CHAPTER I.
TOM RANDOLPH, CONSCRIPT.

“Well, by gum! Am I dreamin’? Is this Tom Randolph or his hant?”

“I don’t wonder that you are surprised. It’s Tom Randolph easy enough, though I can hardly believe it myself when I look in the glass. There isn’t a nigger in the settlement that isn’t better clad and better mounted than I am.”

“Well, I have seen you when you looked a trifle pearter, that’s a fact.”

“And what brought me to this? The Yankees and their cowardly sympathizers. I don’t blame the boys in blue so much, for brave soldiers always respect one another, even though their sense of duty compels them to fight under different flags; but the traitors we have right here among us are too mean to be of any use. And the meanest one among them is Rodney Gray.”

The first speaker was Lieutenant Lambert, who, by his zealous efforts to serve the cause of the South, brought about the bombardment of Baton Rouge, and the person whom he addressed was the redoubtable Captain Tom himself, who had just returned to Mooreville after undergoing two months’ military discipline at Camp Pinckney.

The last time we saw these two worthies was shortly after the Confederate General Breckenridge made his unsuccessful attempt to capture Baton Rouge, and the conscripting officer, Captain Roach, disappeared so completely that no one had ever heard a word of him since, and the veteran Major Morgan, backed by fifty soldiers who hated all Home Guards and other skulkers as cordially as they hated the Yankees, came to take his place. Knowing that Captain Roach had been very remiss in his duty, that he had spent more time in visiting and eating good dinners than he had in sending conscripts to the army, Major Morgan hardly gave himself time to take possession of the office in Kimberley’s store before he declared that that sort of work was going to cease entirely, and that everyone in his district who was liable to military duty, Home Guards as well as civilians, must start for the camp of instruction at once or be taken there by force. The news spread rapidly, and in a very few hours everyone in the settlement had heard it. The wounded and disabled veterans of the Army of the Centre, of whom there were a goodly number in the neighborhood, were overjoyed to learn that at last there was a man in the conscripting office who could not be trifled with, and some of the civilians, who came under the exemption clause of the Conscription Act, secretly cherished the hope that Captain Tom and his first lieutenant might be sent to serve under Bragg, who did not scruple to shoot his soldiers for the most trivial offences.

As to Tom and his Home Guards, they did not at first pay much attention to the major’s threats. It was right that civilians should be forced to shoulder muskets, since they would not do it of their own free will, but as for them, they were State troops, and the government at Richmond could not order them around as it pleased. Besides, they had great confidence in Mrs. Randolph’s powers of persuasion. She would never permit her son to go into the army, and having managed Captain Roach pretty near as she pleased, the Home Guards did not see why she could not manage Major Morgan as well; but when it became noised abroad that the latter had curtly refused Mrs. Randolph’s invitation to dinner, intimating that he was not ordered to Mooreville to waste his time in visiting and nonsense, they were terribly frightened, and demanded that Captain Tom should “see them through.” When they enlisted in his company, he promised to stand between them and the Confederate authorities, and now was the time for him to make that promise good; but Tom was as badly frightened as they were, and did not know what to do. When his mother suggested that it might be well for him to put his commission in his pocket, and ride to Mooreville and talk the matter over with the major, Tom almost went frantic.

“Go down there and face that despot alone,” he exclaimed, “while he has fifty veterans at his back to obey his slightest wish? I’d about as soon be shot and have done with it. Besides, what have I got to ride? The Yankees have stolen me afoot.”

Captain Tom knew well enough that he was not telling the truth. It wasn’t Yankees who “stole him afoot,” but men who wore the same kind of uniform he did. You will remember that we compared the short visit of Breckenridge’s army to a plague of locusts. Everything in the shape of eatables in and around Mooreville, as well as some articles of value, disappeared and were never heard of afterward; and among those articles of value were several fine horses, Tom Randolph’s being one of the first to turn up missing. His expensive saddle and bridle disappeared at the same time, and now, if Tom wanted to go anywhere, he was obliged to walk or ride a plough mule bare-back, which was harrowing to his feelings. He wouldn’t appear before a Confederate officer of rank in any such style as that, he said, and that was all there was about it. But, as it happened, the conscripting officer had a word to say on that point. On the morning following his arrival in the village a couple of strange troopers galloped into Mr. Randolph’s front yard and drew up at the steps with a jerk. Captain Tom’s heart sank when he saw them coming, for something told him that they were after him and nobody else; and paying no heed to the earnest entreaties of his mother, who assured him that he might as well face them one time as another, for he could not save himself by flight, he disappeared like a shot through the nearest door, leaving her to explain his absence in any way she thought proper. But after taking a second look at the unwelcome visitors, Mrs. Randolph knew it would be of no use to try to shield the timid Home Guard. The trooper who ascended the steps, leaving his comrade to hold his horse, was a rough-looking fellow, as well he might be, for he had seen hard service. The little pieces of metal on his huge Texas spurs tinkled musically, his heavy cavalry sabre clanked against his heels as he walked, and Mrs. Randolph thought there was something threatening in the sound. He lifted his cap respectfully, but said in a brisk business tone:

“I’d like to see Tom Randolph, if you please.”

“Do you mean Captain Randolph?” corrected the lady.

“No, ma’am. He was given to me as plain Tom Randolph, and that is the only name I know him by. I’d like to see him, if you please.”

“Will you step in while I go and find him?”

“Thank you, no. I have no time to sit down. I am in a great hurry.”

“You can spare a moment to tell me, his mother, what you are going to do with him, can you not?”

“All I can say is that the major wants to see him at once,” was the short answer.

“Do you know what the major wants of him, so that I can explain——”

“Pardon me if I say that no explanations are necessary. It is enough for him to know that Major Morgan wants to see him without a moment’s delay.”

The tone in which the words were spoken satisfied Mrs. Randolph that the impatient trooper could not be put off any longer, so she turned about and went into the house. She knew that Tom had gone straight to her room, and when she tried the door she found that he had locked himself in.

“Who’s there?” demanded a husky voice from the inside.

“It is I, my dear, and I am alone,” was the reply. “Let me in at once. Now, call all your courage to your aid, and show yourself the brave soldier you were on the night you knocked that Yankee sentinel down with the butt of a musket and escaped being sent to a Northern prison-pen,” she continued, as she slipped through the half open door, which was quickly closed and locked behind her. “Major Morgan wants to see you at his office, and, my dear, you had better go at once. The man at the door will not wait much longer.”

“I don’t care if he won’t,” shouted Captain Tom, who was terribly alarmed. “If he gets tired of standing there, let him go back where he came from and tell that major that I—what business has that fellow got out there?”

Tom chanced to look through the window while he was talking, and when he saw one of the troopers ride down the carriage-way as if he were going to the rear of the house, it flashed upon him that the man was going there to watch the back door. At the same moment the jingling of spurs and the rattling of a sabre were heard in the next room, the door knob was tried by a strong hand, and something that might have been the toe of a heavy boot was propelled with considerable force against the door itself.

“Open up here,” commanded a stern voice on the other side. “Do it at once, or I shall be obliged to force an entrance.”

This threat brought Captain Tom to his senses. In a second the door was unlocked and opened, and the soldier stepped into the room.

“By what right does Major Morgan——” began Tom.

“I don’t know a thing about it,” was the quick reply. “It is no part of my duty to inquire into my superior’s private affairs. All I can say is that I am commanded to bring Tom Randolph before him without loss of time. You are Tom Randolph, I take it. Then saddle up and come with me.”

“But the Yankees stole my horse and I have nothing to ride except a mule,” whined Tom.

“Then ride the mule or come afoot. Make up your mind to something, for I am going to start in half a minute by the watch.”

“You will give my son time to exchange his citizen’s clothes for his captain’s uniform, of course,” ventured Mrs. Randolph.

“Sorry I haven’t an instant to wait, but the color of his clothes will make no sort of difference to Major Morgan,” was the reply. “Now then, will you order up that mule, or walk, or ride double with my man?”

“Are you an officer?” faltered Tom.

“Not much of one—only a captain.”

“Well, that puts a different look on the matter entirely,” said Tom, who up to this time thought he was being ordered around by a private soldier. “Since you are an officer I expect to receive an officer’s treatment from you, and I don’t wish to be addressed——”

“That’s all right. But hurry up, for the time is precious.”

Being satisfied at last that his meeting with the dreaded conscript officer could not be delayed any longer, Captain Tom hastened to his room after his commission, while his mother sent a darky to the stable-yard to bring up the solitary mule that had been left there when the few remaining field-hands went to work in the morning. And a very sorry-looking beast it proved to be when it was led to the door—too decrepit to work, and so weak with age that it fairly staggered as Tom threw his weight upon the sheepskin which the thoughtful darky had placed on the animal’s back to serve in lieu of a saddle. A sorry picture Captain Tom made, too, when he was mounted; but he had no choice between going that way and riding double with a private, and that was a thing he could not bring himself to do.

While they were on their way to town Captain Tom made several fruitless attempts to induce his captors—for that was just what they were—to give him some idea of what he might expect when he presented himself before the major; but although he could not prevail upon them to say a word on that subject, he was able to make a pretty shrewd guess as to the nature of the business in hand, and if he had known that he was going to prison for a long term of years he could not have felt so utterly wretched and disheartened.

“If I were going to jail I might have a chance to get pardoned out,” thought Tom, “but the only way to get out of the army is to be killed or have an arm or leg shot off. I’d be perfectly willing to go if Jeff Davis and all his Cabinet could be compelled to go too. I’m afraid I am in for trouble this time, sure.”

If Captain Tom had any lingering doubts on this point they were dispelled in less than half a minute after he entered the enrolling office. He had never before met the grizzly veteran who sat at Captain Roach’s desk with a multitude of papers before him, and when their short interview was ended Captain Tom hoped from the bottom of his heart that he might never meet him again. He proved to be just what he looked—a thorough soldier, who had come there with the determination to perform his disagreeable duty without fear or favor. Every man in the office was a stranger to Tom. There were stacks of carbines and cavalry sabres in all the corners, horses saddled and bridled were hitched to the rack in front of the door, and there were a few tanned and weather-beaten soldiers standing around ready to start at the word, but there was not a Home Guard to be seen.

“This is Tom Randolph, sir,” was the way in which one of the guards brought the new-comer to the notice of the conscript officer. “Don’t sit down,” he added a moment later, as Tom drew a chair toward him. “Take off your hat.”

Captain Randolph was amazed, for this was not the way he had always been treated in that office. Hitherto he had been a privileged character, and had had as much to say as Captain Roach himself; but now things were changed, and for the first time in his life Tom was made to see that he was not of so much importance in the world as he had supposed himself to be. He took off his hat, but noticed that the soldiers in the room did not remove theirs, and that nettled him. So did the manner in which the major acknowledged the introduction, if such it could be called. He did not offer to shake hands as Tom thought he would, but merely looked over the top of his spectacles for a moment. Then he pulled a sheet of paper toward him, ran his finger down the list of names written on it until he had found the one he wanted, and made a short entry opposite to it; after which he pushed away the paper and said:

“Report at one o’clock this afternoon. That’s all.”

“But, major,” Tom almost gasped, “what am I to report for?”

“What for? Why, marching orders, of course.”

“Well, will you tell me where I am to march?”

“Along the road that leads to the camp of instruction. Where else should a recruit march to, I’d like to know. You’re conscripted.”

“But, major,” protested Tom, drawing forth an official envelope with hands that trembled so violently that he could scarcely control them, “I really don’t see how you can conscript me. I am a captain in the State troops, and there’s my commission from the governor.”

“It isn’t worth straws,” answered the major, snapping his fingers in the air. “Don’t want to see it. Besides, you have resigned.”

“But my resignation has not been accepted.”

“That doesn’t matter. It will be, for there are no such things as State troops now, I am happy to say. You’re liable to military duty easy enough, and—that’s all.”

“I retain my rank, don’t I, sir?” said Tom.

It was astonishing what an effect this simple question had upon the occupants of the room. Some quickly turned their faces to the wall, others tiptoed through the nearest doors, and all shook with suppressed merriment. The major jerked his spectacles off his nose, looked hard at Tom to see if he were really in earnest, and cleared his throat before he replied:

“No, sir; you will begin as Private Randolph, but will be given every opportunity to show what you are made of, and to win a commission that is worth something more than the paper it happens to be written on. Don’t worry about that. Well, sergeant, where are the men I ordered you to bring before me?”

Hardly able to tell whether he was awake or dreaming, Tom Randolph yielded to the friendly hand that was laid upon his arm, and suffered himself to be led away from the desk, his place being immediately filled by four brawny soldiers, who raised their hands with a military salute. The first words one of them spoke aroused Tom from his stupor and interested him.

“We didn’t find Lambert and Moseley to home, sir. They must have had warnin’, I reckon, for they’ve took to the bresh.”

“They needn’t think to escape me by resorting to any such trick as that,” said the major grimly. “They owe a duty to their country in this hour of her peril, and they’ve got to do it. I’ll have a detail watch their houses night and day till they come back.”

Tom Randolph could hardly believe that the soldier who laid his hand upon his arm and conducted him to a remote corner of the room, so that they could talk without danger of being overheard, was the same captain who had been so impatient and peremptory with him and his mother a short time before, but such was the fact. Having performed his duty and brought his prisoner to the office, as he had been told to do, the captain had thrown off his soldier airs and was as jolly and friendly a fellow as one would care to meet.

“You see you are going to have good company while you are in camp,” said he.

“I don’t know what you call good company,” snarled Tom. “Lambert is nothing more than a common overseer, while Moseley is a chicken and hog thief. Good company, indeed!”

“But we heard that they are officers in your company of Home Guards,” said the captain in a surprised tone.

“They were chosen against my earnest protest,” replied Tom, “but they have never been commissioned by the governor. Their election was not legal, and so I didn’t report it. But, captain, I don’t think your major has any authority to ride over the governor in this rough way.”

“Hasn’t he a right to conscript everyone who does not come under the exemption clause?” answered the captain. “If you have read that act I will venture to say that you did not see the words ‘Home Guards’ in it. Come now.”

“But I am my father’s overseer,” said Tom, switching off on another track.

“Since when?”

“Since long before Breckenridge made his attack on Baton Rouge.”

“Where are you employed?”

“On the home plantation.”

“Your father doesn’t need two overseers on the home plantation, does he? He has claimed exemption for—what’s his name?—Larkin.”

“And didn’t he say a word about me?”

“The records of the office don’t show it. Now let me tell you something. If your father wants to claim exemption for you instead of Larkin no doubt he can manage it with General Ruggles, who is in command at Camp Pinckney. Major Morgan has no authority to act in such cases. Just now your duty is to go home and make ready to report at one o’clock sharp. Don’t be a second behind time unless you want to get the rough side of the major’s tongue.”

“What shall I do to get ready?”

“Why, pack up a suit or two of your strongest clothes, an extra pair of shoes and stockings, and a few blankets, which I assure you will come handy for shelter tents when you take the field.”

“And you don’t think of any way in which I can get out of it?” said Tom in a choking voice.

“Oh, no. That’s a dead open and shut. You’ve got to go to camp and stay there while your friends are working to get you out, if that is what you want them to do. But I wouldn’t let them make any move in that direction if I were you. Why don’t you go with us and make a man of yourself? We are whipping the Yankees right along, and you will have plenty of chances to distinguish yourself. We’re bound to gain our independence, and don’t you want to be able to say that you had a hand in it?”

The captain’s earnest words did not send any thrill of patriotism into the heart of Tom Randolph, who just then wished that the Yankees would sweep through Mooreville in irresistible numbers, put an end to the war in a moment, and so keep him from going to Camp Pinckney. He turned sorrowfully away from the captain, who had really tried to befriend him by giving what he thought to be good advice, mounted his aged mule, and set out for home. His mother’s face brightened when he dismounted at the foot of the steps, but fell instantly when Tom told her that she had better take a good long look at him while she had the chance, for after that day was past she would never see him again. Of course there was mourning in that house when he told his story, and the gloom that rested there was but partially dispelled by Mr. Randolph’s promise to discharge Larkin without loss of time and claim exemption for Tom in his stead.

“If you could do it this minute it would not keep me from going to the camp of instruction,” whined Tom, “for the major has no authority to do anything but conscript everybody he can get his hands on.”

“Has he warned Ned Griffin and Rodney Gray?” inquired Mrs. Randolph.

“That’s so,” exclaimed Tom angrily. “What a dunce I was not to speak to the captain about those fellows! But I was so taken up with my own affairs that I never once thought of it. However, I’ll think of it when I go down to the office at one o’clock, I bet you. And, father, if you get on the track of Lambert and Moseley, don’t fail to let the major know it. If I’ve got to be disgraced I want them to keep me company.”

“I will bear it in mind,” answered Mr. Randolph. “And since one o’clock isn’t so very far off, hadn’t you better get ready?”

The conscript thought this a very heartless suggestion and so did his mother; but they could not deny that there was reason in it, and so preparations for Tom’s departure were made at once. The parting which took place an hour or so later was a tearful one on Tom’s part as well as his mother’s, but there was not very much sorrow exhibited by the black servants who crowded into the dining-room to shake his hand, as they were in duty bound to do, and Tom made the mental resolution that, when he returned from Camp Pinckney to take his place as overseer on the plantation, he would see them well paid for their indifference. He rode in his mother’s carriage this time, accompanied by his father and a bundle of things that would have filled a soldier’s knapsack to overflowing. When the carriage turned into the street that ran past Kimberley’s store, Tom thrust his head out of the window, but instantly pulled it in again to say, while tears of vexation filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks:

“There’s a bigger crowd of people in front of the office than I ever saw before. No doubt some of them will be glad to know I have been conscripted; but if you have the luck I am sure you will have, I shall be back to turn the laugh on them before many days have passed over my head. Just look, father, and remember the name of every one who has a slighting word or glance for me, so that I may settle with him at some future time. I hope Rodney and Ned Griffin are there.”

“You’ve got your wish,” replied Mr. Randolph, after he had run his eye over the crowd, which extended clear across the street to the hitching-rack. “Rodney and Ned are there, but they seem to be standing on the outskirts.”

Tom mastered up courage enough to look again, and then he saw what his father meant by “the outskirts.” There were three distinct classes of people in that gathering. In the middle of the crowd and in front of the office stood two score conscripts, who were closely guarded by half as many of Major Morgan’s veterans. Some of the conscripts seemed resolved to make the best of the situation, and joked and laughed with their friends and relatives who had assembled to see them off, and who formed the third class that stood outside the guards; but Tom noticed that most of their number looked very unhappy indeed. Tom did not see Rodney and Ned, but he discovered several disabled veterans of Bragg’s army with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, and they in turn discovered him and sent up a shout of welcome.

“Hey-youp! Here comes another, and I do think in my soul it’s Captain Tommy Randolph,” exclaimed one. “It’s him, for I know that there kerridge.”

“An’ they tell me that you might jest as well be in the army to onct as to be in that camp,” chimed in a second veteran. “There aint no sich thing as gettin’ away when they get a grip onto you.”

“Not by no means,” cried a third. “Kase why, don’t you know that they keep a pack of nigger hound dogs there that aint got nothin’ in the wide world to do but jest chase deserters?”

The tone in which the taunting words were uttered was highly exasperating to Tom, whose face grew red with anger.

“I wouldn’t mind them,” said his father soothingly. “That’s only soldiers’ fun. They don’t mean anything by it.”

“I’ll try not to mind them now, but I’ll get even with every one of them when I come back,” said Tom savagely.

Stepping out of the carriage, and showing himself to that little mob of laughing, jeering soldiers, was one of the most trying ordeals that Tom Randolph ever passed through, but there was no way to escape it. As he hurried through their ranks toward the guards, who stood aside to let him pass, they sent a few more words of advice and encouragement after him.

“Where’s all your purty clothes, Tommy?” inquired one. “Go home to onct an’ get ’em. If you don’t, them fule Yanks will think you are nothin’ but a dog-gone private.”

“Don’t listen to him, Tommy,” said another. “The Yanks always pick for officers in battle, an’ they’re dead shots, I tell you.”

“You’re mighty right,” chorused a dozen voices. “I never did see anybody who could shoot like them Yanks. I’m glad I aint got to face ’em agin, tell your folks. I wouldn’t do it for all the money the Confedrit gov’ment is worth.”

“It’s a disgrace the way those fellows are allowed to go on,” said Tom to the first soldier he met when he entered the office, and who turned out to be the captain whose acquaintance he had made that morning. “Why don’t you put a stop to it?”

“Aw! They want some sport, don’t they?” was the answer. “Let them go ahead with it until they get tired, and then they will stop. Besides, you might as well get used to such talk one time as another, for you will hear plenty of it in the army.”

“But you mustn’t permit them to force me into the army,” whispered Tom to his father. “If you do, you will always be sorry for it, because you will never see me again.”

In a dazed sort of way Tom reported to the major, and then tried to hide himself in a corner of the office where he would be out of sight of his tormentors, but he was quickly routed from there by one of the major’s men, who told him to go outside where he would be under the eye of the guard. Of course his appearance was the signal for another outburst from the veterans, but he wisely tried to drown their gibes by entering into conversation with a conscript who looked as disconsolate and wretched as Tom himself felt. His father had given the bundle into his keeping, and taken his place outside the guards with the rest of the exempts, and Tom began to realize how it seemed to be alone in a crowd. Rodney and Ned did not come near him, and that made him angry and threaten vengeance. They might at least shake hands with him and assure him of their sympathy, Tom thought, but if they had been foolish enough to attempt it, it is more than probable that he would have turned his back upon them. More than that, Rodney Gray was not a hypocrite. Having had the most to do with the breaking up of Tom’s company of Home Guards, he would have uttered a deliberate untruth if he had said he was sorry to see him conscripted. He wasn’t; he would have been sorry to see him stay at home.

“And when he reaches the camp of instruction I hope some strict drill-sergeant will put him through an extra course of sprouts to pay him for the mean trick he tried to play on Dick Graham,” said Rodney to his friend Ned. “I could have told things that would have got all the Pinckney guards down on him if I had been so disposed, and now I am glad I didn’t do it. There he goes. Good-by, Tom Randolph.”

“Fall in!” shouted a stentorian voice. “Not off there, but here, with the right resting where I stand. Haven’t you Home Guards been drilled enough to learn how to fall in in two ranks? Face out that way toward the hitching-rack. Now listen to roll-call!”

In ten minutes more the conscripts had answered to their names and were headed toward Camp Pinckney, marching in a crooked straggling line with their bundles on their shoulders and armed guards on each side of them. There were forty-five in all, and two-thirds of them were Home Guards. There were many sober and tearful faces among the spectators when they moved away, and even the discharged veterans must have taken the matter seriously, for they did not utter one taunting word.

CHAPTER II.
LAMBERT’S SIGNAL-FIRE.

A few of Tom Randolph’s fellow-sufferers had repeatedly declared in his hearing that they never would be taken to Camp Pinckney alive; but when the roll was called inside the stockade at sunset the following day, their dreary, toilsome march having been completed by that time, every one of them answered to his name. Not one of their number had made his escape, and indeed it would have been foolhardy to attempt it, for the guards were alert and watchful, and it was whispered along the line that they had strict orders to shoot down the first man who tried to break away.

Not to dwell too long upon this part of our story, it will be enough to say that Tom Randolph remained in the camp of instruction for two solid months, during which time he suffered more than he thought it possible for mortal man to endure. He was given plenty to eat, such as it was, but scarcely a night passed that he was not aroused from a sound sleep to go on post or to repel an assault that was never made, and during the day-time he was drilled in the school of the soldier and company, and in the manual of arms, until all the muscles in him ached so that he could not lie still after he went to bed. Every hour in the day indignities were put upon him that caused his blood to boil, and he made matters worse by resenting them on the spot, the result being that he did more police duty than any other man in camp. Time and again he sought an interview with the commandant, intending to complain of his treatment and ask when he might look for his release, but he never saw the general except from a distance, and then was not permitted to approach him. All this while his father, who visited him at irregular intervals, bringing news from the outside world, was doing his best; but there were so many difficulties in his way, and so much red tape to be gone through, that he found himself balked at every point, and it is a wonder he was not tempted to give it up as a task beyond his powers.

“You see Roach’s books show that I claimed exemption for Larkin, and I’m afraid that’s against us,” he said to Tom one day, after talking the matter over with General Ruggles.

“But you have as much right to change your mind as other folks, I suppose,” replied Tom.

“Of course I have, but that isn’t the point. If Larkin were here to take your place in camp the work might be easier; but you see he isn’t. He has skipped.”

“Skipped where?”

“Out in the woods, to keep company with Lambert and Moseley, I suppose. And when he went he left word with some of the neighbors that if anything happened to my buildings during the next few weeks, I might thank him for it. He put out as soon as I told him that I couldn’t pay the beef and bacon the government demanded as the price of his exemption.”

“Did you tell Major Morgan that you wouldn’t pay it?”

“Certainly, and I told General Ruggles so; but that didn’t scare them at all. If they want beef and bacon they’ll just take it.”

“Well, now, if that isn’t a pretty way for a common overseer to treat a gentleman I wouldn’t say so,” declared Tom, who really thought that Larkin ought to have stayed at home and been conscripted in his place. “What difference does one man make in the size of an army, anyway? The general could let me go as well as not.”

“But he won’t, unless certain forms are complied with. Be as patient as you can, and remember that I shall leave no stone unturned.”

“Get an honorable discharge while you are about it, so that I shall not be called upon to go through with this performance a second time,” said Tom.

It is true that a single recruit made no great difference in the strength of an army, but for some reason that no one but General Ruggles could have explained it made all the difference in the world so far as Tom Randolph’s release from military duty was concerned. One day, about six weeks after the conversation above recorded, Mr. Randolph walked into camp and told Tom that he was a free man—or rather that he would be in a few hours, for Larkin had been captured by Major Morgan’s scouts, and was now on his way to camp to take Tom’s place.

“And am I to have an honorable discharge?” inquired Tom, who was so overjoyed that he could hardly speak.

“No; and I was foolish to ask for it,” said his father in disgust. “The general laughed in my face and said you hadn’t done anything worthy of it. Don’t say a word about it, but thank your lucky stars that you have escaped being ordered to the front.”

When the man Larkin and a few other conscripts were brought in under guard, Tom Randolph was standing as near the big gate as the camp regulations would allow him to get, waiting impatiently for somebody to come out of the commandant’s office and tell him he could go home. He was mean enough to try to attract Larkin’s attention when the latter tramped wearily into the stockade, but the man was so wrapped up in his troubles that he could hardly have recognized his best friend, if he had had one among the curious crowd that was gathered about the gate. Tom was a little disappointed, but quickly dismissed Larkin from his mind when he saw his father approaching with an expression on his face that was full of good news.

“Come right along,” said he. “It’s all settled now. There stands the officer who has orders to pass us out.”

“So the general has consented to do me justice at last, has he?” exclaimed Tom, who was not half as grateful as he ought to have been. “And he kept me here all these weary days and allowed me to be insulted and abused on account of that man Larkin, did he? Thank him for nothing. But I’ll fix some others who are as much to blame for my being here as General Ruggles is. I haven’t wasted all my time since I have been in jail, I tell you.”

“I brought a mule for you to ride,” continued his father. “But don’t you think we had better bunk with the guard to-night? It will be as dark as a pocket in an hour, and besides it is going to rain.”

“I don’t care if it rains pitchforks. I’ll face them rather than remain in this dreary hole a moment longer,” declared the liberated conscript. “And I am not going to the barracks after my clothes or blankets. I will them to the first man who can put his hands on them.”

Tom reached home in due time in spite of the rain and other discomforts that attended him on his journey, and it is scarcely necessary to say that his mother welcomed him as one risen from the dead. Her husband had told her doleful stories of Tom’s life in camp, and she was afraid that he would sink under his many hardships before his release could be effected. But Tom was not as badly off as he pretended to be. A few days’ rest made him as uneasy and full of meanness as he had ever been in his life; but it is fair to say that his uneasiness was due to an unaccountable delay in the carrying out of a certain little programme which he had arranged while living in the stockade. This was what he meant when he told his father that he had not wasted his time since he had been in jail.

During the month of September it became known to the guards and conscripts at Camp Pinckney that a meeting of cotton and tobacco planters had been held in Richmond “to consider the expediency of the purchase by the Confederacy, or of a voluntary destruction of the entire cotton and tobacco crop,” to keep it from falling into the hands of the Union forces. It is hard to tell why the news was so long in coming down to Louisiana, for the meeting, which was described as “one of the largest, wealthiest, and most intelligent that had ever assembled in the city,” was held as early as February. Among the other resolutions acted upon by this patriotic assemblage was one calling upon the Southern people to destroy all their property in advance of the invading armies, even to their homes, so that the conquest of the United States should be a barren one. Of course this resolution met the hearty approval of those of the Camp Pinckney guards and conscripts who had no property worth speaking of, and some of them declared that if General Ruggles would let them have their own way for twenty-four hours they would destroy thousands of bales of cotton which the owners would never burn themselves so long as they saw a prospect of selling them to the Yankees. This set Tom Randolph to thinking, and with the aid of some of the Pearl River Home Guards who were still on duty at the camp, he made up a nice little plan to revenge himself on several of the Mooreville people who had incurred his enmity. It might have been successful, too, if Tom had not allowed his unruly tongue to upset it. As soon as he reached home he began waiting and watching for some signs of activity on the part of the Pearl River vagabonds, but up to this time the clouds that hung over the swamp, and which he watched every night with anxious eyes, had not been lighted by any signal-fires.

The life that Tom Randolph now led was dreary and monotonous in the extreme; no healthy boy could have endured it for a week. Did he take Larkin’s place as overseer and do his work? Well, hardly; and he never had any intention of doing it. The field-hands did the work as well as the overseeing, and Tom spent his time in loafing or in riding about the country on a bare-back mule. It is true that Major Morgan’s “drag-net” had not cleared the neighborhood of everyone who was subject to military duty, for a few of the desperate ones, like Lambert and Moseley, had taken to the woods, and a few others had joined the Yankees in Baton Rouge, where they were safe from pursuit; but it had caught the most of the able-bodied men and boys of Tom’s acquaintance, and now he found himself almost alone. He saw Rodney and Ned now and then, but never spoke to them if he could help it, or visited them on their plantations; for since they, with Mrs. Griffin’s aid, kept him from being sent to a Northern prison, he disliked them more than he did before. He had never got over being surprised at Mr. Gray’s action in standing between Ned and the conscript officer, while he permitted the other telegraph operator, Drummond, to take his chances. Mr. Gray must be Union at heart or else he would not have done that; and if he was Union he ought to be driven out of the country. Tom found a world of consolation in the reflection that he would soon be even with him.

It was while the returned conscript was taking his usual morning ride on his mule, with a gunny-sack for a saddle, that he met his old first lieutenant, as described at the beginning of the last chapter. He knew that the man was living in the woods, otherwise he would have had him for company at Camp Pinckney, and he was surprised to find him riding along a public road in broad daylight. Lambert was also mounted on a mule, the property of his late employer, which he had appropriated to his own use without troubling himself to ask permission. He remembered that Tom had once drawn a sword upon him, and flattered himself that in Camp Pinckney his tyrannical captain was being well paid for that and other indignities he had put upon his Home Guards; consequently he was not a little astonished and vexed to find him breathing the air of freedom on this particular morning.

“How did you manage to get away from them fellers, anyhow?” inquired Lambert, nodding in the direction of the camp.

“I have influence with the governor,” replied Tom loftily. “I did not want to stay, and consequently I didn’t.”

“Afeared of the Yanks, was you!” continued Lambert with something like a sneer.

“No more afraid than yourself. You took to your heels and are in danger every moment of being caught and sent to camp, while I faced the music at once and will never have to do it again. I am discharged from military service for all time to come.”

“Well, by gum! I won’t do none,” said Lambert fiercely; and Tom noticed that every time he spoke he looked behind and on both sides as if he were in constant fear that Major Morgan’s men might steal a march upon him. “I say let them that brung the war on do the fightin’. I didn’t have no hand in it, an’ nuther am I goin’ to holp ’em out. Yes, I’m livin’ in the woods now, me an’—an’ some other fellers; but I have to come out once in a while to get grub an’ things, you know.”

“Then why don’t you come at night?” asked Tom.

“Kase it suits me better to come in the daytime. I aint a-skeared. There’s plenty kiver handy.”

“But if you dismount and take to your heels you’ll lose your mule.”

“Who keers? ’Tain’t my mu-el, an’ if they take him I can easy get another. What you drivin’ at now?”

“I am my father’s overseer.”

“Shucks! You couldn’t tell, to save your life if a corn row was laid off straight or not.”

“No matter for that,” said Tom sharply. “As long as I hold the position I can live at home and show myself openly; and that’s more than you can do. Have you seen that converted Confederate and his Yankee friend lately?”

“Who’s them?” inquired Lambert.

“Why, Ned Griffin and Rodney Gray.”

“Oh, yes; I see ’em every day ’most. They’re livin’ down there snug as you please, an’ as often as I——”

“Go on,” said Tom, when the man paused suddenly. “As often as you what?”

“As often as I want to see ’em I see ’em,” added Lambert.

“That isn’t what you were about to say at first,” replied Tom. “I hope you are not a friend of theirs?”

“Look a-here, cap’n, wasn’t I first leftenant of the Home Guards?”

“You were, and a very good officer you made, except when you took it upon yourself to act without waiting for orders from me; and then you always brought yourself into trouble. Can you be trusted?”

“If I can’t, what’s the reason I was ’lected to that office?” asked Lambert in reply. “What do you want of me?”

“The members of the Randolph family are not quite as poor as some people seem to think, I want you to understand,” said Tom in a mysterious whisper. “We have several little articles hidden away that our neighbors know nothing about, and next week we shall have some store tea and coffee and salt to hand around to those who need them. Your shoes are full of holes, too. You ought to have a new pair.”

If Lambert had given utterance to the thoughts that were in his mind, he would have said that his old commander would miss it if he hoped to bribe him in this way. There were few people in the settlement who did not stand in need of the articles Tom mentioned, but Lambert knew where he could get them for the asking. Still he wanted to know what Tom wished him to do, and said so.

“You fought the conscript officers offen me long’s as you could, an’ I aint likely to disremember it,” he replied.

“I kept you out of the army for more than a year, and now is the time for you to pay me for it,” replied Tom impressively. “Now listen while I tell you something. You know that our government has ordered every planter who owns cotton to burn it so that it will not fall into the hands of the Yankees, don’t you?”

“No!” answered Lambert. He was surprised, for this was news to him; but he saw what Tom was trying to get at.

“Well, it is the truth, and those who do not comply with the order will be punished in some way, and their property destroyed by our own soldiers. Now there’s old man Gray; he has cotton.”

“And he won’t never burn it,” exclaimed Lambert.

“That’s the idea exactly. He’d rather sell it to the Yankees for sixty cents a pound; and so far as I can see there is nothing to hinder him from doing it.”

“Less’n some of our fellers slip up an’ burn it for him,” put in Lambert.

“You’ve hit it again,” exclaimed Tom, who told himself that he wasn’t going to have any trouble at all in bringing the man to do the work he had suddenly laid out for him. “He can sell his cotton if nobody stops him, but my father can’t sell his because he is known to be a loyal Confederate. Do you think that’s fair or right?”

“I know it aint,” answered Lambert. “Gray is Union, and oughter be sent amongst the Yanks where he b’longs; but your paw is Confedrit and so am I. Do you want me to tech off that cotton?”

“Well, no; not exactly that. You know where it is, I suppose?”

“There aint much of anything in the woods in this country that I don’t know something about,” said Lambert with a grin. “I reckon I might find it if I took a notion.”

“That is what I thought, and now I come to the point. While I was in camp I learned that a squad of our soldiers is coming here some day to look after the very cotton we are talking about,” said Tom, who did not think it would be just the thing to say that he had proposed the expedition himself, and accurately described the bayou in which Mr. Gray’s four hundred bales could be found. “Now if you happen to see that squad while you are riding about the country——”

“I’ll take leg-bail mighty sudden, I bet you,” interrupted Lambert.

“Without offering to show them where the cotton is hidden?” cried Tom.

“You bet! I aint got no call to go philanderin’ about the woods with a passel of soldiers, an’ if you was the friend you pertend to be you wouldn’t ask sich a thing of me.”

“Why, man alive, they are Home Guards,” began Tom.

“Then I wouldn’t trust none of ’em as fur as I could sling a church house,” replied Lambert.

“And besides, they don’t know that you have been conscripted, for they belong to the Pearl River bottoms, miles away from here.”

“No odds; Major Morgan’s men can give me all the dodgin’ I want to do, an’ if them Pearl River fellers don’t find that cotton till I show it to ’em they’ll never find it. I jest aint goin’ to run no fule chances on bein’ tooken to that camp.”

Tom Randolph wished now that he hadn’t broached the subject to Lambert at all, for what assurance had he that the man, whom he knew to be vindictive and untrustworthy, would not go straight to Mr. Gray and tell him all about it?

“I thought you were a friend of mine, but since you are not it’s all right,” said Tom, intimating by a wave of his hand that Lambert’s refusal was a matter of no moment whatever. “But come with me to the house, and let me see if I can’t find something for you.” And as he spoke he looked down at the man’s broken shoes and bare, sunbrowned ankles.

“Shucks!” exclaimed Lambert. “I don’t need to go beggin’ shoes an’ stockin’s of nobody; an’ as for the salt an’ store tea that you’ve been talkin’ about, I have them in the woods every day.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Tom bluntly.

“It don’t make no odds to me whether you do or not, but it’s a fact.”

“Where do you get them? You haven’t the cheek to go to Baton Rouge, after the part you played in having the place bombarded by the Union fleet. You wouldn’t dare show your face there, and I don’t believe you have any friends to bring goods through the lines for you. I haven’t forgotten that old man Gray wanted that mob to thrash me as if I were a nigger, and I hope you remember that he was strongly in favor of hanging you. Ned Griffin warned you, and you jumped out of bed and ran for your life.”