“That’s what I have thought all along, and I am with you when we go on post at twelve o’clock. It’s going to rain like smoke in less than half an hour, and when it begins it will keep it up for a day or two. I am glad if you have been waked up, but sorry it had to be done in this way.”
“Captain Denning will be sorry for it, too,” said Marcy.
In spite of the agony he was in, but one thought filled Marcy Gray’s mind, and that was that under no circumstances would he pass another day alive in that camp. No matter how great the danger might be, he would escape that very night. He would go with a musket in his hand and a box of cartridges by his side, and if he were recaptured, it would be after every bullet in those cartridges had found a lodgement in the body of some Home Guard. He did not have very much to say, but Bowen knew by the expression on his face that Marcy was thoroughly aroused at last.
Marcy did not want any supper, but managed to eat a little, and to slip a generous piece of corn bread in his pocket for the lunch he knew he would need before morning. The storm did not come in half an hour, as Bowen had predicted, but it came a little later, and when the two went on post at twelve o’clock, the night was as dark as a pocket, and the rain was falling in torrents.
“Splendid weather,” Bowen found opportunity to whisper to Marcy. “It couldn’t be better. Listen for my signal, for we must start as soon as the guard is out of the way.”
“You’ll take your gun?” said Marcy.
“Of course, and I’ll use it too, before I will allow myself to be brought back here.”
If it was a splendid night for their purpose it was a terrible one for the prisoners, especially for the new-comers who had not had time to finish their dug-outs. To make matters worse for them there had been a sudden and noticeable change in the temperature. It was almost freezing cold, and protected as he was by the walls of his box, and by his warm blanket, which he had tied over his shoulders like a cloak, Marcy shivered as he stood with his musket in the hollow of his arm and his aching, bandaged hands clasped in front of him. He stood thus for ten minutes when he heard a gentle tapping at the foot of his ladder. That was the signal agreed upon between him and Bowen, and without a moment’s hesitation Marcy wheeled around and backed to the ground.
“Is this you, Charley?” he whispered. “I can’t see a thing.”
“No more can I,” was the answer, “but I know where we are and which way we want to go, and that’s enough. Grab hold of the tail of my blanket and I will pilot you to the railroad track. Mark my words: We’ll never hear a hound-dog on our trail. They’ll think we have struck for the coast, and that’s the way they’ll go to find us.”