One of the men was deputed to conduct him to the officer of the guard; and he walked along by the side of the soldier through the woods, in the direction from which he had just come.

“Can you tell me how the battle went at last?” asked Tom, as they pursued their way through the forest.

“We whipped you all to pieces.  Your army hasn’t done running yet.  We shall take Washington to-morrow, and Jeff Davis will be in the White House before the week is out.”

“Have you taken many prisoners?” asked Tom, who could not dispute the position of the rebel soldier.

“About fifty thousand, I b’lieve,” replied Secesh, with refreshing confidence.

Tom indulged in a low whistle, but his companion could not tell whether it was an expression of regret or incredulity.  If they had stood on an equality, Tom would probably have suggested that the figures should be interpreted “over the left”—­an idiosyncrasy in language which he had imported from Pinchbrook, but which may not be wholly unintelligible to our young readers.

From his conductor he obtained some particulars of the battle and its result, which were afterwards more fully set forth in General Beauregard’s official report, and which would have read better on the pages of Sinbad the Sailor than in the folios of a military despatch.  But the Secesh soldier’s “facts and figures” were comforting to Tom, who still had a stronger interest in the condition of the good cause, after the heavy blow it had received, than he had in his own individual welfare.  Like too heavy a dose of poison, the magnitude of the stories refuted and defeated them.  The soldier boy listened in respectful silence, but he was utterly incredulous.  It was even possible that the Union army had won a victory, after all, though he was not very sanguine on this point.

He was ultimately conducted to the headquarters of the regiment to which his captors belonged, and then turned into a lot with about twenty others, who were strongly guarded.  Tom joined his companions in misery, most of whom, worn out by the fatigues of the day, were sleeping soundly upon the ground.  Only two or three of them were awake; but these were strangers to him, and he was unable to obtain any information from them concerning any of his friends in the regiment.

It began to rain shortly after Tom joined his fellow-prisoners; but there was no shelter for them.  They had neither blankets nor great coats, yet this did not seem to disturb them.  Our soldier boy threw himself upon the ground, but the nap he had taken under the side of the log set his eyes wide open for a time.  He could only think of home, his mother and sisters, and John, by this time snugly coiled away in the bed where he had been wont to dream of the glories of war.  He had cast his fears to the winds when he found that his captors did not intend to butcher him, and he could not help thinking that his situation might have been worse.