Tom Strong, Lincoln's Scout

by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

  CHAPTER X

  TOM IS HUNGRY--HE LEARNS TO "SPOON" BY SQUADS--THE BULLET AT THE WINDOW--WORKING ON THE TUNNEL--"RAT HELL"--THE RISK OF THE ROLL-CALL--WHAT HAPPENED TO JAKE JOHNSON, CONFEDERATE SPY--TOM IN LIBBY PRISON--HANS ROLF ATTENDS HIM--HANS REFUSES TO ESCAPE--THE FLIGHT THROUGH THE TUNNEL--FREE, BUT HOW TO STAY SO?

  When the war between the States began, Libby & Son were a thriving firmof merchants in Richmond. They owned a big warehouse, which fronted onCarey Street and extended back over land that sloped down to anotherstreet, which occupied all the space between the southern wall of thewarehouse and the canal that here bordered the James River. The buildingwas full before the war of that rich Virginia tobacco which Thackeraypraises in "The Virginians" and which the worn-out lands of the OldDominion can no longer produce.

  LIBBY PRISON AFTER THE WAR]

  The prisoners in Libby had painfully little to eat. The whole South washungry. When Confederate soldiers were starving, Confederate prisonerscould not expect to fatten. Nor was this the only evil thing. The prisonwas indescribably unclean. The cellar and the lower floor, upon which noprisoners were allowed except in the dining-room in the middle of thefloor and the hospital, swarmed with huge rats which climbed upstairs atnight and nipped mouthfuls of human flesh when they could. There was nofurniture. The prisoners slept on the floor, so crowded together thatthey had to lie spoon fashion in order to lie down at all. They haddivided themselves into squads and had chosen commanders. Tom foundhimself assigned to Squad Number Four. The first night, when he had atlast sunk into uncomfortable sleep upon the hard floor, he was awakenedby the sharp command of the captain of his group:

  "Attention, Squad No. Four! Prepare to spoon! One, two, spoon!"

  The squad flopped over, from one weary bruised side to another. Itseemed to the worn-out boy that he had just "spooned," when again hewaked to hear the queer command and again he flopped. This was a sampleof many nights.

  On the following morning Tom had one of the narrow escapes of his life.He was leaning against one of the barred windows, looking at the broadvalley of the James, when he was suddenly seized violently by the armand jerked to one side. His arm ached with the vice-like grip that hadbeen laid upon it and his knees, sticking through his torn trousers, hadbeen barked against the floor, as he was dragged back, but he turned tothe man who had laid hold of him, not with anger, but with thankfulness.For, at the second he had been seized a bullet had whizzed through thewindow just where his head had been. If he had not been jerked away, theChronicles of Tom Strong would have ended then and there.

  If Tom was not angry, the man was. He glared at him.

  "You little fool, don't you know better than that?"

  When the boy heard himself called a fool, he did become angry, but afterall this big person had saved his life, even if he did call him names.So he swallowed his wrath--which is an excellent thing to do withwrath--and answered quite meekly:

  "No, sir, I don't know better. Can't we look out of the windows?"

  "Hasn't anybody told you that?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then I shouldn't have called you a fool." Tom smiled and nodded inacceptance of the implied apology. "The sentries outside have orders tofire whenever they see anybody at a window. Last week two men werekilled that way. I thought you were a goner, sure, when I saw youlooking out. Sorry if I hurt you, but it's better to be hurt than to bekilled. Shake."

  The boy wrung the big man's hand and thanked him for his timely aid.They strolled together up and down the big room now deserted by most ofits occupants, who had begun below their patient wait for dinner. Theman was Colonel Rose. He found Tom to his liking. And he needed anintelligent boy in his business. Just then Colonel Rose's business wasto escape. This seemed hopeless, but the Colonel did not think so. Yetit had been often tried and had always failed. When several hundredintelligent Americans are shut up, through no fault of their own, in amost unpleasant prison, with nothing to do, they are quite certain tofind something to do by planning an escape and by trying to make theplan a reality. One trouble about the former plans at Libby had beenthat the whole mass of prisoners had known about them. There must alwaysbe leaders in such an enterprise, but hitherto the leaders had taken thecrowd into their confidence. Now there were Confederate spies in thecrowd, sham prisoners. The former plots had always been found out. Onceor twice they had been allowed to ripen and the first fugitives hadfound their first free breath their last, for they had stumbled into atrap and had been instantly shot down upon the threshold of freedom.More often the ringleaders had disappeared, spirited away withoutwarning and probably shot, while their scared followers had been left todespair. Rose had learned the history of all the past attempts. Heplanned along new lines. He decided upon absolute secrecy, except forthe men who were actually to do the work. This work involved a gooddeal of burrowing into holes that must be particularly narrow at firstand never very big. A strong, lithe boy could get into a hole where astout man could not go. Once in, he could enlarge it so that many mencould follow. Colonel Rose wanted a human mole. He had picked Tom Strongfor the job. Now, in whispered sentences, he told the boy of the planand asked his aid. Tom's shining eyes threatened to tell how importantthe talk was.

  "Act as though you were uninterested, my boy," Colonel Rose warned him."Keep your eyelids down. Yawn occasionally."

  So Tom tried to look dull, which was not at all his natural appearance.He studied the floor as if he expected to find diamonds upon it. Heyawned so prodigiously as to attract the attention he was trying toescape. An amateur actor is apt to overact his part. And all the time hewas listening with a passionate interest to Colonel Rose's story of theway to freedom. Of course he was glad to try to help make the hope afact.

  That night the work began. The kitchen dining-hall was deserted from 10P.M. to 4 A.M., so it was selected as the field of operation. Below thekitchen was the carpenter-shop. No opening could be made into thatwithout instant detection. On the same floor with the kitchen and justeast of it was the hospital. That room must be avoided too. Below thehospital was an unused cellar, half full of rotting straw and all fullof squealing rats. It was called "Rat Hell." Outside of it was a smallsewer that led to a larger one which passed under the canal and emptiedits contents into the James River. These sewers were to be the highwayto freedom. The first step must be to get from the kitchen to Rat Hell.To do this it was necessary to dig through a solid stone wall a reversed"S," like this:

  Reverse S]

  The upper end of the secret passage was to open into the kitchenfireplace, the lower into Rat Hell. There were fourteen men in thesecret, besides Tom. Between them, they had just one tool, an old knife.One of them owned a bit of burlap, used sometimes as a mattress andsometimes as a bed-quilt. It had a new use now. It was spread upon thekitchen hearth in the midnight darkness and a pile of soot was pulleddown upon it. Then the mortar between a dozen bricks at the back of thefireplace was cut out with the knife and the bricks pried out of place.This was done by Major A. G. Hamilton, Colonel Rose's chief assistant.He carefully replaced the bricks and flung handfuls of soot over them.He and Rose crept upstairs, carrying the sooty bit of burlap with them,and slept through what was left of the night. The next day was ananxious time for them. When they went down to the kitchen, where acouple of hundred men were gathered, it seemed to them that the marks oftheir toil by night were too plain not to be seen by some of them. Theirnervousness made them poor judges. Nobody saw what had been done. Thatnight, as soon as the last straggler left, Rose and Hamilton againremoved the bricks and attacked the stubborn stone behind the fireplace.Fortunately the stones were not large. Bit by bit they were pried out ofthe loosened mortar.

  Now came Tom's chance to serve the good cause. He was a proud boy, a fewnights later, when he was permitted to go down to the kitchen with theColonel and the Major, in order that he might creep into the hole theyhad made and enlarge it. His heels wiggled in the air. He laid upon hisstomach in the upper part of the reverse
d "S" and plied the old knife asvigorously as it could be plied without making a tell-tale noise. Whenhe had widened the passage, one of the men took his place in it anddrove it downward. One night Colonel Rose in his eagerness got into theopening before the lower part of it had been sufficiently enlarged andstuck there. It was only by a terrible effort that Hamilton and Tomfinally dragged him out, bruised, bleeding and gasping for breath.Finally, after many nights, Rat Hell was reached. A bit of rope, stolenfrom about a box of food sent a prisoner, had been made into a ropeladder. It was hung from the edge of the hole. The three creptcautiously down to Rat Hell. This haven did not seem much like heaven.With squeals of wrath, the rats attacked the intruders and the intrudersfled up their ladder. They were no match for a myriad rats. Moreoverthey feared lest the noise would bring into the basement the sentrywhose steps they could hear on the sidewalk outside. So they fled,taking their rope-ladder with them, and again, as ever, they replacedthe bricks and painted them with the friendly soot.

  The next night, armed this time with sticks of wood, they fought it outwith the rats and made them understand their masters had come to stay.Fortunately the fight was short. It was noisy and the sentry came. Butwhen he opened the door from the street and looked into the darkness ofthe basement, the Union officers were safely hid under the straw andonly a few of the defeated rats still squealed. At last the tunnel tothe sewer could be begun. Colonel Rose had long since decided, byforbidden, stealthy glances from an upper window, just where it was tobe. The measurement made above was now made below, the straw againstthe eastern wall was rolled aside and the old knife, or what was left ofit after its battle with brick and stone, was put to the easier task ofdigging dirt.

  FIGHTING THE RATS

  From "Famous Adventures of the Civil War."

  The Century Co.]

  Soon a new difficulty had to be met. Before the tunnel was five feetlong, the air in it became so foul that candles went out in it. So wouldthe lives of the diggers have gone out if they had stayed in it long.Five of the fifteen now went down each night, so that everybody had twonights' rest out of three. But the progress made was pitifully slow. Manafter man was hauled by his heels out of the poisonous pit, almost athis last gasp. Once, when Hamilton had been brought out and was beingfanned back to life by Colonel Rose and Tom, the boy whispered:

  "Why not fan air into the tunnel?"

  Nobody had thought of that obvious plan. Like most great inventions itwas simple--when seen. Thereafter one or two men always sat at the endof the tunnel fanning air into it with their hats. But even so, many acandle went out and many a digger was pulled out, black in the face andalmost dead.

  The tunnel sloped downwards, of course, to reach the sewer. It slopedtoo far down. It got below the water-level of the canal. Hamilton wascaught in it by the rush of water and almost drowned. So much work hadto be done over again. Then came a crushing blow. When the small sewerwas finally reached, it proved to be too small for a man to pass throughit. But it had a wooden lining, which was bit by bit taken off. Whenthis had been done to within a few feet of the main sewer, two men weredetailed to cut their way through. The next night was set as the timefor the escape. None of the thirteen slept while the two were cuttingaway the final obstacle. The thirteen did not sleep the next nighteither, for it was 36 hours before the two came back with theirheartbreaking news. They had found the last few feet of the sewer-liningmade of seasoned oak, three inches thick and hard as stone. The poorold knife that had served them so long and so well, could not evenscratch the toughened oak. Thirty-nine nights of grinding toil had endedin failure.

  Meanwhile the thirteen had had to face a new problem. There were tworoll-calls every day, at 9 A.M. and 4 P.M. How were the two absent mento answer? At roll-call everybody stood in one long line and everybodywas counted. If the count were two short, there would be swift searchfor the missing. And the beginning of the tunnel was hidden only by afew bundles of straw. This was before they knew the tunnel was useless,but had they known it they would have been scarcely less anxious, forits discovery would have made all future attempts to escape moredangerous and more doubtful. However, the roll-call problem was safelysolved. The thirteen crowded into the upper end of the line and two ofthem, as soon as they had answered to their own names, dropped back,crouched down, crept behind the backs of many men to the other end ofthe line, slipped into place, and there answered for the missing men,without detection. In the afternoon, they came very near being caught.Some of the other prisoners thought this was being done just for fun, toconfuse the Confederate clerk who called the roll, and thought theywould take a hand in the fun too. There was so much dodging and doubleanswering that "Little Ross," the good-humored little clerk, lost histemper and ordered the captives to stand in squads of ten to be counted.By this time he had called the roll half a dozen times, with resultsvarying from minus one to plus fifteen. When he gave his order, an orderobedience to which would have certainly told the tale of two absentees,he went on to explain why he gave it.

  "Now, gentlemen, there's one thing sho'; there's eight or ten of you-unsyere that ain't yere."

  This remarkable statement brought a shout of laughter from theConfederate guards. The prisoners joined in it. "Little Ross" himselfcaught the contagion and also began to laugh.

  From "Famous Adventures of the Civil War." The Century Co.

  SECTIONAL VIEW OF LIBBY PRISON AND THE TUNNEL

  1. Streight's room; 2. Milroy's room; 3. Commandant's office; 4. Chickamauga room (upper); 5. Chickamauga room (lower); 6. Dining-room; 7. Carpenter's shop (middle cellar); 8. Gettysburg room (upper); 9. Gettysburg room (lower); 10. Hospital room; 11. East or "Rat Hell" cellar; 12. South side Canal street, ten feet lower than Carey street; 13. North side Carey street, ground sloping toward Canal; 14. Open lot; 15. Tunnel; 16. Fence; 17. Shed; 18. Kerr's warehouse; 19. Office James River Towing Co.; 20. Gate; 21. Prisoners escaping; 22. West cellar.]

  The dreaded order was laughed out of court and forgotten.

  The two men crept upstairs early the next morning. The first nightdaylight had caught them at work, so they had not dared to return, buthad stayed and had worked through the 36 hours. They brought back thehandle of the knife, with a mere stump of a blade, and the depressingnews of failure. But men who are fit for freedom do not cease to strivefor it. If one road to it is blocked, they seek another. That very day,when the fifteen had gathered together and the two had told their tale,a pallor of despair crept over some of the faces, but it was dispelledby the flush of hope when Colonel Rose said: "If we can't go south,we'll go east; we must tunnel to the yard beyond the vacant lot. We'llbegin tonight."

  "But," objected one doubting Thomas, "from the yard we'd have to comeout on the street. There's a gas-lamp there--and a sentry."

  "We can put out the lamp and if need be the sentry," Colonel Roseanswered, "when we get to them. The thing now is to get there. We havefifty-three feet of tunnel to dig, if my figures are correct. That's ajob of a good many nights. This night will see the job begun."

  It was begun with a broad chisel kind Fate had put in their way and witha big wooden spittoon, tied to a rope. This, when filled with earth, waspulled out, emptied, and returned for a fresh load. A fortnightafterwards the officer who was digging that night made a mistake inlevels and came too near the surface, which broke above him. Dismayed,he backed out and reported the blunder. The hole was in plain sight.Discovery was certain if it were not hidden. The story was but half toldwhen Colonel Rose began stripping off his blouse.

  "Here, Tom, take this. It's as dirty as the dirt and won't show. Stuffit into the hole so it will lie flat on the surface. Quick!"

  Tom wriggled along the tunnel to the hole. There he smeared some moredirt on the dirty blouse, put it into the hole with cunning care, andwriggled back. That morning at sunrise, when they peeked down fromtheir prison windows into the eastern lot, even their straining eyescould scarcely see the tiny bit of blouse that showed. No casual
glancewould detect it. Of that they were sure.

  * * * * *

  Every few days new prisoners were thrust into Libby. Whenever thishappened it was the custom that on the first evening they should tellwhatever news they could of the outside world and of their own captureto the whole prison community. One morning the keeper of Libby receiptedfor another captured Yankee and soon Captain Jacob Johnson appeared inthe grimy upper rooms. He responded very cordially, rather toocordially, to the greetings he received. It soon became understood thathe was only a guerilla captain from Tennessee. Now neither side wasoverproud of the guerillas who infested the borderland, who sometimescalled themselves Unionists and sometimes Confederates, and who did morestealing than fighting. So a rather cold shoulder was turned to the newcaptive, though the community's judgment upon him was deferred untilafter he should have been heard that evening. He seemed to try to warmthe cold shoulder by a certain greasy sidling to and fro and by attemptsat too familiar conversation. He began to talk to Colonel Rose, who soonshook him off, and to sundry other persons, among whom was Tom. The boywas not mature enough in the ways of the world to get rid of him.Johnson spent some hours with him and bored him to distraction. Therewas a mean uneasiness about him that repelled Tom. His face, anundeniably Yankee face, awoke some unpleasant memory, from time to time,but the boy could not place him and finally decided that this was merelya fancy, not a fact. None the less the man himself was an unpleasantfact. He peered about and sidled about in a way that might be due onlyto Yankee curiosity, but Tom didn't like it. He disliked Johnson moreand more as the newcomer kept returning to him and growing moreconfidential. His talk was on various natural enough themes, but itkept veering back to the chances of escape.

  "I don't mean to stay in this hole long," Johnson whispered. "Prettymean-spirited in all these fellows to just hang around here, withouteven trying to make a getaway. What d'ye say 'bout our trying it on,son?"

  The familiar address increased the boy's dislike of the man, but he wastoo young to realize that he was being "sounded" by a spy. He was oldenough, however, to know how to keep his mouth shut about the pendingplan for an escape. He thought Johnson got nothing out of him, but inthe many half-confidential talks the unpleasant Yankee forced upon him,perhaps he had revealed something after all. Perhaps, however, thenewcomer got such information as he did from other men in the secret.Certainly he got somewhere an inkling of the plan of escape.

  That evening, when he stood in a circle of sitting men to tell hisstory,--a simple tale of Northern birth, of a Southern home, of beliefin the Union, of raising a guerilla company to fight for it, of capturein a raid on a Confederate supply-depot,--the unpleasant memory whichhad been troubling Tom came back and hammered at his head untilsuddenly, as if a flashlight had been turned on the scene, he sawhimself sprawling on the hearth of Uncle Mose's slave-cabin, with thisman's hand clutching his ankle. He was sitting on the floor besideColonel Rose. He leant against him and whispered:

  "That man didn't come from Tennessee. He was overseer on a plantation inAlabama. He 'most captured me once. I b'lieve he's a spy."

  Johnson caught the gleam of Colonel Rose's eye fixed upon him. He hadseen Tom whisper to him. He faltered, stopped speaking, and sat down.Rose walked across the circle and sat beside him. He had snapped hisfingers as he walked and half a dozen men had answered the signal andwere now close at hand.

  "What did you do before you turned guerilla?" asked Colonel Rose.

  "I don't know that that's any of your darned business," said Johnson.

  "Answer me."

  The stronger man dominated the weaker. The spy sulkily said:

  "I kept a general shop in Jonesboro', Tennessee."

  "Ever live anywhere else in the South?"

  "No."

  "Ever do anything else in the South?"

  "No, sirree. What's the good of asking such questions?"

  The Colonel rose to his feet and said aloud:

  "Major Hamilton."

  "Here, sir," answered the Major.

  "Didn't you live in Jonesboro', Tennessee, before the war?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "How long?"

  "Seven years."

  "Who kept the general store there?"

  "Hezekiah Butterworth, from Maine."

  "Did you know him?"

  "Rather. We were chums. He and I left Jonesboro' together to join thearmy."

  "Is this man he?"

  Rose pointed to where Jake Johnson sat at his feet, cowering, coveringhis face with his hands. Other hands not too gently snatched Jake'shands from his face. Hamilton looked at him.

  "He's no more Hezekiah Butterworth than he's General Grant."

  By this time the whole prison community was crowded about Colonel Rose.The latter called again:

  "Mr. Strong."

  "Here, sir," Tom's voice piped up.

  "Do you know this man?"

  "Yes, sir." Tom told the story of Jake Johnson on the Izzard plantation.

  There was an ominous low growl from the audience. Yankee overseers ofSouthern plantations were not exactly popular in that crowd of Northernofficers. And evidently this particular overseer had been lying. ButColonel Rose lifted his hand and said:

  "Silence. No violence. What we do will be done decently and in order."After this impressive speech, he suddenly yelled: "Ah, you would, wouldyou?" and choked Johnson with every pound of strength he could put intothe process. He had just seen him slip a bit of paper into his mouth andhe meant to know what that paper was. It was plucked out of the spy'sthroat as he gasped for air. Upon it the spy's pencil had written:

  "Plot to escape. Lieutenant Strong knows about it. Think Colonel Roseheads it."

  It was to have been Jake Johnson's first report in his new business ofbeing a spy. It put an end to all business on his part forever. Gaggedand tied, he was pushed across the big room, while Tom watcheduncomprehendingly, wondering what was to be done with the writhing man.Suddenly he understood, for he saw it done. Johnson was pushed into awindow. Two kneeling men held his legs and another, standing beside himbut screened by the wall, pushed him in front of the window. TheConfederate sentry below obeyed his orders. There was no challenge, nowarning. He aimed and fired at the prisoner who was breaking the laws ofthe prison by looking out of the window. What had been Jake Johnson,Yankee, negro-overseer, Confederate conscript, volunteer spy, fell in adead heap to the floor of Libby. Gag and bonds were quickly removed, sothere was nothing to tell the Confederates the real cause of the man'sdeath when they came to remove the body. They had unwittingly executedtheir own spy.

  * * * * *

  It was right that the man should die, but the shock of seeing him doneto death was too much for Tom. Weakened by the fatigues and hardship ofthe long captivity during which he had been carried from Ohio toVirginia and worn out by the sufferings of life in Libby and by the toilof the tunnel, the boy collapsed when Jake Johnson did and for a fewmoments seemed as dead as the man was. He was taken to thehospital-room, but the hospital in Libby was usually only the anteroomof the graveyard at Libby. One of the scarcest things in theConfederacy, the home of scarcity, was a good doctor. The armies in thefield needed far more doctors than there were in the whole South, at theoutbreak of the war. Medical schools were quickly created, but thedemand for doctors so far outran the supply that by this time ignorantcountry lads were being rushed through the schools, with reckless haste,so that they were graduated when they knew but little more than whenthey began. A so-called surgeon was handling his scalpel six monthsafter he had been handling a plow. Some of them barely knew how to readand write. It was inevitable that the prison hospitals should be mannedby the poorest of the poor among the graduates of these wretchedschools. A fortunate chance, fortunate that is for Tom, gave him,however, care that was both skilful and tender.

  A few hours after the righteous execution of Jake Johnson there had beenthrust into Libby a fresh group of prisoners, captured b
ut fortyeighthours before. Among them towered a jovial, bearded giant, an armysurgeon, Major Hans Rolf. Libby was ringing of course with talk of whathad happened there that day. The new prisoners quickly heard of Johnsonand of Tom Strong. Within an hour, Hans Rolf had given his parole not totry to escape and had been allowed to station himself beside Tom's bed.Through that night and through the next day, he fought Tom's battle forhim, doing all that man could do. When the boy struggled out of hisdelirium and saw Rolf's kind eyes beaming upon him, his first thoughtwas that he was still in the clutches of Wilkes Booth in the railroadcar. His right hand plucked feebly at his left side, where he had thencarried the dispatches Booth sought. Hans Rolf saw and understood themovement.

  "It's all right, Tom," he said. "Everything's all right. Go to sleep."

  And Tom, still a bit stupefied, thought everything was all right andthat he was home in New York, with Rolf somehow or other there too. Agracious and beautiful Richmond woman, who gave her days to caring forher country's enemies, bent over him with a smile. The boy's eyesgleamed with a mistaken belief.

  * * * * *

  "Oh, Mother!" gasped Tom. He smiled back and sank gently into a profoundsleep, from which he awoke to life and health. Again a Hans Rolf hadsaved a Tom Strong's life.

  Night after night passed, one night of work by each man followed by twoof such rest as lying spoon fashion upon a hard floor allowed. On theseventeenth night of the new tunnel work, Colonel Rose was digging awayin it. It was over fifty feet long. His candle flickered and went out.The foul air closed in upon him. Hats were fanning to and fro, back inRat Hell, fifty feet away, but the fresh air did not reach him. He felthimself suffocating. With one last effort he thrust his strong fistsupward and broke through the surface. Soon revived by the rush of freshair into the tunnel, he dragged himself out and found himself in theyard that had been their aim. The tunnel had reached its goal. Heclimbed out and studied the situation. A high fence screened the yardfrom Libby. A shed with an easily opened door screened it from thestreet. At three A.M., February 6, 1864, Colonel Rose returned toprison.

  That morning he told his news. Most of the men wanted to try for freedomthe next night, but there was much to do to erase all traces of theirwork, so that, if the tunnel were not forthwith discovered after theirflight, it could be used later by other fugitives. With a rareunselfishness, they waited for sixty hours. Meanwhile each of thefifteen had been authorized to tell one other man, so that thirty in allcould make their escape together. Colonel Rose felt that this was thelimit. A general prison-delivery would, he believed, result in a generalrecapture. Such a secret, however, was too mighty to keep a whisper ofit spread through the prison.

  When Hans Rolf had saved Tom's life, he had been at once taken into theinner councils of the tunnel group. He had not expressed as much joy inthe plan as Tom had expected. The reason of this was now revealed. Hedeclined to go.

  "You see," he explained to Colonel Rose and Tom, "I gave my parole notto try to escape when Tom here was sick. I had to do so in order to beallowed to take care of him. I made up my mind not to ask to be relievedfrom it because if I had the Confeds. might have suspected some plan toescape was on hand. And they seem to have forgotten all about it, forthey haven't cancelled it. So you see I'm bound in honor not to go.Don't bother, Tom." The boy's face showed the agony he felt that HansRolf's kindness to him should now bar Hans Rolf's way to freedom. "Don'tbother. 'Twon't be long before I'll be exchanged. And p'raps I can savesome lives here by staying. Don't bother. It's all right. I rather likethis boarding-house."

  The giant's great laugh rang out. The heartiness of it amazed the wearymen scattered about the room. It brought smiles to lips that had notsmiled for many a day. Laughter that comes from a clean heart does goodto all who hear it.

  It was clear that Rolf could not go. He was an officer and a gentleman.Honor forbade it. Sadly, Tom left him.

  On Tuesday evening, February 9, 1864, when the chosen thirty had crawleddown the inverted "S" and the rope-ladder to Rat Hell, Col. H. C.Hobart, who knew the secret, but had gallantly offered to stay behind,so that he could replace the tell-tale bricks in the fireplace, replacedthem. But before he could get upstairs, some hundreds of men had comedown. The secret was a secret no longer. There was a fierce struggle toget to the fireplace, a struggle all the fiercer because it had to bemade in grim silence, for there was a sentry but a few feet away, on theother side of the wall, in the hospital. The bricks were taken outagain. In all, one hundred and nine Union officers got through the hole.Then, warned by approaching daylight, the less fortunate in the fightfor freedom put back the bricks and crept stealthily upstairs, resolvedto try their luck the next night, if the tunnel were not before thatdiscovered.

  Tom had wormed his way through the inverted "S" among the first fifteen.On the rope ladder he lost his hold and fell in a heap upon the floor ofRat Hell. The huge rodents swarmed upon him, squealing and biting. Healmost shrieked with the horror of it, but he sprang to his feet, threwoff his tormentors, and ran across the room to the opening of thetunnel. His ragged clothes were still more ragged and his face and handswere bleeding from rat-bites, but he cared nothing for all this. Was henot on his way to freedom? On his way, yes; but the way was a long one.He might never reach the end. When he had pushed and pulled himselfthrough the tunnel; when he had come out into the yard and gone throughthe shed; and when, at the moment the sentry in the canal street was atthe further end of his beat, he had slipped out of the doorway andturned in the opposite direction,--when all this had happened, he wasout of prison, to be sure, but he was in the heart of the enemy'scountry, with all the risks of recapture or of death still to be run.

  The men had all been cautioned to stroll away in a leisurely fashion, onno account to run or even to walk fast, and not to try to get away ingroups of more than two or three. It was hard to walk slowly to the nextcorner. The boy made himself do so, however. Half a block ahead of himon the side street, he saw a couple of men walking with a somewhatfaster stride. He hurried ahead to join them. A Confederate patrolturned the corner of Carey Street. He heard the two men challenged andhe heard the little scuffle as they were seized. Their brief moment offreedom had passed. He stepped to one side of the wooden sidewalk andcrawled under it. There was just space enough for him to lie at fulllength. Hurrying feet, the feet of men hunting other men, trampled aninch above his nose. His heart beat so that he thought it must be heard.The patrol reached the street along the canal and peered into thedarkness there, a darkness feebly fought by one flickering gas-lamp.Fortunately, nobody came out of the shed just then. The sentry happenedto be coming towards it and the men inside were waiting for him to turn.The patrol had no thought of a general jail-delivery. It turned backwith its two prisoners, tramped back over Tom's head to Carey Street,and took its captives to the prison. The boy crawled out from under thesidewalk as the next batch of fugitives, three of them, reached thecorner. He ran down to them and warned them of the Carey Street patrol.The three men turned with him and walked along the canal. It was justafter midnight. Not a soul was stirring. Not a light showed. As theywalked unquestioned, their spirits rose. How fine to be free.