“Then advance infantry and give the countersign.”
“Grant and Victory,” replied Dick in a loud, clear voice.
A laugh came from the steamer, and the rough voice said again:
“Let the detachment advance again, and holding up its hands, show itself.”
Dick paddled closer and, steadying himself as well as he could, threw up his hands. The light of a ship’s lantern was thrown directly on his face, and the same voice ordered men to take a small boat and get him.
When Dick stepped upon the deck of the steamer, water streaming from his clothes, several men looked at him curiously. One in a dingy blue uniform he believed to be the owner of the rough voice. But his face was not rough.
“Who are you?” asked the man.
“Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester’s regiment in the army of General Grant, sent several days ago with a message to the fleet, but driven by Confederate scouts and skirmishers into Vicksburg, where he lay hidden, seeking a chance of escape.”
“And he found it to-night, coming down the river like a big catfish.”
“He did, sir. He could find no other way, and he arrived on the useful board which is now floating away on the current.”
“What proof have you that you are what you say.”
“That I saw you before you saw me and hailed you.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Then here is the message that I was to have delivered to the commander of the fleet. It’s pretty wet, but I think you can make it out.”
He drew the dispatch from the inside pocket of his waistcoat. It was soaked through, but when they turned the ship’s lantern upon it the captain could make out its tenor and the names. Doubt could exist no longer and he clapped his hands heartily upon the lad’s shoulder.
“Come into the cabin and have something to eat and dry clothes,” he said. “This is the converted steamer Union, and I’m its commander, Captain William Hays. I judge that you’ve had an extraordinary time.”
“I have, captain, and the hardest of it all was when I saw our army repulsed to-day.”
“It was bad and the wounded are still lying on the field, but it doesn’t mean that Vicksburg will have a single moment of rest. Listen to that, will you, lieutenant?”
The far boom of a cannon came, and Dick knew that its shell would break over the unhappy town. But he had grown so used to the cannonade that it made little impression upon him, and, shrugging his shoulders, he descended the gangway with the captain.
Clothing that would fit him well enough was found, and once more he was dry and warm. Hot coffee and good food were brought him, and while he ate and drank Captain Hays asked him many questions. What was the rebel strength in Vicksburg? Were they exultant over their victory of the day? Did they think they could hold out? What food supply did they have?
Dick answered all the questions openly and frankly as far as he could. He really knew little or nothing about those of importance, and, as for himself, he merely said that he had hid in a cave, many of which had been dug in Vicksburg. He did not mention Colonel Woodville or his daughter.
“Now,” said Captain Hays, when he finished his supper, “you can have a bunk. Yes, lieutenant, you must take it. I could put you ashore to-night, but it’s not worth while. Get a good night’s sleep, and we’ll see to-morrow.”
Dick knew that he was right, and, quelling his impatience, he lay down in one of the bunks and slept until morning.
Then, after a solid breakfast, he went ashore with the good wishes of Captain Hays, and, a few hours later, he was with the Union army and his own regiment. Again he was welcomed as one dead and his own heart was full of rejoicing because all of his friends were alive. Warner alone had been wounded, a bullet cutting into his shoulder, but not hurting him much. He wore a bandage, his face had a becoming pallor, and Pennington charged that he was making the most of it.