“You’ll not find him on this plantation,” was the reply. “General Breckenridge’s men passed through here not long ago, and that means that there are few horses in the country. If yours has given out you will have to take a mule or walk.”
“How does it come that you are not in the army?” inquired another, with his mouth full of bacon and corn pone.
“I’ve been there, but you Yanks whipped me so bad I was glad to get home.”
By this time the lieutenant in command of the troopers had made himself known, and to him Rodney presented his papers, which included his discharge, standing pass from the provost marshal, and his permit to trade within the Union lines. As he handed the papers to the officer his attention was drawn to two persons near him, who were by far the most dilapidated specimens of humanity Rodney had ever seen. Every line of their faces was indicative of exposure and suffering, and their clothing, what little they wore, looked as though it might fall in pieces at any moment. They were plainly fit candidates for the hospital, and it was a mystery to Rodney how they managed to keep the heavy infantry muskets which rested across their saddles from slipping out of their grasp. By the time he made these observations the lieutenant had read the first line of the pass, which happened to be the first paper he opened, and when he saw the name it bore he looked at one of the dilapidated specimens of whom we have spoken and said, with a grin:
“If you have been telling a straight story, Johnny, how does it come that you don’t recognize your cousin when you see him standing before your face and eyes?”
Rodney Gray was utterly confounded. He looked at the officer and then at the person to whom the words were addressed, but he could not speak until he heard the reply given in a familiar voice:
“I have told you nothing but the truth, sir, and if that is Rodney Gray he will bear me out in everything I have said.”
The sick and exhausted stranger reeled about on his mule for an instant, his musket fell to the ground, and he would have followed headlong if Rodney had not sprung forward and received him in his arms. He eased him tenderly to the ground, supported his head on one knee, and looked up at the lieutenant.
“Who is it?” he asked in a husky voice.
“He says his name is Marcy Gray, that he lives in North Carolina, and is an escaped conscript,” was the answer. “That’s all I know about him. Captain Forbes picked him and his partner up somewhere about Enterprise, and they’ve been with us ever since.”