“I don’t know which he is now,” replied the corporal of the guard. “What’s his name?”
“Tom Leathers,” answered the officer.
The corporal then passed round among the sleeping prisoners, and roughly kicked those who were asleep, including Somers, who sprang to his feet, and was rather disposed to make a “row” on account of this rude treatment, before he remembered where he was.
“Now they are all awake,” said the corporal when he had been the rounds. “Is there any such man as Tom Leathers here?”
“Tom Leathers,” repeated the officer in a loud tone.
No one answered to the name; but, in a moment, Somers happened to think that this was the appellative which he had assumed when he was a pilot down on the creek by the James River. He was evidently the person intended; but he was in doubt whether to answer the summons. The antecedents of the young pilot of the James were not such as to entitle him to much consideration at the hands of the rebels; and he was disposed to deny his identity. While he was debating the question in his own mind, the corporal repeated the name.
“There’s no such man here,” he added, turning to the officer.
“He must be here. He came up in the night train.”
“He don’t answer to his name.”
“Hold your lantern, and let me look these prisoners in the face.”