He looked about him, then came over to the wall, a big, rusty-black figure, standing so close that he made another wall for shadow. His eyes and Stafford’s met.
“The lieutenant, poor lad!” demanded Father Tierney, his strong, rich voice rolling through the yard, “it’s the hospital he’s in?”
“Yes,” said Stafford. “He had a bad hemorrhage and they took him yesterday.”
“Tell me,” said Father Tierney, “a bit about him, and I’ll write it to his parents. Parents—especially mothers—have the same kind of heartbreak on both sides of the line.”
The officers passed on. The thirty-odd grey prisoners walked or sat or stood as before. Stafford was a little in shadow, and the priest’s bulky form, squared before him, cut off the more crowded part of the enclosure.
Father Tierney, discoursing of parents, dropped his voice with suddenness. “It’s the smallest possible bundle. You’re sure you can hide it under your coat?”
“Yes—”
“And his father’s a ribil fighting with Johnston—and his mother in Kentucky—Holy Powers!” said Father Tierney, “the heat in this place’s fearful and I once had sunsthroke—Quick!—It’s giddy enough—Have you got it?—I’m feeling this minute!” He straightened himself, wandered to a neighbouring stone, and, sitting down, called to the nearest guard who came up. “Is there a cup of water handy, my son? I had a sunsthroke once and this yard’s Gehenna to-day, no less!”
Two days later, just at sunset, a hospital steward passed through the hall of the officers’ side of Prison X, nodded to the sentries at the door, crossed the yard, was let pass the small gate, crossed the court beyond, pretty well occupied as it was with blue soldiers, and approached the heavy, final gate. An official of some description was ahead of him, and he had for a moment to wait. The gate opened, the man in front passed through; there came a moment’s vision of a green tree against a rosy sky—the tree whose head showed above the prison wall. The hospital steward stepped forward. He had the word—it had been bought with a gold-piece of considerable denomination. He gave it; the gate creaked open, he passed out. The sunset looked a fabulous glory; the one tree had the sublimity of the pathless forest.
At dark he found the priest’s lodging and, waiting for him, a suit of civilian clothes. He proposed to get to the river that night, swim it, and find dawn and the Virginian shore. “Whist!” said Father Tierney. “You’ll be afther attacking a fretful porcupine! Put out your hand, and you’ll touch a pathrol. They’re thicker on the river bank than blue flies. No, no! you thravel by road till you’re twinty-five miles from here. You’ll come to a hamlet called called —— and there you’ll find a carpenter shop and a negro named Taylor. He’s a faithful freedman and well thought of by the powers that be. You stop and ask for a drink of water, and thin you say in a whisper across the gourd, ‘Benedict Tierney and a boat across.’ You’ll get it.—It’s risky by the road, thrue enough, but divil a bit of risk would there be if you wint shtraight down to the river! The hedgehog would shoot as many quills at you as was necessary.”