“No,” said Somers, placing himself between the deserter and the door, with the revolver in his hand. “I don’t want to be left alone. Somebody is coming to the house—half a dozen men. They are soldiers!” he exclaimed, glancing out at the window.
“Run right up chimley thar, and you’ll be as safe as if you was t’other side of the river.”
“But they’ll catch you too! Come, Tom, up chimney with you, and I’ll follow. If any one attempts to follow us, I’ll shoot him with my pistol. Be in a hurry, Tom! We have no time to spare,” urged Somers, driving the coward before him towards the fire-place.
“You go up fust,” pleaded Tom, in mortal terror of the revolver.
“Up with you, or I’ll blow your brains out!” added Somers in a low, fierce tone, which frightened his companion half out of his wits.
“Don’t fire, and I will,” replied the wretch, as he stepped into the fire-place, and commenced the ascent of the chimney.
“Up with you!” repeated Somers. “Now, if you attempt to come down, I’ll shoot you.”
The voice of the farmer, leading the soldiers to their prey, was now heard close to the house; and Somers deemed it prudent no longer to remain in the room. Darting out into the entry, he made his way to the cellar, closing the door behind him just as the rebels were about to enter.
“Where is he?” demanded the sergeant, who belonged to the battery at the works near the house.
“In this room,” replied the farmer, putting his hand on the door of the apartment where he had seen the victim lie down to sleep an hour before. “But yer must be keerful with him. He had a pistol, and mebbe he mought shoot some on us.”