“Tom Somers—Lieutenant Somers,” said the old man, much hurt by the words of the young officer, “you know I’m not afraid of anything; and I didn’t expect you’d say that to me.”
“Excuse me, uncle; I didn’t mean it. Now, hear me a moment.”
In a low tone, Lieutenant Somers told the sergeant the nature of his mission, and what depended upon its prompt and successful execution.
“He ought to have sent a division to do such a job,” muttered the old man, taking off his cap, and scratching his bald head. “Howsomever, I’m ready to follow you wherever you choose to go.”
“Forward, then,” replied Somers; and they advanced cautiously through the woods till they came to a kind of bog-hole, beyond which they discovered the rebel pickets.
The party lay down on the ground, and crawled on the edge of the bog, till they obtained a fair view of the rebels.
“Now, uncle, the time has come, and my plan is formed,” said Somers in a whisper. “When they discover you, retreat with the men as fast as you can. Fire on the rebels; but don’t pay any attention to me.”
“Where are you going?” demanded the old man.
“When you retire, I am going to roll into that grass. They will follow you; and, as soon as they have passed me, I shall move forward.”
“I won’t do anything of the sort. Thunderation! you are goin’ to run right into the arms of the rebels.”