“And if we can strike the Mississippi about Baton Rouge I would be among friends,” said Marcy. “But across three States that are no doubt infested with Home Guards and bloodhounds! Bowen, you’re crazy.”
“Not so crazy as you will show yourself to be if you try to reach the coast,” was the reply. “But we haven’t started yet, and you will have plenty of time to think it over and decide if you will go with me or strike out by yourself.”
This conversation had a disheartening effect upon Marcy, who knew that if his clear-headed companion left him to take care of himself, his chances for seeing home and friends again were very slim indeed. While he was thinking about it, and trying to grasp the full meaning of the words “across three States infested with Home Guards and bloodhounds,” the train stopped at Millen Junction and the conscripts were ordered to disembark. As fast as they left the cars they were drawn up in line near the depot, which was afterward burned by Sherman’s cavalry, and the roll was called. After that they were formally turned over to the commander of the prison, who was there to receive them, and marched out to the stockade. Marcy had just time to note that it was a gloomy looking place and that a deep silence brooded over it, before he was marched into the fort, whose cannon commanded the prison at all points. There they were divided into messes and assigned to quarters, with the understanding that they were to go on duty the next morning at guard-mount. The barracks were crowded when Marcy first went into them, but some of the militia were ordered to Savannah that afternoon, and when they were gone he and Bowen were able to find a bunk. They had managed to be put into the same mess, and that was something to be thankful for.
So far the conscripts had nothing to complain of. Their supper was abundant and passably well cooked, and it was delightful to know that they could get a drink of water when they wanted it, without asking permission of some petty tyrant who was quite as likely to refuse as he was to grant the request. But Marcy looked forward with some misgivings to guard-mount the next morning. The idea of putting raw recruits through that complicated ceremony was a novel one to him, and although he had no fears for himself, he was afraid that the awkwardness of some of his companions would bring upon them the wrath of the adjutant; that is, if the latter was at all strict, and liked to see things done in military form. Before he went to his bunk, however, he found that he had little to fear on that score. A sergeant came into the barracks with a paper in his hand, and began warning the recruits for guard duty the next day, ordering them to fall in line in front of him as fast as their names were called. Marcy’s was one of the first on the list, and when it was read off he stepped promptly to his place, dressed to the right, and came to a front. The sergeant, who knew a well-drilled man when he saw him, was surprised. He looked curiously at Marcy for a moment, and then went on calling off the names of the guard.
“I’ll bet I made a mistake in showing off that way,” thought Marcy. “As soon as this company is organized they will take me out of the ranks and make me a corporal or something, and that would be a misfortune, for I shouldn’t have half the chance to talk to Bowen that I’ve got now.”
There were forty recruits warned for duty, and when they were all standing before him the sergeant said that when they heard the bugle sound the adjutant’s call at nine o’clock in the morning, they would be expected to assemble on the parade ground, and when they got there they would be armed and told what to do. Then, having performed his duty, the sergeant faced them to the right and broke ranks, at the same time looking hard at Marcy and jerking his head over his shoulder toward the door. Marcy followed him when he left the barracks, and when they were out of hearing of everybody the sergeant said:
“Where have you been drilled?”
“At the Barrington Military Academy. I was there almost four years. But don’t say anything about it, will you?”
“You’re sure you’re not a deserter?” continued the sergeant.
“No!” gasped Marcy. “I am a refugee. I haven’t even been conscripted. I was arrested in my mother’s presence and shoved into Williamston jail; and if I were a deserter, don’t you suppose Captain Wilkins would have known it? What put that into your head?”