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The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign

by Joseph A. Altsheler · English · Gutenberg #5207 · 505,356 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign

Author: Joseph A. Altsheler


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #5207]
                Most recently updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5207

Credits: Produced by Ken Reeder, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GUNS OF SHILOH: A STORY OF THE GREAT WESTERN CAMPAIGN ***




Produced by Ken Reeder





THE GUNS OF SHILOH

A STORY OF THE GREAT WESTERN CAMPAIGN


By Joseph A. Altsheler




FOREWORD


“The Guns of Shiloh,” a complete story in itself, is the complement of
“The Guns of Bull Run.” In “The Guns of Bull Run” the Civil War and
its beginnings are seen through the eyes of Harry Kenton, who is on the
Southern side. In “The Guns of Shiloh” the mighty struggle takes its
color from the view of Dick Mason, who fights for the North and who is
with Grant in his first great campaign.




THE CIVIL WAR SERIES


 VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

  THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.
  THE GUNS OF SHILOH.
  THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.
  THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.
  THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.
  THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.
  THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.
  THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.


 PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

  HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.
  DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.
  COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.
  MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.
  JULIANA, Mrs. Mason's Devoted Colored Servant.
  COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason's Regimental Commander.
  COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles,
   a Southern Regiment.
  LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the
   Invincibles.
  ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.
  PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.
  WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.
  DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.
  GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.
  FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.
  ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.
  TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
  GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
  BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.
  TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.
  SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.
  IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis' Nephew.
  AUNT “SUSE,” A Centenarian and Prophetess.
  BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.
  JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.
  JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.
  DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.
  ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.
  JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.
  JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.
  JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.
  JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.
  WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.
  MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.
  HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.
  DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.
  VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.
  JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.
  CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.
  COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.
  CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.
  JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.
  JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.
  MR. CULVER, A State Senator.
  MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.
  ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.


 HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.
  JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.
  JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.
  U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.
  ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.
  STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.
  PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.
  GEORGE H. THOMAS, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”
   ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.
  A. P. HILL, Southern General.
  W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.
  GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.
  AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.
  TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.
  J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.
  JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.
  RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.
  JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.
  WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.
  SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.
  LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.
  BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.
  NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.
  JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.
  GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.
  DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.
  W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.
  JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.
  P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.
  WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.
  JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of
   the United States.

  And many others


 IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

  BULL RUN
  KERNSTOWN
  CROSS KEYS
  WINCHESTER
  PORT REPUBLIC
  THE SEVEN DAYS
  MILL SPRING
  FORT DONELSON
  SHILOH
  PERRYVILLE
  STONE RIVER
  THE SECOND MANASSAS
  ANTIETAM
  FREDERICKSBURG
  CHANCELLORSVILLE
  GETTYSBURG
  CHAMPION HILL
  VICKSBURG
  CHICKAMAUGA
  MISSIONARY RIDGE
  THE WILDERNESS
  SPOTTSYLVANIA
  COLD HARBOR
  FISHER'S HILL
  CEDAR CREEK
  APPOMATTOX



CONTENTS

    I.    IN FLIGHT

   II.    THE MOUNTAIN LIGHTS

  III.    THE TELEGRAPH STATION

   IV.    THE FIGHT IN THE PASS

    V.    THE SINGER OF THE HILLS

   VI.    MILL SPRING

  VII.    THE MESSENGER

 VIII.    A MEETING AT NIGHT

   IX.    TAKING A FORT

    X.    BEFORE DONELSON

   XI.    THE SOUTHERN ATTACK

  XII.    GRANT'S GREAT VICTORY

 XIII.    IN THE FOREST

  XIV.    THE DARK EVE OF SHILOH

   XV.    THE RED DAWN OF SHILOH

  XVI.    THE FIERCE FINISH OF SHILOH




THE GUNS OF SHILOH



CHAPTER I. IN FLIGHT


Dick Mason, caught in the press of a beaten army, fell back slowly with
his comrades toward a ford of Bull Run. The first great battle of the
Civil War had been fought and lost. Lost, after it had been won! Young
as he was Dick knew that fortune had been with the North until the very
closing hour. He did not yet know how it had been done. He did not know
how the Northern charges had broken in vain on the ranks of Stonewall
Jackson's men. He did not know how the fresh Southern troops from the
Valley of Virginia had hurled themselves so fiercely on the Union flank.
But he did know that his army had been defeated and was retreating on
the capital.

Cannon still thundered to right and left, and now and then showers of
bursting shell sprayed over the heads of the tired and gloomy soldiers.
Dick, thoughtful and scholarly, was in the depths of a bitterness and
despair reached by few of those around him. The Union, the Republic, had
appealed to him as the most glorious of experiments. He could not bear
to see it broken up for any cause whatever. It had been founded with
too much blood and suffering and labor to be dissolved in a day on a
Virginia battlefield.

But the army that had almost grasped victory was retreating, and the
camp followers, the spectators who had come out to see an easy triumph,
and some of the raw recruits were running. A youth near Dick cried that
the rebels fifty thousand strong with a hundred guns were hot upon their
heels. A short, powerful man, with a voice like the roar of thunder,
bade him hush or he would feel a rifle barrel across his back. Dick
had noticed this man, a sergeant named Whitley, who had shown singular
courage and coolness throughout the battle, and he crowded closer to him
for companionship. The man observed the action and looked at him with
blue eyes that twinkled out of a face almost black with the sun.

“Don't take it so hard, my boy,” he said. “This battle's lost, but there
are others that won't be. Most of the men were raw, but they did some
mighty good fightin', while the regulars an' the cavalry are coverin'
the retreat. Beauregard's army is not goin' to sweep us off the face of
the earth.”

His words brought cheer to Dick, but it lasted only a moment. He was to
see many dark days, but this perhaps was the darkest of his life. His
heart beat painfully and his face was a brown mask of mingled dust,
sweat, and burned gunpowder. The thunder of the Southern cannon behind
them filled him with humiliation. Every bone in him ached after such
fierce exertion, and his eyes were dim with the flare of cannon and
rifles and the rolling clouds of dust. He was scarcely conscious that
the thick and powerful sergeant had moved up by his side and had put a
helping hand under his arm.

“Here we are at the ford!” cried Whitley. “Into it, my lad! Ah, how good
the water feels!”

Dick, despite those warning guns behind him, would have remained a while
in Bull Run, luxuriating in the stream, but the crowd of his comrades
was pressing hard upon him, and he only had time to thrust his face into
the water and to pour it over his neck, arms, and shoulders. But he was
refreshed greatly. Some of the heat went out of his body, and his eyes
and head ached less.

The retreat continued across the rolling hills. Dick saw everywhere arms
and supplies thrown away by the fringe of a beaten army, the men in the
rear who saw and who spread the reports of panic and terror. But the
regiments were forming again into a cohesive force, and behind them
the regulars and cavalry in firm array still challenged pursuit. Heavy
firing was heard again under the horizon and word came that the Southern
cavalry had captured guns and wagons, but the main division maintained
its slow retreat toward Washington.

Now the cool shadows were coming. The sun, which had shown as red as
blood over the field that day, was sinking behind the hills. Its fiery
rays ceased to burn the faces of the men. A soft healing breeze stirred
the leaves and grass. The river of Bull Run and the field of Manassas
were gone from sight, and the echo of the last cannon shot died solemnly
on the Southern horizon. An hour later the brigade stopped in the wood,
and the exhausted men threw themselves upon the ground. They were so
tired that their bodies were in pain as if pricked with needles. The
chagrin and disgrace of defeat were forgotten for the time in the
overpowering desire for rest.

Dick had enlisted as a common soldier. There was no burden of
maintaining order upon him, and he threw himself upon the ground by the
side of his new friend, Sergeant Whitley. His breath came at first in
gasps, but presently he felt better and sat up.

It was now full night, thrice blessed to them all, with the heat and
dust gone and no enemy near. The young recruits had recovered their
courage. The terrible scenes of the battle were hid from their eyes, and
the cannon no longer menaced on the horizon. The sweet, soothing wind
blew gently over the hills among which they lay, and the leaves rustled
peacefully.

Fires were lighted, wagons with supplies arrived, and the men began
to cook food, while the surgeons moved here and there, binding up the
wounds of the hurt. The pleasant odors of coffee and frying meat arose.
Sergeant Whitley stood up and by the moonlight and the fires scanned the
country about them with discerning eye. Dick looked at him with renewed
interest. He was a man of middle years, but with all the strength and
elasticity of youth. Despite his thick coat of tan he was naturally
fair, and Dick noticed that his hands were the largest that he had ever
seen on any human being. They seemed to the boy to have in them the
power to strangle a bear. But the man was singularly mild and gentle in
his manner.

“We're about half way to Washington, I judge,” he said, “an' I expect a
lot of our camp followers and grass-green men are all the way there
by now, tellin' Abe Lincoln an' everybody else that a hundred thousand
rebels fell hard upon us on the plain of Manassas.”

He laughed deep down in his throat and Dick again drew courage and
cheerfulness from one who had such a great store of both.

“How did it happen? Our defeat, I mean,” asked Dick. “I thought almost
to the very last moment that we had the victory won.”

“Their reserves came an' ours didn't. But the boys did well. Lots worse
than this will happen to us, an' we'll live to overcome it. I've been
through a heap of hardships in my life, Dick, but I always remember that
somebody else has been through worse. Let's go down the hill. The boys
have found a branch an' are washin' up.”

By “branch” he meant a brook, and Dick went with him gladly. They
found a fine, clear stream, several feet broad and a foot deep, flowing
swiftly between the slopes, and probably emptying miles further on into
Bull Run. Already it was lined by hundreds of soldiers, mostly boys,
who were bathing freely in its cool waters. Dick and the sergeant joined
them and with the sparkle of the current fresh life and vigor flowed
into their veins.

An officer took command, and when they had bathed their faces, necks,
and arms abundantly they were allowed to take off their shoes and socks
and put their bruised and aching feet in the stream.

“It seems to me, sergeant, that this is pretty near to Heaven,” said
Dick as he sat on the bank and let the water swish around his ankles.

“It's mighty good. There's no denyin' it, but we'll move still a step
nearer to Heaven, when we get our share of that beef an' coffee, which
I now smell most appetizin'. Hard work gives a fellow a ragin' appetite,
an' I reckon fightin' is the hardest of all work. When I was a lumberman
in Wisconsin I thought nothin' could beat that, but I admit now that a
big battle is more exhaustin'.”

“You've worked in the timber then?”

“From the time I was twelve years old 'til three or four years ago. If
I do say it myself, there wasn't a man in all Wisconsin, or Michigan
either, who could swing an axe harder or longer than I could. I guess
you've noticed these hands of mine.”

He held them up, and they impressed Dick more than ever. They were great
masses of bone and muscle fit for a giant.

“Paws, the boys used to call 'em,” resumed Whitley with a pleased laugh.
“I inherited big hands. Father had em an' mother had 'em, too. So mine
were wonders when I was a boy, an' when you add to that years an' years
with the axe, an' with liftin' an' rollin' big logs I've got what I
reckon is the strongest pair of hands in the United States. I can pull a
horseshoe apart any time. Mighty useful they are, too, as I'm likely to
show you often.”

The chance came very soon. A frightened horse, probably with the memory
of the battle still lodged somewhere in his animal brain, broke his
tether and came charging among the troops. Whitley made one leap, seized
him by the bit in his mighty grasp and hurled him back on his haunches,
where he held him until fear was gone from him.

“It was partly strength and partly sleight of hand, a trick that I
learned in the cavalry,” he said to Dick as they put on their shoes.
“I got tired of lumberin' an' I wandered out west, where I served three
years on horseback in the regular army, fightin' the Indians. Good
fighters they are, too. Mighty hard to put your hand on 'em. Now they're
there an' now they ain't. Now you see 'em before you, an' then they're
behind you aimin' a tomahawk at your head. They taught us a big lot
that I guess we can use in this war. Come on, Dick, I guess them banquet
halls are spread, an' I know we're ready.”

Not much order was preserved in the beaten brigade, which had become
separated from the rest of the retreating army, but the spirits of all
were rising and that, so Sergeant Whitley told Dick, was better just now
than technical discipline. The Northern army had gone to Bull Run with
ample supplies, and now they lacked for nothing. They ate long and well,
and drank great quantities of coffee. Then they put out the fires and
resumed the march toward Washington.

They stopped again an hour or two after midnight and slept until
morning. Dick lay on the bare ground under the boughs of a great oak
tree. It was a quarter of an hour before sleep came, because his nervous
system had received a tremendous wrench that day. He closed his eyes
and the battle passed again before them. He remembered, too, a lightning
glimpse of a face, that of his cousin, Harry Kenton, seen but an instant
and then gone. He tried to decide whether it was fancy or reality, and,
while he was trying, he fell asleep and slept as one dead.

Dick was awakened early in the morning by Sergeant Whitley, who was now
watching over him like an elder brother. The sun already rode high and
there was a great stir and movement, as the brigade was forming for its
continued retreat on the capital. The boy's body was at first stiff
and sore, but the elasticity of youth returned fast, and after a brief
breakfast he was fully restored.

Another hot day had dawned, but Dick reflected grimly that however hot
it might be it could not be as hot as the day before had been. Scouts in
the night had brought back reports that the Southern troops were on the
northern side of Bull Run, but not in great force, and a second battle
was no longer feared. The flight could be continued without interruption
over the hot Virginia fields.

Much of Dick's depression returned as they advanced under the blazing
sun, but Whitley, who seemed insensible to either fatigue or gloom, soon
cheered him up again.

“They talk about the Southerners comin' on an' takin' Washington,” he
said, “but don't you believe it. They haven't got the forces, an' while
they won the victory I guess they're about as tired as we are. Our boys
talk about a hundred thousand rebels jumpin' on 'em, an' some felt as if
they was a million, but they weren't any more than we was, maybe not
as many, an' when they are all stove up themselves how can they attack
Washington in its fortifications! Don't be so troubled, boy. The Union
ain't smashed up yet. Just recollect whenever it's dark that light's
bound to come later on. What do you say to that, Long Legs?”

He spoke to a very tall and very thin youth who marched about a half
dozen feet away from them. The boy, who seemed to be about eighteen
years of age, turned to them a face which was pale despite the
Virginia sun. But it was the pallor of indoor life, not of fear, as the
countenance was good and strong, long, narrow, the chin pointed, the
nose large and bridged like that of an old Roman, the eyes full blue
and slightly nearsighted. But there was a faint twinkle in those same
nearsighted eyes as he replied in precise tones:

“According to all the experience of centuries and all the mathematical
formulae that can be deduced therefrom night is bound to be followed
by day. We have been whipped by the rebels, but it follows with
arithmetical certainty that if we keep on fighting long enough we will
whip them in time. Let x equal time and y equal opportunity. Then when
x and y come together we shall have x plus y which will equal success.
Does my logic seem cogent to you, Mr. Big Shoulders and Big Hands?”

Whitley stared at him in amazement and admiration.

“I haven't heard so many big words in a long time,” he said, “an' then,
too, you bring 'em out so nice an' smooth, marchin' in place as regular
as a drilled troop.”

“I've been drilled too,” said the tall boy, smiling. “My name is George
Warner, and I come from Vermont. I began teaching a district school when
I was sixteen years old, and I would be teaching now, if it were not for
the war. My specialty is mathematics. X equals the war, y equals me and
x plus y equals me in the war.”

“Your name is Warner and you are from Vermont,” said Dick eagerly. “Why,
there was a Warner who struck hard for independence at Bennington in the
Revolution.”

“That's my family,” replied the youth proudly. “Seth Warner delivered
a mighty blow that helped to form this Union, and although I don't know
much except to teach school I'm going to put in a little one to help
save it. X equalled the occasion, y equalled my willingness to meet it,
and x plus y have brought me here.”

Dick told who he and Whitley were, and he felt at once that he and this
long and mathematical Vermont lad were going to be friends. Whitley also
continued to look upon Warner with much favor.

“I respect anybody who can talk in mathematics as you do,” he said. “Now
with me I never know what x equals an' I never know what y equals, so
if I was to get x an' y together they might land me about ten thousand
miles from where I wanted to be. But a fellow can bend too much over
books. That's what's the matter with them eyes of yours, which I notice
always have to take two looks where I take only one.”

“You are undoubtedly right,” replied Warner. “My relatives told me that
I needed some fresh air, and I am taking it, although the process is
attended with certain risks from bullets, swords, bayonets, cannon
balls, and shells. Still, I have made a very close mathematical
calculation. At home there is the chance of disease as well as here. At
home you may fall from a cliff, you may be drowned in a creek or river
while bathing, a tree may fall on you, a horse may throw you and break
your neck, or you may be caught in a winter storm and freeze to death.
But even if none of these things happens to you, you will die some day
anyhow. Now, my figures show me that the chance of death here in the war
is only twenty-five per cent greater than it was at home, but physical
activity and an open air continuously increase my life chances
thirty-five per cent. So, I make a net life gain of ten per cent.”

Whitley put his hand upon Warner's shoulder.

“Boy,” he said, “you're wonderful. I can cheer up the lads by talkin'
of the good things to come, but you can prove by arithmetic, algebra an'
every other kind of mathematics that they're bound to come. You're goin'
to be worth a lot wherever you are.”

“Thanks for your encomiums. In any event we are gaining valuable
experience. Back there on the field of Bull Run I was able to
demonstrate by my own hearing and imagination that a hundred thousand
rebels could fire a million bullets a minute; that every one of those
million bullets filled with a mortal spite against me was seeking my own
particular person.”

Whitley gazed at him again with admiration.

“You've certainly got a wonderful fine big bag of words,” he said, “an'
whenever you need any you just reach in an' take out a few a foot long
or so. But I reckon a lot of others felt the way you did, though they
won't admit it now. Look, we're nearly to Washington now. See the dome
of the Capitol over the trees there, an' I can catch glimpses of roofs
too.”

Dick and George also saw the capital, and cheered by the sight, they
marched at a swifter gait. Soon they turned into the main road, where
the bulk of the army had already passed and saw swarms of stragglers
ahead of them. Journalists and public men met them, and Dick now learned
how the truth about Bull Run had come to the capital. The news of defeat
had been the more bitter, because already they had been rejoicing there
over success. As late as five o'clock in the afternoon the telegraph had
informed Washington of victory. Then, after a long wait, had come the
bitter despatch telling of defeat, and flying fugitives arriving in the
night had exaggerated it tenfold.

The division to which Dick, Warner, and Whitley belonged marched over
the Long Bridge and camped near the capital where they would remain
until sent on further service. Dick now saw that the capital was in no
danger. Troops were pouring into it by every train from the north and
west. All they needed was leadership and discipline. Bull Run had stung,
but it did not daunt them and they asked to be led again against the
enemy. They heard that Lincoln had received the news of the defeat with
great calmness, and that he had spent most of a night in his office
listening to the personal narratives of public men who had gone forth to
see the battle, and who at its conclusion had left with great speed.

“Lots of people have laughed at Abe Lincoln an' have called him only a
rail-splitter,” said Whitley, “but I heard him two or three times, when
he was campaignin' in Illinois, an' I tell you he's a man.”

“He was born in my state,” said Dick, “and I mean to be proud of him.
He'll have support, too. Look how the country is standing by him!”

More than once in the succeeding days Dick Mason's heart thrilled at
the mighty response that came to the defeat of Bull Run. The stream of
recruits pouring into the capital never ceased. He now saw men, and many
boys, too, like himself, from every state north of the Ohio River
and from some south of it. Dan Whitley met old logging friends from
Wisconsin whom he had not seen in years, and George Warner saw two
pupils of his as old as himself.

Dick had inherited a sensitive temperament, one that responded quickly
and truthfully to the events occurring about him, and he foresaw the
beginning of a mighty struggle. Here in the capital, resolution was
hardening into a fight to the finish, and he knew from his relatives
when he left Kentucky that the South was equally determined. There was
an apparent pause in hostilities, but he felt that the two sections were
merely gathering their forces for a mightier conflict.

His comrades and he had little to do, and they had frequent leaves of
absence. On one of them they saw a man of imposing appearance pass down
Pennsylvania Avenue. He would have caught the attention of anybody,
owing to his great height and splendid head crowned with snow-white
hair. He was old, but he walked as if he were one who had achieved
greatly, and was conscious of it.

“It's Old Fuss and Feathers his very self,” said Whitley.

“General Scott. It can be no other,” said Dick, who had divined at once
the man's identity. His eyes followed the retreating figure with the
greatest interest. This was the young hero of the War of 1812 and the
great commander who had carried the brilliant campaign into the capital
of Mexico. He had been the first commander-in-chief of the Northern
army, and, foreseeing the great scale of the coming war, had prepared
a wide and cautious plan. But the public had sneered at him and had
demanded instant action, the defeat at Bull Run being the result.

Dick felt pity for the man who was forced to bear a blame not his own,
and who was too old for another chance. But he knew that the present
cloud would soon pass away, and that he would be remembered as the man
of Chippewa and Chapultepec.

“McClellan is already here to take his place,” said Whitley. “He's
the young fellow who has been winning successes in the western part of
Virginia, an' they say he has genius.”

Only a day or two later they saw McClellan walking down the same avenue
with the President. Dick had never beheld a more striking contrast. The
President was elderly, of great height, his head surmounted by a high
silk hat which made him look yet taller, while his face was long,
melancholy, and wrinkled deeply. His collar had wilted with the heat and
the tails of his long black coat flapped about his legs.

The general was clothed in a brilliant uniform. He was short and stocky
and his head scarcely passed the President's shoulder. He was redolent
of youth and self confidence. It showed in his quick, eager gestures and
his emphatic manner. He attracted the two boys, but the sergeant shook
his head somewhat solemnly.

“They say Scott was too old,” he said, “and now they've gone to the
other end of it. McClellan's too young to handle the great armies that
are going into the field. I'm afraid he won't be a match for them old
veterans like Johnston and Lee.”

“Napoleon became famous all over the world when he was only twenty-six,”
 said Warner.

“That's so,” retorted Whitley, “but I never heard of any other Napoleon.
The breed began and quit with him.”

But the soldiers crowding the capital had full confidence in “Little
Mac,” as they had already begun to call him. Those off duty followed and
cheered him and the President, until they entered the White House and
disappeared within its doors. Dick and his friends were in the crowd
that followed, although they did not join in the cheers, not because
they lacked faith, but because all three were thoughtful. Dick had
soon discovered that Whitley, despite his lack of education, was an
exceedingly observant man, with a clear and reasoning mind.

“It was a pair worth seeing,” said the sergeant, as they turned away,
“but I looked a lot more at Old Abe than I did at 'Little Mac.' Did you
ever think, boys, what it is to have a big war on your hands, with all
sorts of men tellin' you all sorts of things an' tryin' to pull you in
all sorts of directions?”

“I had not thought of it before, but I will think of it now,” said
Warner. “In any event, we are quite sure that the President has a great
task before him. We hear that the South will soon have a quarter of a
million troops in the field. Her position on the defensive is perhaps
worth as many more men to her. Hence let x equal her troops, let y equal
her defensive, and we have x plus y, which is equal to half a million
men, the number we must have before we can meet the South on equal
terms.”

“An' to conquer her completely we'll need nigh on to a million.” said
the sergeant.

Shrewd and penetrating as was Sergeant Whitley he did not dream that
before the giant struggle was over the South would have tripled her
defensive quarter of a million and the North would almost have tripled
her invading million.

A few days later their regiment marched out of the capital and joined
the forces on the hills around Arlington, where they lay for many days,
impatient but inactive. There was much movement in the west, and they
heard of small battles in which victory and defeat were about equal.
The boys had shown so much zeal and ability in learning soldierly duties
that they were made orderlies by their colonel, John Newcomb, a taciturn
Pennsylvanian, a rich miner who had raised a regiment partly at his
own expense, and who showed a great zeal for the Union. He, too, was
learning how to be a soldier and he was not above asking advice now and
then of a certain Sergeant Whitley who had the judgment to give it in
the manner befitting one of his lowly rank.

The summer days passed slowly on. The heat was intense. The Virginia
hills and plains fairly shimmered under the burning rays of the sun. But
still they delayed. Congress had shown the greatest courage, meeting on
the very day that the news of Bull Run had come, and resolving to
fight the war to a successful end, no matter what happened. But while
McClellan was drilling and preparing, the public again began to call for
action. “On to Richmond!” was the cry, but despite it the army did not
yet move.

European newspapers came in, and almost without exception they sneered
at the Northern troops, and predicted the early dissolution of the
Union. Monarchy and privileged classes everywhere rejoiced at the
disaster threatening the great republic, and now that it was safe to do
so, did not hesitate to show their delight. Sensitive and proud of his
country, Dick was cut to the quick, but Warner was more phlegmatic.

“Let 'em bark,” he said. “They bark because they dislike us, and they
dislike us because they fear us. We threatened Privilege when our
Revolution succeeded and the Republic was established. The fact of our
existence was the threat and the threat has increased with our years
and growth. Europe is for the South, but the reason for it is one of the
simplest problems in mathematics. Ten per cent of it is admiration
for the Southern victory at Bull Run, and ninety per cent of it is
hatred--at least by their ruling classes--of republican institutions,
and a wish to see them fall here.”

“I suspect you're right,” said Dick, “and we'll have to try all the
harder to keep them from being a failure. Look, there goes our balloon!”

Every day, usually late in the afternoon, a captive balloon rose from
the Northern camp, and officers with powerful glasses inspected the
Southern position, watching for an advance or a new movement of any
kind.

“I'm going up in it some day,” said Dick, confidently. “Colonel Newcomb
has promised me that he will take me with him when his turn for the
ascension comes.”

The chance was a week in coming, a tremendously long time it seemed
to Dick, but it came at last. He climbed into the basket with Colonel
Newcomb, two generals, and the aeronauts and sat very quiet in a corner.
He felt an extraordinary thrill when the ropes were allowed to slide and
the balloon was slowly going almost straight upward. The sensation was
somewhat similar to that which shook him when he went into battle at
Bull Run, but pride came to his rescue and he soon forgot the physical
tremor to watch the world that now rolled beneath them, a world that
they seemed to have left, although the ropes always held.

Dick's gaze instinctively turned southward, where he knew the
Confederate army lay. A vast and beautiful panorama spread in a
semi-circle before him. The green of summer, the green that had been
stained so fearfully at Bull Run, was gone. The grass was now brown from
the great heats and the promise of autumn soon to come, but--from the
height at least--it was a soft and mellow brown, and the dust was gone.

The hills rolled far away southward, and under the horizon's rim. Narrow
ribbons of silver here and there were the numerous brooks and creeks
that cut the country. Groves, still heavy and dark with foliage, hung
on the hills, or filled some valley, like green in a bowl. Now and then,
among clumps of trees, colonial houses with their pillared porticoes
appeared.

It was a rare and beautiful scene, appealing with great force to Dick.
There was nothing to tell of war save the Northern forces just beneath
them, and he would not look down. But he did look back, and saw the
broad band of the Potomac, and beyond it the white dome of the Capitol
and the roof of Washington. But his gaze turned again to the South,
where his absorbing interest lay, and once more he viewed the quiet
country, rolling away until it touched the horizon rim. The afternoon
was growing late, and great terraces of red and gold were heaping above
one another in the sky until they reached the zenith.

“Try the glasses for a moment, Dick,” said Colonel Newcomb, as he passed
them to the boy.

Dick swept them across the South in a great semi-circle, and now new
objects rose upon the surface of the earth. He saw distinctly the
long chain of the Blue Ridge rising on the west, then blurring in the
distance into a solid black rampart. In the south he saw a long curving
line of rising blue plumes. It did not need Colonel Newcomb to tell him
that these were the campfires of the army that they had met on the
field of Bull Run, and that the Southern troops were now cooking their
suppers.

No doubt his cousin Harry was there and perhaps others whom he knew.
The fires seemed to Dick a defiance to the Union. Well, in view of their
victory, the defiance was justified, and those fires might come nearer
yet. Dick, catching the tone of older men who shared his views, had not
believed at first that the rebellion would last long, but his opinion
was changing fast, and the talk of wise Sergeant Whitley was helping
much in that change.

While he yet looked through the glasses he saw a plume of white smoke
coming swiftly towards the Southern fires. Then he remembered the two
lines of railroad that met on the battlefield, giving it its other
name, Manassas Junction, and he knew that the smoke came from an engine
pulling cars loaded with supplies for their foes.

He whispered of the train as he handed the glasses back to Colonel
Newcomb, and then the colonel and the generals alike made a long
examination.

“Beauregard will certainly have an abundance of supplies,” said one of
the generals. “I hear that arms and provisions are coming by every train
from the South, and meanwhile we are making no advance.”

“We can't advance yet,” said the other general emphatically. “McClellan
is right in making elaborate preparations and long drills before moving
upon the enemy. It was inexperience, and not want of courage, that beat
us at Bull Run.”

“The Southerners had the same inexperience.”

“But they had the defensive. I hear that Tom Jackson saved them, and
that they have given him the name Stonewall, because he stood so firm.
I was at West Point with him. An odd, awkward fellow, but one of the
hardest students I have ever known. The boys laughed at him when he
first came, but they soon stopped. He had a funny way of studying,
standing up with his book on a shelf, instead of sitting down at a desk.
Said his brain moved better that way. I've heard that he walked part of
the way from Virginia to reach West Point. I hear now, too, that he is
very religious, and always intends to pray before going into battle.”

“That's a bad sign--for us,” said the other general. “It's easy enough
to sneer at praying men, but just you remember Cromwell. I'm a little
shaky on my history, but I've an impression that when Cromwell, the
Ironsides, old Praise-God-Barebones, and the rest knelt, said a few
words to their God, sang a little and advanced with their pikes, they
went wherever they intended to go and that Prince Rupert and all the
Cavaliers could not stop them.”

“It is so,” said the other gravely. “A man who believes thoroughly in
his God, who is not afraid to die, who, in fact, rather favors dying on
the field, is an awful foe to meet in battle.”

“We may have some of the same on our side,” said Colonel Newcomb. “We
have at least a great Puritan population from which to draw.”

One of the generals gave the signal and the balloon was slowly pulled
down. Dick, grateful for his experience, thanked Colonel Newcomb and
rejoined his comrades.




CHAPTER II. THE MOUNTAIN LIGHTS


When Dick left the balloon it was nearly night. Hundreds of campfires
lighted up the hills about him, but beyond their circle the darkness
enclosed everything. He still felt the sensations of one who had been at
a great height and who had seen afar. That rim of Southern campfires was
yet in his mind, and he wondered why the Northern commander allowed
them to remain week after week so near the capital. He was fully aware,
because it was common talk, that the army of the Union had now reached
great numbers, with a magnificent equipment, and, with four to one,
should be able to drive the Southern force away. Yet McClellan delayed.

Dick obtained a short leave of absence, and walked to a campfire, where
he knew he would find his friend, George Warner. Sergeant Whitley was
there, too, showing some young recruits how to cook without waste, and
the two gave the boy a welcome that was both inquisitive and hearty.

“You've been up in the balloon,” said Warner. “It was a rare chance.”

“Yes,” replied Dick with a laugh, “I left the world, and it is the only
way in which I wish to leave it for the next sixty or seventy years. It
was a wonderful sight, George, and not the least wonderful thing in it
was the campfires of the Southern army, burning down there towards Bull
Run.”

“Burnin' where they ought not to be,” said Whitley--no gulf was yet
established between commissioned and non-commissioned officers in either
army. “Little Mac may be a great organizer, as they say, but you can
keep on organizin' an' organizin', until it's too late to do what you
want to do.”

“It's a sound principle that you lay down, Mr. Whitley,” said Warner
in his precise tones. “In fact, it may be reduced to a mathematical
formula. Delay is always a minus quantity which may be represented by
y. Achievement is represented by x, and, consequently, when you have
achievement hampered by delay you have x minus y, which is an extremely
doubtful quantity, often amounting to failure.”

“I travel another road in my reckonin's,” said Whitley, “I don't know
anything about x and y, but I guess you an' me, George, come to the same
place. It's been a full six weeks since Bull Run, an' we haven't done a
thing.”

Whitley, despite their difference in rank, could not yet keep from
addressing the boys by their first names. But they took it as a matter
of course, in view of the fact that he was so much older than they and
vastly their superior in military knowledge.

“Dick,” continued the sergeant, “what was it you was sayin' about a
cousin of yours from the same town in Kentucky bein' out there in the
Southern army?”

“He's certainly there,” replied Dick, “if he wasn't killed in the
battle, which I feel couldn't have happened to a fellow like Harry.
We're from the same little town in Kentucky, Pendleton. He's descended
straight from one of the greatest Indian fighters, borderers and heroes
the country down there ever knew, Henry Ware, who afterwards became one
of the early governors of the State. And I'm descended from Henry Ware's
famous friend, Paul Cotter, who, in his time, was the greatest scholar
in all the West. Henry Ware and Paul Cotter were like the old Greek
friends, Damon and Pythias. Harry and I are proud to have their blood in
our veins. Besides being cousins, there are other things to make Harry
and me think a lot of each other. Oh, he's a grand fellow, even if he is
on the wrong side!”

Dick's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke of the cousin and
comrade of his childhood.

“The chances of war bring about strange situations, or at least I have
heard so,” said Warner. “Now, Dick, if you were to meet your cousin face
to face on the battlefield with a loaded gun in your hand what would you
do?”

“I'd raise that gun, take deliberate aim at a square foot of air about
thirty feet over his head and pull the trigger.”

“But your duty to your country tells you to do otherwise. Before you is
a foe trying to destroy the Union. You have come out armed to save that
Union, consequently you must fire straight at him and not at the air, in
order to reduce the number of our enemies.”

“One enemy where there are so many would not count for anything in the
total. Your arithmetic will show you that Harry's percentage in the
Southern army is so small that it reaches the vanishing point. If I can
borrow from you, George, x equals Harry's percentage, which is nothing,
y equals the value of my hypothetical opportunity, which is nothing,
then x plus y equals nothing, which represents the whole affair, which
is nothing, that is, worth nothing to the Union. Hence I have no more
obligation to shoot Harry if I meet him than he has to shoot me.”

“Well spoken, Dick,” said Sergeant Whitley. “Some people, I reckon,
can take duty too hard. If you have one duty an' another an' bigger one
comes along right to the same place you ought to 'tend to the bigger
one. I'd never shoot anybody that was a heap to me just because he was
one of three or four hundred thousand who was on the other side. I've
never thought much of that old Roman father--I forget his name--who had
his son executed just because he wasn't doin' exactly right. There
was never a rule that oughtn't to have exceptions under extraordinary
circumstances.”

“If you can establish the principle of exceptions,” replied the young
Vermonter very gravely, “I will allow Dick to shoot in the air when he
meets his cousin in the height of battle, but it is a difficult task to
establish it, and if it fails Dick, according to all rules of logic and
duty, must shoot straight at his cousin's heart.”

The other two looked at Warner and saw his left eyelid droop slightly. A
faint twinkle appeared in either eye and then they laughed.

“I reckon that Dick shoots high in the air,” said the sergeant.

Dick, after a pleasant hour with his friends, went back to Colonel
Newcomb's quarters, where he spent the entire evening writing despatches
at dictation. He was hopeful that all this writing portended something,
but more days passed, and despite the impatience of both army and
public, there was no movement. Stories of confused and uncertain
fighting still came out of the west, but between Washington and Bull Run
there was perfect peace.

The summer passed. Autumn came and deepened. The air was crisp and
sparkling. The leaves, turned into glowing reds and yellows and browns,
began to fall from the trees. The advancing autumn contained the promise
of winter soon to come. The leaves fell faster and sharp winds blew,
bringing with them chill rains. Little Mac, or the Young Napoleon, as
many of his friends loved to call him, continued his preparations, and
despite all the urgings of President and Congress, would not move. His
fatal defect now showed in all its destructiveness. To him the enemy
always appeared threefold his natural size.

Reliable scouts brought back the news that the Southern troops at
Manassas, a full two months after their victory there, numbered only
forty thousand. The Northern commander issued statements that the enemy
was before him with one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers. He demanded
that his own forces should be raised to nearly a quarter of a million
men and nearly five hundred cannon before he could move.

The veteran, Scott, full of triumphs and honors, but feeling himself out
of place in his old age, went into retirement. McClellan, now in sole
command, still lingered and delayed, while the South, making good use of
precious months, gathered all her forces to meet him or whomsoever came
against her.

Youth chafed most against the long waiting. It seemed to Dick and his
mathematical Vermont friend that time was fairly wasting away under
their feet, and the wise sergeant agreed with them.

The weather had grown so cold now that they built fires for warmth as
well as cooking, and the two youths sat with Sergeant Whitley one cold
evening in late October before a big blaze. Both were tanned deeply by
wind, sun and rain, and they had grown uncommonly hardy, but the wind
that night came out of the northwest, and it had such a sharp edge to
it that they were glad to draw their blankets over their backs and
shoulders.

Dick was re-reading a letter from his mother, a widow who lived on the
outskirts of Pendleton. It had come that morning, and it was the only
one that had reached him since his departure from Kentucky. But she had
received another that he had written to her directly after the Battle of
Bull Run.

She wrote of her gratitude because Providence had watched over him in
that dreadful conflict, all the more dreadful because it was friend
against friend, brother against brother. The state, she said, was all in
confusion. Everybody suspected everybody else. The Southerners were full
of victory, the Northerners were hopeful of victory yet to come. Colonel
Kenton was with the Southern force under General Buckner, gathered at
Bowling Green in that state, but his son, her nephew Harry, was still in
the east with Beauregard. She had heard that the troops of the west and
northwest were coming down the Ohio and Mississippi in great numbers,
and people expected hard fighting to occur very soon in western and
southern Kentucky. It was all very dreadful, and a madness seemed to
have come over the land, but she hoped that Providence would continue to
watch over her dear son.

Warner and the sergeant knew that the letter was from Dick's mother,
but they had too much delicacy to ask him questions. The boy folded the
sheets carefully and returned them to their place in the inside pocket
of his coat. Then he looked for a while thoughtfully into the blaze and
the great bed of coals that had formed beneath. As far as one could see
to right and left like fires burned, but the night remained dark with
promise of rain, and the chill wind out of the northwest increased in
vigor. The words just read for the fifth time had sunk deep in his mind,
and he was feeling the call of the west.

“My mother writes,” he said to his comrades, “that the Confederate
general, Buckner, whom I know, is gathering a large force around Bowling
Green in the southern part of our state, and that fighting is sure to
occur soon between that town and the Mississippi. An officer named Grant
has come down from Illinois, and he is said to be pushing the Union
troops forward with a lot of vigor. Sergeant, you are up on army
affairs. Do you know this man Grant?”

Sergeant Whitley shook his head.

“Never heard of him,” he replied. “Like as not he's one of the officers
who resigned from the army after the Mexican War. There was so little to
do then, and so little chance of promotion, that a lot of them quit to
go into business. I suppose they'll all be coming back now.”

“I want to go out there,” said Dick. “It's my country, and the
westerners at least are acting. But look at our army here! Bull Run was
fought the middle of summer. Now it's nearly winter, and nothing has
been done. We don't get out of sight of Washington. If I can get myself
sent west I'm going.”

“And I'm going with you,” said Warner.

“Me, too,” said the sergeant.

“I know that Colonel Newcomb's eyes are turning in that direction,”
 continued Dick. “He's a war-horse, he is, and he'd like to get into the
thick of it.”

“You're his favorite aide,” said the calculating young Vermonter. “Can't
you sow those western seeds in his mind and keep on sowing them? The
fact that you are from this western battle ground will give more weight
to what you say. You do this, and I'll wager that within a week the
Colonel will induce the President to send the whole regiment to the
Mississippi.”

“Can you reduce your prediction to a mathematical certainty?” asked
Dick, a twinkle appearing in his eye.

“No, I can't do that,” replied Warner, with an answering twinkle,
“but you're the very fellow to influence Colonel Newcomb's mind. I'm
a mathematician and I work with facts, but you have the glowing
imagination that conduces to the creation of facts.”

“Big words! Grand words!” said the sergeant.

“Never let Colonel Newcomb forget the west,” continued Warner, not
noticing the interruption. “Keep it before him all the time. Hint
that there can be no success along the Mississippi without him and his
regiment.”

“I'll do what I can,” promised Dick faithfully, and he did much. Colonel
Newcomb had already formed a strong attachment for this zealous and
valuable young aide, and he did not forget the words that Dick said on
every convenient occasion about the west. He made urgent representations
that he and his regiment be sent to the relief of the struggling
Northern forces there, and he contrived also that these petitions should
reach the President. One day the order came to go, but not to St. Louis,
where Halleck, now in command, was. Instead they were to enter the
mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky, and help the mountaineers who
were loyal to the Union. If they accomplished that task with success,
they were to proceed to the greater theatre in Western Kentucky and
Tennessee. It was not all they wished, but they thought it far better
than remaining at Washington, where it seemed that the army would remain
indefinitely.

Colonel Newcomb, who was sitting in his tent bending over maps with his
staff, summoned Dick.

“You are a Kentuckian, my lad,” he said, “and I thought you might know
something about this region into which we are going.”

“Not much, sir,” replied Dick. “My home is much further west in a
country very different both in its own character and that of its people.
But I have been in the mountains two or three times, and I may be of
some help as a guide.”

“I am sure you will do your best,” said Colonel Newcomb. “By the way,
that young Vermont friend of yours, Warner, is to be on my staff also,
and it is very likely that you and he will go on many errands together.”

“Can't we take Sergeant Whitley with us sometimes?” asked Dick boldly.

“So you can,” replied the colonel, laughing a little. “I've noticed that
man, and I've a faint suspicion that he knows more about war than any of
us civilian officers.”

“It's our task to learn as much as we can from these old regulars,”
 said a Major Hertford, a man of much intelligence and good humor, who,
previous to the war, had been a lawyer in a small town. Alan Hertford
was about twenty-five and of fine manner and appearance.

“Well spoken, Major Hertford,” said the thoughtful miner, Colonel
Newcomb. “Now, Dick, you can go, and remember that we are to start for
Washington early in the morning and take a train there for the north. It
will be the duty of Lieutenant Warner and yourself, as well as others,
to see that our men are ready to the last shoe for the journey.”

Dick and Warner were so much elated that they worked all that night,
and they did not hesitate to go to Sergeant Whitley for advice or
instruction. At the first spear of dawn the regiment marched away in
splendid order from Arlington to Washington, where the train that was to
bear them to new fields and unknown fortunes was ready.

It was a long train of many coaches, as the regiment numbered seven
hundred men, and it also carried with it four guns, mounted on trucks.
The coaches were all of primitive pattern. The soldiers were to sleep on
the seats, and their arms and supplies were heaped in the aisles. It was
a cold, drizzling day of closing autumn, and the capital looked sodden
and gloomy. Cameron, the Secretary of War, came to see them off and
to make the customary prediction concerning their valor and victory to
come. But he was a cold man, and he was repellent to Dick, used to more
warmth of temperament.

Then, with a ringing of bells, a heave of the engine, a great puffing of
smoke, and a mighty rattling of wheels, the train drew out of Washington
and made its noisy way toward Baltimore. Dick and Warner were on the
same seat. It was only forty miles to Baltimore, but their slow train
would be perhaps three hours in arriving. So they had ample opportunity
to see the country, which they examined with the curious eyes of youth.
But there was little to see. The last leaves were falling from the trees
under the early winter rain. Bare boughs and brown grass went past their
windows and the fields were deserted. The landscape looked chill and
sullen.

Warner was less depressed than Dick. He had an even temperament based
solidly upon mathematical calculations. He knew that while it might
be raining today, the chances were several to one against its raining
tomorrow.

“I've good cause to remember Baltimore,” he said. “I was with the New
England troops when they had the fight there on the way down to the
capital. Although we hold it, it's really a Southern city, Dick. Most
all the border cities are Southern in sympathy, and they're swarming
with people who will send to the Southern leaders news of every movement
we make. I state, and moreover I assert it in the face of all the
world, that the knowledge of our departure from Washington is already
in Southern hands. By close mathematical calculation the chances are at
least ninety-five per cent in favor of my statement.”

“Very likely,” said Dick, “and we'll have that sort of thing to face all
the time when we invade the South. We've got to win this war, George,
by hard fighting, and then more hard fighting, and then more and more of
the same.”

“Guess you're right. Arithmetic shows at least one hundred per cent of
probability in favor of your suggestion.”

Dick looked up and down the long coach packed with young troops. Besides
the commissioned officers and the sergeants, there was not one in the
coach who was twenty-five. Most of them were nineteen or twenty, and
it was the same in the other coaches. After the first depression their
spirits rose. The temper of youth showed strongly. They were eager to
see Baltimore, but the train stopped there only a few minutes, and they
were not allowed to leave the coaches.

Then the train turned towards the west. The drizzle of rain had now
become a pour, and it drove so heavily that they could see but little
outside. Food was served at noon and afterward many slept in the cramped
seats. Dick, despite his stiff position, fell asleep too. By the middle
of the afternoon everybody in their coach was slumbering soundly except
Sergeant Whitley, who sat by the door leading to the next car.

All that afternoon and into the night the train rattled and moved into
the west. The beautiful rolling country was left behind, and they were
now among the mountains, whirling around precipices so sharply that
often the sleeping boys were thrown from the seats of the coaches. But
they were growing used to hardships. They merely climbed back again upon
the seats, and were asleep once more in half a minute.

The rain still fell and the wind blew fiercely among the somber
mountains. A second engine had been added to the train, and the speed
of the train was slackened. The engineer in front stared at the slippery
rails, but he could see only a few yards. The pitchy darkness closed in
ahead, hiding everything, even the peaks and ridges. The heart of
that engineer, and he was a brave man, as brave as any soldier on the
battlefield, had sunk very low. Railroads were little past their infancy
then and this was the first to cross the mountains. He was by no means
certain of his track, and, moreover, the rocks and forest might shelter
an ambush.

The Alleghanies and their outlying ridges and spurs are not lofty
mountains, but to this day they are wild and almost inaccessible in
many places. Nature has made them a formidable barrier, and in the
great Civil War those who trod there had to look with all their eyes and
listen with all their ears. The engineer was not alone in his anxiety
this night. Colonel Newcomb rose from an uneasy doze and he went with
Major Hertford into the engineer's cab. They were now going at the rate
of not more than five or six miles an hour, the long train winding like
a snake around the edges of precipices and feeling its way gingerly over
the trestles that spanned the deep valleys. All trains made a great roar
and rattle then, and the long ravines gave it back in a rumbling and
menacing echo. Gusts of rain were swept now and then into the faces of
the engineer, the firemen and the officers.

“Do you see anything ahead, Canby?” said Colonel Newcomb to the
engineer.

“Nothing. That's the trouble, sir. If it were a clear night I shouldn't
be worried. Then we wouldn't be likely to steam into danger with our
eyes shut. This is a wild country. The mountaineers in the main are for
us, but we are not far north of the Southern line, and if they know we
are crossing they may undertake to raid in here.”

“And they may know it,” said the colonel. “Washington is full of
Southern sympathizers. Stop the train, Canby, when we come to the first
open and level space, and we'll do some scouting ahead.”

The engineer felt great relief. He was devoutly glad that the colonel
was going to take such a precaution. At that moment he, more than
Colonel Newcomb, was responsible for the lives of the seven hundred
human beings aboard the train, and his patriotism and sense of
responsibility were both strong.

The train, with much jolting and clanging, stopped fifteen minutes
later. Both Dick and Warner, awakened by the shock, sat up and rubbed
their eyes. Then they left the train at once to join Colonel Newcomb,
who might want them immediately. Wary Sergeant Whitley followed them in
silence.

The boys found Colonel Newcomb and the remaining members of his staff
standing near, and seeking anxiously to discover the nature of the
country about them. The colonel nodded when they arrived, and gave them
an approving glance. The two stood by, awaiting the colonel's orders,
but they did not neglect to use their eyes.

Dick saw by the engineer's lantern that they were in a valley, and he
learned from his words that this valley was about three miles long with
a width of perhaps half a mile. A little mountain river rushed down its
center, and the train would cross the stream about a mile further on.
It was still raining and the cold wind whistled down from the mountains.
Dick could see the somber ridges showing dimly through the loom of
darkness and rain. He was instantly aware, too, of a tense and uneasy
feeling among the officers. All of them carried glasses, but in the
darkness they could not use them. Lights began to appear in the train
and many heads were thrust out at the windows.

“Go through the coaches, Mr. Mason and Mr. Warner,” said Colonel
Newcomb, “and have every light put out immediately. Tell them, too, that
my orders are for absolute silence.”

Dick and the Vermonter did their work rapidly, receiving many curious
inquiries, as they went from coach to coach, all of which they were
honestly unable to answer. They knew no more than the other boys about
the situation. But when they left the last coach and returned to the
officers near the engine, the train was in total darkness, and no sound
came from it. Colonel Newcomb again gave them an approving nod. Dick
noticed that the fires in the engine were now well covered, and that no
sparks came from the smoke-stack. Standing by it he could see the long
shape of the train running back in the darkness, but it would have been
invisible to any one a hundred yards away.

“You think we're thoroughly hidden now, Canby?” said the colonel.

“Yes, sir. Unless they've located us precisely on advance information.
I don't see how they could find us among the mountains in all this
darkness and rain.”

“But they've had the advance information! Look there!” exclaimed Major
Hertford, pointing toward the high ridge that lay on their right.

A beam of light had appeared on the loftiest spur, standing out at first
like a red star in the darkness, then growing intensely brighter, and
burning with a steady, vivid light. The effect was weird and powerful.
The mountain beneath it was invisible, and it seemed to burn there like
a real eye, wrathful and menacing. The older men, as well as the boys,
were held as if by a spell. It was something monstrous and eastern, like
the appearance of a genie out of the Arabian Nights.

The light, after remaining fixed for at least a minute, began to move
slowly from side to side and then faster.

“A signal!” exclaimed Colonel Newcomb. “Beyond a doubt it is the
Southerners. Whatever they're saying they're saying it to somebody. Look
toward the south!”

“Ah, there they are answering!” exclaimed Major Hertford.

All had wheeled simultaneously, and on another high spur a mile to the
south a second red light as vivid and intense as the first was flashing
back and forth. It, too, the mountain below invisible, seemed to swing
in the heavens. Dick, standing there in the darkness and rain, and
knowing that imminent and mortal danger was on either side, felt a
frightful chill creeping slowly down his spine. It is a terrible
thing to feel through some superior sense that an invisible foe is
approaching, and not be able to know by any kind of striving whence he
came.

The lights flashed alternately, and presently both dropped from the sky,
seeming to Dick to leave blacker spots on the darkness in their place.
Then only the heavy night and the rain encompassed them.

“What do you think it is?” asked Colonel Newcomb of Major Hertford.

“Southern troops beyond a doubt. It is equally certain that they were
warned in some manner from Washington of our departure.”

“I think so, too. It is probable that they saw the light and have been
signalling their knowledge to each other. It seems likely to me that
they will wait at the far end of the valley to cut us off. What force do
you think it is?”

“Perhaps a cavalry detachment that has ridden hurriedly to intercept us.
I would say at a guess that it is Turner Ashby and his men. A skillful
and dangerous foe, as you know.”

Already the fame of this daring Confederate horseman was spreading over
Virginia and Maryland.

“If we are right in our guess,” said Major Hertford, “they will
dismount, lead their horses along the mountain side, and shut down the
trap upon us. Doubtless they are in superior force, and know the country
much better than we do. If they get ahead of us and have a little time
to do it in they will certainly tear up the tracks.”

“I think you are right in all respects,” said Colonel Newcomb. “But it
is obvious that we must not give them time to destroy the road ahead of
us. As for the rest, I wonder.”

He pulled uneasily at his short beard, and then he caught sight of
Sergeant Whitley standing silently, arms folded, by the side of the
engine. Newcomb, the miner colonel, was a man of big and open mind.
A successful business man, he had the qualities which made him a good
general by the time the war was in its third year. He knew Whitley and
he knew, too, that he was an old army regular, bristling with experience
and shrewdness.

“Sergeant Whitley,” he said, “in this emergency what would you do, if
you were in my place?”

The sergeant saluted respectfully.

“If I were in your place, sir, which I never will be,” he replied,
“I would have all the troops leave the train. Then I would have the
engineers take the train forward slowly, while the troops marched on
either side of it, but at a sufficient distance to be hidden in the
darkness. Then, sir, our men could not be caught in a wreck, but with
their feet on solid earth they would be ready, if need be, for a fight,
which is our business.”

“Well spoken, Sergeant Whitley,” said Colonel Newcomb, while the other
officers also nodded approval. “Your plan is excellent and we will adopt
it. Get the troops out of the train quickly but in silence and do you,
Canby, be ready with the engine.”

Dick and Warner with the older officers turned to the task. The young
soldiers were out of the train in two minutes and were forming in lines
on either side, arms ready. There were many whisperings among these
boys, but none loud enough to be heard twenty yards away. All felt
intense relief when they left the train and stood upon the solid, though
decidedly damp earth.

But the cold rain sweeping upon their faces was a tonic, both mental and
physical, after the close heat of the train. They did not know why they
had disembarked, but they surmised with good reason that an attack was
threatened and they were eager to meet it.

Dick and Warner were near the head of the line on the right of the
tracks, and Sergeant Whitley was with them. The train began to puff
heavily, and in spite of every precaution some sparks flew from the
smoke-stack. Dick knew that it was bound to rumble and rattle when it
started, but he was surprised at the enormous amount of noise it made,
when the wheels really began to turn. It seemed to him that in the
silence of the night it could be heard three or four miles. Then he
realized that it was merely his own excitement and extreme tension of
both mind and body. Canby was taking the train forward so gently that
its sounds were drowned two hundred yards away in the swirl of wind and
rain.

The men marched, each line keeping abreast of the train, but fifty yards
or more to one side. The young troops were forbidden to speak and their
footsteps made no noise in the wet grass and low bushes. Dick and Warner
kept their eyes on the mountains, turning them alternately from north to
south. Nothing appeared on either ridge, and no sound came to tell of an
enemy near.

Dick began to believe that they would pass through the valley and out of
the trap without a combat. But while a train may go two or three miles
in a few minutes it takes troops marching in the darkness over uncertain
ground a long time to cover the same distance. They marched a full half
hour and then Dick suppressed a cry. The light, burning as intensely
red as before, appeared again on the mountain to the right, but further
toward the west, seeming to have moved parallel to the Northern troops.
As Dick looked it began to flash swiftly from side to side and that
chill and weird feeling again ran down his spine. He looked toward the
south and there was the second signal, red and intense, replying to the
first.

Dick heard a deep “Ah!” run along the line of young troops, and he knew
now that they understood as much as he or any of the officers did. He
now knew, too, that they would not pass out of the valley without a
combat. The Southern forces, beyond a doubt, would try to shut them in
at the western mouth of the valley, and a battle in the night and rain
was sure to follow.

The train continued to move slowly forward. Had Colonel Newcomb dared
he would have ordered Canby to increase his speed in order that he might
reach the western mouth of the valley before the Southern force had a
chance to tear up the rails, but there was no use for the train without
the troops and they were already marching as fast as they could.

The gorge was now not more than a quarter of a mile away. Dick was able
to discern it, because the darkness there was not quite so dark as that
which lay against the mountains on either side. He was hopeful that they
might yet reach it before the Southern force could close down upon them,
but before they went many yards further he heard the beat of horses'
feet both to right and left and knew that the enemy was at hand.

“Take the train on through the pass, Canby!” shouted Colonel Newcomb.
“We'll cover its retreat, and join you later--if we can.”

The train began to rattle and roar, and its speed increased. Showers
of sparks shot from the funnels of the two engines, and gleamed for
an instant in the darkness. The beat of horses' feet grew to thunder.
Colonel Newcomb with great presence of mind drew the two parallel lines
of his men close together, and ordered them to lie down on either side
of the railroad track and face outward with cocked rifles. Dick, the
Vermonter, and Sergeant Whitley lay close together, and the three faced
the north.

“See the torches!” said Whitley.

Dick saw eight or ten torches wavering and flickering at a height of
seven or eight feet above the ground, and he knew that they were carried
by horsemen, but he could not see either men or horses beneath. Then the
rapid beat of hoofs ceased abruptly at a distance that Dick thought must
be about two hundred yards.

“Lie flat!” cried Whitley. “They're about to fire!”




CHAPTER III. THE TELEGRAPH STATION


The darkness to the north was suddenly split apart by a solid sheet of
flame. Dick by the light saw many men on horseback and others on foot,
bridle rein over arm. It was well for the seven hundred boys that they
had pressed themselves against the solid earth. A sheet of bullets swept
toward them. Most passed over their heads, but many struck upon bones
and flesh, and cries of pain rose from the lines of men lying along the
railroad track.

The seven hundred pulled trigger and fired at the flash. They fired
so well that Dick could hear Southern horses neighing with pain, and
struggling in the darkness. He felt sure that many men, too, had been
hit. At least no charge came. The seven hundred shouted with exultation
and, leaping to their feet, prepared to fire a second volley. But the
swift command of their officers quickly put them down again.

“Don't forget the other Confederate column to the south of us,”
 whispered Whitley. “They did not fire at first for fear their bullets
would pass over our heads and strike their own comrades. For the same
reason they must have dropped back a little in order to avoid the fire
of their friends. Their volley will come from an angle about midway
between our left and rear.”

Just as he spoke the last words the rifles flashed at the surmised angle
and again the bullets beat among the young troops or swept over their
heads. A soldier was killed only a few feet from Dick. The boy picked up
his rifle and ammunition and began to fire whenever he saw the flash of
an opposing weapon. But the fire of both Confederate columns ceased in
a minute or two, and not a shot nor the sound of a single order came out
of the darkness. But Dick with his ear to the soft earth, could hear the
crush of hoofs in the mud, and with a peculiar ability to discern whence
sound came he knew that the force on the left and rear was crossing
the railroad track in order to join their comrades on the north. He
whispered his knowledge to Whitley, who whispered back:

“It's the natural thing for them to do. They could not afford to fight
on in the darkness with two separate forces. The two columns would soon
be firing into each other.”

Colonel Newcomb now gave an order for the men to rise and follow the
railroad track, but also to fire at the flash of the rifles whenever
a volley was poured upon them. He must not only beat off the Southern
attack, but also continue the journey to those points in the west where
they were needed so sorely. Some of his men had been killed, and he
was compelled to leave their bodies where they had fallen. Others were
wounded, but without exception they were helped along by their comrades.

Warner also had secured a rifle, with which he fired occasionally, but
he and Dick, despite the darkness, kept near to Colonel Newcomb in
order that they might deliver any orders that he should choose to give.
Sergeant Whitley was close to them. Dick presently heard the rush of
water.

“What is that?” he exclaimed.

“It's the little river that runs down the valley,” replied Warner.
“There's a slope here and it comes like a torrent. A bridge or rather
trestle is only a little further, and we've got to walk the ties, if we
reach the other side. They'll make their heaviest rush there, I suppose,
as beyond a doubt they are thoroughly acquainted with the ground.”

The Northern troops left the track which here ran along an embankment
several feet high, and took shelter on its southern side. They now had
an advantage for a while, as they fired from a breastwork upon their
foes, who were in the open. But the darkness, lit only by the flashes of
the rifles, kept the fire of both sides from being very destructive, the
bullets being sent mainly at random.

Dick dimly saw the trestle work ahead of them, and the roaring of the
little river increased. He did not know how deep the water was, but he
was sure that it could not be above his waist as it was a small stream.
An idea occurred to him and he promptly communicated it to Colonel
Newcomb.

“Suppose, sir,” he said, “that we ford the river just below the trestle.
It will deceive them and we'll be half way across before they suspect
the change.”

“A good plan, Mr. Mason,” said Colonel Newcomb. “We'll try it.”

Word was quickly passed along the line that they should turn to the left
as they approached the trestle, march swiftly down the slope, and dash
into the stream. As fast as they reached the other side of the ford the
men should form upon the bank there, and with their rifles cover the
passage of their comrades.

The skeleton work of the trestle now rose more clearly into view. The
rain had almost ceased and faint rays of moonlight showed through the
rifts where the clouds had broken apart. The boys distinctly heard the
gurgling rush of waters, and they also saw the clear, bluish surface of
the mountain stream. The same quickening of light disclosed the Southern
force on their right flank and rear, only four or five hundred yards
away. Dick's hasty glance backward lingered for a moment on a powerful
man on a white horse just in advance of the Southern column. He saw
this man raise his hand and then command the men to fire. He and twenty
others under the impulse of excitement shouted to the regiment to drop
down, and the Northern lads did so.

Most of the volley passed over their heads. Rising they sent back a
return discharge, and then the head of the columns rushed into the
stream. Dick felt swift water whirling about him and tugging at his
body, but it rose no higher than his waist, although foam and spray
were dashed into his face. He heard all around him the splashing of his
comrades, and their murmurs of satisfaction. They realized now that they
were not only able to retreat before a much superior force, but this
same stream, when crossed, would form a barrier behind which they could
fight two to one.

The Confederate leader, whoever he might be, and Dick had no doubt that
he was the redoubtable Turner Ashby, also appreciated the full facts and
he drove his whole force straight at the regiment. It was well for
the young troops that part of them were already across, and, under the
skillful leadership of Colonel Newcomb, Major Hertford, and three or
four old, regular army sergeants, of whom the best was Whitley, were
already forming in line of battle.

“Kneel,” shouted the colonel, “and fire over the heads of your comrades
at the enemy!”

The light was still growing brighter. The rain came only in slight
flurries. The clouds were trooping off toward the northeast, and the
moon was out. Dick clearly saw the black mass of the Southern horsemen
wheeling down upon them. At least three hundred of the regiment were now
upon the bank, and, with fairly steady aim, they poured a heavy volley
into the massed ranks of their foe. Dick saw horses fall while others
dashed away riderless. But the Southern line wavered only for a moment
and then came on again with many shouts. There were also dismounted
men on either flank who knelt and maintained a heavy fire upon the
defenders.

The lads in blue were suffering many wounds, but a line of trees
and underbrush on the western shore helped them. Lying there partly
protected they loaded and pulled trigger as fast as they could, while
the rest of their comrades emerged dripping from the stream to join
them. The Confederates, brave as they were, had no choice but to give
ground against such strong defense, and the miner colonel, despite his
reserve and his middle years, gave vent to his exultation.

“We can hold this line forever!” he exclaimed to his aides. “It's one
thing to charge us in the open, but it's quite another to get at us
across a deep and rushing stream. Major Hertford, take part of the men
to the other side of the railroad track and drive back any attempt at a
crossing there. Lieutenant Mason, you and Lieutenant Warner go ahead and
see what has become of the train. You can get back here in plenty time
for more fighting.”

Dick and Warner hurried forward, following the line of the railroad.
Their blood was up and they did not like to leave the defense of the
river, but orders must be obeyed. As they ran down the railroad track a
man came forward swinging a lantern, and they saw the tall gaunt figure
of Canby, the chief engineer. Behind him the train stretched away in the
darkness.

“I guess that our men have forded the river and are holding the bank,”
 said Canby. “Do they need the train crew back there to help?”

He spoke with husky eagerness. Dick knew that he was longing to be in
the middle of the fight, but that his duty kept him with the train.

“No,” he replied. “The river bank, and the road along its shore give us
a great position for defense, and I know we can hold it. Colonel Newcomb
did not say so, but perhaps you'd better bring the train back nearer us.
It's not our object to stay in this valley and fight, but to go into the
west. Is all clear ahead?”

“No enemy is there. Some of the brakemen have gone on a mile or two and
they say the track hasn't been touched. You tell Colonel Newcomb that
I'm bringing the train right down to the battle line.”

Dick and Warner returned quickly to Colonel Newcomb, who appreciated
Canby's courage and presence of mind. As the train approached the four
cannon were unloaded from the trucks, and swept the further shore with
shell and shrapnel. After a scattered fire the Southern force withdrew
some distance, where it halted, apparently undecided. The clouds rolled
up again, the feeble moon disappeared, and the river sank into the dark.

“May I make a suggestion, Colonel Newcomb?” said Major Hertford.

“Certainly.”

“The enemy will probably seek an undefended ford much higher up, cross
under cover of the new darkness and attack us in heavy force on the
flank. Suppose we get aboard the train at once, cannon and all, and
leave them far behind.”

“Excellent. If the darkness covers their movements it also covers ours.
Load the train as fast as possible and see that no wounded are left
behind.”

He gave rapid orders to all his officers and aides, and in fifteen
minutes the troops were aboard the train again, the cannon were lifted
upon the trucks, Canby and his assistants had all steam up, and the
train with its usual rattle and roar resumed its flight into the west.

Dick and Warner were in the first coach near Colonel Newcomb, ready for
any commands that he might give. Both had come through the defense of
the ford without injury, although a bullet had gone through Dick's coat
without touching the skin. Sergeant Whitley, too, was unharmed, but the
regiment had suffered. More than twenty dead were left in the valley for
the enemy to bury.

Despite all the commands and efforts of the officers there was much
excited talk in the train. Boys were binding up wounds of other boys and
were condoling with them. But on the whole they were exultant. Youth
did not realize the loss of those who had been with them so little.
Scattered exclamations came to Dick:

“We beat 'em off that time, an' we can do it again.”

“Lucky though we had that little river before us. Guess they'd have rode
us right down with their horses if it hadn't been for the stream an' its
banks.”

“Ouch, don't draw that bandage so tight on my arm. It ain't nothin' but
a flesh wound.”

“I hate a battle in the dark. Give me the good sunshine, where you can
see what's goin' on. My God, that you Bill! I'm tremendous glad to see
you! I thought you was lyin' still, back there in the grass!”

Dick said nothing. He was in a seat next to the window, and his face was
pressed against the rain-marked pane. The rifle that he had picked up
and used so well was still clutched, grimed with smoke, in his hands.
The train had not yet got up speed. He caught glimpses of the river
behind which they had fought, and which had served them so well as a
barrier. In fact, he knew that it had saved them. But they had beaten
off the enemy! The pulses in his temples still throbbed from exertion
and excitement, but his heart beat exultantly. The bitterness of Bull
Run was deep and it had lasted long, but here they were the victors.

The speed of the train increased and Dick knew that they were safe from
further attack. They were still running among mountains, clad heavily
in forest, but a meeting with a second Southern force was beyond
probability. The first had made a quick raid on information supplied by
spies in Washington, but it had failed and the way was now clear.

Ample food was served somewhat late to the whole regiment, the last
wounds were bound up, and Dick, having put aside the rifle, fell asleep
at last. His head lay against the window and he slept heavily all
through the night. Warner in the next seat slept in the same way. But
the wise old sergeant just across the aisle remained awake much longer.
He was summing up and he concluded that the seven hundred lads had done
well. They were raw, but they were being whipped into shape.

He smiled a little grimly as the unspoken words, “whipped into shape,”
 rose to his lips. The veteran of many an Indian battle foresaw something
vastly greater than anything that had occurred on the plains. “Whipped
into shape!” Why, in the mighty war that was gathering along a front of
two thousand miles no soldier could escape being whipped into shape, or
being whipped out of it.

But the sergeant's own eyes closed after a while, and he, too, slept the
sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion. The train rumbled on, the
faithful Canby in the first engine aware of his great responsibility and
equal to it. Not a wink of sleep for him that night. The darkness had
lightened somewhat more. The black of the skies had turned to a dusky
blue, and the bolder stars were out. He could always see the shining
rails three or four hundred yards ahead, and he sent his train steadily
forward at full speed, winding among the gorges and rattling over the
trestles. The silent mountains gave back every sound in dying echoes,
but Canby paid no heed to them. His eyes were always on the track ahead,
and he, too, was exultant. He had brought the regiment through, and
while it was on the train his responsibility was not inferior to that of
Colonel Newcomb.

When Dick awoke, bright light was pouring in at the car windows, but the
car was cold and his body was stiff and sore. His military overcoat had
been thrown over him in the night and Warner had been covered in
the same way. They did not know that Sergeant Whitley had done that
thoughtful act.

Dick stretched himself and drew deep breaths. Warm youth soon sent the
blood flowing in a full tide through his veins, and the stiffness
and soreness departed. He saw through the window that they were still
running among the mountains, but they did not seem to be so high here
as they were at the river by which they had fought in the night. He knew
from his geography and his calculation of time that they must be far
into that part of Virginia which is now West Virginia.

There was no rain now, at least where the train was running, but the
sun had risen on a cold world. Far up on the higher peaks he saw a fine
white mist which he believed to be falling snow. Obviously it was winter
here and putting on the big military coat he drew it tightly about him.
Others in the coach were waking up and some of them, grown feverish
with their wounds, were moving restlessly on their seats, where they lay
protected by the blankets of their fellows.

Dick now and then saw a cabin nestling in the lee of a hill, with the
blue smoke rising from its chimney into the clear, wintry air, and
small and poor as they were they gave him a singular sense of peace and
comfort. His mind felt for a few moments a strong reaction from war and
its terrors, but the impulse and the strong purpose that bore him on
soon came back.

The train rushed through a pass and entered a sheltered valley a mile or
two wide and eight or ten miles long. A large creek ran through it, and
the train stopped at a village on its banks. The whole population of the
village and all the farmers of the valley were there to meet them. It
was a Union valley and by some system of mountain telegraphy, although
there were no telegraph wires, news of the battle at the ford had
preceded the train.

“Come, lads,” said Colonel Newcomb to his staff. “Out with you! We're
among friends here!”

Dick and Warner were glad enough to leave the train. The air, cold as it
was, was like the breath of heaven on their faces, and the cheers of
the people were like the trump of fame in their ears. Pretty girls with
their faces in red hoods or red comforters were there with food and
smoking coffee. Medicines for the wounded, as much as the village could
supply, had been brought to the train, and places were already made for
those hurt too badly to go on with the expedition.

The whole cheerful scene, with its life and movement, the sight of new
faces and the sound of many voices, had a wonderful effect upon young
Dick Mason. He had a marvellously sensitive temperament, a direct
inheritance from his famous border ancestor, Paul Cotter. Things were
always vivid to him. Either they glowed with color, or they were hueless
and dead. This morning the long strain of the night and its battle was
relaxed completely. The grass in the valley was brown with frost, and
the trees were shorn of their leaves by the winter winds, but to Dick
it was the finest village that he had ever seen, and these were the
friendliest people in the world.

He drank a cup of hot coffee handed to him by the stalwart wife of a
farmer, and then, when she insisted, drank another.

“You're young to be fightin',” she said sympathetically.

“We all are,” said Dick with a glance at the regiment, “but however
we may fight you'll never find anybody attacking a breakfast with more
valor and spirit than we do.”

She looked at the long line of lads, drinking coffee and eating ham,
bacon, eggs, and hot biscuits, and smiled.

“I reckon you tell the truth, young feller,” she said, “but it's good to
see 'em go at it.”

She passed on to help others, and Dick, summoned by Colonel Newcomb,
went into a little railroad and telegraph station. The telegraph wires
had been cut behind them, but ten miles across the mountains the spur of
another railroad touched a valley. The second railroad looped toward
the north, and it was absolutely sure that it was beyond the reach
of Southern raiders. Colonel Newcomb wished to send a message to the
Secretary of War and the President, telling of the night's events and
his triumphant passage through the ordeal. These circumstances might
make them wish to change his orders, and at any rate the commander of
the regiment wished to be sure of what he was doing.

“You're a Kentuckian and a good horseman,” said Colonel Newcomb to Dick.
“The villagers have sent me a trusty man, one Bill Petty, as a guide.
Take Sergeant Whitley and you three go to the station. I've already
written my dispatches, and I put them in your care. Have them sent at
once, and if necessary wait four hours for an answer. If it comes, ride
back as fast as you can. The horses are ready and I rely upon you.”

“Thank you, sir, I'll do my best,” said Dick, who deeply appreciated the
colonel's confidence. He wasted no time in words, but went at once to
Sergeant Whitley, who was ready in five minutes. Warner, who heard of
the mission, was disappointed because he was not going too. But he was
philosophical.

“I've made a close calculation,” he said, “and I have demonstrated to
my own satisfaction that our opportunities are sixty per cent energy and
ability, twenty per cent manners, and twenty per cent chance. In this
case chance, which made the Colonel better acquainted with you than
with me, was in your favor. We won't discuss the other eighty per cent,
because this twenty is enough. Besides it looks pretty cold on the
mountains, and its fine here in the village. But luck with you, Dick.”

He gave his comrade's hand a strong grasp and walked away toward the
little square of the village, where the troops were encamped for the
present. Dick sprang upon a horse which Bill Petty was holding for him.
Whitley was already up, and the three rode swiftly toward a blue line
which marked a cleft between two ridges. Dick first observed their
guide. Bill Petty was a short but very stout man, clad in a suit of
home-made blue jeans, the trousers of which were thrust into high
boots with red tops. A heavy shawl of dark red was wrapped around his
shoulders, and beneath his broad-brimmed hat a red woolen comforter
covered his ears, cheeks, and chin. His thick hair and a thick beard
clothing his entire face were a flaming red. The whole effect of the man
was somewhat startling, but when he saw Dick looking at him in curiosity
his mouth opened wide in a grin of extreme good nature.

“I guess you think I'm right red,” he said. “Well, I am, an' as you see
I always dress to suit my complexion. Guess I'll warm up the road some
on a winter day like this.”

“Would you mind my callin' you Red Blaze?” asked Sergeant Whitley
gravely.

“Not-a-tall! Not-a-tall! I'd like it. I guess it's sorter pictorial an'
'maginative like them knights of old who had fancy names 'cordin' to
their qualities. People 'round here are pretty plain, an' they've never
called me nothin' but Bill. Red Blaze she is.”

“An' Blaze for short. Well, then, Blaze, what kind of a road is that
we're goin' to ride on?”

“Depends on the kind of weather in which you ask the question. As it's
the fust edge of winter here in the mountains, though it ain't quite
come in the lowlands, an' as it's rained a lot in the last week, I
reckon you'll find it bad. Mebbe our hosses will go down in the road
to thar knees, but I guess they won't sink up to thar bodies. They may
stumble an' throw us, but as we'll hit in soft mud it ain't likely to
hurt us. It may rain hard, 'cause I see clouds heapin' up thar in the
west. An' if it rains the cold may then freeze a skim of ice over the
road, on which we could slip an' break our necks, hosses an' all. Then
thar are some cliffs close to the road. If we was to slip on that thar
skim of ice which we've reckoned might come, then mebbe we'd go over one
of them cliffs and drop down a hundred feet or so right swift. If it was
soft mud down below we might not get hurt mortal. But it ain't soft
mud. We'd hit right in the middle of sharp, hard rocks. An' if a gang
of rebel sharpshooters has wandered up here they may see us an' chase us
'way off into the mountains, where we'd break our necks fallin' off the
ridges or freeze to death or starve to death.”

Whitley stared at him.

“Blaze,” he exclaimed, “what kind of a man are you anyway?”

“Me? I'm the happiest man in the valley. When people are low down they
come an' talk to me to get cheered up. I always lay the worst before you
first an' then shove it out of the way. None of them things that I was
conjurin' up is goin' to happen. I was just tellin' you of the things
you was goin' to escape, and now you'll feel good, knowin' what dangers
you have passed before they happened.”

Dick laughed. He liked this intensely red man with his round face and
twinkling eyes. He saw, too, that the mountaineer was a fine horseman,
and as he carried a long slender-barreled rifle over his shoulder, while
a double-barreled pistol was thrust in his belt, it was likely that he
would prove a formidable enemy to any who sought to stop him.

“Perhaps your way is wise,” said the boy. “You begin with the bad
and end with the good. What is the name of this place to which we are
going?”

“Hubbard. There was a pioneer who fit the Injuns in here in early
times. I never heard that he got much, 'cept a town named after him. But
Hubbard is a right peart little place, with a bank, two stores, three
churches, an' nigh on to two hundred people. Are you wrapped up well,
Mr. Mason, 'cause it's goin' to be cold on the mountains?”

Dick wore heavy boots, and a long, heavy military coat which fell below
his knees and which also had a high collar protecting his ears. He
was provided also with heavy buckskin gloves. The sergeant was clad
similarly.

“I think I'm clothed against any amount of cold,” he replied.

“Well, you need to be,” said Petty, “'cause the pass through which we're
goin' is at least fifteen hundred feet above Townsville--that's our
village--an' I reckon it's just 'bout as high over Hubbard. Them fifteen
hundred feet make a pow'ful difference in climate, as you'll soon find
out. It's not only colder thar, but the winds are always blowin' hard
through the pass. Jest look back at Townsville. Ain't she fine an' neat
down thar in the valley, beside that clear creek which higher up in the
mountains is full of the juiciest an' sweetest trout that man ever stuck
a tooth into.”

Dick saw that Petty was talkative, but he did not mind. In fact, both
he and Whitley liked the man's joyous and unbroken run of chatter. He
turned in his saddle and looked back, following the stout man's pointing
finger. Townsville, though but a little mountain town built mainly of
logs, was indeed a jewel, softened and with a silver sheen thrown over
it by the mountain air which was misty that morning. He dimly saw the
long black line of the train standing on the track, and here and there
warm rings of smoke rose from the chimneys and floated up into the
heavens, where they were lost.

He thought he could detect little figures moving beside the train and
he knew that they must be those of his comrades. He felt for a moment
a sense of loneliness. He had not known these lads long, but the battle
had bound them firmly together. They had been comrades in danger and
that made them comrades as long as they lived.

“Greatest town in the world,” said Petty, waving toward it a huge hand,
encased in a thick yarn glove. “I've traveled from it as much as fifty
miles in every direction, north, south, east, an' west, an' I ain't
never seed its match. I reckon I'm somethin' of a traveler, but every
time I come back to Townsville, I think all the more of it, seein' how
much better it is than anything else.”

Dick glanced at the mountaineer, and saw that there could be no doubt of
his sincerity.

“You're a lucky man, Mr. Petty,” he said, “to live in the finest place
in the world.”

“Yes, if I don't get drug off to the war. I'm not hankerin' for fightin'
an' I don't know much what the war's about though I'm for the Union,
fust to last, an' that's the way most of the people 'bout here feel.
Turn your heads ag'in, friends, an' take another look at Townsville.”

Dick and Whitley glanced back and saw only the blank gray wall of the
mountain. Petty laughed. He was the finest laugher that Dick had ever
heard. The laugh did not merely come from the mouth, it was also exuded,
pouring out through every pore. It was rolling, unctuous, and so strong
that Petty not only shook with it, but his horse seemed to shake also.
It was mellow, too, with an organ note that comes of a mighty lung and
throat, and of pure air breathed all the year around.

“Thought I'd git the joke on you,” he said, when he stopped laughing.
“The road's been slantin' into the mountains, without you knowin' it,
and Townsville is cut off by the cliffs. You'll find it gettin' wilder
now 'till we start down the slope on the other side. Lucky our hosses
are strong, 'cause the mud is deeper than I thought it would be.”

It was not really a road that they were following, merely a path, and
the going was painful. Under Petty's instructions they stopped their
mounts now and then for a rest, and a mile further on they began to feel
a rising wind.

“It's the wind that I told you of,” said Petty. “It's sucked through six
or seven miles of pass, an' it will blow straight in our faces all the
way. As we'll be goin' up for a long distance you'll find it growin'
colder, too. But you've got to remember that after you pass them cold
winds an' go down the slope you'll strike another warm little valley,
the one in which Hubbard is layin' so neat an' so snug.”

Dick had already noticed the increasing coldness and so had the
sergeant. Whitley, from his long experience on the plains, had the
keenest kind of an eye for climatic changes. He noticed with some
apprehension that the higher peaks were clothed in thick, cold fog, but
he said nothing to the brave boy whom he had grown to love like a son.
But both he and Dick drew their heavy coats closer and were thankful for
the buckskin gloves, without which their hands would have stiffened on
the reins.

Now they rode in silence with their heads bent well forward, because
the wind was becoming fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaks the fogs were
growing thicker and darker and after a while the sharp edge of the wind
was wet with rain. It stung their faces, and they drew their hat brims
lower and their coat collars higher to protect themselves from such a
cutting blast.

“Told you we might have trouble,” called Petty, cheerfully, “but if
you ride right on through trouble you'll leave trouble behind. Nor this
ain't nothin' either to what we kin expect before we git to the top of
the pass. Cur'us what a pow'ful lot human bein's kin stand when they
make up their minds to it.”

“Are the horses well shod?” asked Whitley.

“Best shod in the world, 'cause I done it myself. That's my trade,
blacksmith, an' I'm a good one if I do say it. I heard before we started
that you had been a soldier in the west. I s'pose that you had to look
mighty close to your hosses then. A man couldn't afford to be ridin'
a hoss made lame by bad shoein' when ten thousand yellin' Sioux or
Blackfeet was after him.”

“No, you couldn't,” replied the sergeant. “Out there you had to watch
every detail. That's one of the things that fightin' Indians taught.
You had to be watchin' all the time an' I reckon the trainin' will be
of value in this war. Are we mighty near to the top of the pass, Mr.
Petty?”

“Got two or three miles yet. The slope is steeper on the other side. We
rise a lot more before we hit the top.”

The wind grew stronger with every rod they ascended, and the horses
began to pant with their severe exertions. At Petty's suggestion the
three riders dismounted and walked for a while, leading their horses.
The rain turned to a fine hail and stung their faces. Had it not
been for his two good comrades Dick would have found his situation
inexpressibly lonely and dreary. The heavy fog now enveloped all the
peaks and ridges and filled every valley and chasm. He could see only
fifteen or twenty yards ahead along the muddy path, and the fine hail
which gave every promise of becoming a storm of sleet stung continually.
The wind confined in the narrow gorge also uttered a hideous shrieking
and moaning.

“Tests your nerve!” shouted Petty to Dick. “There are hard things
besides battles to stand, an' this is goin' to be one of the hard ones,
but if you go through it all right you kin go through any number of the
same kind all right, too. Likely the sleet will be so thick that it will
make a sheet of slippery ice for us comin' back. Now, hosses that ain't
got calks on thar shoes are pretty shore to slip an' fall, breakin' a
leg or two, an' mebbe breakin' the necks of thar riders.”

Dick looked at him with some amazement. Despite his announcement of dire
disaster the man's eyes twinkled merrily and the round, red outline of
his bushy head in the scarlet comforter made a cheerful blaze.

“It's jest as I told you,” said Petty, meeting the boy's look. “Without
calks on thar shoes our hosses are pretty shore to slip on the ice
and break theirselves up, or fall down a cliff an' break themselves up
more.”

“Then why in thunder, Blaze,” exclaimed Whitley, “did we start without
calks on the shoes of our horses?”

Red Blaze broke into a deep mellow laugh, starting from the bottom of
his diaphragm, swelling as it passed through his chest, swelling again
as it passed through throat and mouth, and bursting upon the open air in
a mighty diapason that rose cheerfully above the shrieking and moaning
of the wind.

“We didn't start without em,” he replied. “The twelve feet of these
three hosses have on 'em the finest calked shoes in all these mountains.
I put 'em on myself, beginnin' the job this mornin' before you was
awake, your colonel, on the advice of the people of Townsville who know
me as one of its leadin' an' trusted citizens, havin' selected me as the
guide of this trip. I was jest tellin' you what would happen to you if I
didn't justify the confidence of the people of Townsville.”

“I allow, Red Blaze,” said the sergeant with confidence, “that you ain't
no fool, an' that you're lookin' out for our best interests. Lead on.”

Red Blaze's mellow and pleased laugh rose once more above the whistling
of the wind.

“You kin ride ag'in now, boys,” he said. “The hosses are pretty well
rested.”

They resumed the saddle gladly and now mounted toward the crest of the
pass. The sleet turned to snow, which was a relief to their faces,
and Dick, with the constant beating of wind and snow, began to feel
a certain physical exhilaration. He realized the truth of Red Blaze's
assertion that if you stiffen your back and push your way through
troubles you leave troubles behind.

They rode now in silence for quite a while, and then Red Blaze suddenly
announced:

“We're at the top, boys.”




CHAPTER IV. THE FIGHT IN THE PASS


The three halted their horses and stood for a minute or two on the very
crest of the pass. The fierce wind out of the northwest blew directly in
their faces and both riders and horses alike were covered with snow. But
Dick felt a wonderful thrill as he gazed upon the vast white wilderness.
East and west, north and south he saw the driving snow and the lofty
peaks and ridges showing through it, white themselves. The towns below
and the cabins that snuggled in the coves were completely hidden. They
could see no sign of human life on slope or in valley.

“Looks as wild as the Rockies,” said the sergeant tersely.

“But you won't find any Injuns here to ambush you,” said Red Blaze,
“though I don't make any guarantee against bushwhackers and guerillas,
who'll change sides as often as two or three times a day, if it will
suit their convenience. They could hide in the woods along the road an'
pick us off as easy as I'd shoot a squirrel out of a tree. They'd like
to have our arms an' our big coats. I tell you what, friends, a mighty
civil war like ours gives a tremenjeous opportunity to bad men.
They're all comin' to the top. Every rascal in the mountains an' in the
lowlands, too, I guess, is out lookin' for plunder an' wuss.”

“You're right, Red Blaze,” said the sergeant with emphasis, “an' it
won't be stopped until the generals on both sides begin to hang an'
shoot the plunderers an' murderers.”

“But they can't ketch 'em all,” said Red Blaze. “A Yankee general with
a hundred thousand men will be out lookin' for what? Not for a gang
of robbers, not by a jugful. He'll be lookin' for a rebel general with
another hundred thousand men, an' the rebel general with a hundred
thousand men will be lookin' for that Yankee general with his hundred
thousand. So there you are, an' while they're lookin' for each other an'
then fightin' each other to a standstill, the robbers will be plunderin'
an' murderin'. But don't you worry about bein' ambushed. I was jest
tellin' you what might happen, but wouldn't happen. We kin go down hill
fast now, and we'll soon be in Hubbard, which is the other side of all
that fallin' snow.”

The road down the mountain was also better than the one by which they
had ascended, and as the horses with their calked shoes were swift of
foot they made rapid progress. As they descended, the wind lowered fast
and there was much less snow. Red Blaze said it was probably not snowing
in the valley at all.

“See that shinin' in the sun,” he said. “That's the tin coverin' on the
steeple of the new church in Hubbard. The sun strikes squar'ly on it,
an' now I know I'm right 'bout it not snowin' down thar. Wait 'til we
turn 'roun' this big rock. Yes, thar's Hubbard, layin' out in the valley
without a drop of snow on her. It looks good, don't it, friends, with
the smoke comin' out of the chimneys. That little red house over thar is
the railroad an' telegraph station, an' we'll go straight for it, 'cause
we ain't got no time to waste.”

They emerged into the valley and rode rapidly for the station. Farmers
on the outskirts and villagers looked wonderingly at them, but they did
not pause to answer questions. They galloped their tired mounts straight
for the little red building, which was the station. Dick sprang first
from his horse, and leaving it to stand at the door, ran inside. A
telegraph instrument was clicking mournfully in the corner. A hot stove
was in another corner, and sitting near it was a lad of about Dick's
age, clad in mountain jeans, and lounging in an old cane-bottomed chair.
But Dick's quick glance saw that the boy was bright of face and keen of
eye. He promptly drew out his papers and said:

“I'm an aide from the Northern regiment of Colonel Newcomb at
Townsville. Here are duplicate dispatches, one set for the President of
the United States and the other for the Secretary of War. They tell of a
successful fight that we had last night with Southern troops, presumably
the cavalrymen of Turner Ashby. I wish you to send them at once.”

“He's speakin' the exact truth, Jim,” said Red Blaze, who had come
in behind Dick, “an' I've brought him an' the sergeant here over the
mountains to tell about it.”

The boy sprang to his instrument. But he stopped a moment to ask one
question.

“Did you really beat 'em off?” he asked as he looked up with shining
eye.

“We certainly did,” replied Dick.

“I'll send it faster than I ever sent anything before,” said the boy.
“To think of me, Jim Johnson, sending a dispatch to Abraham Lincoln,
telling of a victory!”

“I reckon you're right, Jim, it's your chance,” said Red Blaze.

Jim bent over the instrument which now began to click steadily and fast.

“You're to wait for answers,” said Dick.

The boy nodded, but his shining eyes remained bent over the instrument.
Dick went to the door, brushed off the snow, came back and sat down by
the stove. Sergeant Whitley, who had tied the horses to hitching posts,
came in, pulled up an empty box and sat down by him. Red Blaze slipped
away unnoticed. But he came back very soon, and men and women came with
him, bringing food and smoking coffee. There was enough for twenty.

Red Blaze had spread among the villagers, every one of whom he knew, the
news that the Union arms had won a victory. Nor had it suffered anything
in the telling. Colonel Newcomb's regiment, by the most desperate feats
of gallantry, had beaten off at least ten thousand Southerners, and the
boy and the man in uniform, who were resting by the fire in the station,
had been the greatest two heroes of a battle waged for a whole night.

Curious eyes gazed at Dick and the sergeant as they sat there by the
stove. Dick himself, warm, relaxed, and the needs of his body satisfied,
felt like going to sleep. But he watched the boy operator, who presently
finished his two dispatches and then lifted his head for the first time.

“They've gone straight into Washington,” he said. “We ought to get an
answer soon.”

“We'll wait here for it,” said Dick.

The three messengers were now thoroughly warmed at the stove, they
had eaten heartily of the best the village could furnish, and a great
feeling of comfort pervaded them. While they were waiting for the reply
that they hoped would come from Washington, Dick Mason and Sergeant
Whitley went outside. No snow was falling in the valley, but off on the
mountain crest they still saw the white veil, blown by the wind.

Red Blaze joined them and was everywhere their guide and herald. He
ascribed to them such deeds of skill and valor that they were compelled
to call him the best romancer they had met in a long time.

“I suppose that if Mr. Warner were here,” said the sergeant, “he would
reduce these statements to mathematics, ten per cent fact an' ninety per
cent fancy.”

“Just about that,” said Dick.

Red Blaze came to them presently, bristling with news.

“A farmer from a hollow further to the west,” he said, “has just come
in, an' he says that a band of guerillas is ridin' through the hills.
'Bout twenty of them, he said, led by a big dark fellow, his face
covered with black beard. They've been liftin' hosses an' takin' other
things, but they're strangers in these parts. Tom Sykes, who was held up
by them an' robbed of his hoss, says that the rest of 'em called their
leader Skelly. Tom seemed to think that mebbe they came from somewhere
in the Kentucky mountains. They called themselves a scoutin' party of
the Southern army.”

Dick started violently.

“Why, I know this man Skelly,” he said. “He lives in the mountains
to the eastward of my home in Kentucky. He organized a band at the
beginning of the war, but over there he said he was fightin' for the
North.”

“He'll be fightin' for his own hand,” said the sergeant sternly. “But he
can't play double all the time. That sort of thing will bring a man to
the end of a rope, with clear air under his feet.”

“I'm glad you've told me this,” said Red Blaze. “Skelly might have come
ridin' in here, claimin' that he an' his men was Northern troops, an'
then when we wasn't suspectin' might have held up the whole town. I'll
warn 'em. Thar ain't a house here that hasn't got two or three rifles
an' shotguns in it, an' with the farmers from the valley joinin' in
Hubbard could wipe out the whole gang.”

“Tell them to be on guard all the time, Red Blaze,” said Whitley with
strong emphasis. “In war you've got to watch, watch, watch. Always know
what the other fellow is doin', if you can.”

“Let's go back to the station,” said Dick. “Maybe we'll have an answer
soon.”

They found the young operator hanging over his instrument, his eyes
still shining. He had been in that position ever since they left him,
and Dick knew that his eagerness to get an answer from Washington kept
him there, mind and body waiting for the tick of the key.

Dick, the sergeant, and Red Blaze sat down by the stove again, and
rested there quietly for a quarter of an hour. Red Blaze was thinking
that it would be another cold ride back over the pass. The sergeant,
although he was not sleepy, closed his eyes and saw again the vast
rolling plains, the herds of buffalo spreading to the horizon, and the
bands of Sioux and Cheyennes galloping down, their great war bonnets
making splashes of color against the thin blue sky. Dick was thinking of
Pendleton, the peaceful little town in Kentucky that was his home, and
of his cousin, Harry Kenton. He did not know now where Harry was, and he
did not even know whether he was dead or alive.

Dick sighed a little, and just at that moment the telegraph key began to
click.

“The answer is coming!” exclaimed the young operator excitedly and then
he bent closer over the key to take it. The three chairs straightened
up, and they, too, bent toward the key. The boy wrote rapidly, but the
clicking did not go on long. When it ceased he straightened up with his
finished message in his hand. His face was flushed and his eyes still
shining. He folded the paper and handed it to Dick.

“It's for you, Mr. Mason,” he said.

Dick unfolded it and read aloud:


“Colonel John D. Newcomb:

“Congratulations on your success and fine management of your troops.
Victory worth much to us. Read dispatch to regiment and continue
westward to original destination.

                                        A. LINCOLN.”


Dick's face glowed, and the sergeant's teeth came together with a little
click of satisfaction.

“When I saw that it was to be read to the regiment I thought it no harm
to read it to the rest of you,” said Dick, as he refolded the precious
dispatch and put it in his safest pocket. “Now, sergeant, I think we
ought to be off at full speed.”

“Not a minute to waste,” said Sergeant Whitley.

Their horses had been fed and were rested well. The three bade farewell
to the young operator, then to almost all of Hubbard and proceeded in
a trot for the pass. They did not speak until they were on the first
slope, and then the sergeant, looking up at the heights, asked:

“Shall we have snow again on our return, Red Blaze? I hope not. It's
important for us to get back to Townsville without any waste of time.”

“I hate to bring bad news,” replied Red Blaze, “but we'll shore have
more snow. See them clouds, sailin' up an' always sailin' up from the
southwest, an' see that white mist 'roun' the highest peaks. That's
snow, an' it'll hit the pass just as it did when we was comin' over. But
we've got this in favor of ourselves an' our hosses now: The wind is on
our backs.”

They rode hard now. Dick had received the precious message from the
President, and it would be a proud moment for him when he put it in the
hands of the colonel. He did not wish that moment to be delayed. Several
times he patted the pocket in which the paper lay.

As they ascended, the wind increased in strength, but being on their
backs now it seemed to help them along. They were soon high up on the
slopes and then they naturally turned for a parting look at Hubbard in
its valley, a twin to that of Townsville. It looked from afar neat and
given up to peace, but Dick knew that it had been stirred deeply by the
visit of his comrades and himself.

“It seems,” he said, “that the war would pass by these little mountain
nests.”

“But it don't,” said Red Blaze. “War, I guess, is like a mad an' kickin'
mule, hoofs lashin' out everywhar, an' you can't tell what they're goin'
to hit. Boys, we're makin' good time. That wind on our backs fairly
lifts us up the mountain side.”

Petty had all the easy familiarity of the backwoods. He treated the boy
and man who rode with him as comrades of at least a year's standing, and
they felt in return that he was one of them, a man to be trusted. They
retained all the buoyancy which the receipt of the dispatch had given
them, and Dick, his heart beating high, scarcely felt the wind and cold.

“In another quarter of an hour we'll be at the top,” said Petty. Then he
added after a moment's pause: “If I'm not mistook, we'll have company.
See that path, leadin' out of the west, an' runnin' along the slope. It
comes into the main road, two or three hundred yards further on, an' I
think I can see the top of a horseman's head ridin' in it. What do you
say, sergeant?”

“I say that you are right, Red Blaze. I plainly see the head of a big
man, wearing a fur cap, an' there are others behind him, ridin' in
single file. What's your opinion, Mr. Mason?”

“The same as yours and Red Blaze's. I, too, can see the big man with the
fur cap on his head and at least a dozen following behind. Do you think
it likely, Red Blaze, that they'll reach the main road before we pass
the mouth of the path?”

A sudden thought had leaped up in Dick's mind and it set his pulses to
beating hard. He remembered some earlier words of Red Blaze's.

“We'll go by before they reach the main road,” replied Red Blaze,
“unless they make their hosses travel a lot faster than they're
travelin' now.”

“Then suppose we whip up a little,” said Dick.

Both Red Blaze and the sergeant gave him searching glances.

“Do you mean--” began Whitley.

“Yes, I mean it. I know it. The man in front wearing the fur cap is Bill
Skelly. He and his men made an attack upon the home of my uncle, Colonel
Kenton, who is a Southern leader in Kentucky. He and his band were
Northerners there, but they will be Southerners here, if it suits their
purpose.”

“An' it will shorely suit their purpose to be Southerners now,” said Red
Blaze. “We three are ridin' mighty good hoss flesh. Me an' the sergeant
have good rifles an' pistols, you have good pistols, an' we all have
good, big overcoats. This is a lonely mountain side with war flyin' all
about us. Easy's the place an' easy's the deed. That is if we'd let 'em,
which we ain't goin' to do.”

“Not by a long shot,” said Sergeant Whitley, resting his rifle across
the pommel of his saddle. “They've got to follow straight behind. The
ground is too rough for them to ride around an' flank us.”

Dick said nothing, but his gauntleted hand moved down to the butt of one
of his pistols. His heart throbbed, but he preserved the appearance of
coolness. He was fast becoming inured to danger. Owing to the slope
they could not increase the speed of their horses greatly, but they were
beyond the mouth of the path before they were seen by Skelly and his
band. Then the big mountaineer uttered a great shout and began to wave
his hand at them.

“The road curves here a little among the rocks,” said the sergeant, who
unconsciously took command. “Suppose we stop, sheltered by the curve,
and ask them what they want.”

“The very thing to do,” said Dick.

“Sass 'em, sergeant! Sass 'em!” said Red Blaze.

They drew their horses back partially in the shadow of the rocky curve,
but the sergeant was a little further forward than the others. Dick saw
Skelly and a score of men emerge into the road and come rapidly toward
them. They were a wild-looking crew, mounted on tough mountain ponies,
all of them carrying loot, and all armed heavily.

The sergeant threw up his rifle, and with a steady hand aimed straight
at Skelly's heart.

“Halt!” he cried sharply, “and tell me who you are!”

The whole crew seemed to reel back except Skelly, who, though stopping
his horse, remained in the center of the road.

“What do you mean?” he cried. “We're peaceful travelers. What business
is it of yours who we are?”

“Judgin' by your looks you're not peaceful travelers at all. Besides
these ain't peaceful times an' we take the right to demand who you are.
If you come on another foot, I shoot.”

The sergeant's tones were sharp with resolve.

“Your name!” he continued.

“Ramsdell, David Ramsdell,” replied the leader of the band.

“That's a lie,” said Sergeant Whitley. “Your name is Bill Skelly, an'
you're a mountaineer from Eastern Kentucky, claimin' to belong first to
one side and then to the other as suits you.”

“Who says so?” exclaimed Skelly defiantly.

The sergeant beckoned Dick, who rode forward a little.

“I do,” said the boy in a loud, clear voice. “My name is Dick Mason,
and I live at Pendleton in Kentucky. I saw you more than once before the
war, and I know that you tried to burn down the house of Colonel Kenton
there, and kill him and his friends. I'm on the other side, but I'm not
for such things as that.”

Skelly distinctly saw Dick sitting on his horse in the pass, and he knew
him well. Rage tore at his heart. Although on “the other side” this boy,
too, was a lowlander and in a way a member of that vile Kenton brood. He
hated him, too, because he belonged to those who had more of prosperity
and education than himself. But Skelly was a man of resource and not a
coward.

“You're right,” he cried, “I'm Bill Skelly, an' we want your horses an'
arms. We need 'em in our business. Now, just hop down an' deliver. We're
twenty to three.”

“You come forward at your own risk!” cried the sergeant, and Skelly,
despite the numbers at his back, wavered. He saw that the man who held
the rifle aimed at his heart had nerves of steel, and he did not dare
advance knowing that he would be shot at once from the saddle. A victory
won by Skelly's men with Skelly dead was no victory at all to Skelly.

The guerilla reined back his horse, and his men retreated with him. But
the three knew well that it was no withdrawal. The mountaineers rode
among some scrub that grew between the road and the cliff; and Whitley
exclaimed to his two comrades:

“Come boys, we must ride for it! It's our business to get back with the
dispatches to Colonel Newcomb as soon as possible, an' not let ourselves
be delayed by this gang.”

“That is certainly true,” said Dick. “Lead on, Mr. Petty, and we'll
cross the mountain as fast as we can.”

Red Blaze started at once in a gallop, and Dick and the sergeant
followed swiftly after. But Sergeant Whitley held his cocked rifle in
hand and he cast many backward glances. A great shout came from Skelly
and his band when they saw the three take to flight, and the sergeant's
face grew grimmer as the sound reached his ears.

“Keep right in the middle of the road, boys,” he said. “We can't afford
to have our horses slip. I'll hang back just a little and send in a
bullet if they come too near. This rifle of mine carries pretty far,
farther, I expect, than any of theirs.”

“I'm somethin' on the shoot myself,” said Red Blaze. “I love peace, but
it hurts my feelin's if anybody shoots at me. Them fellers are likely
to do it, an' me havin' a rifle in my hands I won't be able to stop the
temptation to fire back.”

As he spoke the raiders fired. There was a crackling of rifles, little
curls of blue smoke rose in the pass, and bullets struck on the frozen
earth, while two made the snow fly from bushes by the side of the road.
The sergeant raised his own rifle, longer of barrel than the average
army weapon, and pulled the trigger. He had aimed at Skelly, but the
leader swerved, and a man behind him rolled off his horse. The others,
although slowing their speed a little, in order to be out of the range
of that deadly rifle, continued to come.

The pursuit at first seemed futile to Dick, because they would soon
descend into Townsville's valley, and the raiders could not follow them
into the midst of an entire regiment. But presently he saw their plan.
The pass now widened out with a few hundred yards of level space on
either side of the road thickly covered with forest. The branches of the
trees were bare, but the undergrowth was so dense that horsemen could be
hidden in it. Bands of the raiders darted into the woods both to right
and left, and he knew that advancing on a straight line one or the
other of the parties expected to catch the fugitives who must follow the
curves of the road.

The advantage of the pursuit was soon shown as a shot from the right
whistled by them. Red Blaze, quick as lightning, fired at the flash of
the rifle.

“I don't know whether I hit him or not,” he said, judicially, “but the
chances are pow'ful good that I did. Still it looks as if they meant to
hang on an' likely we kin soon expect shots from the other side, too.
Then if they know the country as well as they 'pear to do they'll have
us clamped in a vise.”

As he spoke his eyes twinkled cheerfully out of his flaming countenance.

“You certainly seem to take it easy,” said Dick.

“I take it easy, 'cause the jaws of that vise ain't goin' to clamp down.
Bein' somewhat interested in a run for your life you haven't noticed how
dark it's gettin' up here on the heights an' how hard it's snowin'. It's
comin' down a lot thicker than it was when we crossed the first time.”

It was true. Dick noticed now that the snow was pouring down, and that
all the peaks and ridges were lost in the white whirlwind.

“I told you that I had been a traveler,” said Red Blaze. “I've been as
far as fifty miles from Townsville, and I know all the country in every
direction, twenty miles from it, inch by inch. Inside five minutes the
snowstorm will be on us full blast, an' we won't be able to see more'n
twenty yards away. An' that crowd that's follerin' won't be able to see
either. An' me knowin' the ground inch by inch I'll take you straight
back to your regiment while they'll get lost in the storm.”

There was room now in the road for the three to ride abreast, and they
kept close together. They heard once a shout behind them and saw the
flash of a firearm in the white hurricane, but no bullet struck them,
and they kept steadily on their course, Red Blaze directing with the
sure instinct that comes of long use and habit.

Heavier and heavier grew the snow. There was but little wind now, and it
came straight down. It seemed to Dick that the whole earth was
blotted out by the white fall. He and the sergeant resigned themselves
completely to the guidance of Red Blaze, who never veered an inch from
the right path.

“If I didn't know the way my hoss would,” he said. “I'd just give him
his head an' he'd take us straight to his warm stable in Townsville, an'
the two bundles of oats that I mean to give him. I reckon it was pretty
smart of me, wasn't it, to order a snowstorm an' have it come just when
it was needed.”

Again the cheerful eyes twinkled in the flaming face.

“You're certainly a winner,” said Dick, “and you win for us all.”

The snow was now so deep in the pass that they could not proceed at
great speed, but they did the best they could, and, as Red Blaze said,
their best, although it might be somewhat slow, was certainly better
than that of Skelly and his men. Dick believed in fact that the raiders
had been compelled to abandon the pursuit.

When they reached a lower level, where the snow was far less dense, they
stopped and listened. The sergeant's ears had been trained to uncommon
keenness by his life on the plains, and he could hear nothing but the
sigh of the falling snow. Nor could Petty, who had fine ears himself.

They descended still further, and made another stop. It was snowing here
also, but it was merely an ordinary fall, and they could get a long view
back up the pass. They saw nothing there but earth and trees covered
with snow. Looking in the other direction they saw the sunshine gleaming
for a moment on a roof in Townsville.

“We're all safe now,” said Red Blaze, “an' we'll be with the soldiers in
another half hour. But just you two remember that mebbe the next time I
couldn't call up a snowstorm to cover us an' save our lives.”

“Once is enough,” said Dick, “and, Mr. Petty, Sergeant Whitley and I
want to thank you.”

Mittened hands met buckskinned ones in the strong grasp of friendship,
and now, as they rode on, the whole village emerged into sight. There
was the long train standing on the track, the smoke rising in spires
from the neat houses, and then the figures of human beings.

The fall of snow was light in the valley and as soon as they reached
the levels the three proceeded at a gallop. Dick saw Colonel Newcomb
standing by the train, and springing from his horse he handed him the
dispatch. The colonel opened it, and as he read Dick saw the glow appear
upon his face.

“Fire up!” he said to Canby, the engineer, who stood near. “We start at
once!”

The troops who were ready and waiting were hurried into the coaches, and
the engine whistled for departure.




CHAPTER V. THE SINGER OF THE HILLS


As the engine whistled for the last time Dick sprang upon a car-step,
one hand holding to the rail while with the other he returned the
powerful grip of Red Blaze, who with his own unconfined hand grasped the
bridles of the three horses, which had served them so well. Petty had
received a reward thrust upon him by Colonel Newcomb, but Dick knew
that the mountaineer's chief recompense was the success achieved in the
perilous task chosen for him.

“Good-bye, Mr. Mason,” said Red Blaze, “I'm proud to have knowed you an'
the sergeant, an' to have been your comrade in a work for the Union.”

“Without you we should have failed.”

“It jest happened that I knowed the way. It seems to me that there's
a heap, a tremenjeous heap, in knowin' the way. It gives you an awful
advantage. Now you an' your regiment are goin' down thar in them
Kentucky mountains. They're mighty wild, winter's here an' the marchin'
will be about as bad as it could be. Them's mostly Pennsylvania men with
you, an' they don't know a thing 'bout that thar region. Like as not
you'll be walkin' right straight into an ambush, an' that'll be the end
of you an' them Pennsylvanians.”

“You're a cheerful prophet, Red Blaze.”

“I meant if you didn't take care of yourselves an' keep a good lookout,
which I know, of course, that you're goin' to do. I was jest statin'
the other side of the proposition, tellin' what would happen to keerless
people, but Colonel Newcomb an' Major Hertford ain't keerless people.
Good-bye, Mr. Mason. Mebbe I'll see you ag'in before this war is over.”

“Good-bye, Red Blaze. I truly hope so.”

The train was moving now and with a last powerful grasp of a friendly
hand Dick went into the coach. It was the first in the train. Colonel
Newcomb and Major Hertford sat near the head of it, and Warner was just
sitting down not far behind them. Dick took the other half of the seat
with the young Vermonter, who said, speaking in a whimsical tone:

“You fill me with envy, Dick. Why wasn't it my luck to go with you,
Sergeant Whitley, and the man they call Red Blaze on that errand and
help bring back with you the message of President Lincoln? But I heard
what our red friend said to you at the car-step. There's a powerful lot
in knowing the way, knowing where you're going, and what's along every
inch of the road. My arithmetic tells me that it is often fifty per cent
of marching and fighting.”

“I think you are right,” said Dick.

A little later he was sound asleep in his seat, and at the command of
Colonel Newcomb he was not disturbed. His had been a task, taxing to the
utmost both body and mind, and, despite his youth and strength, it would
take nature some time to replace what had been worn away.

He slept on while the boys in the train talked and laughed. Stern
discipline was not yet enforced in either army, nor did Colonel Newcomb
consider it necessary here. These lads, so lately from the schools
and farms, had won a victory and they had received the thanks of the
President. They had a right to talk about it among themselves and a
little vocal enthusiasm now might build up courage and spirit for a
greater crisis later.

The colonel, moreover, gave glances of approval and sympathy to his
gallant young aide, who in the seat next to the window with his head
against the wall slept so soundly. All the afternoon Dick slept on, his
breathing regular and steady. The train rattled and rumbled through the
high mountains, and on the upper levels the snow was falling fast.

Darkness came, and supper was served to the troops, but at the colonel's
command Dick was not awakened. Nature had not yet finished her task of
repairing. There was worn tissue still to be replaced, and the nerves
had not yet recovered their full steadiness.

So Dick slept on, while the night deepened and the snow continued to
drive against the window panes. Nor did he awake until morning, when the
train stopped at a tiny station in the hills. There was no snow here,
but the sun, just rising, threw no heat, and icicles were hanging from
every cliff. Dispatches were waiting for Colonel Newcomb, and after
breakfast he announced to his staff:

“I have orders from Washington to divide my regiment. The Southern
forces are operating at three points in Kentucky. They are gathering at
Columbus on the Mississippi, at Bowling Green in the south, and here
in the mountains there is a strong division under an officer named
Zollicoffer. Scattered forces of our men, the principal one led by a
Virginian named Thomas, are endeavoring to deal with Zollicoffer. The
Secretary of War regrets the division of the regiment, but he thinks it
necessary, as all our detached forces must be strengthened. I go on with
the main body of the regiment to join Grant, near the mouth of the Ohio.
You, Major Hertford, will take three companies and march south in search
of Thomas, but be careful that you are not snapped up by the rebels on
the way. And if you can get volunteers and join Thomas with your force
increased threefold, so much the better.”

“I shall try my best, sir,” said Major Hertford, “and thank you for this
honor.”

Dick and Warner stood by without a word, but Dick cast an appealing look
at Colonel Newcomb.

“Yes, I know,” said the Colonel, who caught the glance. “This is your
state, and you wish to go with Major Hertford. You are to do so. So is
your friend, Lieutenant Warner, and, Major Hertford, I also lend to you
Sergeant Whitley, who is a man of much experience and who has already
proved himself to be of great value.”

The three saluted and were grateful. They longed for action, which they
believed would come more quickly with Major Hertford's column. A little
later, when military form permitted it, the two boys thanked Colonel
Newcomb in words.

“Maybe you won't thank me a few days from now,” said the colonel a
little grimly, “but I am hopeful that our plans here in Eastern Kentucky
will prove successful, and that before long you will be able to join the
great forces in the western part of the state. You are both good boys
and now, good-bye.”

The preparations for the mountain column, as Dick and Warner soon called
it, had been completed. They were on foot, but they were well armed,
well clothed, and they had supplies loaded in several wagons, purchased
hastily in the village. A dozen of the strong mountaineers volunteered
to be drivers and guides, and the major was glad to have them. Later,
several horses were secured for the officers, but, meanwhile, the train
was ready to depart.

Colonel Newcomb waved them farewell, the faithful and valiant Canby
opened the throttle, and the train steamed away. The men in the little
column, although eager for their new task, watched its departure with a
certain sadness at parting with their comrades. The train became smaller
and smaller, then it was only a spiral of smoke, and that, too, soon
died on the clear western horizon.

“And now to find Thomas!” said Major Hertford, who retained Dick and
Warner on his staff, practically its only members, in fact. “It looks
odd to hunt through the mountains for a general and his army, but we've
got it to do, and we'll do it.”

The horses for the officers were obtained at the suggestion of Sergeant
Whitley, and the little column turned southward through the wintry
forest. Dick and Warner were riding strong mountain ponies, but at
times, and in order to show that they considered themselves no better
than the others, they dismounted and walked over the frozen ground.
The greatest tasks were with the wagons containing the ammunition and
supplies. The mountain roads were little more than trails, sometimes
half blocked with ice or snow and then again deep in mud. The winter
was severe. Storms of rain, hail, sleet and snow poured upon them, but,
fortunately, they were marching through continuous forests, and the
skilled mountaineers, under any circumstances, knew how to build fires,
by the side of which they could dry themselves, and sleep warmly at
night.

They also heard much gossip as they advanced to meet General Thomas,
who had been sent from Louisville to command the Northern troops in the
Kentucky mountains. Thomas was a Virginian, a member of the old regular
army, a valiant, able, and cautious man, who chose to abide by the
Union. Many other Virginians, some destined to be as famous as he, and
a few more so, wondered why he had not gone with his seceding state, and
criticised him much, but Thomas, chary of speech, hung to his belief,
and proved it by action.

Dick learned, too, that the Southern force operating against Thomas,
while actively led by Zollicoffer, was under the nominal command of
one of his own Kentucky Crittendens. Here he saw again how terribly
his beloved state was divided, like other border states. General
Crittenden's father was a member of the Federal Congress at Washington,
and one of his brothers was a general also, but on the other side. But
he was to see such cases over and over again, and he was to see them to
a still greater and a wholesale degree, when the First Maryland regiment
of the North and the First Maryland regiment of the South, recruited
from the same district, should meet face to face upon the terrible field
of Antietam.

But Antietam was far in the future, and Dick's mind turned from the
cases of brother against brother to the problems of the icy wilderness
through which they were moving, in a more or less uncertain manner.
Sometimes they were sent on false trails, but their loyal mountaineers
brought them back again. They also found volunteers, and Major
Hertford's little force swelled from three hundred to six hundred. In
the main, the mountaineers were sympathetic, partly through devotion
to the Union, and partly through jealousy of the more prosperous
lowlanders.

One day Major Hertford sent Dick, Warner, and Sergeant Whitley, ahead
to scout. He had recognized the ability of the two lads, and also their
great friendship for Sergeant Whitley. It seemed fitting to him that
the three should be nearly always together, and he watched them with
confidence, as they rode ahead on the icy mountain trail and then
disappeared from sight.

Dick and his friends had learned, at mountain cabins which they had
passed, that the country opened out further on into a fine little
valley, and when they reached the crest of a hill somewhat higher than
the others, they verified the truth of the statement. Before them lay
the coziest nook they had yet seen in the mountains, and in the center
of it rose a warm curl of smoke from the chimney of a house, much
superior to that of the average mountaineer. The meadows and corn lands
on either side of a noble creek were enclosed in good fences. Everything
was trim and neat.

The three rode down the slope toward the house, but halfway to the
bottom they reined in their ponies and listened. Some one was singing.
On the thin wintry air a deep mellow voice rose and they distinctly
heard the words:

  Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the southern moon,
  Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon.
  In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell,
  Weary looks yet tender, speak their fond farewell.
  'Nita, Juanita!  Ask thy soul if we should part,
  'Nita, Juanita!  Lean thou on my heart.

It was a wonderful voice that they heard, deep, full, and mellow, all
the more wonderful because they heard it there in those lone mountains.
The ridges took up the echo, and gave it back in tones softened but
exquisitely haunting.

The three paused and looked at one another. They could not see the
singer. He was hidden from them by the dips and swells of the valley,
but they felt that here was no common man. No common mind, or at least
no common heart, could infuse such feeling into music. As they listened
the remainder of the pathetic old air rose and swelled through the
ridges:

  When in thy dreaming, moons like these shall shine again,
  And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain,
  Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
  In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
  'Nita, Juanita!  Let me linger by thy side!
  'Nita, Juanita!  Be thou my own fair bride.

“I'm curious to see that singer,” said Warner. “I heard grand opera once
in Boston, just before I started to the war, but I never heard anything
that sounds finer than this. Maybe time and place help to the extent of
fifty per cent, but, at any rate, the effect is just the same.”

“Come on,” said Dick, “and we'll soon find our singer, whoever he is.”

The three rode at a rapid pace until they reached the valley. There
they drew rein, as they saw near them a tall man, apparently about
forty years of age, mending a fence, helped by a boy of heavy build and
powerful arms. The man glanced up, saw the blue uniforms worn by the
three horsemen, and went peacefully on with his fence-mending. He also
continued to sing, throwing his soul into the song, and both work and
song proceeded as if no one was near.

He lifted the rails into place with mighty arms, but never ceased to
sing. The boy who helped him seemed almost his equal in strength, but he
neither sang nor spoke. Yet he smiled most of the time, showing rows of
exceedingly strong, white teeth.

“They seem to me to be of rather superior type,” said Dick. “Maybe we
can get useful information from them.”

“I judge that the singer will talk about almost everything except what
we want to know,” said the shrewd and experienced sergeant, “but we can
certainly do no harm by speaking to him. Of course they have seen us. No
doubt they saw us before we saw them.”

The three rode forward, saluted politely and the fence-menders,
stopping their work, saluted in the same polite fashion. Then they stood
expectant.

“We belong to a detachment which is marching southward to join the Union
army under General Thomas,” said Dick. “Perhaps you could tell us the
best road.”

“I might an' ag'in I mightn't, stranger. If you don't talk much you
never have much to take back. If I knew where that army is it would
be easy for me to tell you, but if I didn't know I couldn't. Now, the
question is, do I know or don't I know? Do you think you can decide it
for me stranger?”

It was impossible for Dick or the sergeant to take offense. The man's
gaze was perfectly frank and open and his eyes twinkled as he spoke.
The boy with him smiled widely, showing both rows of his powerful white
teeth.

“We can't decide it until we know you better,” said Dick in a light
tone.

“I'm willin' to tell you who I am. My name is Sam Jarvis, an' this
lunkhead here is my nephew, Ike Simmons, the son of my sister, who keeps
my house. Now I want to tell you, young stranger, that since this war
began and the Yankees and the Johnnies have taken a notion to shoot up
one another, people who would never have thought of doin' it before,
have come wanderin' into these mountains. But you can get a hint about
'em sometimes. Young man, do you want me to tell you your name?”

“Tell me my name!” responded Dick in astonishment. “Of course you can't
do it! You never saw or heard of me before.”

“Mebbe no,” replied Jarvis, with calm confidence, “but all the same
your name is Dick Mason, and you come from a town in Kentucky called
Pendleton. You've been serving with the Yanks in the East, an' you've a
cousin, named Harry Kenton, who's been servin' there also, but with the
Johnnies. Now, am I a good guesser or am I just a plum' ignorant fool?”

Dick stared at him in deepening amazement.

“You do more than guess,” he replied. “You know. Everything that you
said is true.”

“Tell me this,” said Jarvis. “Was that cousin of yours, Harry Kenton,
killed in the big battle at Bull Run? I've been tremenjeously anxious
about him ever since I heard of that terrible fight.”

“He was not. I have not seen him since, but I have definite news now
that he passed safely through the battle.”

Sam Jarvis and his nephew Ike breathed deep sighs of relief.

“I'm mighty glad to hear it,” said Jarvis, “I shorely liked that boy,
Harry, an' I think I'll like you about as well. It don't matter to me
that you're on different sides, bein' as I ain't on any side at all
myself, nor is this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew.”

“How on earth did you know me?”

“'Light, an' come into the house an' I'll tell you. You an' your
pardners look cold an' hungry. There ain't danger of anybody taking your
hosses, 'cause you can hitch 'em right at the front door. Besides, I've
got an old grandmother in the house, who'd like mighty well to see you,
Mr. Mason.”

Dick concluded that it was useless to ask any more questions just yet,
and he, Warner and the sergeant, dismounting and leading their horses,
walked toward the house with Jarvis and Ike. Jarvis, who seemed
singularly cheerful, lifted up his voice and sang:

  Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie,
  Like a flower, thy spirit did depart,
  Thou art gone, alas! like the many
  That have bloomed in the summer of my heart.
  Shall we never more behold thee?
  Never hear thy winning voice again?
  When the spring time comes, gentle Annie?
  When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the plain?

It seemed to Dick that the man sang spontaneously, and the deep, mellow
voice always came back in faint and dying echoes that moved him in
a singular manner. All at once the war with its passions and carnage
floated away. Here was a little valley fenced in from the battle-world
in which he had been living. He breathed deeply and as the eyes of
Jarvis caught his a sympathetic glance passed between them.

“Yes,” said Jarvis, as if he understood completely, “the war goes around
us. There is nothing to fight about here. But come into the house.
This is my sister, the mother of that lunkhead, Ike, and here is my
grandmother.”

He paused before the bent figure of an old, old woman, sitting in a
rocking chair beside the chimney, beside which a fire glowed and blazed.
Her chin rested on one hand, and she was staring into the coals.

“Grandmother,” said Jarvis very gently, “the great-grandson of the
great Henry Ware that you used to know was here last spring, and now the
great-grandson of his friend, Paul Cotter, has come, too.”

The withered form straightened and she stood up. Fire came into the old,
old eyes that regarded Dick so intently.

“Aye,” she said, “you speak the truth, grandson. It is Paul Cotter's own
face. A gentle man he was, but brave, and the greatest scholar. I should
have known that when Henry Ware's great-grandson came Paul Cotter's,
too, would come soon. I am proud for this house to have sheltered you
both.”

She put both her hands on his shoulders, and stood up very straight,
her face close to his. She was a tall woman, above the average height of
man, and her eyes were on a level with Dick's.

“It is true,” she said, “it is he over again. The eyes are his, and the
mouth and the nose are the same. This house is yours while you choose
to remain, and my grandchildren and my great-grandson will do for you
whatever you wish.”

Dick noticed that her grammar and intonation were perfect. Many of the
Virginians and Marylanders who emigrated to Kentucky in that far-off
border time were people of cultivation and refinement.

After these words of welcome she turned from him, sat down in her chair
and gazed steadily into the coals. Everything about her seemed to float
away. Doubtless her thoughts ran on those dim early days, when the
Indians lurked in the canebrake and only the great borderers stood
between the settlers and sure death.

Dick began to gather from the old woman's words a dim idea of what had
occurred. Harry Kenton must have passed there, and as they went into
the next room where food and coffee were placed before them, Jarvis
explained.

“Your cousin, Harry Kenton, came through here last spring on his way to
Virginia,” he said. “He came with me an' this lunkhead, Ike, all the
way from Frankfort and mostly up the Kentucky River. Grandmother was
dreaming and she took him at first for Henry Ware, his very self. She
saluted him and called him the great governor. It was a wonderful thing
to see, and it made me feel just a little bit creepy for a second or
two. Mebbe you an' your cousin, Harry Kenton, are Henry Ware an' Paul
Cotter, their very selves come back to earth. It looks curious that both
of you should wander to this little place hid deep in the mountains. But
it's happened all the same. I s'pose you've just been moved 'round that
way by the Supreme Power that's bigger than all of us, an' that shifts
us about to suit plans made long ago. But how I'm runnin' on! Fall to,
friends--I can't call you strangers, an' eat an' drink. The winter
air on the mountains is powerful nippin' an' your blood needs warmin'
often.”

The boys and the sergeant obeyed him literally and with energy. Jarvis
sat by approvingly, taking an occasional bite or drink with them.
Meanwhile they gathered valuable information from him. A Northern
commander named Garfield had defeated the Southern forces under Humphrey
Marshall in a smart little battle at a place called Middle Creek. Dick
knew this Humphrey Marshall well. He lived at Louisville and was a great
friend of his uncle, Colonel Kenton. He had been a brilliant and daring
cavalry officer in the Mexican War, doing great deeds at Buena
Vista, but now he was elderly and so enormously stout that he lacked
efficiency.

Jarvis added that after their defeat at Middle Creek the Southerners had
gathered their forces on or near the Cumberland River about Mill Spring
and that they had ten thousand men. Thomas with a strong Northern force,
coming all the way from the central part of the state, was already deep
in the mountains, preparing to meet him.

“Remember,” said Jarvis, “that I ain't takin' no sides in this war
myself. If people come along an' ask me to tell what I know I tell it to
'em, be they Yank or Reb. Now, I wish good luck to you, Mr. Mason, an' I
wish the same to your cousin, Mr. Kenton.”

Dick, Warner and the sergeant finished the refreshments and rose for
the return journey. They thanked Jarvis, and when they saw that he would
take no pay, they did not insist, knowing that it would offend him.
Dick said good-bye to the ancient woman and once again she rose, put her
hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

“Paul Cotter was a good man,” she said, “and you who have his blood in
your veins are good, too. I can see it in something that lies back in
your eyes.”

She said not another word, but sat down in the chair and stared once
more into the coals, dreaming of the far day when the great borderers
saved her and others like her from the savages, and thinking little of
the mighty war that raged at the base of her hills.

The boys and the sergeant rode fast on the return trail. They knew that
Major Hertford would push forward at all speed to join Thomas, whom they
could now locate without much difficulty. Jarvis and Ike had resumed
their fence-mending, but when the trees hid the valley from them a
mighty, rolling song came to the ears of Dick, Warner and the sergeant:

  They bore him away when the day had fled,
  And the storm was rolling high,
  And they laid him down in his lonely bed
  By the light of an angry sky.
  The lightning flashed, and the wild sea lashed
  The shore with its foaming wave,
  And the thunder passed on the rushing blast
  As it howled o'er the rover's grave.

“That man's no fool,” said Dick.

“No, he ain't,” said the sergeant, with decision, “nor is that nephew
Ike of his that he calls a lunkhead. Did you notice, Mr. Mason, that the
boy never spoke a word while we was there? Them that don't say anything
never have anything to take back.”

They rode hard now, and soon reached Major Hertford with their news. On
the third day thereafter they entered a strong Union camp, commanded
by a man named Garfield, the young officer who had won the victory at
Middle Creek.




CHAPTER VI. MILL SPRING


Garfield's camp was on a little group of hills in a very strong
position, and his men, flushed with victory, were eager for another
encounter with the enemy. They had plenty of good tents to fend them
from the winter weather which had often been bitter. Throughout the camp
burned large fires for which they had an almost unbroken wilderness to
furnish fuel. The whole aspect of the place was pleasing to the men who
had marched far and hard.

Major Hertford and his aides, Richard Mason and George Warner,
were received in Colonel Garfield's tent. A slim young man, writing
dispatches at a rude little pine table, rose to receive them. He did not
seem to Dick to be more than thirty, and he had the thin, scholarly face
of a student. His manner was attractive, he shook hands warmly with all
three of them and said:

“Reinforcements are most welcome indeed. My own work here seems to be
largely done, but you will reach General Thomas in another day, and he
needs you. Take my chair, Major Hertford. To you two lads I can offer
only stumps.”

The tent had been pitched over a spot where three stumps had been
smoothed off carefully until they made acceptable seats. One end of
the tent was entirely open, facing a glowing fire of oak logs. Dick and
Warner sat down on the stumps and spread out their hands to the blaze.
Beyond the flames they saw the wintry forest and mountains, seemingly as
wild as they were when the first white man came.

The usual coffee and food were brought, and while they ate and drank
Major Hertford answered the numerous and pertinent questions of Colonel
Garfield. He listened attentively to the account of the fight in the
mountains, and to all the news that they could tell him of Washington.

“We have been cut off in these mountains,” he said. “I know very little
of what is going on, but what you say only confirms my own opinion. The
war is rapidly spreading over a much greater area, and I believe that
its scope will far exceed any of our earlier calculations.”

A grave and rather sad expression occupied for a moment the mobile face.
He interested Dick greatly. He seemed to him scholar and thinker as well
as soldier. He and Warner long afterward attended the inauguration of
this man as President of the United States.

After a brief rest, and good wishes from Garfield, Major Hertford and
his command soon reached the main camp under Thomas. Here they were
received by a man very different in appearance and manner from Garfield.

General George H. Thomas, who was to receive the famous title, “The Rock
of Chickamauga,” was then in middle years. Heavily built and bearded, he
was chary of words. He merely nodded approval when Major Hertford told
of their march.

“I will assign your troops to a brigade,” he said, “and I don't think
you'll have long to wait. We're expecting a battle in a few days with
Crittenden and Zollicoffer.”

“Not much to say,” remarked Dick to Warner, as they went away.

“That's true,” said Warner, thoughtfully, “but didn't you get an
impression of strength from his very silence? I should say that in his
make-up he is five per cent talk, twenty-five per cent patience and
seventy per cent action; total, one hundred per cent.”

The region in which they lay was west of the higher mountains, which
they had now crossed, but it was very rough and hilly. Not far from them
was a little town called Somerset, which Dick had visited once, and near
by, too, was the deep and swift Cumberland River, with much floating ice
at its edges. When the two lads lay by a campfire that night Sergeant
Whitley came to them with the news of the situation, which he had picked
up in his usual deft and quiet way.

“The Southern army is on the banks of the Cumberland,” he said. “It
has not been able to get its provisions by land through Cumberland Gap.
Instead they have been brought by boats on the river. As I hear it,
Crittenden and Zollicoffer are afraid that our general will advance to
the river an' cut off these supplies. So they mean to attack us as soon
as they can. If I may venture to say so, Mr. Mason, I'd advise that you
and Lieutenant Warner get as good a rest as you can, and as soon as you
can.”

They ate a hearty supper and being told by Major Hertford that they
would not be wanted until the next day, they rolled themselves in heavy
blankets, and, pointing their feet toward a good fire, slept on the
ground. The night was very cold, because it was now the middle of
January, but the blankets and fire kept them warm.

Dick did not fall to sleep for some time, because he knew that he was
going into battle again in a few days. He was on the soil of his native
state now. He had already seen many Kentuckians in the army of Thomas
and he knew that they would be numerous, too, in that of Crittenden
and Zollicoffer. To some extent it would be a battle of brother against
brother. He was glad that Harry Kenton was in the east. He did not wish
in the height of battle to see his own cousin again on the opposite
side.

But when he did fall asleep his slumber was sound and restful, and he
was ready and eager the next morning, when the sergeant, Warner, and he
were detached for duty in a scouting party.

“The general has asked that you be sent owing to your experience in the
mountains,” said Major Hertford, “and I have agreed gladly. I hope that
you're as glad as I am.”

“We are, sir,” said the two boys together. The sergeant stood quietly by
and smiled.

The detachment numbered a hundred men, all young, strong, and well
mounted. They were commanded by a young captain, John Markham, in whom
Dick recognized a distant relative. In those days nearly all Kentuckians
were more or less akin. The kinship was sufficient for Markham to keep
the two boys on either side of him with Sergeant Whitley just behind.
Markham lived in Frankfort and he had marched with Thomas from the
cantonments at Lebanon to their present camp.

“John,” said Dick, addressing him familiarly and in right of kinship,
“you've been for months in our own county. You've surely heard something
from Pendleton?”

He could not disguise the anxiety in his voice, and the young captain
regarded him with sympathy.

“I had news from there about a month ago, Dick,” he replied. “Your
mother was well then, as I have no doubt she is now. The place was not
troubled by guerillas who are hanging on the fringe of the armies here
in Eastern, or in Southern and Western Kentucky. The war for the present
at least has passed around Pendleton. Colonel Kenton was at Bowling
Green with Albert Sidney Johnston, and his son, Harry, your cousin, is
still in the East.”

It was a rapid and condensed statement, but it was very satisfying to
Dick who now rode on for a long time in silence. The road was as bad as
a road could be. Snow and ice were mixed with the deep mud which pulled
hard at the hoofs of their horses. The country was rough, sterile, and
inhabited but thinly. They rode many miles without meeting a single
human being. About the third hour they saw a man and a boy on a hillside
several hundred yards away, but when Captain Markham and a chosen few
galloped towards them they disappeared so deftly among the woods that
not a trace of them could be found.

“People in this region are certainly bashful,” said Captain Markham with
a vexed laugh. “We meant them no harm, but they wouldn't stay to see
us.”

“But they don't know that,” said Dick with the familiarity of kinship,
even though distant. “I fancy that the people hereabouts wish both
Northerners and Southerners would go away.”

Two miles further on they came to a large, double cabin standing back
a little distance from the road. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and
Captain Markham felt sure that they could obtain information from its
inmates. Dick, at his direction, beat on the door with the butt of a
small riding whip. There was no response. He beat again rapidly and
heavily, and no answer coming he pushed in the door.

A fire was burning on the hearth, but the house was abandoned. Nor had
the owners been gone long. Besides the fire to prove it, clothing
was hanging on hooks in the wall, and there was food in the cupboard.
Captain Markham sighed.

“Again they're afraid of us,” he said. “I've no doubt the signal has
been passed ahead of us, and that we'll not get within speaking distance
of a single native. Curious, too, because this region in the main is for
the North.”

“Perhaps somebody has been robbing and plundering in our name,” said
Dick. “Skelly and his raiders have been through these parts.”

“That's so,” said Markham, thoughtfully. “I'm afraid those guerillas who
claim to be our allies are going to do us a great deal of harm. Well,
we'll turn back into the road, if you can call this stream of icy mud a
road, and go on.”

Another mile and they caught the gleam of water among the wintry boughs.
Dick knew that it was the Cumberland which was now a Southern artery,
bringing stores and arms for the army of Crittenden and Zollicoffer.
Even here, hundreds of miles from its mouth, it was a stream of great
depth, easily navigable, and far down its current they saw faintly the
smoke of two steamers.

“They bear supplies for the Southern army,” said Captain Markham. “We
can cut off the passage of boats on this river and for that reason, so
General Thomas concludes, the Southern army is going to attack us. What
do you think of his reasoning, sergeant?”

“Beggin' your pardon, sir, for passin' an opinion upon my general,”
 replied Sergeant Whitley, “but I think his reasons are good. Here it is
the dead of winter, with more mud in the roads than I ever saw before
anywhere, but there's bound to be a battle right away. Men will fight,
sir, to keep from losin' their grub.”

A man rode forward from the ranks, saluted and asked leave to speak.
He was a native of the next county and knew that region well. Two miles
east of them and running parallel with the road over which they had come
was another and much wider road, the one that they called the big road.

“Which means, I suppose, that it contains more mud than this one,” said
Captain Markham.

“True, sir,” replied the man, “but if the rebel army is advancing it is
likely to be on that road.”

“That is certainly sound logic. At least we'll go there and see. Can you
lead us through these woods to it?”

“I can take you straight across,” replied the man whose name was
Carpenter. “But on the way we'll have to ford a creek which is likely to
be pretty deep at this time of the year.”

“Show the way,” said Captain Markham briskly.

They plunged into the deep woods, and Carpenter guided them well. The
creek, of which he had told, was running bankful of icy water, but their
horses swam it and they kept straight ahead until Carpenter, who was a
little in advance, held up a warning hand.

Captain Markham ordered his whole troop to stop and keep as quiet as
possible. Then he, Dick, Warner, Sergeant Whitley and Carpenter rode
slowly forward. Before they had gone many yards Dick heard the heavy
clank of metal, the cracking of whips, the swearing of men, and the
sound of horses' feet splashing in the mud. He knew by the amount and
variety of the noises that a great force was passing.

They advanced a little further and reined into a clump of bushes which
despite their lack of leaves were dense enough to shelter them from
observation. As the bushes grew on a hillock they had a downward and
good look into the road, which was fairly packed with men in the gray of
the Confederate army, some on horseback, but mostly afoot, their cannon,
ammunition and supply wagons sinking almost to the hub in the mud. As
far as Dick could see the gray columns extended.

“There must be six or seven thousand men here,” he said to Captain
Markham.

“Undoubtedly,” replied Markham, “this is the main Confederate army
advancing to attack ours, but the badness of the roads operates against
the offense. We shall reach General Thomas with the word that they are
coming long before they are there.”

They watched the marching army for a half hour longer in order to be
sure of everything, and then turning they rode as fast as they could
toward Thomas, elated at their success. They swam the creek again, but
at another point. Carpenter told them that the Southern army would cross
it on a bridge, and Markham lamented that he could not turn and destroy
this bridge, but such an attempt would have been folly.

They finally turned into the main road along which the Southern army was
coming, although they were now miles ahead of it, and, covered from head
to foot with the red mud of the hills, they urged on their worn horses
toward the camp of Thomas.

“I haven't had much experience in fighting, but I should imagine that
complete preparation had a great deal to do with success,” said Captain
Markham.

“I'd put it at sixty per cent,” said Warner.

“I should say,” added Dick, “that the road makes at least eighty per
cent of our difficulty in getting back to Thomas.”

In fact, the road was so bad that they were compelled after a while to
ride into the woods and let their ponies rest. Here they were fired upon
by Confederate skirmishers from a hill two or three hundred yards away.
Their numbers were small, however, and Captain Markham's force charging
them drove them off without loss.

Then they resumed their weary journey, but the rest had not fully
restored the horses and they were compelled at times to walk by the side
of the road, leading their mounts. Sergeant Whitley, with his age and
experience, was most useful now in restraining the impatient young
men. Although of but humble rank he kept them from exhausting either
themselves or their horses.

“It will be long after dark before we can reach camp,” said Captain
Markham, sighing deeply. “Confound such roads. Why not call them
morasses and have done with it!”

“No, we can't make it much before midnight,” said Dick, “but, after all,
that will be early enough. If I judge him right, even midnight won't
catch General Thomas asleep.”

“You've judged him right,” said Markham. “I've been with 'Pap' Thomas
some time--we call him 'Pap' because he takes such good care of us--and
I think he is going to be one of the biggest generals in this war.
Always silent, and sometimes slow about making up his mind he strikes
like a sledge-hammer when he does strike.”

“He'll certainly have the opportunity to give blow for blow,” said Dick,
as he remembered that marching army behind them. “How far do you think
it is yet to the general's camp?”

“Not more than a half dozen miles, but it will be dark in a few minutes,
and at the rate we're going it will take us two full hours more to get
there.”

The wintry days were short and the sun slid down the gray, cold sky,
leaving forest and hills in darkness. But the little band toiled
patiently on, while the night deepened and darkened, and a chill wind
whistled down from the ridges. The officers were silent now, but they
looked eagerly for the first glimpse of the campfires of Thomas. At
last they saw the little pink dots in the darkness, and then they pushed
forward with new zeal, urging their weary horses into a run.

When Captain Markham, Dick and Warner galloped into camp, ahead of
the others, a thickset strong figure walked forward to meet them. They
leaped from their horses and saluted.

“Well?” said General Thomas.

“The enemy is advancing upon us in full force, sir,” replied Captain
Markham.

“You scouted thoroughly?”

“We saw their whole army upon the road.”

“When do you think they could reach us?”

“About dawn, sir.”

“Very good. We shall be ready. You and your men have done well. Now,
find food and rest. You will be awakened in time for the battle.”

Dick walked away with his friends. Troopers took their horses and
cared for them. The boy glanced back at the thickset, powerful figure,
standing by one of the fires and looking gravely into the coals. More
than ever the man with the strong, patient look inspired confidence
in him. He was sure now that they would win on the morrow. Markham and
Warner felt the same confidence.

“There's a lot in having a good general,” said Warner, who had also
glanced back at the strong figure. “Do you remember, Dick, what it was
that Napoleon said about generals?”

“A general is everything, an army nothing or something like that.”

“Yes, that was it. Of course, he didn't mean it just exactly as he said
it. A general can't be one hundred per cent and an army none. It was a
figure of speech so to say, but I imagine that a general is about forty
per cent. If we had had such leadership at Bull Run we'd have won.”

Dick and Warner, worn out by their long ride, soon slept but there was
movement all around them during the late hours of the night. Thomas
with his cautious, measuring mind was rectifying his lines in the wintry
darkness. He occupied a crossing of the roads, and he posted a strong
battery of artillery to cover the Southern approach. Around him were men
from Kentucky, the mountains of Tennessee, Ohio, Indiana, and Minnesota.
The Minnesota troops were sun-tanned men who had come more than a
thousand miles from an Indian-infested border to defend the Union.

All through the night Thomas worked. He directed men with spades to
throw up more intrenchments. He saw that the guns of the battery were
placed exactly right. He ordered that food should be ready for all very
early in the morning, and then, when nothing more remained to be done,
save to wait for the decree of battle, he sat before his tent wrapped
in a heavy military overcoat, silent and watchful. Scouts had brought in
additional news that the Southern army was still marching steadily along
the muddy roads, and that Captain Markham's calculation of its arrival
about dawn would undoubtedly prove correct.

Dick awoke while it was yet dark, and throwing off the heavy blankets
stood up.

Although the dawn had not come, the night was now fairly light and Dick
could see a long distance over the camp which stretched to left and
right along a great front. Near him was the battery with most of the men
sleeping beside their guns, and not far away was the tent. Although he
could not see the general, he knew instinctively that he was not asleep.

It was cold and singularly still, considering the presence of so many
thousands of men. He did not hear the sound of human voices and there
was no stamp of horses' feet. They, too, were weary and resting.
Then Dick was conscious of a tall, thin figure beside him. Warner had
awakened, too.

“Dick,” he said, “it can't be more than an hour till dawn.”

“Just about that I should say.”

“And the scene, that is as far as we can see it, is most peaceful.”

Dick made no answer, but stood a long time listening. Then he said:

“My ears are pretty good, George, and sound will carry very far in this
silence just before the dawn. I thought I heard a faint sound like the
clank of a cannon.”

“I think I hear it, too,” said Warner, “and here is the dawn closer at
hand than we thought. Look at those cold rays over there, behind that
hill in the east. They are the vanguard of the sun.”

“So they are. And this is the vanguard of the Southern army!”

He spoke the last words quickly and with excitement.

In front of them down the road they heard the crackle of a dozen rifle
shots. The Southern advance undoubtedly had come into contact with
the Union sentinels and skirmishers. After the first shots there was a
moment's breathless silence, and then came a scattered and rapid fire,
as if at least a hundred rifles were at work.

Dick's pulse began to beat hard, and he strained his eyes through the
darkness, but he could not yet see the enemy. He saw instead little jets
of fire like red dots appearing on the horizon, and then the sound of
the rifles came again. Warner was with him and both stood by the side of
Major Hertford, ready to receive and deliver his orders. Dick now heard
besides the firing in front the confused murmur and moving of the Union
army.

Few of these troops had been in battle before--the same could be said
of the soldiers on the other side--and this attack in the half-light
troubled them. They wished to see the men who were going to shoot at
them, in order that they might have a fair target in return. Fighting in
the night was scarcely fair. One never knew what to do. But Thomas, the
future “Rock of Chickamauga,” was already showing himself a tower of
strength. He reassured his nervous troops, he borrowed Dick and Warner
and sent them along the line with messages from himself that they had
nothing to do but stand firm and the victory was theirs.

Meanwhile the line of red dots in front was lengthening. It stretched
farther to left and right than Dick could see, and was rapidly coming
nearer. Already the sentinels and skirmishers were waging a sharp
conflict, and the shouts of the combatants increased in volume. Then the
cold sun swung clear of the earth, and its wintry beams lighted up both
forest and open. The whole Southern army appeared, advancing in masses,
and Dick, who was now with Major Hertford again, saw the pale rays
falling on rifles and bayonets, and the faces of his own countrymen as
they marched upon the Union camp.

“There's danger for our army! Lots of it!” said Warner, as he watched
the steady advance of the Southern brigades.

Dick remembered Bull Run, but his thoughts ran back to the iron general
who commanded now.

“Thomas will save us,” he said.

The skirmishers on both sides were driven in. Their scattered fire
ceased, but a moment later the whole front of the Southern army burst
into flame. It seemed to Dick that one vast sheet of light like a sword
blade suddenly shot forward, and then a storm of lead, bearing many
messengers of death, beat upon the Northern army, shattering its front
lines and carrying confusion among its young troops. But the officers
and a few old regulars like Sergeant Whitley steadied them and they
returned the fire.

Major Hertford, Dick and Warner were all on foot, and their own little
band, already tried in battle, yielded not an inch. They formed a core
of resistance around which others rallied and Thomas himself was passing
along the line, giving heart to the lads fresh from the farms.

But the Southern army fired again, and shouting the long fierce rebel
yell, charged with all its strength. Dick saw before him a vast cloud
of smoke, through which fire flashed and bullets whistled. He heard men
around him uttering short cries of pain, and he saw others fall, mostly
sinking forward on their faces. But those who stood, held fast and
loaded and fired until the barrels of their rifles burned to the touch.

Dick felt many tremors at first, but soon the passion of battle seized
him. He carried no rifle, but holding his officer's small sword in his
hand he ran up and down the line crying to the men to stand firm, that
they would surely beat back the enemy. That film of fire and smoke was
yet before his eyes, but he saw through it the faces of his countrymen
still coming on. He heard to his right the thudding of the great guns
that Thomas had planted on a low hill, but the rifle fire was like the
beat of hail, a crackling and hissing that never ceased.

The farm lads, their rifles loaded afresh, fired anew at the enemy,
almost in their faces, and the Southern line here reeled back against so
firm and deadly a front.

But an alarming report ran down the line that their left was driven
back, and it was true. The valiant Zollicoffer leading his brigade in
person, had rushed upon this portion of the Northern army which was
standing upon another low hill and struck it with great violence. It was
wavering and would give way soon. But Thomas, showing the singular calm
that always marked him in battle, noticed the weak spot. The general was
then near Major Hertford. He quickly wrote a dispatch and beckoned to
Dick:

“Here,” he said, “jump on the horse that the sergeant is holding for me,
and bring up our reserve, the brigade under General Carter. They are to
meet the attack there on the hill, where our troops are wavering!”

Dick, aflame with excitement, leaped into the saddle, and while the roar
of battle was still in his ears reached the brigade of Carter, already
marching toward the thick of the conflict. One entire regiment, composed
wholly of Kentuckians, was detached to help the Indiana troops who were
being driven fiercely by Zollicoffer.

Dick rode at the head of the Kentuckians, but a bullet struck his horse
in the chest. The boy felt the animal shiver beneath him, and he leaped
clear just in time, the horse falling heavily and lying quite still. But
Dick alighted on his feet, and still brandishing his sword, and shouting
at the top of his voice, ran on.

In an instant they reached the Indiana troops, who turned with them, and
the combined forces hurled themselves upon the enemy. The Southerners,
refusing to yield the ground they had gained, received them, and there
began a confused and terrible combat, shoulder to shoulder and hand to
hand. Elsewhere the battle continued, but here it raged the fiercest.
Both commanders knew that they were to win or lose upon this hill,
and they poured in fresh troops who swelled the area of conflict and
deepened its intensity.

Dick saw Warner by his side, but he did not know how he had come there,
and just beyond him the thick and powerful figure of Sergeant Whitley
showed through the hot haze of smoke. The back of Warner's hand had been
grazed by a bullet. He had not noticed it himself, but the slow
drip, drip of the blood held Dick for a moment with a sort of hideous
fascination. Then he broke his gaze violently away and turned it upon
the enemy, who were pouring upon them in all their massed strength.

Thomas had sent the Kentuckians to the aid of the Indiana men just in
time. The hill was a vast bank of smoke and fire, filled with whistling
bullets and shouts of men fighting face to face. Some one reeled and
fell against Dick, and for a moment, he was in horror lest it should be
Warner, but a glance showed him that it was a stranger. Then he rushed
on again, filled with a mad excitement, waving his small sword, and
shouting to the men to charge.

From right to left the roar of battle came to his ears, but on the hill
where he stood the struggle was at its height. The lines of Federals and
Confederates, face to face at first, now became mixed, but neither side
gained. In the fiery struggle a Union officer, Fry, saw Zollicoffer
only a few feet away. Snatching out his pistol he shot him dead. The
Southerners seeing the fall of the general who was so popular among them
hesitated and then gave back. Thomas, watching everything with keen
and steady gaze, hurled an Ohio regiment from the right flank upon the
Southern center, causing it to give way yet further under the shock.

“We win! We win!” shouted Dick in his ardor, as he saw the Southern
line yielding. But the victory was not yet achieved. Crittenden, who was
really Zollicoffer's superior in the command, displayed the most heroic
courage throughout the battle. He brought up fresh troops to help his
weakened center. He reformed his lines and was about to restore the
battle, but Thomas, silent and ever watchful, now rushed in a brigade
of Tennessee mountaineers, and as they struck with all their weight, the
new line of the South was compelled to give way. Success seen and felt
filled the veins of the soldiers with fresh fire. Dick and the men about
him saw the whole Southern line crumble up before them. The triumphant
Union army rushed forward shouting, and the Confederates were forced to
give way at all points.

Dick and Warner, with the watchful sergeant near, were in the very front
of the advance. The two young aides carried away by success and the
fire of battle, waved their swords continually and rushed at the enemy's
lines.

Dick's face was covered with smoke, his lips were burnt, and his throat
was raw from so much shouting. But he was conscious only of great
elation. “This is not another Bull Run!” he cried to Warner, and Warner
cried back: “Not by a long shot!”

Thomas, still cool, watchful, and able to judge of results amid all the
thunder and confusion of battle, hurried every man into the attack.
He was showing upon this, his first independent field, all the great
qualities he was destined later to manifest so brilliantly in some of
the greatest battles of modern times.

The Southern lines were smashed completely by those heavy and continuous
blows. Driven hard on every side they now retreated rapidly, and their
triumphant enemies seized prisoners and cannon.

The whole Confederate army continued its swift retreat until it reached
its intrenchments, where the officers rallied the men and turned to face
their enemy. But the cautious Thomas stopped. He had no intention of
losing his victory by an attack upon an intrenched foe, and drew off for
the present. His army encamped out of range and began to attend to the
wounded and bury the dead.

Dick, feeling the reaction after so much exertion and excitement, sat
down on a fallen tree trunk and drew long, panting breaths. He saw
Warner near and remembered the blood that had been dripping from his
hand.

“Do you know that you are wounded, George?” he said. “Look at the back
of your hand.”

Warner glanced at it and noticed the red stripe. It had ceased to bleed.

“Now, that's curious,” he said. “I never felt it. My blood and brain
were both so hot that the flick of a bullet created no sensation. I have
figured it out, Dick, and I have concluded that seventy per cent of our
bravery in battle is excitement, leaving twenty per cent to will and ten
per cent to chance.”

“I suppose your calculation is close enough.”

“It's not close merely. It's exact.”

Both sprang to their feet and saluted as Major Hertford approached. He
had escaped without harm and he saw with pleasure that the lads were
alive and well, except for Warner's slight wound.

“You can rest now, boys,” he said, “I won't need you for some time. But
I can tell you that I don't think General Thomas means to quit. He will
follow up his victory.”

But Dick and Warner had been sure of that already. The army, flushed
with triumph, was eager to be led on, even to make a night attack on the
intrenchments of the enemy, but Thomas held them, knowing that another
brigade of Northern troops was marching to his aid. The brigade came,
but it was now dark and he would not risk a night attack. But some of
the guns were brought up and they sent a dozen heavy cannon shot into
the intrenchments of the enemy. There was no reply and neither of the
boys, although they strained ears, could hear anything in the defeated
camp.

“I shouldn't be surprised if we found them gone in the morning,” said
Major Hertford to Dick. “But I think our general is right in not making
any attack upon their works. What do you say to that, Sergeant Whitley?
You've had a lot of experience.”

Sergeant Whitley was standing beside them, also trying to pierce the
darkness with trained eyes, although he could not see the Confederate
intrenchments.

“If a sergeant may offer an opinion I agree with you fully, sir,” he
said. “A night attack is always risky, an' most of all, sir, when troops
are new like ours, although they're as brave as anybody. More'n likely
if we was to rush on 'em our troops would be shootin' into one another
in the darkness.”

“Good logic,” said Major Hertford, “and as it is quite certain that they
are not in any condition to come out and attack us we'll stand by and
wait till morning. So the general orders.”

They walked back toward the place where the victorious troops were
lighting the fires, out of the range of the cannon in the Confederate
intrenchments. They were exultant, but they were not boasting unduly.
Night, cold and dark, had shut down upon them and was taking the heat
out of their blood. Hundreds of men were at work building fires, and
Dick and Warner, with the permission of Major Hertford, joined them.

Both boys felt that the work would be a relief. Wood was to be had in
abundance. The forest stretched on all sides of them in almost unbroken
miles, and the earth was littered with dead wood fallen a year or years
before. They merely kept away from the side on which the Confederate
intrenchments lay, and brought in the wood in great quantities. A row
of lights a half mile long sprang up, giving forth heat and warmth.
Then arose the cheerful sound of tin and iron dishes and cups rattling
against one another. A quarter of an hour later they were eating a
victorious supper, and a little later most of them slept.

But in the night the Confederate troops abandoned their camp, leaving in
it ten cannon and fifteen hundred wagons and crossed the river in boats,
which they destroyed when they reached the other side. Then, their
defeat being so severe, and they but volunteers, they scattered in the
mountains to seek food and shelter for the remainder of the winter.

This army of the South ceased to exist.




CHAPTER VII. THE MESSENGER


Victory, overwhelming and complete, had been won, but General Thomas
could not follow into the deep mountains where his army might be cut
off. So he remained where he was for a little while and on the second
day he sent for Dick.

The general was seated alone in a tent, an open end of which faced a
fire, as it was now extremely cold. General Thomas had shown no undue
elation over his victory. He was as silent as ever, and now, as always,
he made upon Dick the impression of strength and indomitable courage.

“Sit down,” he said, waving his hand toward a camp stool.

Dick, after saluting, sat down in silence.

“I hear,” said the general, “that you behaved very well in the battle,
and that you are a lad of courage and intelligence. Courage is common,
intelligence, real intelligence, is rare. You were at Bull Run also, so
I hear.”

“I was, and the army fought well there too, but late in the day it was
seized with a sudden panic.”

“Something that may happen at any time to raw troops. But we'll pass to
the question in hand. The campaign here in the mountains is ended for
this winter, but great matters are afoot further west. A courier arrived
last night stating that General Grant and Commodore Foote were preparing
to advance by water from Cairo, Illinois, and attempt the reduction of
the Confederate forts on the Cumberland and Tennessee. General Buell,
one of your own Kentuckians, is advancing southward with a strong Union
force, and in a few days his outposts will be on Green River. It will
be of great advantage to Buell to know that the Confederate army in the
eastern part of the state is destroyed. He can advance with freedom and,
on the other hand, the Southern leader, Albert Sidney Johnston, will be
compelled to throw a portion of his force to the eastward to protect
his flank which has been uncovered by our victory at Mill Spring. Do you
understand?”

“I do, sir.”

“Then you are to carry dispatches of the utmost importance from me to
General Buell. After you reach his camp--if you reach it--you will,
of course, be subject to his orders. I have learned that you know the
country well between here and Green River. Because of that, and because
of your intelligence, real intelligence, I mean, you are chosen for this
task. You are to change to citizen's clothes at once, and a horse of
great power and endurance has been selected for you. But you must use
all your faculties all the time. I warn you that the journey is full of
danger.”

“I can carry it out,” replied Dick with quiet confidence, “and I thank
you for choosing me.”

“I believe you will succeed,” said the general, who liked his tone.
“Return here in an hour with all your preparations made, and I will give
you the dispatches.”

Warner was filled with envy that his comrade was to go on a secret
mission of great importance, but he generously wished him a full measure
of success.

“Remember,” he said, “that on an errand like yours, presence of mind
counts for at least fifty per cent. Have a quick tongue. Always be ready
with a tale that looks true.”

“An' remember, too,” said Sergeant Whitley, “that however tight a place
you get into you can get into one tighter. Think of that and it will
encourage you to pull right out of the hole.”

The two wrung his hand and Major Hertford also gave him his warmest
wishes. The horse chosen for him was a bay of tremendous power, and Dick
knew that he would serve him well. He carried double blankets strapped
to the saddle, pistols in holsters with another in his belt, an
abundance of ammunition, and food for several days in his saddle bags.
Then he returned to General Thomas, who handed him a thin strip of
tissue paper.

“It is written in indelible ink,” he said, “and it contains a statement
of our forces and their positions here in the eastern part of the state.
It also tells General Buell what reinforcements he can expect. If you
are in imminent danger of capture destroy the paper, but to provide for
such a chance, in case you escape afterward, I will read the dispatches
to you.”

He read them over several times and then questioned Dick. But the boy's
memory was good. In fact, every word of the dispatches was burnt into
his brain, and nothing could make him forget them.

“And now, my lad,” said General Thomas, giving him his hand, “you may
help us greatly. I would not send a boy upon such an errand, but the
demands of war are terrible and must be obeyed.”

The strong grasp of the general's hand imparted fresh enthusiasm to
Dick, and for the present he did not have the slightest doubt that
he would get safely through. He wore a strong suit of home-made brown
jeans, a black felt cap with ear-flaps, and high boots. The dispatch was
pinned into a small inside pocket of his vest.

He rode quickly out of camp, giving the sentinels the pass word, and the
head of the horse was pointed west slightly by north. The ground was now
frozen and he did not have the mud to hold him back.

The horse evidently had been longing for action. Such thews and
sinews as his needed exercise. He stretched out his long neck, neighed
joyously, and broke of his own accord into an easy canter. It was a
lonely road, and Dick was glad that it was so. The fewer people he met
the better it was in every way for him.

He shared the vigor and spirit of his horse. His breath turned to
smoke, but the cold whipped his blood into a quicker torrent. He hummed
snatches of the songs that he had heard Samuel Jarvis sing, and went on
mile after mile through the high hills toward the low hills of Kentucky.

Dick did not pass many people. The ancient name of his state--the Dark
and Bloody Ground--came back to him. He knew that war in one of its
worst forms existed in this wild sweep of hills. Here the guerillas
rode, choosing their sides as suited them best, and robbing as paid them
most. Nor did these rough men hesitate at murder. So he rode most of the
time with his hand on the butt of the pistol at his belt, and whenever
he went through woods, which was most of the time, he kept a wary watch
to right and to left.

The first person whom he passed was a boy riding on a sack of grain to
mill. Dick greeted him cheerfully and the boy with the fearlessness of
youth replied in the same manner.

“Any news your way?” asked Dick.

“Nothin' at all,” replied the boy, his eyes enlarging with excitement,
“but from the way you are comin' we heard tell there was a great battle,
hundreds of thousands of men on each side an' that the Yankees won. Is
it so, Mister?”

“It is true,” replied Dick. “A dozen people have told me of it, but the
armies were not quite so large as you heard. It is true also that the
Yankees won.”

“I'll tell that at the mill. It will be big news to them. An' which way
be you goin', Mister?” said the boy with all the frankness of the hills.

“I'm on my way to the middle part of the state. I've been looking after
some land that my people own in the mountains. Looks like a lonesome
road, this. Will I reach any house soon?”

“Thar's Ben Trimble's three miles further on, but take my advice an'
don't stop thar. Ben says he ain't goin' to be troubled in these war
times by visitors, an' he's likely to meet you at the door with his
double-barreled shotgun.”

“I won't knock on Ben's door, so he needn't take down his
double-barreled shotgun. What's next beyond Ben's house?”

“A half mile further on you come to Hungry Creek. It ain't much in the
middle of summer, but right now it's full of cold water, 'nough of it to
come right up to your hoss's body. You go through it keerful.”

“Thank you for your good advice,” said Dick. “I'll follow it, too.
Good-bye.”

He waved his gauntleted hand and rode on. A hundred yards further and
he glanced back. The boy had stopped on the crest of a hill, and was
looking at him. But Dick knew that it was only the natural curiosity of
the hills and he renewed his journey without apprehension.

At the appointed time he saw the stout log cabin of Ben Trimble by the
roadside with the warm smoke rising from the chimney, but true to his
word he gave Ben and his shotgun no trouble, and continued straight
ahead over the frozen road until he came to the banks of Hungry Creek.
Here, too, the words of the boy came true. The water was both deep and
cold, and Dick looked at it doubtfully.

He urged his great horse into the stream at last, and it appeared that
the creek had risen somewhat since the boy had last seen it. In the
middle the horse was compelled to swim, but it was no task for such a
powerful animal, and Dick, holding his feet high, came dry to the shore
that he sought.

The road led on through high hills, covered with oak and beech and cedar
and pine, all the deciduous trees bare of leaves, their boughs rustling
dryly whenever the wind blew. He saw the smoke of three cabins nestling
in snug coves, but it was a full three hours before he met anybody else
in the road. Then he saw two men riding toward him, but he could not
tell much about them as they were wrapped in heavy gray shawls, and wore
broad brimmed felt hats, pulled well down over their foreheads.

Dick knew that he could not exercise too much caution in this debatable
land, and his right hand dropped cautiously to the butt of his pistol in
such a manner that it was concealed by his heavy overcoat. His left hand
rested lightly on the reins as he rode forward at an even pace. But he
did not fail to take careful note of the two men who were now examining
him in a manner that he did not like.

Dick saw that the strangers openly carried pistols in their belts, which
was not of overwhelming significance in such times in such a region, but
they did not have the look of mountaineers riding on peaceful business,
and he reined his horse to the very edge of the road that he might pass
them.

He noted with rising apprehension that they checked the pace of their
horses as they approached, and that they reined to either side of the
road to compel him to go between them. But he pulled his own horse out
still further, and as they could not pass on both sides of him without
an overt act of hostility they drew together again in the middle of the
road.

“Mornin' stranger,” they said together, when they were a few yards away.

“Good morning,” said Dick, riding straight on, without checking his
speed. But one of the men drew his horse across the road and said:

“What's your hurry? It ain't friendly to ride by without passin' the
time o' day.”

Now at close range, Dick liked their looks less than ever. They might
be members of that very band of Skelly's which had already made so much
trouble for both sides, and he summoned all his faculties in order to
meet them at any game that they might try to play.

“I've been on land business in the mountains,” he said, “and I'm anxious
to get back to my home. Besides the day is very cold, and the two facts
deprive me of the pleasure of a long conversation with you, gentlemen.
Good-day.”

“Wait just a little,” said the spokesman, who still kept his horse
reined across the road. “These be war times an' it's important to know
what a fellow is. Be you for the Union or are you with the Secesh?”

Dick was quite sure that whatever he answered they would immediately
claim to be on the opposite side. Then would follow robbery and perhaps
murder.

“Which is your side?” he asked.

“But we put the question first,” the fellow replied.

Dick no longer had any doubts. The second man was drawing his horse up
by the side of him, as if to seize him, while the first continued to bar
the way. He was alarmed, deeply alarmed, but he lost neither his courage
nor his presence of mind. Luckily he had already summoned every faculty
for instant action, and now he acted. He uttered a sudden shout, and
raked the side of his horse with both spurs.

His horse was not only large and powerful but of a most high spirit.
When he heard that shout and felt the burning slash of the spurs he
made a blind but mighty leap forward. The horse of the first stranger,
smitten by so great a weight, fell in the road and his rider went down
with him. The enraged horse then leaped clear of both and darted forward
at headlong speed.

As his horse sprang Dick threw himself flat upon his neck, and the
bullet that the second man fired whistled over his head. By impulse he
drew his own pistol and fired back. He saw the man's pistol arm fall as
if broken, and he heard a loud cry. That was a lucky shot indeed, and
rising a little in his saddle he shouted again and again to the great
horse that served him so well.

The gallant animal responded in full. He stretched out his long neck and
the road flew fast behind him. Sparks flashed from the stones where
the shod hoofs struck, and Dick exulting felt the cold air rush past.
Another shot was fired at long range, but the bullet did not strike
anywhere near.

Dick took only a single backward glance. He saw the two men on their
horses, but drooping as if weak from hurts, and he knew that for the
present at least he was safe from any hurt from them. But he allowed his
horse his head for a long time, and then he gradually slowed him
down. No human being was in sight now and he spoke to the noble animal
soothingly.

“Good old boy,” he said; “the strongest, the swiftest, the bravest, and
the truest. I was sorry to make those red stripes on your sides, but it
had to be done. Only quickness saved us.”

The horse neighed. He was still quivering from excitement and
exertion. So was Dick for that matter. The men might have been robbers
merely--they were at least that bad--but they might have deprived him
also of his precious dispatch. He was proud of the confidence put in
him by General Thomas, and he meant to deserve it. It was this sense
of responsibility and pride that 

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