Red gave their names. “We escaped from a jail in Columbia, South Carolina. We came across the mountains.”
The man smiled faintly, studying their overcoats. “Looks as if you might have had some help along the way.”
Tim nodded. “Without help we wouldn’t be alive.”
One of the men was a sergeant. He sported a big sand-colored mustache. Beside him, sitting his horse a little stiffly, was a very young man who reminded Tim of Private Greene. They both held rifles.
The man with the pistol, who must be an officer, turned to the young man. “Corporal, relieve the gentlemen of their arms.”
As the corporal dismounted the officer looked sharply at the rifle and the shotgun. Red said, “Both of us carry revolvers in the right-hand pockets of our coats.”
As the corporal took their arms the man with the pistol looked straight at Tim. “Where did you get the rifle and shotgun and the pistols?”
“We had a fight with some guerillas back in the mountains. Our guide shot one and Lieutenant Kelly here shot another. The third was a poor excuse for a man. We took his shotgun and let him go.”
The officer questioned them closely about their capture and asked to see their identifications. They showed him their papers and opened their coats and showed him their tattered uniforms. When the officer was satisfied that they were neither deserters nor spies he holstered his pistol and motioned toward the man with the sandy mustache. “This is Sergeant Scully, and the man who searched you is Corporal Simms. I’m Captain Platt. I’m thankful we found you alive. My detachment is quartered in the farmhouse of a loyal Unionist, just north of here. The man has gone to war. We’ve been resting a while with his wife and children. We start for Knoxville tomorrow. We’ll take you along.”
Tim said, “We heard that Knoxville was under siege.”