“I see. And you—why did you come without his knowledge?”
“Why, he wouldn’t have let me come if he knew. And I, I believe in the war. I want to be a soldier. And I thought if I could just take his place so he could stay home with mother and I could go and fight—why, I thought it would be better all around.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Bannister. Rhett Bannister.”
The marshal’s face clouded.
“Bannister of Mount Hermon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry, my boy, but, figuratively speaking, there’s a price on your father’s head. He’s a notorious rebel sympathizer, a regular secession firebrand. He has declared that the government will never take him alive. Very well, then, we’ll take him dead. But we can’t afford to accept a price for his freedom. Our orders are to get him, and we shall do it if it takes a regiment of soldiers.”
The marshal took up his pen and made as if to resume his writing.
“Then it’s no use,” inquired Bob weakly, “for me to think about substituting for him?”