Marcy, the Refugee

"Do they say anything about robbery?" asked Marcy. "Or about threatening to pull a law-abiding boy up by the neck because he does not happen to have a pocketful of money with him?"

"No," replied Mark, rather indignantly; and then, seeing by the curious smile on Marcy's face that he had spoken too quickly, he added, "I suppose of course that they do say something about that outrage, but I can't tell for certain, for I have only had time to read what my papers say concerning the burning of Beardsley's house and Shelby's."

"Probably they don't refer to the way those four villains conducted themselves in my mother's house," said Marcy, in a tone of contempt. "It's altogether too insignificant a thing to have travelled as far as the city of Newbern."

"It isn't, either!" exclaimed Tom Allison, glaring savagely at Marcy. "Nothing is too insignificant to attract attention these times. My paper says – but there it is. Read it for yourself."

"Thank you; I can't stop," answered Marcy, moving toward the office.

"I'll get my own, and read it on the way home."

Contrary to his expectations he did not find a very belligerent crowd in there. The space between the counters was filled with men, and they were all talking at once; but they had learned wisdom by past experience, and however much they might have desired to threaten somebody, they were careful not to do it. They denounced Yankees and their sympathizers in a general way, and declared that it was a cowardly piece of business to burn houses while their owners were absent, but they did not mention any names. Marcy loitered about until he found that he was not going to hear anything more than he had heard a score of times before, and then mounted his horse and set out for home. Dropping the reins upon his filly's neck and allowing her to choose her own gait, he drew his Newbern paper from his pocket, and began looking for the article of which Mark Goodwin had spoken. He could not run amiss of it, for the black headlines were too prominent. They took up more than half the column, and after Marcy had run his eye over a few of the leading ones, he had a very good idea of the article itself. He read: "A Reign of Terror. – Civil War Inaugurated in a Sovereign State. – Cowardly Citizens Who Allow a Handful of Traitors to Work their Sweet Will of Them. – Armed and Masked Incendiaries Abroad at Night."

"There now!" exclaimed Marcy, when he read the last line. "That is as good proof as I want that the man who wrote this knew the whole story. Mother and I were the only white persons who saw those men, and nobody would have known that they were armed and masked if I hadn't said so. I'll bet you the paper doesn't say a word concerning the 'cowardly citizen' who sent those robbers to our house."

Swallowing his indignation as well as he could, Marcy turned his attention to the article, which ran as follows:

"We have learned, from what we think to be reliable sources, that a reign of terror exists in certain portions of this Commonwealth that is a burning shame and a disgrace to the cowards who permit it. They claim to be loyal Southern gentlemen up there, but they will have to furnish better proof than they have thus far given before we will believe it. When the gallant Wise was placed in command of this district in December last, Secretary Benjamin desired him to bring his legion up to 10,000 strong by recruiting in North Carolina. There was reason for this order, and for anxiety regarding Roanoke and adjacent points, because as early as September, 1861, General McClellan requested the Yankee Secretary of War 'to organize two brigades of five regiments each of New England men, for the general service, but particularly adapted to coast service.' That means that he intended to turn a horde of red-hot abolitionists and nigger-lovers loose upon our almost defenceless shores. Wise saw and realized the danger, tried hard to obey Secretary Benjamin's order, and failed; and now we know the reason why. How could he make brave soldiers out of men who will permit armed and masked traitors to ride about their county of nights, wreaking vengeance upon those who are so unfortunate as to incur their displeasure? While we deeply sympathize with Messrs. Shelby and Beardsley, whose dwellings were burned last night, and wish that the incendiaries might have chosen some less out-spoken and liberal citizens as their victims, we are constrained to say that the lesson that community has received is well deserved. Now let them arouse and stamp this lawlessness out with an iron heel; and let us warn those Union men in the same breath, and all others who feel disposed to follow in their lead, that their day will be a short one. They will not be driven from the country they will be hunted down like dogs, and hanged to the nearest tree. They will not be shot. That is the death the loyal soldier dies, but we save the rope for traitors."

"The editor's pen was so mad it stuttered when it wrote this rambling article," thought Marcy. "It couldn't talk straight. If he owned about fifty thousand dollars' worth of houses in these parts, he would not write so glibly about hanging Union men. Now, let us see what sort of language he used in denouncing the raid that was made upon our house."

He looked the paper through without finding any reference to it, but that was no more than he expected. The outrages of every description that were perpetrated upon Union people during the days of the war, by "loyal Southern gentlemen," were of so common occurrence, and of so little consequence besides, that they were never mentioned in the newspapers. The oft-expressed verdict was that Unionists had no rights that any white man was bound to respect.

"If our house had been burned and everybody in it hanged, this rebel sheet would not have said a word against it." thought Marcy, shoving the paper into his pocket and starting up his horse. "Mark Goodwin says that these things have got to be stopped now, which means that Beardsley and Shelby will set something else afoot as soon as they return from the Island. Now, let us see what it will be. Shall I show this paper to mother, or not?"

This was the question that Marcy pondered during his ride, and the conclusion he came to was that his mother had as much right to know the worst as he had to know it himself; so he handed out the paper as soon as he reached home, and rode on to the field to see how his small force was getting on with the work he had assigned it.

Then came several days of suspense that were hard to bear. Beardsley and Shelby came home as soon as they heard of the loss they had sustained, but what they had to say, and what they made up their minds to do about it, never came to Marcy's ears. They did not take the trouble to call upon Mrs. Gray. Evidently they did not think it worth while, because she could not restore to them the property they had lost; but others, who had roofs that they wanted to keep over their heads, came every day or two, although they did not bring much news that was worth hearing. About all Marcy learned was that Beardsley and his companion had returned filled with martial ardor, that they were working night and day to send recruits to Roanoke Island, although they did not show any signs of going back there themselves. They declared that the Island was as strong as Gibraltar, and if the Yankees were foolish enough to send an expedition against it, there wouldn't be a man of them left to tell the story of the fight; and they wanted all the youngsters in the country to go there and enlist, so that they could be able to say that they had assisted in winning the most glorious victory of modern times. They were very enthusiastic themselves, and they made some others so; but Marcy Gray, who kept a close watch of all that went on in the settlement, did not see more than a dozen young men and boys fall in in response to their earnest appeals.

"It's a disgraceful state of affairs," said Tom Allison one morning, when Marcy met him at the post-office. "The Southern people deserve to be whipped, they are so lacking in patriotism."

"Did you ever think of going into the army yourself?" inquired Marcy.

"I can't go," replied Tom. "We have sent our overseer, and that is as much as we can do at present. I wanted to enlist weeks ago, but father said I must stay at home and help him manage the place."

Marcy found it hard to keep from laughing outright when Tom said this. The latter had never done a day's work at overseeing or anything else, and it is doubtful if he could have told whether or not a corn furrow was laid off straight. He was too indolent to do anything but eat, sleep, and ride about the country.

"There are plenty around here who could go as well as not," continued Tom, "and I might go myself if I could only get a commission. But I won't go as a private soldier."

"Have you tried to get a commission?" asked Marcy.

Tom replied that he had not. He did not know how to go about it, and was not acquainted with any one who could tell him.

"Then hunt up General Wise, and ask his advice," suggested Marcy. "He can, and no doubt will put you on the right track at once."

But Tom Allison was much too sharp to do a thing like that. He was well aware that enlisted men had no love for "cits" who could go into the army and wouldn't, and the promise of a colonel's commission would not have induced him to go among them. He meant to remain at home and let other and poorer men's sons do the fighting, and Marcy knew it all the while.

The latter did not put much faith in the stories that Captain Beardsley and Colonel Shelby had spread through the country, and when his mother's negroes began coming home in companies of twos and threes, he put still less faith in them. They were a sorry-looking lot, ragged and dirty; and the first thing they asked for as they crowded about the kitchen door was something to eat.

"Oh, missus, don't eber luf dem rebels take we uns away agin," was their constant plea. "Dey 'buse us de wust you eber see. Dey whop us, an' dey kick us, an' dey don't gib us half 'nough to eat. We all starve to def. We been prayin' night an' day dat de Yankees may come an' shoot dat place plum to pieces."

"But the trouble is that the Yankees can't do it," said Marcy, as he bustled about in search of bread and meat to satisfy the demands of the hungry blacks. "Captain Beardsley says the Island is too strong to be captured."

The negroes confessed that they did not know much about military matters, but they did know that there was much dissatisfaction among the soldiers composing the garrison, many of whom declared that they would make tracks for home as soon as their year was out, leaving the Confederacy to gain its independence in any way it pleased. The Richmond authorities would not help them, the people along the coast were too cowardly or too lazy to shoulder a musket, and they were not going to stay in the army and eat hard-tack while other able-bodied men stayed at home and lived on the fat of the land. They would do their duty until their term of enlistment expired, and then they would stand aside and give somebody else a chance to fight the Yankees. That was what a good many deluded and disappointed rebels thought and said about this time; but those who have read "Rodney, the Partisan," know how very easy it was for the Confederate authorities to bring such malcontents to their senses.

But at last the time came when at least one of these vexed questions was to be solved by a trial at arms. While the scenes we have attempted to describe were being enacted on shore, others, that were of no less interest and importance to Marcy Gray and the people who lived in and around Nashville, were transpiring on the water. On the 11th day of January a formidable military and naval expedition, consisting of more than a hundred gunboats, transports, and supply ships, set sail from Fortress Monroe. Its object was to obtain possession of Roanoke Island, which the Confederates had spent so much time and care in fortifying, and which their General Wise called "the key to all the rear defences of Norfolk." Two days later the expedition arrived off Hatteras just as a fierce northeast gale was springing up, and two days after that the Newbern papers brought the encouraging news to Nashville. We say encouraging, because there was not a man or boy in town who did not honestly believe that those hundred vessels were doomed to certain and swift destruction. As in the case of a former expedition, Tom Allison was much afraid that the wind and the waves would do the work which the gunners at Roanoke Island were anxious to do themselves.

"Oh, don't I wish this wind would go down!" was the way he greeted Marcy on the morning on which the news of the arrival of the fleet reached Nashville. "Here we've gone and worked like beavers to fortify the island, hoping and expecting to give the Yankees a Bull Run licking there, and now Old Hatteras has taken the matter out of our hands, and is pounding the expedition to pieces on the shoals. Half of the enemy's tubs have gone to smash already, and the rest will go back as soon as they can. Not one of them will ever cross the bar, I tell you."

For two weeks a furious gale raged along the coast, and, during that time, Marcy Gray lived in a state of suspense that cannot be described. He could not bring himself down to work, so he went to town twice each day, and always came back to report the loss of another ship belonging to the expedition.

"Why, Marcy, if they keep on losing vessels at this rate, there will not be any expedition left after a while," said his mother one day.

"These reports are all false," declared Marcy. "I tell them to you because they are told to me, and not because I expect you to believe them. Don't worry. Those ships are commanded by Yankees, and Yankees are the best sailors in the world."

For a time it looked as though Tom Allison's prediction would be verified; for it was only after fifteen days' struggle with the elements, and the loss of four vessels, that Burnside and his naval associate, Flag-officer Goldsborough, succeeded in passing through Hatteras Inlet to the calmer waters of Pamlico Sound. It was an exhibition of patient courage and skill on the part of the Union officers and men that astonished everybody; and even Tom Allison was willing to confess that things were getting serious. There was bound to be a terrible battle at the Island, and the citizens of Nashville would hear the guns. And if the Island should be captured, as Forts Hatteras and Clark were captured, then what? The thought was terrifying to the timid ones, who straightway hid their clothing, and began carrying the contents of their cellars, smoke-houses, and corn-cribs into the woods, as they had done when the news came that Butler and Stringham had reduced the fortifications at the Inlet; but, on this occasion, Mrs. Gray's neighbors were all so busy with their own affairs that they did not have time to run over and find fault with her because she did not hide anything.

A few days of inactivity followed, during which the fleet was repairing the damages it had received during the storm, and then a hush seemed to fall upon the whole nation as the news was flashed over it that the final struggle for the possession of those waters was about to begin. The low, swampy shores of the Sound being but sparsely settled, and nearly all the able-bodied men in the country, both white and black, having been summoned to the Island, some as soldiers and the others to work on the forts and trenches, there were few to witness the grand and imposing spectacle the fleet presented as it moved into position on the evening of February 5, and dropped anchor within a few miles of the entrance to Croatan Sound; but among those few was one who was destined to bring Marcy Gray into deeper trouble than he had ever known before, and the reader will acknowledge that that is saying a good deal. It was Doctor Patten's negro boy Jonas. He lay flat behind some obstruction near the water's edge, and took in the whole scene as if it had been a review arranged for his especial benefit. He saw the waters of the Sound splash as the heavy anchors were dropped into them, and could even hear the shrill tones of the boatswains' pipes. When darkness came and shut the nearest vessel out from his view, he scrambled to his feet and hastened toward his master's house, muttering under his breath:

"Jonas been prayin' hard fur de Yankees to come, an' bress de Lawd, here dey is! Now, what Jonas gwine do?"

CHAPTER IX.

LOOKING FOR A PILOT

Bright and early the next morning the captain of one of the twenty-seven gunboats that were attached to the Burnside expedition, came out of his cabin to take a breath of fresh air before sitting down to his breakfast. He was a large, full-bearded man, had a broad and a narrow band of gold lace around each sleeve of his coat, a lieutenant's straps on his shoulders, and wore his hands in his pockets. When he went up the ladder he lifted his cap to the quarter-deck, and was in turn saluted by the acting ensign on watch.

"Anything new or strange to tell me, Mr. Robbins?" asked the captain carelessly.

"Nothing at all, sir, except that a lone contraband came off to us in a leaky skiff, when I first took charge of the deck," was the reply.

"Does he know anything?" was the captain's next question.

"I did not interrogate him, sir, only just enough to find out that he is not a pilot."

"Perhaps he knows where we can get one, so you might as well bring him aft."

A messenger-boy was sent forward to obey this order, and presently brought to the quarter-deck the lone contraband of whom the ensign had spoken, and who was none other than Doctor Patten's boy Jonas, whom we saw watching the Union vessels from his hiding-place on the beach. The captain asked him who he was and where he belonged, what his master's politics were, and why he ran away from him and came off to the fleet, and then he said:

"You told my officer here that you are not a pilot for these waters; but you must know where I can find one. There ought to be any number of them on the mainland, for I happen to know that many of you black people make the most of your living on the water."

"Dat's a fac', moster," replied Jonas, "but I aint no pilot. Dey used to be some on de mainland, but dey aint dar now. Dey up to de forts on de Island."

"All of them?" inquired the captain. "Can't you think of a single man hereabouts who knows the channel through Croatan Sound?"

"Not about here, I can't," answered the black boy, "an' I tell you dat fur de truth. Dey is all on de Island waitin' for you uns to come wha' dey is; but dey's two back in de country a piece."

"How far back in the country, and who are they?"

"It's a right smart piece, sar; twenty mile suah, an' mebbe mo'. Name Mahcy Gray an' Cap'n Beardsley, sar."

"Are they Union or secesh?"

"Well, sar, dere's Mahcy Gray, he's de best kind of a Union boy; but de other one, he's – "

"Boy!" interrupted the captain. "I don't want any boy to take charge of my ship. This is no boy's play," he added, returning the salute of his executive officer, who just then came up the ladder. "If I understand the flag-officer's plans, we are to lead one division of the fleet in the attack; and if we go on until we are aground, and the division follows in our wake, there will be the mischief to pay, for the other vessels draw more water than we do."

"Sakes alive, moster! Mahcy Gray won't nebber run you on de groun'," exclaimed the negro, with so much earnestness in his tones that the captain turned about and listened to him. "He de bes' boy fur de Union you eber see, an' he take you right fru de Sound, wid his eyes shet, on de blackest night you eber was out in. But dat rebel Beardsley you don't want no truck wid him. He know wha' de deep watah is mighty well, but he aint gwine to take you dar. He run you on de groun' suah's you live and breathe."

"Never mind talking about that. You called him captain a minute ago.

What is he captain of?"

"Well, sar, moster, previous to de beginning of de wah he was cap'n ob a trader; but endurin' de wah he run a privateer an' blockade runner; de Osprey he call her."

"What?" exclaimed the gunboat captain, so suddenly that Jonas jumped, and the executive and the officer of the deck looked surprised. "Did you call him Beardsley, and say that he commanded the Osprey?"

"Dat's de name, moster," replied Jonas. "He cotch some Yankee vessels outside, an' when de gunboats get too thick on de bar, he take de two big guns out, load up wid cotton, an' run de blockade."

"What was his object in taking the guns out?" inquired the captain; and the negro went on to explain what the reader already knows – that Beardsley had disarmed and disguised his little vessel in order to deceive the cruisers along the coast. If he had been captured with nothing but cotton on board, the Federal authorities would not be likely to hang him and his men as pirates, which they might have done if they had caught him while he had two howitzers on his gun-deck and a supply of small-arms and ammunition in his cabin. The gunboat captain listened attentively, and seemed very much impressed by what the negro had to say; and when the latter ceased speaking he turned his back upon him, and said to his executive officer:

"Mr. Watkins, I have wanted to meet that man for – for an age, it seems to me now. He is the villain who robbed me of the Mary Hollins, and ironed my crew like felons – like felons, sir, and in spite of my earnest protest." Then turning once more to the negro, he inquired, "Can you guide a squad of my men to Beardsley's house and Gray's to-night? You told me, I believe, that they live twenty miles or more inland."

"Dat's about de distance of de journey you will have to travel, sar," answered Jonas.

"I kin go da', kase I know de house whar dey resides. But de cap'n don't live da' no more sense de Union men riz up in de night an' burn him out."

"I don't care how many times he has been burned out, nor who did it. What I want to know is if you can take my officers where they can put their hands on him to-night."

Yes; Jonas was quite positive he could do that.

"All right; but look here, boy," said the captain, shaking his finger at Jonas. "Tell me the truth now, or you will never see another sunrise.

Are there any rebels ashore between here and the place where those two pilots live?"

"Oh, yes, sar; dere's plenty of dem at Plymouth, moster."

"I am as well aware of that fact as you are," interrupted the captain. "What I want particularly to know is if there are any cavalry scouting around who would be likely to pick up the men I shall probably send ashore to-night."

"Not now, dey aint, sar; but a while ago dey was piles of dem. Dey go round to all de plantations an' tooken away de black ones en' make 'em wuk on de forts. I wuk on dem myself."

"Consequently there may be some cavalry out there now," said the captain. "But I warn you, boy, that if you lead my men among them – "

"Who? Me?" exclaimed the negro, in accents of alarm. "'Fore de Lawd, moster, you don't think Jonas would do dat? Why, sar, Ise been prayin' fur you uns to come, an' so has all de black ones. Dem rebels kill me suah, if dey see me wid de Yankees."

"And so will I if you take my men where the rebels can get hold of them; so that will make twice you will be killed. That will do for the present, but I may want to ask you some more questions by and by. Go for'ad. Beardsley, Beardsley!" continued the captain, turning again to his chief officer, who wore an acting-master's uniform. "I remember that when I was a prisoner on board the Osprey I heard one of the mates address my captor by that name, and it somehow runs in my mind that this pilot we have been talking about is the same man. I made the best effort at escape that I could, but the Hollins was so heavily loaded that she moved through the water as though she had a hawser dragging over the stern; and besides he had the weather gauge of me. I showed him some pretty fair seamanship, and he might have given me and my men kind treatment in return for it."

"Certainly, sir," answered the executive. "A brave man always respects a brave foe."

"But he didn't, Mr. Watkins. On the contrary, when we got into Newbern, and the mob on the wharf began howling and calling us names, as they did the minute they caught sight of us, Captain Beardsley made no effort to stop them. He rather seemed to enjoy it. Give me a chance to take a good look at him when he is brought on board, and if he is the man I think he is, I want you to have him put into the brig without the loss of a moment and into double-irons besides. That was the way he served my crew. As soon as I have taken my coffee I will go down and tell the flag-officer what I have learned and what I intend to do with his permission; so I shall want my gig presently."