Chapter XIII: The Story of a Stolen Horse

For a quarter of an hour Andy listened to the shooting in the distance and worked upon his bonds at the same time. No one had remained to watch him, and if there was any way by which he could liberate himself he meant to do it. He had no desire to languish in a Northern prison. He knew well enough how Union soldiers were treated down South and he imagined that Confederates up North fared no better.

“I must get away--that’s all there is to it; eh, Firefly?” he muttered between his set teeth, and Firefly shook his wet mane vigorously as if to agree with his master.

The soldier who had bound Andy had done his work in a hurry and in a bungling manner, and soon the young soldier found himself free. But he was still “in the woods,” physically and mentally, and to get out was likely to prove a dangerous if not impossible bit of work. He was nearly in the center of the island and surrounded by a guard that was more than ever on the alert.

But there was one thing in his favor: the soldiers who had made him their prisoner were looking away from the island instead of towards the interior. Consequently, no matter how he turned, he was sure to come upon the guards from the rear.

His mind was soon made up as to what course to pursue. He would move to the lower end of the island with Firefly and trust to good luck to reach the water, where the swift current might carry him and his animal out of the reach of the enemy’s firearms.

Had it been quiet he would never have proposed to take Firefly along, much as he would have regretted leaving the beast behind. But the rattle of the musketry drowned out all ordinary sounds, so the hoof-strokes through the brush and over the rocks counted for nothing.

In a few minutes he found himself within sight of the rushing and rolling river. Down near the water’s edge was a fringe of bushes, and here he saw two soldiers at one point and a single soldier at another. He had picked up a stout club as he moved along, and with this ready for use, he made a short detour and came close to the shore of the island and less than a dozen feet from where the single guard was standing, his body bent forward and his eyes taking in the doings on the bluff beyond.

At that moment Firefly, with his nostrils still trickling from his bath, let out a warlike snort, as though ready to do battle. Instantly the guard straightened up, to see what had caused the disturbance. But before he could turn Andy was upon him. There was a quick shove, the start of an exclamation, and then a heavy splash, as the Union soldier fell headlong into the stream. As he went down he let fall his gun and this the young Confederate saved and appropriated.

Having disposed of the guard thus readily, Andy did not lose a fraction of time. Long before the Union soldier had regained the surface of the river, the young Confederate was in the saddle and urging Firefly again into the stream. The brave horse shied at first and Andy’s heart leaped into his throat. “Go, Firefly, go!” he cried, and Firefly went with a leap and a splurge which carried him twenty feet from the shore.

As they descended into the water Andy remembered the other guards he had seen and instinctively withdrew behind Firefly that they might not discover him. He heard two shouts.

“What’s up, Markham?”

“Hang me if the horse hasn’t run away!” came in reply.

“But I heard two splashes.”

“So did I, come to think of it. Hello, Graves!”

To this there was no answer, for Graves was floundering in the water, too bewildered to save himself. He came up with a great splutter.

“Save me!” he gasped, as soon as he could speak. “Save me! I can’t swim!”

“Can’t you wade ashore?” queried one of his companions.

“No, it’s too deep. Save me, Markham! Don’t let me drown!”

“I will,” was the ready answer, and without hesitation the Union soldier plunged into the cold water and started after his companion.

In the meantime the third soldier had made an important discovery. Andy was trying to swim beside Firefly and keep the gun above water at the same time, and now he exposed his hand and a portion of the stock of the firearm. Instantly the soldier took aim and fired, and the bullet struck the gun squarely, knocking the weapon from the young Confederate’s grasp and nearly paralyzing his hand and arm for the time being.

There was now nothing left to do but to get out of range with all possible speed. Andy felt that the guard would reload and would then either fire at himself or the horse. If Firefly was killed he would have to swim along alone, thus exposing himself to an open attack.

“On, Firefly, on!” he cried, and the noble beast seemed to understand. Fortunately, he was used to the water and could swim fully as well as his master. On they went, the swollen stream sending them first towards one shore and then the other.

By this time the battle upon Ball’s Bluff was drawing to a close. The gallant but imprudent Colonel Baker had been shot and killed, and this, added to the galling fire poured in by the Confederates stationed in the woods upon three sides of the clearing, threw the Union men into confusion. With fearful loss they came tearing down the uneven path leading to the water and shoved off in their flatboats for Harrison Island. The enemy followed them up, and many a poor soul was sent to eternity before the island or the opposite shore could be gained.

The turn of the tide of battle took the attention of all of the guards left on Harrison Island, and from that moment Andy was forgotten by those left behind. But the Confederates on the bluff saw him and thinking him a Union man fired at him several times--shots that did no damage, but which made him feel very uncomfortable.

In a few minutes more the feet of the horse struck upon a sandy and rocky bar and instinctively Firefly followed the high bottom shoreward. It led to the northern bank of the Potomac to a spot thickly covered with hickory trees.

Feeling himself safe for the time being, Andy dropped upon a rock utterly exhausted. He was chilled to the bone and more than wet, for his cavalry boots were filled with muddy water. Taking off the boots, he emptied them, and then wrung out his coat and cape, and dashed the water from his hat.

“Well, Firefly, what next?” he asked, half-aloud, when a crashing in the brush behind him caused him to start. He turned quickly, to find himself face to face with a short, broad-faced, and not unpleasant-looking negro. The darky wore a suit of cast-off army clothing of gray, from which every C. S. A. had been carefully stripped.

“Wh--what--how de do, massa,” he stammered, as he came to a sudden halt.

“Are you alone?” queried Andy, quickly.

“Yes, massa.”

“What are you doing here, running away?”

“Oh, no, massa,” was the quick reply; but by the way the negro’s eyes dropped before Andy’s sharp gaze the youth knew he was lying.

“Are there any soldiers near here?” was the young Confederate’s next question.

“No, massa; leas’wise, I ain’t seed none.”

“Any house close by?”

At this question the negro hesitated.

“Da is a cabin over yander, massa. But da ain’t nobody dar ’cusin’ an ole woman most unable ter do anyt’ing.”

“Show me the way and I’ll make it right with you. What is your name?”

“Tom, sah, Tom Crosby.”

“And where do you belong?”

“About ten miles north o’ yere, massa.”

“Well, Tom, take me to the cabin at once. And mind, we are not to be surprised by any Union soldiers, do you understand?”

“Yes, massa; ain’t no sodgers in dese parts, massa.”

The negro moved back, along a well-defined trail, and Andy followed on foot, leading Firefly by the bridle. The young Confederate knew only too well that he was upon the enemy’s soil and upon dangerous ground, but for this there was no help. Crossing the river was impossible just now, and he was chilled to the marrow and felt he must have a chance to warm himself and dry his clothing if he wished to avoid a dangerous spell of sickness.

A distance of two hundred yards was covered, and they emerged upon a small clearing, in the center of which stood a log cabin built of wood with the bark left on, and having at one end a broad stone chimney. Smoke was curling from the latter, a most welcome sight to the shivering youth.

Without waiting, the negro led the way inside of the cabin, where a woman who looked to be at least seventy years of age was huddled before the open fireplace, smoking a black-looking clay pipe, filled with “tar-heel” tobacco. She looked in amazement at the intruders.

“Thought you wasn’t comin’ back?” she cried, to the negro.

“Dis gem’man made me come,” was the answer.

“What do you want?”

“My horse and I fell into the river, madam,” answered Andy. “I wish to warm myself and dry my clothing, that is all. And if you can furnish me with a bowl of hot coffee or something like that, I’ll pay you for it.”

“Humph!” The old woman took several long puffs at her pipe. “Ain’t got no coffee in the house.”

“You have tea, then?”

“I reckon I have, but--”

“I’ll take a bowl of tea. Anything so long as it’s warm. Tom?”

“Yes, massa.”

“Will you rub down my horse and see if you can stir up something for him to eat?”

“Yes, massa.”

“I see there is a shed over to the left. Put him in there.”

“Yes, massa.”

The negro hurried out, and watching him, Andy saw him do as directed. The old woman had meanwhile bestirred herself and set her kettle to boiling. She saw that he was a Confederate soldier, but this caused her no anxiety, for she was too old, and lived too near the border line, to take a stand in the great controversy.

It was now growing dark, and the distant firing had almost ceased. Deeming it improbable that any of the Union force would come to that immediate neighborhood, Andy proceeded to make himself as comfortable as possible before the fire, which soon blazed up red hot from the extra chunks of hickory thrown upon it. In an hour he was fairly dry, and by that time he was served with tea, corn dodgers and some baked sweet potatoes. The old woman also offered him a drink of whisky, probably of the “moonshine” variety, but this he declined.

“Tom is a Virginia nigger, isn’t he?” asked Andy, during the process of the meal.

“I reckon he is--” began the old woman, and suddenly stopped. Andy waited for her to go on, but she would say no more. The young Confederate, however, felt that his surmise was correct. Tom was a runaway slave, bound North.

Andy had taken a position near a window overlooking the shed in which Firefly had been placed, that he might make sure his horse was not tampered with, for he did not intend to trust the negro too far. He saw Tom working away vigorously, with the shed door open. Presently he turned away for a moment, and when he looked again the shed door was closed. He thought nothing of this just then, but soon a dim suspicion that all was not as it should be crossed his mind.

He had just been counting out some money for the old woman. Throwing the scrip upon the table, he caught up his hat and darted out of the house. In a minute more he was at the shed door and kicked it open. A groan of dismay escaped him. There was another door on the opposite side of the shed. This door stood wide open, and Firefly and the negro were gone!