Tom a Prisoner.
Tom could not exactly understand how he happened to be made a prisoner. He had certainly moved with extreme caution, and he wondered that he had not received some intimation of the presence of the enemy before it was too late to retreat. But, as we have before hinted, Tom was a philosopher; and he did not despair even under the present reverse of circumstances, though he was greatly disconcerted.
“Who are you?” demanded one of the rebel soldiers, when they had duly possessed his body, which, however, was not a very chivalrous adventure, for the prisoner was unarmed, his gun having been thrown away by the friendly Zouave, after he had so terribly avenged his murdered companion.
“I’m a soldier,” replied Tom, greatly perplexed by the trials of his difficult situation.
As yet he did not know whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe, for the night was cloudy and dark, and he could not see what uniform the pickets wore.
“What do you belong to?” demanded the spokesman of the picket trio.
“I belong to the army,” answered Tom, with admirable simplicity.
Our soldier boy, as the reader already knows, had been well “brought up.” He had been taught to tell the truth at all times; and he did so on the present occasion, very much to the confusion, no doubt, of the rebel soldiers, who had not been brought up under the droppings of the sanctuary in a New England village.
“B’long to the army—do you?” repeated Secesh, who must have thought Tom a very candid person.