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Model-driven Development for Embedded Software
This page intentionally left blank
Model-driven Development
for Embedded Software
Application to Communications
for Drone Swarm
Jean-Aimé Maxa
Mohamed Slim Ben Mahmoud
Nicolas Larrieu
First published 2018 in Great Britain and the United States by ISTE Press Ltd and Elsevier Ltd
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as
permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced,
stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers,
or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms and licenses issued by the
CLA. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside these terms should be sent to the publishers at the
undermentioned address:
Notices
Knowledge and best practice in this field are constantly changing. As new research and experience
broaden our understanding, changes in research methods, professional practices, or medical treatment
may become necessary.
Practitioners and researchers must always rely on their own experience and knowledge in evaluating and
using any information, methods, compounds, or experiments described herein. In using such information
or methods they should be mindful of their own safety and the safety of others, including parties for
whom they have a professional responsibility.
To the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the authors, contributors, or editors, assume any
liability for any injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of products liability, negligence
or otherwise, or from any use or operation of any methods, products, instructions, or ideas contained in
the material herein.
®
MATLAB is a trademark of The MathWorks, Inc. and is used with permission. The MathWorks does not
warrant the accuracy of the text or exercises in this book. This book’s use or discussion of MATLAB®
software or related products does not constitute endorsement or sponsorship by The MathWorks of a
®
particular pedagogical approach or particular use of the MATLAB software.
Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169
Preface
In this book, we will focus on the design of an on-board system for UAV
ad hoc communications. In this context, we present an original rapid
prototyping methodology for complex embedded systems, showing how this
approach creates considerable time savings in the verification and formal
validation phases, contributing to UAS (Unmanned Aerial System)
certification.
aim is to design, validate and test a new secure routing protocol for UAV ad
hoc communications.
Jean-Aimé M AXA
Mohamed Slim B EN M AHMOUD
Nicolas L ARRIEU
January 2018
Introduction and Approach
The drone industry is rapidly evolving. The type and the usage of
industrial drones have changed considerably over the last five years. Drones
are now able to carry increasingly complex payloads, with unprecedented
levels of autonomy and automation during their assigned missions.
The rest of this work will be organized as follows. Chapter 2 is given over
to a state of the art of model-driven development methods applied to
aeronautical systems. Drones are usually considered as autonomous aircraft,
as the software requirements are similar to those for conventional aircraft. It is
thus interesting to compare existing approaches to MDD (Model-Driven
Development) for traditional aircraft (e.g. an Airbus A380) with those used
for UAS (Unmanned Aerial Systems).
Despite the existence of these two standards (DAL and EAL), certification
(guaranteeing system safety) and evaluation (guaranteeing system security)
are currently treated independently and in parallel; certain very similar
verifications are thus carried out twice. Work on defining a new development
method covering both safety and security aspects, while avoiding redundancy
in the steps and processes involved, is currently underway. However, this lies
outside the scope of our work here, and will not be addressed further.
Note that the certification process for embedded software designed for
specific uses in the aeronautical industry is highly and precisely codified.
There are several standards which must be taken into account. Here, we will
only consider those relating to software engineering for embedded systems:
DO-178 C and DO-331.
This document was issued by the RTCA in 2012 and constitutes the fourth
edition of a document that defines the applicable standards for certifying
embedded avionic software systems. This latest version takes account of the
latest developments in MDD for software engineering. Notably, it takes
account of the possibility of validating systems using formal verification
methods for the first time in an aeronautical context; this approach can reduce
the number of unitary tests required for validation of a final product. It
constitutes a significant advance in aeronautical engineering, with a profound
impact on the way in which aeronautical systems will be designed and
produced in future. The document highlights MDD approaches which are
able to automatically generate source code from high-level models, defining
the functionalities and behaviors of the final system.
State of the Art of Model-driven Development (MDD) as Applied to Aeronautical Systems 9
1.3.1. The need for a new rapid prototyping methodology for UAS
design
Our aim in this book is to illustrate the use of our model-driven rapid
prototyping method via the implementation of a secure communication
architecture in a drone fleet. This architecture is intended to supplement the
software architecture which is already used in the Delair-Tech UAS1. While
the current architecture already allows single drones to be flown in French
civil airspace [MAN 15], the new system, involving a fleet of UAVs, needs to
pass a further validation test. The use of drones in fleets results in new
behaviors (particularly in cases where traffic command and control messages
are transmitted through the fleet) which are not present in current
sub-systems, meaning that a new global validation is required.
Hunter and hunted were in the same car. Tom little dreamed that a
few seats behind him sat a deadly foe, who would stick at nothing to
get the precious papers he carried. Washington swarmed with
Confederate spies. The face of everybody at the White House was
well known to every spy. The hunter did not have to guess where
the hunted sat.
General Grant had begun his career of victory in the West. It was all-
important to the Confederacy to know where his next blow was to
be aimed. The papers in the scout's possession would tell that great
secret. Wilkes Booth meant to have those papers soon. As the train
bumped over the rough iron rails, towards Baltimore, Booth went to
the forward end of the car for a glass of water and as he walked
back along the aisle with a slow, lounging step, he stopped where
Tom sat and held out his hand, saying:
"How do you do, Mr. Strong? I'm Mr. Barnard. I have had the
pleasure of seeing you about the White House sometimes, when I
have been calling on our great President. Lincoln will crush these
accursed rebels soon!"
It was a trifle overdone, a trifle theatrical. Wilkes Booth could never
help being theatrical. His greeting was one of the few times Tom had
ever been called "Mister." He felt flattered and took the proffered
hand willingly, but he searched his memory in vain for any real
recollection of the striking face of the man who spoke to him. There
was some vague stirring of memory about it, but certainly this had
no relation to that happy life at the White House. Something evil was
connected with it. Puzzled, he wondered. He had seen Booth under
arms at John Brown's scaffold, but he did not remember that.
The alleged Mr. Barnard slipped into the seat beside him and began
to talk. He talked well. Little by little, suspicion fell asleep in Tom's
mind as his companion told of adventures on sea and land. Booth
was trying to seem to talk with very great frankness, in order to lure
Tom into a similar frankness about himself. He larded all his talk with
protestations of fervent loyalty to the Union. Tom bethought himself
of a favorite quotation his father often used from Shakespeare's
great play of "Hamlet." The conscience-stricken queen says to
Hamlet, her son:
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
Wilkes Booth was protesting too much. The drowsy suspicion in
Tom's mind stirred again. But he was but a boy and Booth was a
man, skilled in all the craft of the stage. Once more his easy, brilliant
talk lulled caution to sleep. Tom, questioned so skillfully that he did
not know he was being drawn out, little by little told the story of his
short life. But the story ended with his saying he was going to
Harrisburg "on business." He was still enough on his guard not to
admit he was going further than Harrisburg.
"You're pretty young to be on the way to the State Capitol on
business," said the skillful actor, hoping to hear more details in
answer to the half-implied sneer. But just then Tom remembered
what his father had advised: "Never say anything to anybody, unless
you are sure the President would wish you to say it." He shut up like
a clam. Booth could get nothing more out of him. But he meant to
get those dispatches out of him. They were either in the boy's
pocket or his valise, probably in his pocket. When he fell asleep, the
spy's time would come. So the spy waited.
Darkness came. Two smoky oil-lamps gave such light as they could.
The train rumbled on in the night. There were no sleeping cars then.
People slept in their seats, if they slept at all. Booth's tones grew
soothing, almost tender. They served as a lullaby. Tom slept. The spy
beside him drew a long, triumphant breath. His time had come.
Some time before, he had shifted his traveling-bag to this seat. Now
he drew from it, gently, quietly, the little bottle of chloroform and a
small sponge, which he saturated with the stupefying drug. Then he
slipped his arm under the sleeping boy's head, drew him a little
closer to himself, and glanced through the dusky car. Nearly
everybody was asleep. Those who were not were trying to go to
sleep. No one was watching. Booth pressed the sponge to Tom's
nostrils. Tom stirred uneasily. "Sh-sh, Tom," purred the actor, "go to
sleep; all's well." The drug soon did its work. The boy was dead to
the world for awhile. Only a shock could rouse him.
The shock came. Booth's long, sensitive, skilled fingers—the fingers
of a musician—ransacked his coat and waistcoat pockets swiftly,
finding nothing. But beneath the waistcoat their tell-tale touches had
detected the longed-for papers. The waistcoat was deftly
unbuttoned—it could have been stripped off without arousing the
unconscious boy—and a triumphant thrill shot through Booth's black
heart as he drew from an inner pocket the long, official envelope
that he knew must hold what he had stealthily sought. He was just
about to slip it into his own pocket and then to leave his stupefied
victim to sleep off the drug while he himself sought safety at the
next station, when one of those little things which have big results
occurred. The sturdy man who was snoring in the seat behind this
one happened to be a surgeon. He was returning from Washington,
whither he had gone to operate on a dear friend, a wounded officer.
Chloroform had of course been used, but the patient had died under
the knife. It had been a terrible experience for the operator. It had
made his sleep uneasy. A mere whiff from the sponge Booth had
used reached the surgeon's sensitive nostril. It revived the poignant
memories of the last few hours. He awoke with a start that brought
him to his feet. And there, just in front of him, he saw by the dim
light a boy sunk in stupefied slumber and a man glancing guiltily
back as he tried to thrust a stiff and crackling paper into his pocket.
The sponge had fallen to the floor, but its fumes, far-spreading now,
told to the practiced surgeon a story of foul play. He grabbed the
man by the shoulder and awoke most of the travelers, but not Tom,
with a stentorian shout: "What are you doing, you scoundrel?"
The scoundrel leaped to his feet, throwing off the doctor's hand, and
sprang into the aisle, clutching the long envelope in his left hand,
while his right held a revolver. He rushed for the door, pursued by
half a dozen men, headed by the doctor. Close pressed, he whirled
about and leveled his pistol at his unarmed pursuers. They fell back
a pace. He whirled again, stumbled over a bag in the aisle, fell,
sprang to his feet once more. A brakeman opened the door. He was
hurrying to see what this clamor meant. Wilkes Booth fired at him
pointblank. The bullet missed, but it made the brakeman give way.
Booth rushed by him, gained the platform and leaped from the slow
train into the sheltering night.
The shock that waked Tom was the sound of the shot. Weak, dizzy,
and sick, he knew only that some terrible thing was happening.
Instinctively, his hand sought that inner pocket, only to find it empty.
Then, indeed, he was wide awake. The horror of his loss burned
through his brain. He shouted: "Stop him! Stop thief!" and collapsed
again into his seat.
He was in fact a very sick boy. The dose of chloroform that had been
given him would have been an overdose for a man. Notwithstanding
his awakening, he might have relapsed into sleep and death, had not
the skillful surgeon been there to devote himself to him. An antidote
was forced down his throat. Willing volunteers, for of course the
whole car was now awake in a hurly-burly of question and answer,
rubbed life back into him. When he was a bit better, he was kept
walking up and down the aisle, while two strong men held him up
and his head swayed helplessly from side to side. But the final cure
came when the surgeon who had kept catlike watch upon him saw
that he could now begin to understand things.
"Here is something of yours," he whispered into the lad's half-
unconscious ear. "That scoundrel stole it from you. When he fell, he
must have dropped it on the floor. I found it there after he had
jumped off the platform."
Tom's hand closed over the fateful envelope. His trembling fingers
ran along its edges. It had not been opened. He had not betrayed
his trust. A profound thankfulness and joy stirred within him. Within
an hour he was practically himself again. Then he poured out his
heart in thanks to the sturdy surgeon who had saved not only his
life, but his honor. He asked his name and started at his reply:
"Dr. Hans Rolf, of York, Pennsylvania."
"Dr. Hans Rolf," repeated Tom, "but perhaps you are the grandson of
the Hans Rolf I've heard about all my life. My father is always telling
me of things Hans Rolf did for my grandfather and great-
grandfather."
"And what is your name?" queried the doctor, surprised as may be
imagined that this unknown boy should know him so well.
"Tom Strong."
"By the Powers," shouted the hearty doctor, seizing the boy's hand
and wringing it as his grandfather used to wring the hand of the
Tom Strongs he knew, "By the Powers, next to my own name there's
none I know so well as yours. My grandfather never wearied of
talking about the two Tom Strongs, father and son. The last day he
lived, he told me how your great-grandfather saved his life."
"And you know he saved great-grandfather's, too," answered Tom,
"and now you have saved mine."
He looked shyly at his preserver. He was still weak with the after-
effects of the drug that had been given him. The Hans Rolf he saw
was a bit blurred by the unshed tears through which he saw him.
"Nonsense," said the surgeon, "whatever I've done is just in the
day's work. But you must stop at York and rest. I can't let my patient
travel just yet, you know. And this may be your last chance to see
me at home. I go into the army next month."
However, Tom was not to be persuaded to stop. Duty called him
Westward and to the West he went, as fast as the slow trains of
those days could carry him. But when Hans Rolf and he parted, a
few hours after they had met, they were friends for life.
It took Tom two days to get from Harrisburg to Cairo, the
southernmost town in Illinois. It lies at the junction of the Mississippi
and Ohio rivers. The latter pours a mass of beautiful blue water—the
early French explorers named the Ohio "the beautiful river"—into the
muddy flood of the Mississippi. For miles below Cairo the blue and
yellow streams seem to flow side by side. Then the yellow swallows
the blue and the mighty Mississippi rolls its murky way to the Gulf of
Mexico. A gunboat took the young messenger from Cairo to General
Grant's headquarters.
MISSISSIPPI RIVER GUNBOATS
One of his men had already uncoupled the first three freight cars
from the rest of the train. All the men jumped into the cab or the
tender or swarmed up the freight-car ladders. Andrews jerked the
throttle wide open. The engine jumped forward, the tender and the
three cars bounding after it. The crowd upon the platform gaped
after the retreating train, without the slightest idea of what was
happening under their very noses. A boy came running like an
antelope from the end of the platform. He jumped for the iron step
of the locomotive, was clutched by a half-dozen hands and drawn
aboard. But as he jumped, he heard a voice he had reason to
remember call out:
"They're Yanks. That's Lieutenant Strong, a Yankee! Stop 'em! Shoot
'em!"
Livid with rage, his long black hair streaming in the wind as he ran
after them, Wilkes Booth fired his pistol at them, while the motley
crowd his cry had aroused sent a scattering volley after the train.
Nobody was hurt then, but the danger to everybody had just begun.
There was instant pursuit. The train-crew, startled by the sound of
the departing train, came running from the station. They actually
started to run along the track after the flying locomotive. They
jerked a hand-car off a siding and chased the fugitives with that. At
a station not far off, they found a locomotive lying with steam up.
They seized that and thundered ahead. Now hunters and hunted
were on more even terms. The hunters reached Kingston, Georgia,
within four minutes after the hunted had left. The latter had had to
make frequent stops, to cut the wires, to take on fuel, to bundle into
the freight cars ties that could be used to start fires for the burning
of bridges, and to tear up an occasional rail. This last expedient
delayed their pursuers but little. When a missing rail was sighted,
the Confederates stopped, tore up a rail behind them, slipped it into
the vacant place, and rushed ahead again.
Andrews was running the captured train on its regular time
schedule, so he could not exceed a certain speed. From Kingston,
however, where the only other train of the day met this one, he
expected a free road and plenty of time to burn every bridge he
passed. He did meet the regular train at Kingston, but alas! it carried
on its engine a red flag. That meant that a second section of the
same train was coming behind it. There was nothing to do but to
wait for this second section. The railroad was single-track, so trains
could pass only where there was a siding. But in every moment of
waiting there lurked the danger of detection. Southerners, soldiers,
and civilians, crowded about the locomotive as she lay helplessly still
on the Kingston sidetrack, puffing away precious steam and precious
time.
"Whar's yer passengers?" asked one man. "I cum hyar to meet up
with Cunnel Tompkins. Whar's he'n the rest of 'em?"
"We were ordered to drop everything at Big Shanty," explained
Andrews, "except these three cars. They're full of powder. I'm on
General Beauregard's staff and am taking the stuff to him at Corinth.
Jove, there's the whistle of the second section. I'm glad to hear it."
He was indeed glad. At one of his stops, he had bundled most of his
men into the freight cars. The cars were battered old things without
any locks. If a carelessly curious hand were to slide back one of the
doors and reveal within, not powder, but armed men, all their lives
would pay the forfeit. Andrews was in the cab with engineer,
fireman, and Tom, who had been helping the fireman feed wood into
the maw of the furnace on every mile of the run. His young back
ached with the strain of the unaccustomed toil. His young neck felt
the touch of the noose that threatened them all.
"Tom, you run ahead and throw that switch for us as soon as the
other train pulls in," said Andrews. "We mustn't keep General
Beauregard waiting for this powder a minute longer than we can
help. He needs it to blow the Yankees to smithereens."
So Tom ran ahead, stood by the switch as the second section came
in, and promptly threw the switch as it passed. But his train did not
move and a brakeman jumped off the rear platform of the caboose
of the second section, as it slowed down, told Tom he was an ass
and a fool, pushed him out of the way and reset the switch.
"You plum fool," shouted the brakeman, after much stronger
expressions, "didn't ye see the flag fur section three?"
Tom had not seen it, had not looked for it, but it was too true that
the engine of section two also bore the red flag that meant that
section three was coming behind it.
Again there was a long wait, again the sense of danger closing in
upon them, again the thought of scaffold and rope, again the
necessity of playing their parts with laughter and good-natured chaff
amid the foes who thought them friends. The slow minutes ticked
themselves away. At last the third section came whistling and
lumbering in. Thank fortune, it bore no red flag. This time Tom
threw the switch unchecked and then jumped on the puffing engine
as she reached the main-track and sped onwards.
"Free, by Jove!" said Andrews, with a deep breath of deep relief.
"Now we can burn Johnny Reb's bridges for him!"
Four minutes later, while section three of the train that had so long
delayed them was still at Kingston, a shrieking locomotive rushed
into the station. Its occupants, shouting a story of explanation that
put Kingston into a frenzy, ran from it to an engine that lay upon a
second sidetrack, steam up and ready to start. They had reached
Kingston so speedily by using their last pint of water and their last
stick of wood. They saved precious minutes by changing engines.
Five seconds after their arrival, the station-agent had been at the
telegraph-key, frantically pounding out the call of a station beyond
Andrews's fleeing train. There was no reply.
"Wire cut!" he shouted, running out of the station. Of course that
had been done by the fugitives just out of sight of Kingston. "Wire
cut! I kain't git no message through."
"We'll take the message!" answered the Confederate commander,
from the cab of the locomotive that was already swaying with her
speed, as she darted ahead.
They came near delivering the message within four miles of
Kingston. Andrews's men, with a most comforting sense of safety
had stopped and were pulling up a rail, when they heard the whistle
of their avenging pursuer.
"Quick, boys, all aboard," Andrews called. "They're closer'n I like to
have 'em."
Quickly replacing the rail, the Confederates came closer still. Around
the next curve, quite hidden from sight until close upon it, the
fugitives had put a rail across the track. It delayed the pursuit not
one second. Whether the cowcatcher of the engine thrust it aside or
broke it or whether the engine actually jumped it, nobody knew then
in the wild excitement of the chase and nobody knows now. The one
thing certain is that there was no delay. Very likely the rail broke.
Rails of those days were of iron, not steel, and throughout the South
they were in such condition that at the close of the Civil War one of
the chief Southern railroads was said to consist of "a right-of-way
and two streaks of rust." The locomotive whistled triumphantly and
sped on.
On the Union train, Tom had crept back to the rear car along the
rolling, jumping carroofs, with orders to set it on fire and stand
ready to cut it off. The men inside arranged a pile of ties, thrust fat
pine kindling among them, and touched the mass with a match. It
burst into flame as they scuttled to the roof and passed to the car
ahead. A long covered wooden bridge loomed up before them.
Halfway across it, Andrews stopped, dropped the flaming car, and
started ahead again. In a very few minutes the bridge would have
been a burning mass, but the few minutes were not to be had. The
Confederate locomotive was now close upon them. It dashed upon
the bridge, drove the burning car across the bridge before it, pushed
it upon a neighboring sidetrack and again whistled triumphantly as it
took up the fierce chase. The two remaining cars were detached,
one by one, but in vain. The game was up.
"Guess we're gone," said Andrews, tranquilly, as he looked back over
the tender, now almost empty of wood, to the smokestack that was
belching sooty vapor within a mile of them. "By this time, they've got
a telegram ahead of us. Stop 'round that next curve in those woods.
We must take to the woods. Don't try to keep together. Scatter.
Steer by the North Star. Make the Union lines if you can. We've done
our best."
The engine checked its mad pace, slowed, stopped.
"Good-by, boys," shouted Andrews, as he sprang from the engine
and disappeared in the forest that there bordered the track. "We'll
meet again."
Seven of them did meet him again. It was upon a Confederate
scaffold, where he and they were hung. The other six of the
fourteen who were captured were exchanged, a few months later.
Three others reached the Union lines within a fortnight, unhurt. But
where was Tom Strong?
CHAPTER VI
Tom up a Tree—Did the Confederate Officer See Him?—A Fugitive
Slave Guides Him—Buying a Boat in the Dark—Adrift in the Enemy's
Country.
Tom started with surprise. The young officer was quoting from
Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient Rome." The boy had stood beside his
mother's knee when she read him the "Lays" and had often since
read them himself.
That start of surprise had almost been Tom's undoing. He had
rustled the leaves about him. A tiny shower of pale green things fell
to the ground.
"Captain, there's somebody up that tree," said a soldier, pointing
straight at the point where Tom sat. "I heard him rustle."
The captain looked up. The boy always thought the officer saw him
and spared him, partly because of his youth—he knew the fate the
prisoners faced—and partly because of his admiration for "the
gallant feat of arms." Be that as it may, he certainly took no step
just then to make another prisoner. Instead he laughed and
answered:
"That's a 'possum. We haven't time for a coon-hunt just now. Get
ahead. We'll send an alarm from the next station and so bag all the
Yankees."
The engine, pushing the recaptured one before it, started and
disappeared around the end of the short curve upon which Andrews
had made his final stop. For the moment at least, Tom was safe. But
he knew the hue-and-cry would sweep the country. Everybody would
be on the lookout for stray Yankees. And as everybody would think
the estrays were all going North, Tom decided to go South. He slid
down the tree, looked at his watch, studied the sunlight to learn the
points of the compass, drew his belt tighter to master the hunger
that now assailed him, and so began his southward tramp, a boy,
alone, in the enemy's country.
That part of Georgia is a beautiful country and Tom loved beauty,
but it did not appeal to him that afternoon. He was hungry; he was
tired; the excitement that had upheld him through the hours of flight
on the captured engine was over. He plodded through a little belt of
forest and found himself in a broad valley, with a ribbon of water
flowing through it. He stumbled across plowed fields to the little
river. A dusty road, with few marks of travel, meandered beside the
stream. He was evidently near no main highway. Not far away a
planter's home, with a stately portico, gleamed in the sunlight
through its screen of trees. In the distance lay a little village. There
was food in both places and he must have food. To which should he
go? It was decided for him that he was to go to neither. As he
slipped down the river bank, to quench his burning thirst and to
wash his dusty face and hands, he almost stepped upon a negro
who lay full length at the foot of the bank, hidden behind a tree that
had been uprooted by the last flood and left stranded there. The boy
was scared by the unexpected meeting, but not half as much as the
negro.
"Oh, Massa," said the negro, on his knees with outstretched hands,
"don' tell on me, Massa. I'll be your slabe, Massa. Jes' take me with
you. Please don't tell on me. You kin make a lot o' money sellin' me,
Massa. Please lemme go wid you."
"What is your name?" asked Tom.
"Morris, Massa."
"Where did you come from?"
"From dat house, Massa." He pointed to the big house nearby.
"And what are you doing here?"
Little by little, Morris (reassured when he found Tom was a Northern
soldier and like himself a fugitive) told his story. He had been born
on this plantation. Reared as a house-servant, he could read a little.
He had learned from the newspapers his master took that a
Northern army was not far away. He made up his mind to try for
freedom. His master kept dogs to track runaways, but no dog can
track a scent in running water. It was not probable his flight would
be discovered until after nightfall. So he had stolen to his hiding-
place in the afternoon, intending to wade down the tiny stream as
soon as darkness came. Two miles below, the stream merged itself
into a larger one. There he hoped to steal a boat, hide by day and
paddle by night until he reached the Tennessee. "Dat ribber's plum
full o' Massa Lincum's gunboats," he assured Tom.
"How are you going to live on the journey?" asked the boy.
"I spec' dey's hen-roosts about," quoth Morris with a chuckle, "and
I'se got a-plenty to eat to start wid. Dis darkey don' reckon to starve
none."
"Give me something to eat, quick!"
Morris willingly produced cornpone and bacon from a sack beside
him. Tom wanted to eat it all, but he knew these precious supplies
must be kept as long as possible, so he did not eat more than half of
them. The two agreed to keep together in their flight for freedom.
As soon as it was dark, they began their wading. The two miles
seemed an endless distance. The noises of the night kept their
senses on the jump. Once a distant bloodhound's bay scared Morris
so much that his white teeth clattered like castanets. Once the "too-
whit-too" of a nearby owl sent Tom into an ecstasy of terror. He
fairly clung to Morris, who, just ahead of him, was guiding his steps
through the shallow water. When he found he had been scared by
an owl, he was so ashamed that he forced himself to be braver
thereafter. At last they reached their first goal, the larger river. Here
Morris's knowledge of the ground made him the temporary
commander of the expedition. He knew of a little house nearby, the
home of a "poor white," who earned part of his precarious livelihood
by fishing. Morris knew just where he kept his boat. There was no
light in the little house and no sound from it as they crept stealthily
along the bank to the tree where the boat was tied. Tom drew his
knife to cut the rope.
"No, Massa," whispered Morris. "Not dat-a-way. Ef it's cut, dey'll
know it's bin tuck and dey'll s'picion us. Lemme untie it. Den dey'll
t'ink it's cum loose and floated away. 'N dey'll not hurry after it.
Dey'll t'ink dey kin fin' it in some cove any time tomorrer."
Morris was right. It did not take him long to untie the clumsy knot.
Three oars and some fishing-tackle lay in the flat-bottomed boat.
They got into it, pushed off, and floated down the current without a
sound. Morris steered with an oar at the stern. Once out of earshot,
they rowed as fast as the darkness, intensified by the shadows of
the overhanging trees, permitted.
Just before they had pushed off, Tom had asked:
"What is this boat worth, Morris?"
"Old Massa paid five dollars fer a new one jest like it, dis lastest
week."
Tom's conscience had told him that even though a fugitive for his life
in the enemy's country he ought not to take the "poor white's" boat
without paying for it. He unbuttoned an inside pocket in his shirt and
drew out a precious store of five-dollar gold pieces. There were
twenty of them, each wrapped in tissue-paper and the whole then
bound together in a rouleau, wrapped in water-proofed silk, so that
there would be no sound of clinking gold as he walked. He figured
that the three oars and the sorry fishing tackle could not be worth
more than the boat was, so he took out two coins and put them in a
battered old pan that lay beside the stump to which the boat was
tied. There the "cracker"—another name for the "poor white"—would
be sure to see them in the morning. As a matter of fact he did. And
they were worth so much more than his vanished property that he
was inclined to think an angel, rather than a thief, had passed that
way. Tom's conscientiousness spoiled Morris's plan of having the
owner think the boat had floated away, but the "cracker" was glad to
clutch the gold and start no hue-and-cry. He was afraid that if he
recovered his boat, he would have to give up the gold. It was much
cheaper to make another. So he kept still.
And still, very still, the fugitives kept as they paddled slowly down
the stream until the first signs of dawn sent them into hiding. They
hid the boat in the tall reeds that fringed the mouth of a tiny creek
and they themselves crept a few yards into the forest, ate very much
less than they wanted to eat of what was left of Morris's scanty store
of food, and went to sleep. They slept until—but that is another
story.
CHAPTER VII
Towser Finds the Fugitives—Towser Brings Uncle Moses—Mr. Izzard
and His Yankee Overseer, Jake Johnson—Tom is Pulled Down the
Chimney—How Uncle Moses Choked the Overseer—The Flight of the
Four.
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