious, Bowen, if they send us there I’ll not be much over two hundred miles from home.”
“I hope they’ll not separate us,” was the reply. “That’s what I am afraid of now.”
Captain Fletcher called off the names as they were written in his book, and the prisoners one after another disappeared down the stairs. Some responded with a cheerful “here,” and walked as briskly as though they were going home instead of into the army, while others answered in scarcely audible tones and moved with slow and reluctant steps. When Bowen’s name was called he lingered long enough to give Marcy’s hand a friendly squeeze, and when he passed through the door out of sight he seemed to have taken all the boy’s courage with him; but when his own name was called a few minutes later, Marcy was himself again. He went into the jail yard and fell into the line that was being formed there under command of an officer he had not seen before. On the opposite side of the yard was a company of soldiers, veterans on the face of them, who were standing at “parade rest,” and Marcy straightway concluded that they were the men who were to guard the prisoners during the march. Marcy hoped they would continue to act in that capacity as long as an escort was needed. He wasn’t afraid of veterans, but he did not want any Home Guards put over him.
“What have you got in your grip?” inquired the officer, as Marcy fell into his place in line.
“Clothing, sir,” answered the boy, holding out the valise as if he thought the officer wished to inspect it.