If we were to write a full history of the long tramp these two fugitives made before they found themselves safe at Rodney Gray’s home, as we have described in a former chapter, it would be to repeat the experience of hundreds of escaped Union prisoners whose thrilling stories have already been given to the world. Captain Denning’s “nigger dogs” never once gave tongue on their trail, and at no time were they in serious danger of falling into the hands of their enemies. Of course there were other Home Guards and other dogs in Alabama and Mississippi, and more than once they were pursued by them; but every negro they met on the road was their friend, and, believing Marcy and Bowen to be escaped Federals, took big risks to help them on their way. During the three days they rested at Bowen’s home in Georgia they were in more danger than at any other time, for Bowen’s neighbors were all rebels. They knew that he had been forced into the army, and if they had suspected that he was hiding in the loft of his father’s cotton gin, they would have left no stone unturned to effect his capture. But outside of Bowen’s family no one knew it except one or two faithful blacks, who could be trusted, and after they had made up for the sleep they had lost, and some of Marcy’s money had been expended for clothing, shoes, and blankets, the fugitives set out to pay their respects to the commander of the prison from which they had escaped. They remained on his plantation a part of one night, and when they left, everything that would burn was in flames. It was a high-handed proceeding, and many a soldier not wanting in courage would have hesitated about taking chances so desperate; but fortunately another rain storm washed out their trail and if they were pursued they never knew it.
“There’s one thing I am sorry for,” said Marcy, as he and Bowen halted for a moment on the summit of a little rise of ground from which they had a fair view of the destructive work that was going on on the plantation they had just left. “I am not revengeful, but I do think Captain Denning ought to be punished for giving me these hands that I may not be able to use for months, and I wish he could know that I had a hand in starting that fire.”
Marcy’s hands certainly were in a bad way. They needed medical attention, but if there was a surgeon in the country they had not been able to find it out. Bowen gave them the best care he could, but Marcy was so nearly helpless that he could not even carry his musket. He took no note of time or of the progress they made, but left everything to his friend Bowen, who could always tell him where they were, how many miles they had made that day, and how far they would have to travel before they could get something to eat. If he sometimes drew on his imagination, and shortened the distance to the Mississippi by a hundred miles or so, who can blame him? He knew that everything depended on keeping up Marcy’s courage.
At last, when the homesick boy became so weary and foot-sore that he could scarcely drag himself along the dusty road, he noticed with a thrill of hope that the negroes who befriended him and Bowen no longer spoke of “Alabam’” but had a good deal to say about “Mississipp’”; and this made it plain to Marcy that they were slowly drawing near to the end of their journey, and that his companion had been deceiving him.
“If you are as well acquainted with the country as you pretend to be, how does it come that you didn’t know when we passed the boundary line into the State of Mississippi?” said he. “But I don’t care. I remember enough of geography to know about where we are now, and that we will save time and distance if we strike a straight south-east course, for that is the way Baton Rouge lies from here.”
Bowen, who had long been out of his reckoning, was quite willing to resign the leadership, and it was a fortunate thing for them that he was; for the course Marcy marked out brought them in due time to the Ohio and Mobile Railroad a few miles north of Enterprise. A night or two before they got there (they always traveled at night and slept during the daytime), they were kept busy dodging small bodies of Confederate soldiers who were journeying along the same road and in the same direction with themselves. They were evidently concentrating at some point in advance, but where and for what purpose the fugitives could not determine until some negroes, to whom they appealed for assistance, told them of Grierson’s raid.
“Dat Yankee come down hyar from some place up de country, an’ he whop an’ he burn an’ he steal eberyting he see,” said one of the blacks gleefully. “But de rebels gwine cotch him at Enterprise, an’ you two best not go da’.”
This glorious news infused wonderful life and strength into Marcy Gray. He forgot his aching hands and feet, and from that time carried his own musket and moved as if he were set on springs. He would hardly consent to halt long enough to take needed rest, for he was anxious to intercept Grierson if possible, and warn him that the rebels were concentrating to resist his further advance. But as it happened Colonel Grierson was miles away, and it was Captain Forbes, with a squad of thirty-five men, who had been detached from the main body to cut the telegraph north of Macon, that the fugitives found and warned. They ran upon them by accident, and at first thought they had fallen into the hands of the rebels. One bright moonlight night they were hurrying along a road which ran through a piece of thick timber, when all on a sudden they were brought to a standstill by four men, who stepped from the shade of the trees and covered them with their guns before they said a word. They were soldiers, for their brass buttons showed plainly in the dim light; but whether they wore the blue or the gray was a momentous question that the fugitives could not answer. When one of them spoke it was in a subdued voice.
“Who comes there?” he demanded.
“Friends,” replied Marcy in tones just loud enough to be heard and understood. Then, believing that the truth would hold its own anywhere, he added desperately; “We are escaped conscripts on our way to the Mississippi, and we want to see Grierson.”