As they pressed on across the strip of country between the Northern and
Southern pickets, General Mitchel's army of ten thousand men broke camp.
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. They resolved that the first thing they should do
was forage for food, and so they made their way directly to the small store
in the center of the village. But there was little food to be had there.
The storekeeper, a wizened old man who had lost all interest in selling
things, told them that they might be able to buy something from one of the
village people--he didn't know who had food for sale. Perhaps the Widow
Fry--he indicated the general direction of the Widow Fry's house--might
give them something. They turned away from the store disconsolately.

"It's raining again," remarked Shadrack. He turned his round face upward
and gazed at the sky so solemnly that the others laughed. But there was no
disputing the fact: the drizzle had commenced. 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