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Updated: September 14, 2025
That afternoon, Miss Sally-Lou Wartrace, sister of the keeper of the store at the cross-roads, was at her brother's counter eagerly reading an Atlanta paper while he stood looking over her shoulder.
To make matters worse, just as though they were not bad enough, the drizzle of rain, which had been an implacable enemy since that night on the road to Wartrace, gave no signs of ending. Evening was approaching. Tom got to his feet. First, he decided, he would put a greater distance between himself and the railroad. He walked through the forest and came to a road. It was deserted.
Continuing on to Fairfield, the head of my column met, south of that place, a small force of Confederate infantry and cavalry, which after a slight skirmish Laiboldt's brigade drove back toward Wartrace. The next morning I arrived at Manchester, where I remained quiet for the day.
"You are talking miles over my head," she protested; and, though the assertion was not strictly true, it served its purpose. "I can make it a little plainer," he went on, slowing the motor until the small car was merely ambling. "You remember that night at Wartrace Hall, and what you told me?
Tom and Bert exchanged a glance; then Tom followed the messenger to the Captain's tent. When the messenger had been stationed to keep intruders away, the Captain said: "You will leave tonight. Take the Wartrace road out of Shelbyville and walk about a mile and a quarter. When you come to a fork in the road go into the trees and wait until you're picked up. You should be there at eight o'clock.
In an instant, Tom and his two companions were utterly alone in the black night, headed for the Southern lines. "The Union pickets are at Wartrace," said Wilson, as they plodded down the road. "We ought to pass them tonight," Tom added. "Have we any way of identifying ourselves?" "No," replied Wilson. "We'd better try to avoid them."
He wondered vaguely what Barto could be doing at the turn in the obstructed side-canyon road, and the wonder went with him while the little car was covering the remaining distance and flying up the cottonwood-shaded avenue at Wartrace Hall.
Farther on, when he was no longer in the first lilting flush of the new impressions, Evan Blount was able to look back upon that first day at Wartrace Hall with keen regret; the regret that, in the nature of things, it could never be lived over again. In all his forecastings he had never pictured a homecoming remotely resembling the fact.
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