Free A Deeper Sense of Loyalty by C. James Gilbert Page B

had pushed very hard and the miles had taken their toll on the mare. If he wanted her to hold up she would need a long rest soon. He made up his mind that when they reached Tennessee he would find a suitable site in the foothills of the mountain and they would all rest for a day.
    By three o’clock in the morning, James had let the horse slow down to a walk. She was tired and he was famished. All he had eaten since the previous morning was some dried beef, and the slaves had had the same.
    When the sun finally came up over the mountain James was sure that they were in Tennessee. The road had long since become more of a path and the going was rough. At length, they came to a little valley nestled between two grassy knolls. Where the valley sloped upward to the tree line there was an area inundated by thick undergrowth. James got the wagon under cover as best he could and came to a stop. He climbed down from the seat and stretched his aching muscles. His passengers were awake and he could see that they were equally happy to get out of the wagon. Immediately they busied themselves with setting up camp while James tended to the weary mare. He told them to use whatever was necessary to prepare a hearty breakfast. Then he retrieved a bucket and an empty canteen from the wagon and started off in search of water. He was hoping to find a mountain spring or a stream nearby.
    When he was halfway up the far knoll that formed one side of the valley they were camped in, he looked back and noticed that he could not see the wagon. He was glad of that. He figured that they should be safe there until they were ready to move on. James’s legs got heavier with every step he took. Perhaps he was learning another lesson: not to push himself to the limit, thereby dulling his senses to the point of vulnerability. As he stumbled to the top, to a spot where he could see into the next valley, he was dismayed to find what was there. Down below him was a small army camp comprised of about two dozen tents.  He could also see a picket line holding thirty or forty horses and at least four supply wagons. In front of one of the tents, which was situated a short distance from the others, he could see a Confederate flag and a flag with a symbol that he didn’t recognize.
    Before he could react, he heard a galloping horse approaching from his left. His first instinct was to run, but he knew he’d already been spotted, so he stood still, holding onto his bucket and canteen. His revolver was still in the waistband of his trousers, but this did not appear to be a situation that he could fight his way out of. When the horse pulled up in front of him the soldier already had a pistol pointed at James—a scenario that was fast becoming routine, he thought. The man in the saddle was not much older than he was, and from the look of the homespun uniform, James knew that he was being confronted by a Confederate cavalryman. “Who are you?” asked the soldier. “And what the hell are you doing here?”
    â€œName’s William Mason,” said James. “I’m looking for water.”
    â€œSo you’re out in the middle of nowhere carrying a bucket and a canteen?”
    â€œI have a camp back yonder a little ways,” said James, pointing behind him. “My wife and I are heading to Lynchburg, Virginia.”
    Then James could have kicked himself. Inventing a fictitious wife could prove to be a big mistake. If he were forced to go back to the campsite, he may not be able to talk his way out of a hanging. He had only wanted his explanation to sound as innocent as possible so as not to arouse suspicion. “We don’t mean any harm,” said James.
    â€œI reckon that will be up to the captain to decide. Now you just hand over your pistol and walk on down that hill ahead of me.” James surrendered his weapon, and then started down the hill with the soldier following so close that he could feel the horse’s