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Updated: May 2, 2025
"You have some pretty bad rainstorms in this part of the country, don't you?" Wilson asked. While Wilson was speaking, Tom nudged Shadrack, and muttered, "Be careful don't talk too much." Shadrack's eyes lighted in puzzled surprise. After a long silence, the farmer spoke: "You men better turn around again an' go back to yer homes. Yer folks need you more than the South does.
He threw himself on the wet sod and lay there, hidden by the weeds and darkness. The voices came near. Tom caught the words "...some damage anyhow." "Yes," replied the other man, "but if Andrews had only...." Tom did not wait any longer. "Shadrack!" he called. The two men stopped as though they had been struck. "Over here by the fence. It's Tom Burns." "You, Tom! You scared the life out of me."
To the south, in the direction of Chattanooga, the clouds had formed a dark, ominous wall, as though nature were raising a barrier to the expedition. A man, hurrying to be home and out of the rain, came abreast of them. Tom stopped him. "Can you tell us where the Widow Fry lives?" he asked. "Yes," answered the man, and he glanced from Tom to Shadrack and Wilson deliberately.
"Don't be a fool," said Wilson earnestly, "Don't be a better rebel than the Southerners." "I'm sorry," replied Shadrack. "That's what we were told to say...." "I know," interrupted Wilson, "but we have to be careful in the way we tell that story. For one thing, remember that we're still inside our own lines." "Yes," replied Shadrack ruefully.
How long Mrs. John Shadrack had been entertaining me, or I had been entertaining her, I had not the remotest idea. A very long while ago I had seen a spire of smoke curling through the trees in Happy Valley, and I had been told that it was from her hearth.
Tents were struck, wagons loaded, knapsacks swung into place ... and the army stretched out to crawl wearily through that sea of jelly-like mud towards Huntsville. It was early in the afternoon when Tom, Shadrack, and Wilson reached Manchester. They were tired and wet, but far worse than being tired and wet, they were hungry.
Had I never heard of her before, had I opened my eyes as I did that day to see her sitting before me, I should have exclaimed, "It's John Shadrack's widder!" So, with the crayon portrait, gilt-framed, that hung on the wall behind her, I should have cried, "And that is John Shadrack!" This crayon "enlargement" presented John with very black skin and spotless white hair.
He turned to the other soldiers, and asked, "What do you think? Let 'em walk a couple of paces ahead, eh?" It was agreed. Tom and Shadrack went ahead, while the guards followed, speculating among themselves on this new turn of affairs. "Wilson is probably going to the officer in command and have him rush through a message," said Tom.
Shadrack was profane and reckless, but good-hearted and merry. Now, turning to us with a voice, the forced calmness of which was more affecting than a wail of agony, he said: "Boys, I am not prepared to meet Jesus." When asked by some of us in tears to think of heaven, he answered, still in tones of thrilling calmness, "I'll try! I'll try! But I know I am not prepared."
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