“Mark,” exclaimed Tom, riding closer to his companion and laying his riding whip lightly on his shoulder, “you’ve hit it, and I wonder we did not think of it before. Every general sends out spies to bring him information which he could not get in any other way, and although we are not generals we are good and loyal Confederates, and what’s the reason we can’t do the same? Have you thought of anybody?”
“There’s Kelsey, for one.”
“Great Scott, man! He won’t do. Beardsley, Shelby, and a few others offered Kelsey money to find out whether Marcy and his mother were Union or Confederate, and tried to have him employed on that plantation as overseer after Hanson was spirited away, so that he could find out if there was any money in the house; and Marcy knows all about it.”
“There’s mighty little goes on that he doesn’t know about, and I can’t for the life of me see how he keeps so well posted,” observed Mark.
“Then Beardsley and Shelby tried to induce Kelsey to burn Mrs. Gray’s house, and Marcy knows about that, too,” continued Tom. “Wouldn’t he be a plum dunce to let such a man as that come into camp to spy on him? Besides, Kelsey is too big a coward to undertake the job.”
“And he couldn’t make the refugees believe that he had turned his coat and become Union all on a sudden,” assented Mark. “No, Kelsey won’t do. We ought to make a bargain with somebody who is already in the camp and who is supposed to be Marcy’s friend. How does Buffum strike you?”
“Have you any reason to believe that he is not Marcy’s friend?”
“No; but I believe that a man who is on the make as he is would do almost anything for gain. He’s no more Union than I am. He kept out of the army because he was afraid he would be killed if he went in; and besides, he knew that Beardsley’s promise, to look out for the wants of his family while he was gone, wasn’t good for anything. By taking up with the refugees he made sure of getting enough to eat, but,” added Mark, sinking his voice to a whisper, “he didn’t make sure of anything else—any money, I mean.”
“Whew!” whistled Tom. “Perhaps there is something in it. Let’s ride over and see what Beardsley thinks about it. You are not afraid to trust him.”
No, Mark wasn’t afraid to take Captain Beardsley or any other good Confederate into his confidence, and showed it by turning his horse around and putting him into a lope. They talked earnestly as they rode, and the conclusion they came to was that Mark had hit upon a fine plan for punishing a boy who had never done them the least harm, and that the lazy, worthless Buffum was just the man to help them carry it out successfully. Captain Beardsley thought so too, after the scheme had been unfolded to him. They found him with his coat off and a hoe in his hands working with his negroes; but he was quite ready to come to the fence when they intimated that they had something to say to him in private. Beardsley’s field-hands had disappeared rapidly since the flag which they knew to be the emblem of their freedom had been given to the breeze at Plymouth, and those who remained were the aged and crippled, who were wise enough to know that they could not earn their living among strangers, and the vicious and shiftless (and Beardsley owned more of this sort of help than any other planter in the State), who were afraid that the Yankees would work them too hard. The “invaders” believed that those who wouldn’t work couldn’t eat, and lived up to their principles by putting some implement of labor into the hands of the contrabands as fast as they came inside the lines.