“That happens only on pleasant nights; but I have noticed that on stormy nights the officer of the guard hugs his comfortable quarters as closely as we do our boxes,” replied Bowen. “You’ll pick up and be yourself again as soon as we are out of reach of this place, and you mustn’t give way to your gloomy feelings. The next rainy night that we are on post together we’ll skip. I have been making inquiries about the country west of here, and know just how to travel in order to reach my home. All you’ve got to do is to be ready to move when I say the word, and I will take you safely through.”
It would have been very comforting to hear Bowen talk in this confident way, if Marcy had only been able to believe that the man could keep his promise; but unfortunately he could not get up any enthusiasm. The spiritless prisoners inside the stockade were not more indifferent to their fate than he was to his. There had been no attempts at escape that Marcy knew anything about, but two unfinished tunnels had been discovered and filled up, and the pack of “nigger dogs” that the commander used in tracking fugitives had been brought into the pen and exhibited to the prisoners, so that they might know what they had to expect in case they succeeded in getting outside the stockade. But Bowen declared that the hounds would not bother him and Marcy. If they escaped during a storm the rain would wash away the scent so that they could not be tracked.
It was while Marcy was in this unfortunate frame of mind that something occurred to arouse him from his lethargy and drive him almost to desperation. It was on the morning following the day on which a fresh lot of prisoners had been received into the pen. Marcy stood near the gate when they went in, and noticed that there were not more than half a dozen blankets in the party, that some of them were barefooted, and others destitute of coats and hats.
“Them Yanks haint got nothin’ to trade,” said a Home Guard who stood near him.
“Whose fault is it?” replied Marcy. “They never looked that way when they were captured.”
“No, I don’t reckon they did. Them fellars up the country have went through ’em good fashion. But I don’t blame ’em for that. I only wish I could get the first pull at a Yank who has a good coat or a pair of number ten shoes onto his feet. I wouldn’t be goin’ around ragged like I am now, I bet you.”
It was one of these fresh prisoners who caused Marcy Gray to fall into the clutches of the commander of the prison, whom Bowen had denounced as a “heathen.” He went on post at twelve o’clock the next day, Bowen occupying the box on his right, while the Home Guard who said he would like to have a chance to steal a coat and a pair of shoes stood guard in the one on his left. The new prisoners had had time to take in the situation, and to learn that if they preferred a shelter of some sort to the bare ground, or cooked rations instead of raw ones, they were at liberty to provide themselves with these luxuries if they could, for their captors would not furnish them. But how could they be expected to build dug-outs when they did not have even pocket knives to dig with? and how could they bake corn bread when every flat stone and piece of board that could be found was in the possession of someone who would not part with it for love or money? There was a treasure lying on the ground in front of Marcy’s box, and directly under the strip of board that marked the inner edge of the dead-line. It was a battered tin cup. How it came there, and why someone had not tried to obtain possession of it, was a mystery; but it had been discovered by a party of new-comers, perhaps a dozen of them in all, who looked at the cup with longing eyes and then glanced apprehensively at Marcy, who leaned on his musket and looked down on them. One of the most daring of the party seemed determined to make an effort to secure the cup, but as often as he bent forward as if he were about to make a dash for it, his comrades seized him and pulled him back.
“Poor fellow,” thought Marcy, who admired the prisoner’s courage. “He little knows how glad I would be to tell him to come and get it. The cup isn’t inside the dead-line anyway, and if he makes a grab for it he can have it for all I will do to stop him.”
The result of this mental resolution was the same as though Marcy had announced it in words. As quick as thought the daring soldier made a jump for the dead-line, snatched the cup from the ground, and in a second more was back among his comrades, who closed around him in a body, effectually covering him from the three muskets, Marcy’s, Bowen’s, and the Home Guard’s, that were pointed in his direction. They ran among the tents and dug-outs and mingled with the other prisoners, so that it would have been impossible for the guards to identify a single one of them.
“Good for the Yank!” thought Marcy. “That’s what I call pluck. He’ll have something to dig with at any rate, and perhaps he can straighten that cup out so that he can cook his corn meal in it.”