During his absence his wife had died; and the son, inheriting the talent of his father, had taken service in the rebel ranks, where his ability as a scout was soon discovered. When he saw his father, he had no will of his own; whatever the parent was, he was. Like thousands of others who fought on the side of rebellion, he had no principle in the matter, and only went with the crowd. He was now happily restored to his devoted parent, and fully believed that whatever cause his father espoused must be the right one. The boy’s middle name was Tipton, after a Tennessee politician, who happened to be in the ascendant at the time of his birth; and from this was derived the pet appellation by which he was known among the rebels and partisans.
Somers and Tippy were immediately the best of friends; and during the day, as they rode along, the young Tennesseean asked a thousand questions about the North, about the home and the associations of his companion; and it is quite probable that he profited by the information imparted in the answers to the questions.
Before night, as De Banyan had promised, our travellers had the pleasure of reporting to “Fighting Joe,” at Bridgeport, and of receiving a hearty welcome. They were warmly commended for the work they had done among the guerillas, who were the pest of the state, the continual annoyance of the army’s communications, and a nuisance to friend and foe among the families of the region. The general conversed freely with De Banyan and Somers, and immediately assigned them to duty in their respective positions.
“Somers, my dear fellow, I greet you!” exclaimed Captain Barkwood, when they met.
“Thank you, captain,” replied Somers, warmly grasping the proffered hand of the engineer.
“You are the only volunteer I have met who was fit to be a regular.”
“Fortunately, I am one,” added Somers, explaining his position.
“I congratulate you. I hear that you have been fighting guerillas.”
“A little.”
“I am sorry you have a taste for those small squabbles.”