CHAPTER IV
TOM GOES WEST--WILKES BOOTH HUNTS HIM--DR. HANS ROLF SAVES HIM--HE DELIVERS DISPATCHES TO GENERAL GRANT.
At the end of the next month, April, 1862, Admiral Farragut gallantlyforced open the closed mouth of the Mississippi. He took his woodenships into action against forts and iron-clad gunboats and captured NewOrleans. Within fifteen months thereafter, the North was in practicalcontrol of the whole Mississippi. By July, 1863, the Confederacy hadbeen split into two parts, east and west of the "Father of Waters." Thatwas the poetic Indian name of the Mississippi. Farragut's fleet beganthe driving of the wedge. Grant's army drove it home. When the drivinghome had just begun, Tom, to his intense delight, was sent West withdispatches for Grant. He left on an hour's notice.
ADMIRAL FARRAGUT]
During that hour, a colored servant employed in the White House, whoseheart was blacker than his sooty skin, had left the mansion, had soughta tumble-down tenement in the slums, and had found there a vulture of aman, very white as to face, very black as to the masses of hair thatfell to his shoulders.
"Dat dar boy Strong, he's dun sure goin'," said the darkey, "wid papersfur dat General Grant out West."
"How do you know?"
"Coz I listened to de door, when dey-uns wuz a-talkin'."
"He'll have to go West by Baltimore," mused the white man. "The nexttrain leaves in half an hour. I can make it. Here, Reub, here's yourpay."
He took a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket. The negro clutched atit. Then what was left of his conscience stirred within him. He said,pleadingly, hesitatingly:
"Massa, you knows I'se doin' dis coz old Massa told me to. You ain'ta-goin' to hurt dat boy Strong, is you? He's a nice boy. Eberybody lubshim up dar."
"What is it to you, confound you!" snarled the man, "whether I hurt himor not? What's a boy's life to winning the war? You keep on doing whatold Massa told you to do, or I'll cut your black heart out."
With a savage gesture, he thrust the trembling negro out of the dingyroom. With savage haste, he packed his scanty belongings. With a pistolin his hip pocket, with a bowie-knife slung over his left breast beneathhis waistcoat, with a vial of chloroform in his valise, Wilkes Boothleft Washington on the trail of Tom Strong.
* * * * *
Hunter and hunted were in the same car. Tom little dreamed that a fewseats behind him sat a deadly foe, who would stick at nothing to get theprecious papers he carried. Washington swarmed with Confederate spies.The face of everybody at the White House was well known to every spy.The hunter did not have to guess where the hunted sat.
General Grant had begun his career of victory in the West. It wasall-important to the Confederacy to know where his next blow was to beaimed. The papers in the scout's possession would tell that greatsecret. Wilkes Booth meant to have those papers soon. As the trainbumped over the rough iron rails, towards Baltimore, Booth went to theforward end of the car for a glass of water and as he walked back alongthe aisle with a slow, lounging step, he stopped where Tom sat and heldout his hand, saying:
"How do you do, Mr. Strong? I'm Mr. Barnard. I have had the pleasure ofseeing you about the White House sometimes, when I have been calling onour great President. Lincoln will crush these accursed rebels soon!"
It was a trifle overdone, a trifle theatrical. Wilkes Booth could neverhelp being theatrical. His greeting was one of the few times Tom hadever been called "Mister." He felt flattered and took the proffered handwillingly, but he searched his memory in vain for any real recollectionof the striking face of the man who spoke to him. There was some vaguestirring of memory about it, but certainly this had no relation to thathappy life at the White House. Something evil was connected with it.Puzzled, he wondered. He had seen Booth under arms at John Brown'sscaffold, but he did not remember that.
The alleged Mr. Barnard slipped into the seat beside him and began totalk. He talked well. Little by little, suspicion fell asleep in Tom'smind as his companion told of adventures on sea and land. Booth wastrying to seem to talk with very great frankness, in order to lure Tominto a similar frankness about himself. He larded all his talk withprotestations of fervent loyalty to the Union. Tom bethought himself ofa favorite quotation his father often used from Shakespeare's great playof "Hamlet." The conscience-stricken queen says to Hamlet, her son:
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
Wilkes Booth was protesting too much. The drowsy suspicion in Tom's mindstirred again. But he was but a boy and Booth was a man, skilled in allthe craft of the stage. Once more his easy, brilliant talk lulledcaution to sleep. Tom, questioned so skillfully that he did not know hewas being drawn out, little by little told the story of his short life.But the story ended with his saying he was going to Harrisburg "onbusiness." He was still enough on his guard not to admit he was goingfurther than Harrisburg.
"You're pretty young to be on the way to the State Capitol on business,"said the skillful actor, hoping to hear more details in answer to thehalf-implied sneer. But just then Tom remembered what his father hadadvised: "Never say anything to anybody, unless you are sure thePresident would wish you to say it." He shut up like a clam. Booth couldget nothing more out of him. But he meant to get those dispatches out ofhim. They were either in the boy's pocket or his valise, probably in hispocket. When he fell asleep, the spy's time would come. So the spywaited.
Darkness came. Two smoky oil-lamps gave such light as they could. Thetrain rumbled on in the night. There were no sleeping cars then. Peopleslept in their seats, if they slept at all. Booth's tones grew soothing,almost tender. They served as a lullaby. Tom slept. The spy beside himdrew a long, triumphant breath. His time had come.
Some time before, he had shifted his traveling-bag to this seat. Now hedrew from it, gently, quietly, the little bottle of chloroform and asmall sponge, which he saturated with the stupefying drug. Then heslipped his arm under the sleeping boy's head, drew him a little closerto himself, and glanced through the dusky car. Nearly everybody wasasleep. Those who were not were trying to go to sleep. No one waswatching. Booth pressed the sponge to Tom's nostrils. Tom stirreduneasily. "Sh-sh, Tom," purred the actor, "go to sleep; all's well." Thedrug soon did its work. The boy was dead to the world for awhile. Only ashock could rouse him.
The shock came. Booth's long, sensitive, skilled fingers--the fingers ofa musician--ransacked his coat and waistcoat pockets swiftly, findingnothing. But beneath the waistcoat their tell-tale touches had detectedthe longed-for papers. The waistcoat was deftly unbuttoned--it couldhave been stripped off without arousing the unconscious boy--and atriumphant thrill shot through Booth's black heart as he drew from aninner pocket the long, official envelope that he knew must hold what hehad stealthily sought. He was just about to slip it into his own pocketand then to leave his stupefied victim to sleep off the drug while hehimself sought safety at the next station, when one of those littlethings which have big results occurred. The sturdy man who was snoringin the seat behind this one happened to be a surgeon. He was returningfrom Washington, whither he had gone to operate on a dear friend, awounded officer. Chloroform had of course been used, but the patient haddied under the knife. It had been a terrible experience for theoperator. It had made his sleep uneasy. A mere whiff from the spongeBooth had used reached the surgeon's sensitive nostril. It revived thepoignant memories of the last few hours. He awoke with a start thatbrought him to his feet. And there, just in front of him, he saw by thedim light a boy sunk in stupefied slumber and a man glancing guiltilyback as he tried to thrust a stiff and crackling paper into his pocket.The sponge had fallen to the floor, but its fumes, far-spreading now,told to the practiced surgeon a story of foul play. He grabbed the manby the shoulder and awoke most of the travelers, but not Tom, with astentorian shout: "What are you doing, you scoundrel?"
The scoundrel leaped to his feet, throwing off the doctor's hand, andsprang into the aisle, clutching the long envelope in his left hand,while his right held a revolver. He rush
ed for the door, pursued by halfa dozen men, headed by the doctor. Close pressed, he whirled about andleveled his pistol at his unarmed pursuers. They fell back a pace. Hewhirled again, stumbled over a bag in the aisle, fell, sprang to hisfeet once more. A brakeman opened the door. He was hurrying to see whatthis clamor meant. Wilkes Booth fired at him pointblank. The bulletmissed, but it made the brakeman give way. Booth rushed by him, gainedthe platform and leaped from the slow train into the sheltering night.
The shock that waked Tom was the sound of the shot. Weak, dizzy, andsick, he knew only that some terrible thing was happening.Instinctively, his hand sought that inner pocket, only to find it empty.Then, indeed, he was wide awake. The horror of his loss burned throughhis brain. He shouted: "Stop him! Stop thief!" and collapsed again intohis seat.
He was in fact a very sick boy. The dose of chloroform that had beengiven him would have been an overdose for a man. Notwithstanding hisawakening, he might have relapsed into sleep and death, had not theskillful surgeon been there to devote himself to him. An antidote wasforced down his throat. Willing volunteers, for of course the whole carwas now awake in a hurly-burly of question and answer, rubbed life backinto him. When he was a bit better, he was kept walking up and down theaisle, while two strong men held him up and his head swayed helplesslyfrom side to side. But the final cure came when the surgeon who had keptcatlike watch upon him saw that he could now begin to understand things.
"Here is something of yours," he whispered into the lad'shalf-unconscious ear. "That scoundrel stole it from you. When he fell,he must have dropped it on the floor. I found it there after he hadjumped off the platform."
Tom's hand closed over the fateful envelope. His trembling fingers ranalong its edges. It had not been opened. He had not betrayed his trust.A profound thankfulness and joy stirred within him. Within an hour hewas practically himself again. Then he poured out his heart in thanks tothe sturdy surgeon who had saved not only his life, but his honor. Heasked his name and started at his reply:
"Dr. Hans Rolf, of York, Pennsylvania."
"Dr. Hans Rolf," repeated Tom, "but perhaps you are the grandson of theHans Rolf I've heard about all my life. My father is always telling meof things Hans Rolf did for my grandfather and great-grandfather."
"And what is _your_ name?" queried the doctor, surprised as may beimagined that this unknown boy should know him so well.
"Tom Strong."
"By the Powers," shouted the hearty doctor, seizing the boy's hand andwringing it as his grandfather used to wring the hand of the Tom Strongshe knew, "By the Powers, next to my own name there's none I know so wellas yours. My grandfather never wearied of talking about the two TomStrongs, father and son. The last day he lived, he told me how yourgreat-grandfather saved his life."
"And you know he saved great-grandfather's, too," answered Tom, "and nowyou have saved mine."
He looked shyly at his preserver. He was still weak with theafter-effects of the drug that had been given him. The Hans Rolf he sawwas a bit blurred by the unshed tears through which he saw him.
"Nonsense," said the surgeon, "whatever I've done is just in the day'swork. But you must stop at York and rest. I can't let my patient traveljust yet, you know. And this may be your last chance to see me at home.I go into the army next month."
However, Tom was not to be persuaded to stop. Duty called him Westwardand to the West he went, as fast as the slow trains of those days couldcarry him. But when Hans Rolf and he parted, a few hours after they hadmet, they were friends for life.
It took Tom two days to get from Harrisburg to Cairo, the southernmosttown in Illinois. It lies at the junction of the Mississippi and Ohiorivers. The latter pours a mass of beautiful blue water--the earlyFrench explorers named the Ohio "the beautiful river"--into the muddyflood of the Mississippi. For miles below Cairo the blue and yellowstreams seem to flow side by side. Then the yellow swallows the blue andthe mighty Mississippi rolls its murky way to the Gulf of Mexico. Agunboat took the young messenger from Cairo to General Grant'sheadquarters.
MISSISSIPPI RIVER GUNBOATS]
A Western gunboat was an odd thing. James B. Eads, an eminent engineer,who after the war built the St. Louis bridge and the New Orleansjetties, which keep the mouth of the Mississippi open, had launched aflotilla of gunboats for the government within four months of the timewhen the trees which went to their making were growing in the forests.On a flat-boat of the ordinary Western-river type, Mr. Eads put a longcabin, framed of stout timbers, cut portholes in the sides, front andrear of it, mounted cannon inside it, covered it with rails outside(later armor-plate was used), and behold, a gunboat. The one which spedswiftly with Tom down the Mississippi and waddled slowly with him up theTennessee, against the current of the Spring freshets, finally landedhim at Grant's headquarters.
Tom approached the tent over which headquarters' flag was flying with abeating heart. It beat against the long envelope that lay in the innerpocket of his waistcoat. He was about to finish his task and he wasabout to see the one successful soldier of the Union, up to that time.The Northern armies had not done well in the East--the defeat had beendisgraceful and the panic sickening with the raw troops at Bull Run,Virginia, and little had been gained elsewhere--but in the West Grantwas hammering out success. All eyes turned to him.
* * * * *
Upon the top of a low knoll, half a dozen packing-boxes were grouped infront of the tent. Two or three officers, most of them spick and span,sat upon each box except one. Upon that one there lounged a man,thick-set, bearded, his faded blue trousers thrust into the tops ofdusty boots, his blue flannel shirt open at the throat, his worn bluecoat carrying on each shoulder the single star of a brigadier-general.
It was General Grant, Hiram Ulysses Grant, now known as U. S. Grant.When the Confederate commander of Fort Donelson had asked him for termsof surrender, he had answered practically in two words: "unconditionalsurrender." The curt phrase caught the public fancy, and gave hisinitials a new meaning. He was long known as "Unconditional Surrender"Grant.
Born in Ohio, he had been educated at West Point, had fought well in ourunjust war against Mexico, had resigned in the piping times of peacethat followed, had been a commercial failure, and was running aninsignificant business as a farmer in Galena, Illinois, an obscure andunimportant citizen of that unimportant town, when the Civil War began.Eight years afterwards, he became President of the United States andserved as such for eight years, doing his dogged best, but far lesssuccessful as a statesman than he had been as a soldier. He was apatriot and a good man. In the last years of his life, ruinedfinancially by a wicked partner and tortured by the cancer that finallykilled him, he wrote his famous memoirs, which netted his family afortune after the grave had closed upon this great American. He ran arace with Death to write his life. And he won the grim race.
The young second-lieutenant saluted and explained his mission. The longenvelope, deeply dented with the mark of Wilkes Booth's dirty thumb andfinger, had reached its destination at last. Grant took it, opened it,read it without even a slight change of expression, though it containednot only orders for the future, but Lincoln's warm-hearted thanks forthe past and the news of his own promotion to be major-general. Not onlyTom, but every member of his staff was watching him. The saturnine facetold no one anything. The little he said at the moment was said to Tom.
"The President tells me he would like to have you given a glimpse of thefront. Have you had any experience?"
"No, sir."
"When were you commissioned?"
"A week ago, sir."
"Are all the Eastern boys of your age in the army?"
"They would like to be, sir."
"Well," said Grant, with a kindly smile, "perhaps a little experience atthe front may make up for the years you lack. Send him to GeneralMitchell, Captain," he added, turning to a spruce aide who rose from hispacking-box seat to acknowledge the command.
"Pray come with me, Mr. Strong," said the cap
tain.
Tom saluted, turned, and followed his guide. A backward glance showedhim the general, his eyes now bent sternly upon Lincoln's letter, hisstaff eyeing him, a group of quiet, silent figures. And that was allthat Tom saw, at that time, of the greatest general of our Civil War.
Tom Strong, Lincoln's Scout Page 6