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Updated: June 2, 2025
A thick liquid curled stickily back and forth across the surface of the plate as he strove to hold it level with trembling hands. Into the middle of that lake Kirby dropped white squares of Yankee crackers, and the pungent smell of molasses reached Drew's nostrils, making his mouth water. Snatching at the crackers, he crammed his mouth with a dripping square coated with molasses.
Coming out on the crest of a slope, they were above another of those hollows through which the road ran. And in that way lay still blue figures. Drew's carbine swung up as men broke from ambush and headed toward those forms. No Confederate force would have wantonly butchered unarmed and wounded men, nor would the Yankees. Which left the scum they both hated the bushwhackers!
"I know him!" stated Farr. Citizen Drew's air betrayed a bit of a showman's disappointment. "I never saw him before never heard of him. But I mean I know him now after your description know his nature, his thoughts. You have a fine touch in your size-ups, Citizen Drew." "I've studied 'em all." "What has he done in politics?" "Never a thing. He is one of the kind I was complaining about.
Martha Greaves was an English girl who had crossed the ocean early in the summer with Tory Drew's father and step-mother to spend the summer in Westhaven. She was singularly tall with light brown hair and gray-blue eyes. After she had spoken she appeared a little embarrassed as if she regretted having called the attention of the other girls to her presence.
Drew's breath caught, and he took a long stride forward to put his hand on the blue coat's shoulder. The man swung around, startled, to face him. "Suh, where did you get those spurs?" Drew's tone carried the note of one who expected to be answered promptly with the truth. The Yankee had straight black brows which drew together in a frown as he stared back at the Confederate.
He could not utter the missing man's name to Ruth's father, knowing, as he did, that the captain was doubtful of his, Drew's, innocence in connection with Parmalee's disappearance. He whispered to the man on guard that he was going outside, and quickly surmounted the barrier. He had his automatic revolver; and, anyway, he did not think any of the mutineers were in the neighborhood.
How his personality and charm struck one at the first glance. He had been one of those men who claimed friends as they came his way, without pledge of time or intimacy. He knew what was his own in life, and gripped it without question or explanation. He had been the first to understand Drew's ambition, so different from the ones of the social set in which they both moved.
After Drew's mishap in the river, Boyd had accepted responsibility, helping to keep the scout in the saddle and riding, even when Drew had been bemused by a day or two of fever, unaware of either their enforced pace or their destination. No, somewhere along the line of retreat Drew had stopped worrying about Boyd.
General Buford, who had invited Drew up to the fire, sat listening as the scout held his stiff hands to the blaze and listed the sum total of the day's comings and goings as far as Yankee patrols were concerned. "No sign of that missin' scout?" the General asked when Drew's account was finished. "Pour yourself a cup of that, boy! It ain't coffee.
The chronicle of his life for the rest of that day and the two following could be summed up in the one word, work hard, breathless, unceasing work. A reminder had come from Blake that the moving must be expedited, and from Tyke himself down to Sam no one was exempt. Not that the thought of Ruth Adams was ever for long out of Drew's mind. But the colors had grown more sombre in his rainbow of hope.
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