So saying Marcy turned from the kitchen and went into the house, passing on the way two large baskets which had been filled with food and placed in the hall ready to his hand, so that there would be nothing to detain him in so dangerous a place as his mother’s house was known to be. Mrs. Gray came from the sitting room to meet him, for she heard his step the moment he crossed the threshold.
“O Marcy! I am so glad to see you, but I am almost sorry you came,” was the way in which she greeted him.
“Seen anything alarming?” inquired the boy.
“No; and that very circumstance excites my suspicion. There are Confederate soldiers in the neighborhood, for Morris saw several of them in Nashville this morning. I shall never become accustomed to this terrible way of living.”
“No more shall I, but the only way to put a stop to it is to—what in the world is that?” exclaimed Marcy; for just then a smothered cry of astonishment and alarm, that was suddenly cut short in the middle, sounded in the direction of the kitchen, followed by an indescribable commotion such as might have been made by the shuffling feet of men who were engaged in a hand-to-hand contest. A second afterward pistol-shots—not one or a dozen, but a volley of them rattled around the house, telling Marcy in plain terms that Ben Hawkins and his comrades had been assailed on all sides.
“O Marcy, they’ve got you!” cried Mrs. Gray; and forgetful of herself, and thinking only of his safety, she flung her arms about his neck and threw herself between him and the open door, protecting his person with her own.
“Not yet,” replied the boy between his clenched teeth. “I might as well die here as in the army.”
MARCY CAPTURED AT LAST.
Tightening his grasp on his mother’s waist Marcy swung her behind him with one arm, at the same time reaching for the revolver whose heavy butt protruded from the leg of his right boot; but before he could straighten up with the weapon in his hand, two men in Confederate uniform rushed into the room from the hall, and two cocked revolvers were pointed at his head. Resistance would have been madness. The men had him covered, their ready fingers were resting on the triggers, and an effort on Marcy’s part to level his own weapon would have been the signal for his death. These things happened in much less time than we have taken to describe them, and all the while a regular fight, a sharp one, too, had been going on outside the house, and with the rattle of carbines and revolvers were mingled the screams of the terrified negroes; but Marcy Gray and his mother did not know it. Their minds were filled with but one thought, and that was that Beardsley had got the upper hand of them at last.