“I aint a-sayin’ who’ll do it, but it’ll be done. I’ve been mistreated an’ used like a dog all along of this war, an’ I’m a-goin’ to even up with somebody to pay for it.”
“And when the work is done come to my house; ask for anything I’ve got and I will give it to you. Where are you going now?” asked Tom, as the man began digging his heels into his mule’s sides and tugging at one of the reins in the effort to turn the beast around.
“I reckon I’d best be joggin’ along back. I’ve been out from under kiver ’most long enough. You watch out an’ you’ll see that fire; that’s every word I’ve got to say about it.”
The two separated and rode off in different directions—the one in a brown study, and the other shaking his head and muttering angry words to himself. Lambert was very well satisfied with the result of the interview, for it had suggested something to him that he never would have thought of himself, but Tom could not drive away the thought that perhaps it would have been better for him if he had turned his mule’s head down the road instead of up when he left his father’s gate that morning.
“I know that Lambert was awfully angry at me because I shook my sword in his face, but what else could I do when he acted as if he were about to rush up the steps and lay violent hands upon me in mother’s presence?” soliloquized Tom. “Perhaps I talked too much and at the wrong time; but if Lambert plays me false, I’ll put every Yankee scouting party that comes along on his trail. I’ll keep a bright lookout for that fire, as he told me, but I shall not draw an easy breath until I see it. Then I shall feel safe, for of course if he fires that cotton he will not tell on himself.”
Tom went up to his room at his usual hour for retiring, but instead of going to bed he drew a big rocking-chair in front of a window that looked out toward Rodney Gray’s plantation, and seated himself in it to watch for Lambert’s signal fire—the light on the clouds which would tell him that one of Mooreville’s most respected citizens was being punished because he, Tom Randolph, didn’t like him. He had no assurance from Lambert that he would see the blaze that night, but he hoped he would, and he resolved that he would sit at that window for six months, if necessary, rather than miss the sight and the gratification it would afford him.
“Lambert’s face grew as black as a thunder-cloud when I reminded him that Mr. Gray was one of the mob who wanted to hang him for bringing about the bombardment of Baton Rouge,” thought Tom, “and I know he will have revenge for that if he gets half a chance.”
Tom had not yet made up for the sleep he lost at Camp Pinckney, and in less than half an hour he was slumbering heavily. It was long after midnight when he awoke with a start and a feeling that there was something unusual going on. His eyes rested on the window when they were opened, and the sight he saw through the panes sent a thrill all through him and brought him to his feet in an instant. The glare on the sky told him there was a fire raging somewhere in the depths of the forest, and that it must be a big one, for the whole heavens in that direction were illuminated by it.
“He’s done it; as sure as the world he’s done it,” said Tom, who was highly excited. “It’s all the proof I want that I am not so much of a nobody as some people make me out to be. But I had no idea that baled cotton would give out such a blaze as that. However, four hundred bales, if they were all in one place, would make a pretty good-sized pile.”
Tom’s first impulse was to rush downstairs and tell his mother the good news, but he was afraid she might not keep it to herself. She would be likely to call his father’s attention to the light in the sky, and that was a thing Tom did not care to have her do. Mr. Randolph had changed wonderfully of late—ever since he missed salt from his table and learned that cotton was worth sixty cents a pound in Northern markets—and Tom had not failed to notice it. He wasn’t half as good a Confederate as he used to be, and even showed a desire to be friendly with Mr. Gray and Rodney, who belonged to that unpatriotic class of planters spoken of by the Southern historian who “were known to buy every article of their consumption in Yankee markets,” that is to say, in Baton Rouge. This being the case Tom did not go downstairs and tell what was going on in the swamp for fear his father might have something sharp and unpleasant to say about it. He sat in his chair and watched the light until it began to fade away before the stronger light of the rising sun, and then went to bed, happy in the reflection that there was one traitor in the neighborhood who would not make a fortune out of the unholy war that had been forced upon the South by Lincoln’s hirelings.