When Marcy Gray opened his eyes the next morning at daylight, he was in the camp of the refugees, which was to be his home, at irregular intervals, for long months to come, and surrounded by men who, like himself, were being persecuted for their opinions’ sake.  The camp was located on an island in a remote corner of the swamp that Marcy had never seen before, although he had hunted through the country for miles on every side of his mother’s plantation.  In the middle of the island was a cleared space, perhaps fifty feet in diameter, and all the bushes and trees that had been cut from it were piled around the circumference, to serve the double purpose of wind-break and breastwork.  There were no horses or mules among the refugees to make a trail through the woods that could be followed by the Home Guards and soldiers, and no dogs to attract their attention by their baying; but there were canoes and boats in plenty, and, except when in use, they were concealed in the bushes, so that they could not be seen from the mainland.  There were several snug lean-tos in the camp, to which the refugees retreated in stormy weather; but, when the elements were friendly, they preferred to wrap themselves in their blankets, and sleep under the trees.  When the newcomer opened his eyes on this particular morning, the first object they rested on was the bearded face of Ben Hawkins, the paroled prisoner.  He was lying under the same tree, and had been waiting half an hour for Marcy to wake up.

“I reckon it does you good to sleep in the open air,” were the first words he spoke.

“Want of sleep is something that never troubles me,” was the reply.  “Were you out with the Home Guards last night?  And how did they treat my mother after they got into the house?”

“Didn’t I say that the first one amongst ’em who looked cross-ways at her, or said anything out of the way, would have to answer to me for it?” demanded Hawkins.  “I said that much to ’em before we went into your yard; and well, them Home Guards know me.”

“I assure you that I shall not forget it,” said Marcy gratefully.  “I hope you did not say or do anything to add to their suspicions.  You know you told me they were afraid to trust you.  And why did you come here instead of going home?”

“I don’t care a cent if they distrust me now more’n they did before,” answered Hawkins.  “I’m watching ’em, and they’ll have to get up in the morning to get the start of me.  And I come to camp to see if you was here, and find out if it was that little nigger’s yelling that warned you.”

“That was just it,” replied Marcy.  “If Beardsley hadn’t caught him, he would surely have caught me.  What did Beardsley have to say for himself?”

“He was purty bad hurt, I tell you; and we had to hold him in the hoss-trough for as much as a minute before he came to.  He’s bound to kill that nigger.  He didn’t see him have no club in his hand when he ketched him.”

“Julius never struck him with a club,” exclaimed Marcy.  “He gave him a butt under the ear.”

The Confederate uttered an ejaculation indicative of the greatest astonishment, and then he sat up on his blanket, reached over Marcy’s shoulder, and began throwing aside the leaves and branches until he uncovered a gray quilt.  This he pulled off in spite of the desperate efforts of some one beneath to prevent it, and when he drew the quilt over Marcy’s shoulder, he brought with it the boy Julius, who was highly enraged because his dreamless slumber had been so rudely disturbed.

“Did you like to butt the life out of Cap’n Beardsley last night?” inquired Hawkins.  “Come here, and let me see how hard your head is.”

“Take you’ hands off’n dat head,” sputtered Julius.  “I buck one rebel las’ night, an’ you want watch out dat I don’t buck nodder one dis mawning.”  Then he became good-natured all at once, for he thought of something he wanted to ask Hawkins.  “What Beardsley say when he seen his fine schooner go up in de clouds?”

“He was mad and sorry and skeered,” answered Hawkins.  “I’ll bet you, Mister Marcy, that he plum forgot about that schooner, or he wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to help Shelby raise the Home Guards.  Of course we rode hard for the fire as soon as we seen it, but we couldn’t do no good after we got there.  The schooner was too far gone.”

“Did Beardsley find the note I left for him?” asked Marcy.

“Shelby found it and give it to him; and it was when he read it that he looked sorry and skeered.  It was lucky you wrote it, for it kept some of the Home Guards from being killed.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Just this a way,” answered Hawkins.  “They allowed, after they got through with you, to go to the houses of two more Union men so’t you would have company when you was took to jail.  But when Shelby heard your letter read he put for his home quick’s he could go, some others who lived up his way went with him, and that sorter broke up the party.  Leastwise it didn’t leave enough to capture them two Union men, who I knew were on the watch and ready to shoot.  I went to their houses afterward, and brought them into the swamp with me.  They’re getting mighty tired of living in this way, and they allow to rise up and drive Beardsley and Shelby out’n the country.  There wouldn’t be no trouble in the settlement if them two was out of it.”

“That is what I think,” said Marcy, “and I wish that plan might be put into operation this very day.  What is the use of putting it off?  I’ll help.”

While this conversation was going on the other refugees had begun to show signs of returning life and energy, and as fast as they arose from their blankets they came up to greet Marcy, who was not much surprised to find that he could call every one of them by name.  Those who had rendered him such good service on the night those Newbern robbers raided his mother’s house made themselves known, and of course received the hearty thanks of the boy they had saved from being hung up by the neck.  One of them remarked that he wished he and his friends had served Hanson as they had served the robbers, and this led Marcy to believe that they had made short work with them; but he asked no questions.

For men in their circumstances the refugees were the most jovial lot Marcy Gray had ever seen.  Having learned the art of foraging to perfection they lived on the best the country afforded; they were so well armed that it would not pay the authorities to try to capture them, even if they had known right where to find them; and the secessionists in the settlement who had property to lose would not permit the Confederate soldiers to molest their wives and children if they could possibly help it.  But, as Hawkins said, they were becoming tired of living in this way, and were talking seriously of taking matters into their own hands.  If the Federal garrison at Plymouth could not protect them, they would protect themselves.  That was what Marcy Gray had made up his mind to do, and it was his intention to begin operations that very day.  As soon as breakfast was over he drew Hawkins off on one side and took him into his confidence by unfolding the plans he had in his head.  One was to make a prisoner of his mother’s overseer and take him to Plymouth; and while there, to give the Federal commander the names of the men who belonged to the Home Guards and tell him what they were organized for.  And lastly he would write letters to Beardsley and Shelby, telling them that if they did not move away at once and go among the Confederates, where they ought to have gone long ago, the men whom they had forced to find refuge in the swamp would destroy everything they had.

“I’m with you heart and soul, all except going among the Yankees,” said Hawkins, after Marcy had made him understand what he had on his mind.  “I’m sorter jubus that they won’t let me come away when I want to.  Why couldn’t we bushwhack Hanson, and not go nigh Plymouth at all?”

“Shoot him behind his back?” cried Marcy.  “Look here, Hawkins, I hope you are not that sort.  I never could look my mother in the face if I should consent to that.  Haven’t you something to show that you are a paroled prisoner?”

“Not the first thing.  One of my officers signed for me.”

“All right.  Then you stand by me till we capture and tie Hanson, and I will take him down the river myself.  I have something in my pocket that will bring me home all right.  And while I am gone you will deliver a couple of letters for me, will you not?”

Oh, yes; Hawkins was perfectly willing to do that, and when he delivered the warning letters he would add a few words of his own that would perhaps emphasize what Marcy wrote.  Being satisfied with his promise the boy hastened to hunt up the portfolio he had been thoughtful enough to bring with him, and while he wrote the letters which he hoped would forever relieve the community of the meanest men in it, his Confederate friend busied himself in telling all the rest of the refugees what he was writing about.  Marcy’s energy was contagious; and by the time he and Hawkins and Julius were ready to start on their mission, half the men in camp were writing similar notes, to be delivered to certain obnoxious persons by other paroled prisoners.  Every one of them would have been glad to “see Marcy through,” as they expressed it, if he would agree that Hanson should be bushwhacked instead of being turned over to the Yankees.  Although they were strong Union men, they might not be able to prove it to the satisfaction of the Federals, and for that reason they did not care to put themselves in their power.

“And I don’t blame you for it,” said Marcy.  “I wouldn’t dare go among them myself if I wasn’t sure they would let me come home again.  I don’t need any help, except such as Hawkins is willing to give me.  If I once get Hanson afloat, I shall take him to Plymouth, unless he throws himself into the river; and I know he isn’t the man to do that.”

Everything being ready for the start, Marcy and his two companions crossed to the main land in one of the canoes which they concealed among the bushes when they reached the bank, and set out for Mrs. Gray’s house, holding such a course that they would pass one of Beardsley’s fields on the way.  They expected to find him at work there with his negroes, and they were not disappointed.  When they discovered him, Marcy drew his letters from his pocket and handed one of them to Hawkins, who, after telling him where he would find him again at the end of half an hour, climbed the fence and set out across the field.  Marcy waited until he came up with Beardsley and handed him the letter, and then resumed his walk, arriving at the place of meeting just about the time that Hawkins got there.  The latter was laughing all over.

“You writ him a pretty sassy letter, didn’t you?” said he.

“I told him what I want him to do, and what he may expect if he doesn’t do it,” was Marcy’s reply.  “What did he say?”

“He wanted to know where I got the letter, and I told him I was hog-hunting in the woods and met a Union man, who asked me would I give it to him, and I said I would,” answered Hawkins.  “Then he got mad and whooped and hollered, and said he’d be shot if he stirred one step away from his home; but I reckon he thought better of it when I told him that Miss Gray’s overseer would be in Plymouth to-night, and that a squad of Yankee cavalry would be looking for him and Shelby to-morrer.  That was all right, wasn’t it?”

“Perfectly right.  I don’t care a cent what starts him, so long as he starts.  Now for Hanson.  We ought to find him in a field about a quarter of a mile away in this direction.  I am afraid he will run when he sees me.”

“If he does I’ll stop him,” replied Hawkins, patting the butt of a long squirrel-rifle he carried on his shoulder.

For the first time in many months things seemed to be working in Marcy’s favor; for when he and his companion came within sight of the field in which Hanson ought to have found employment that day for Mrs. Gray’s hands, he was there, and he did not see them until after they had crossed the fence and made considerable progress toward him.  The sight of Marcy made Hanson uneasy-his actions proved that-and it is probable that he would have taken to his heels if the boy had not been in the company of a Confederate soldier who was also a member of the Home Guards.  Still he must have feared treachery, for when Marcy approached close enough to speak to him, he saw that his face was very white, and that his hands trembled so violently he could scarcely hold his knife and the stick he was trying to cut.

“Morning, gentlemen,” said he with a strong effort to appear at his ease.  “Fine morning, this morning.”

“Cicero,” said Marcy, addressing one of the field hands and paying no sort of attention to the overseer’s greeting, “unless you receive other orders from my mother, you will have charge of this work until I return.  Hanson is going with me.”

“With you, Mister Marcy!” said the man, in a weak voice.  “The missus done told me to come out here.”

“She gave you no orders whatever, and you have not seen her this morning.  I order you to get ready to go to Plymouth,” answered Marcy; whereupon Hawkins placed his rifle upon the ground and drew a rope from one of his pockets.

Never in his life had Marcy seen a man so astonished and frightened as the overseer was at that moment.  He dared not resist, and he could not speak when Hawkins drew his arms behind his back and fastened them there with the rope.  As to the negroes, who were quick to understand the situation, they would have danced and shouted for joy had they not known that such a demonstration would be displeasing to their young master; so they contented themselves with bringing forward one of their number, who bared his brawny shoulder, and by the action called Marcy’s attention to a long ugly-looking welt that had been left there by a blow from the overseer’s raw-hide.

“Whoop!” yelled Julius; and, to quote from the field hands, he immediately “drapped his wing”; that is to say, he humped up his shoulders and back, dropped his chin upon his breast, raised one foot from the ground, and began hopping toward the overseer on the other.  In a minute more Hanson would have been served as Captain Beardsley was the night before, if Marcy had not put a stop to the little darky’s antics by taking hold of his collar and giving him a twist that sent him ten feet away.

“I know what you uns are going to do, and I aint no ways scared of you,” said Hanson, who at last mustered up courage enough to speak; but his white face and trembling limbs belied his words.  “My friends will make you suffer for this.”

“That’s all right,” said Hawkins cheerfully.  “If they don’t leave the country this very night, like they have been told to do, you will see ’em in Plymouth to-morrer.  Now, will you go peaceable, or shall I walk you along by the neck?”

The Confederate soldier picked up his rifle and waved his hand in the direction of the great house, and the prisoner started toward it without hesitating or saying another word; while Marcy ran on ahead to tell his mother what he had done.  Although the field was in plain sight no one about the house had noticed that there was anything unusual going on, and Marcy went in at the side door and made his way to his mother’s room before she knew he was on the plantation.  Marcy did some rapid talking, for time was precious, and he might be in danger as long as he remained with her; but he told her of everything that had happened to him since the Home Guards drove him from home, and when he said that he and Julius were on their way to Plymouth to deliver Hanson into the hands of the Federals, she did not try to turn him from his purpose.  She simply said that she thought he was engaged in a desperate undertaking.

“Desperate cases require desperate remedies,” answered Marcy, looking out of the window just as Hawkins and his prisoner passed by.  The soldier was walking by Hanson’s side and Julius was acting as rear-guard, advancing first on one foot and then on the other, and all the while shaking his head as if he were possessed by an almost irresistible desire to plant it in the small of the overseer’s back.  “Here he is now,” continued Marcy.

“Come and take a last look at him.”

“I don’t want to,” replied Mrs. Gray.  “I hope I shall never see him again.”

“That is what I hope, and what I am working for,” said Marcy.  “Good-by, and remember that I will stop here on my way to camp.  Don’t worry, for I am going among friends.”

So saying, Marcy ran down the stairs and out of the house.  Arriving at the landing he found there but one boat suitable for his purpose, and that was the skiff Captain Benton gave him on the night he left the gunboat.  It was old and leaky, but large enough to accommodate three; so it was shoved from the bank and Hanson was assisted to the seat he was to occupy in the bow.  Then Julius got in and picked up the oars, while Marcy lingered to take leave of Ben Hawkins.

“Like as not you’ll come back all right,” said the latter.

“I hope to, certainly,” answered Marcy.  “Take care of yourself while I am gone, and remember that I am under obligations to you.”

“So am I,” exclaimed Hanson, who had had leisure to think the matter over and get a few of his wits about him.  “You’re a traitor, Ben Hawkins, and I’ll see that the Home Guards know it.  You’re a Confederate soldier, too, and I’ll take pains to tell the Yankees of that.”

“Hursh yer noise, dar!” said Julius, looking over his shoulder and scowling fiercely at the overseer.  “If I drap my wing at you, you drap overboard, suah’s you -

“That will do,” said Marcy, stepping into the stern-sheets.  “Shove us off, Mr. Hawkins.”

This being done, Julius gave way on the oars, and the great house and its surroundings were quickly left out of sight.  Then Marcy threw open his coat and drew his holsters in front of him, so that he could easily lay hold of the revolvers that were in them.  He did not think he would have any trouble with his prisoner, or that he would be called upon to defend himself against the Home Guards; but he was prepared for an emergency.

It was a long and tedious journey that Marcy had undertaken, for there was no one to talk to, and nothing to see that he had not seen a hundred times before; but it was brought to an end about three in the afternoon, when the strong current in the Roanoke River carried his boat within sight of a Union sentry on the bank.  The latter faced them promptly, brought his piece to “arms port,” and called out: 

“Who comes there?”

“Two friends with a rebel prisoner,” replied Marcy; and, to his intense amazement, Hanson twisted himself around on his seat, and flatly contradicted him by saying: 

“Taint so, Mister Soldier.  It’s two rebels with a Union prisoner.  I’m so strong for the old flag that the rebels won’t let me -”

“Halt, two friends with a rebel prisoner!” shouted the sentry, who was not the proper person to decide any difference of opinion there might be between the boy who sat in the stern-sheets, with a steering-oar in his hand, and the man who sat in the bow with his arms tied behind his back.  “Corporal of the guard number eight!”

The only way to halt in that current was to bring the boat ashore, and this Marcy and Julius proceeded to do.  They were all on the bank when the corporal came up, and Hanson would have given Marcy a very black character indeed if the non-commissioned officer had been disposed to listen to him; but he said he didn’t want to hear a word of it, and ordered Marcy to take off his revolvers.  When this had been done, and the corporal had the belt in his hand, he demanded: 

“Now, then, what do you want?”

“Of course I shall have to tell my story to the officer of the day, but I should like much to see Captain Burrows,” replied Marcy.

“Captain Burrows happens to be officer of the day,” said the corporal, who no doubt wondered how Marcy came to be acquainted with him.  “Come on, and I will take you to him.”

“It might be well to release this man,” suggested Marcy.  “He has been confined a good while.”

“No, I guess I will turn him over just as I got him,” said the soldier.  “Then the captain can’t find any fault with me.”

Not to dwell upon the particulars of Marcy’s visit to Plymouth, it will be enough to say that he found Captain Burrows at the office of the provost marshal, and that he was just as sociable and friendly as he was when sitting in one of Mrs. Gray’s easy-chairs examining Marcy’s guns, and talking to him about the shooting on the plantation.  He listened patiently and with evident satisfaction to the boy’s statements, and then took him to the headquarters of the colonel commanding the post; leaving Hanson, who would have been dull indeed if he had not realized by this time that he was in the worst scrape of his life, to the care of the provost marshal.  When Marcy turned to look at him as he left the marshal’s office, he told himself that Hanson was in a fair way to see the inside of a Northern prison pen.

He had not talked with the colonel more than five minutes before the latter became aware that Marcy could tell him the very things he most wished to know regarding the condition of the Union people who lived outside his lines.  Almost every statement he made was reduced to writing by one of the orderlies, and when the interview was ended at ten o’clock that night, Marcy received the thanks of the commandant and the assurance that the Home Guards should be scattered or captured without loss of time, and his home made a safe place for him to live.  Captain Burrows offered to take good care of him and his servant if he would remain all night, but Marcy was so anxious to tell his mother the good news that he thought he had better start for home at once; so he was given the countersign, and a pass commanding all guards and patrols to permit him to enter or leave the lines at any hour of the day or night, and Captain Burrows furnished him with a generous lunch and went with him to his boat to see him off.

“Good-by, Marcy, but not for long,” said he.  “If I have any influence with the colonel, I shall be riding around in your neighborhood to-morrow afternoon; and when this cruel war is over, I am coming down here on purpose to go quail-shooting with you.”

“Take care of the Home Guards, and drive the rebels away from Williamston, and you can go quail-shooting any time,” replied Marcy.  “But I am afraid it will be a long time before that will come to pass, or my home will be a safe place for me to live,” he soliloquized, as he settled back in the stern of the boat and looked up at the stars while Julius plied the oars.  “Captain Beardsley will be forced to leave the country and so will Colonel Shelby; but they will go straight to Williamston or some other place that is in the hands of the Confederates, and send first one scouting party and then another into the settlement to trouble us Union people.”

That was what Marcy thought, and it was what he told his mother when he reached home the next morning; and knowing that the Federal colonel had not yet had time to “capture or scatter” the Home Guards, he did not remain long in the house, but ate a hasty breakfast and set out for the camp of the refugees, walking under cover of all the fences, and making use of every bush and inequality of the ground to conceal him from the view of any one who might chance to be passing along the road.  It was well that these precautions were adopted; for when he and Julius were safe in the woods they looked back and saw about twenty mounted men enter the yard and surround the house.  They were the Home Guards, and had been sent there by Beardsley and Shelby, who knew that Marcy would be sure to visit his mother on his return from Plymouth.  They were in the house half an hour or more, but went away as empty-handed as they came.

“That means the loss of more property for you, Captain Beardsley,” said Marcy to himself:  and when the other refugees heard of it they said the same thing, and vowed to make their words good that very night; but, about one o’clock that afternoon, one of the paroled prisoners came into camp with the information that he had barely escaped falling into the hands of a squad of Federal cavalry who were raiding the settlement, and that Beardsley and Shelby were being punished already for the rows they had kicked up in the neighborhood.

“I was hid in my corn-crib when the Yankees went by my house,” said the soldier, “and the feller in command of ’em was the same chap I seed with ’em once before.  They had scooped in as many as a dozen of the meanest of the Home Guards, Beardsley and Shelby amongst ’em, and were taking ’em off Plymouth way.  My old hat riz on my head when I heard Beardsley tell the Yankee cap’n that if he’d go into my house he’d ketch a rebel soldier in there, but that there Yankee cap’n ’lowed that he knowed what he was doing, and that he wasn’t hunting no paroled prisoners.  Now, who do you reckon told him that a paroled prisoner lived in my house?”

“I did,” replied Marcy.  “I said a good word for you while I was in Plymouth, and the Yankee colonel said that, if anybody bothered you paroled rebels, it would be your own men and not his.  You have brought me good news.”

But all the same it did not bring the quiet home life which Marcy thought would be his when those arch-disturbers of the peace of the settlement were carried away from it, for the Confederate authorities interfered with his plans.  In April they passed their first general Conscription Act, making all the able-bodied men in the Confederacy between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five subject to military duty, revoked all leaves of absence, and ordered every soldier to report at once to his command on pain of being treated as a deserter.  The Act provided for the exemption of those who were able to pay for it, but Marcy did not know it; and supposing that he was as likely to be conscripted as anybody else, he passed the most of his time in camp, where he knew he was safe.  We have no space in this book to tell of the other adventures that fell to his lot, and so we must leave him here for the present while we take up the history of two of our Confederate heroes, Rodney Gray and Dick Graham, whom we last saw in Rodney’s home in a distant State.  They were full-fledged soldiers as you know, having served fifteen months in Price’s army and Bragg’s.  They had their discharges in their pockets and were inclined to say, with Ben Hawkins, that they would not do any more fighting for the Confederacy until some “stay-at-homers,” whose names they could mention, had had a chance to see how they liked it.  Dick Graham was homesick and longed to see his father and mother; but they were somewhere in Missouri, and Dick could not get to them without crossing the Mississippi, which was closely guarded by the Union navy.  There was no way to get around it, however, and that river had to be crossed; and how they made one unsuccessful attempt after another to reach the opposite bank; how Rodney Gray managed to keep out of the army in spite of the efforts that were made to force him into it; and how he turned the tables on his old enemy Tom Randolph, and his Home Guards, who tried to bring him into trouble with the Federals in Baton Rouge, shall be told in the next volume of this series, which will be entitled “RODNEY, THE OVERSEER.”