← catalogue

The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis

by Joseph A. Altsheler · English · Gutenberg #9745 · 491,856 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis

Author: Joseph A. Altsheler


        
Release date: January 1, 2006 [eBook #9745]
                Most recently updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9745

Credits: Produced by Ken Reeder, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA: A STORY OF THE WESTERN CRISIS ***




Produced by Ken Reeder






THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA

A STORY OF THE WESTERN CRISIS


By Joseph A. Altsheler




FOREWORD


“The Rock of Chickamauga,” presenting a critical phase of the great
struggle in the west, is the sixth volume in the series, dealing with
the Civil War, of which its predecessors have been “The Guns of Bull
Run,” “The Guns of Shiloh,” “The Scouts of Stonewall,” “The Sword of
Antietam” and “The Star of Gettysburg.” Dick Mason who fights on the
Northern side, is the hero of this romance, and his friends reappear
also.


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.  AT BELLEVUE

   II.  FORREST

  III.  GRANT MOVES

   IV.  DICK'S MISSION

    V.  HUNTED

   VI.  A BOLD ATTACK

  VII.  THE LITTLE CAPITAL

 VIII.  CHAMPION HILL

   IX.  THE OPEN DOOR

    X.  THE GREAT ASSAULT

   XI.  THE TAKING OF VICKSBURG

  XII.  AN AFFAIR OF THE MOUNTAINS

 XIII.  THE RIVER OF DEATH

  XIV.  THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA

   XV.  BESIDE THE BROOK




THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA



CHAPTER I. AT BELLEVUE


“You have the keenest eyes in the troop. Can you see anything ahead?”
 asked Colonel Winchester.

“Nothing living, sir,” replied Dick Mason, as he swept his powerful
glasses in a half-curve. “There are hills on the right and in the
center, covered with thick, green forest, and on the left, where the
land lies low, the forest is thick and green too, although I think I
catch a flash of water in it.”

“That should be the little river of which our map tells. And you,
Warner, what do your eyes tell you?”

“The same tale they tell to Dick, sir. It looks to me like a
wilderness.”

“And so it is. It's a low-lying region of vast forests and thickets,
of slow deep rivers and creeks, and of lagoons and bayous. If Northern
troops want to be ambushed they couldn't come to a finer place for it.
Forrest and five thousand of his wild riders might hide within rifle
shot of us in this endless mass of vegetation. And so, my lads, it
behooves us to be cautious with a very great caution. You will recall
how we got cut up by Forrest in the Shiloh time.”

“I do, sir,” said Dick and he shuddered as he recalled those terrible
moments. “This is Mississippi, isn't it?”

Colonel Winchester took a small map from his pocket, and, unfolding it,
examined it with minute care.

“If this is right, and I'm sure it is,” he replied, “we're far down in
Mississippi in the sunken regions that border the sluggish tributaries
of the Father of Waters. The vegetation is magnificent, but for a home
give me higher ground, Dick.”

“Me too, sir,” said Warner. “The finest state in this Union is Vermont.
I like to live on firm soil, even if it isn't so fertile, and I like to
see the clear, pure water running everywhere, brooks and rivers.”

“I'll admit that Vermont is a good state for two months in the year,”
 said Dick.

“Why not the other ten?”

“Because then it's frozen up, solid and hard, so I've heard.”

The other boys laughed and kept up their chaff, but Colonel Winchester
rode soberly ahead. Behind him trailed the Winchester regiment, now
reorganized and mounted. Fresh troops had come from Kentucky, and
fragments of old regiments practically destroyed at Perryville and Stone
River had been joined to it.

It was a splendid body of men, but of those who had gone to Shiloh only
about two hundred remained. The great conflicts of the West, and the
minor battles had accounted for the others. But it was perhaps one of
the reliefs of the Civil War that it gave the lads who fought it little
time to think of those who fell. Four years crowded with battles, great
and small, sieges and marches absorbed their whole attention.

Now two men, the dreaded Forrest and fierce little Joe Wheeler, occupied
the minds of Winchester and his officers. It was impossible to keep
track of these wild horsemen here in their own section. They had a habit
of appearing two or three hundred miles from the place at which they
were expected.

But the young lieutenants while they watched too for their redoubtable
foes had an eye also for the country. It was a new kind of region for
all of them. The feet of their horses sank deep in the soft black soil,
and there was often a sound of many splashings as the regiment rode
across a wide, muddy brook.

Dick noted with interest the magnolias and the live oaks, and the great
stalks of the sunflower. Here in this Southern state, which bathed
its feet in the warm waters of the Gulf, spring was already far along,
although snows still lingered in the North.

The vegetation was extravagant in its luxuriance and splendor. The
enormous forest was broken by openings like prairies, and in every one
of them the grass grew thick and tall, interspersed with sunflowers and
blossoming wild plants. Through the woods ran vast networks of vines,
and birds of brilliant plumage chattered in the trees. Twice, deer
sprang up before them and raced away in the forest. It was the
wilderness almost as De Soto had traversed it nearly four centuries
before, and it had a majesty which in its wildness was not without its
sinister note.

They approached a creek, deeper and wider than usual, flowing in slow,
yellow coils, and, as they descended into the marsh that enclosed its
waters, there was a sharp crackling sound, followed quickly by another
and then by many others. The reports did not cease, and, although
blood was shed freely, no man fell from his horse, nor was any wounded
mortally. But the assault was vicious and it was pushed home with the
utmost courage and tenacity, although many of the assailants fell never
to rise again. Cries of pain and anger, and imprecations arose from the
stricken regiment.

“Slap! Slap!”

“Bang! Bang!”

“Ouch! He's got his bayonet in my cheek!”

“Heavens, that struck me like a minie ball! And it came, whistling and
shrieking, too, just like one!”

“Phew, how they sting! and my neck is bleeding in three places!”

“By thunder, Bill, I hit that fellow, fair and square! He'll never
trouble an honest Yankee soldier again!”

The fierce buzzing increased all around them and Colonel Winchester
shouted to his trumpeter:

“Blow the charge at once!”

The man, full willing, put the trumpet to his lips and blew loud and
long. The whole regiment went across the creek at a gallop--the water
flying in yellow showers--and did not stop until, emerging from the
marsh, they reached the crest of a low hill a mile beyond. Here, stung,
bleeding and completely defeated by the enemy they stopped for repairs.
An occasional angry buzz showed that they were not yet safe from the
skirmishers, but their attack seemed a light matter after the full
assault of the determined foe.

“I suppose we're all wounded,” said Dick as he wiped a bleeding cheek.
“At least as far as I can see they're hurt. The last fellow who got his
bayonet in my face turned his weapon around and around and sang merrily
at every revolution.”

“We were afraid of being ambushed by Forrest,” said Warner, speaking
from a swollen countenance. “Instead we struck something worse; we rode
straight into an ambush of ten billion high-powered mosquitoes, every
one tipped with fire. Have we got enemies like these to fight all the
way down here?”

“They sting the rebels, too,” said Pennington.

“Yes, but they like newcomers best, the unacclimated. When we rode down
into that swamp I could hear them shouting, to one another: 'That fat
fellow is mine, I saw him first! I've marked the rosy-cheeked boy for
mine. Keep away the rest of you fellows!' I feel as if I'd been through
a battle. No more marshes for me.”

Some of the provident produced bottles of oil of pennyroyal. Sergeant
Daniel Whitley, who rode a giant bay horse, was one of the most
foreseeing in this respect, and, after the boys had used his soothing
liniment freely, the fiery torment left by the mosquito's sting passed
away.

The sergeant seemed to have grown bigger and broader than ever. His
shoulders were about to swell through his faded blue coat, and the hand
resting easily on the rein had the grip and power of a bear's paw. His
rugged face had been tanned by the sun of the far south to the color of
an Indian's. He was formidable to a foe, and yet no gentler heart beat
than that under his old blue uniform. Secretly he regarded the young
lieutenants, his superiors in military rank and education, as brave
children, and often he cared for them where his knowledge and skill were
greater than theirs or even than that of colonels and generals.

“God bless you, Sergeant,” said Dick, “you don't look like an angel, but
you are one--that is, of the double-fisted, fighting type.”

The sergeant merely smiled and replaced the bottle carefully in his
pocket, knowing that they would have good use for it again.

The regiment after salving its wounds resumed its watchful march.

“Do you know where we're going?” Pennington asked Dick.

“I think we're likely if we live long enough to land in the end before
Vicksburg, the great Southern fortress, but as I gather it we mean
to curve and curl and twist about a lot before then. Grant, they say,
intends to close in on Vicksburg, while Rosecrans farther north is
watching Bragg at Chattanooga. We're a flying column, gathering up
information, and ready for anything.”

“It's funny,” said Warner thoughtfully, “that we've already got so far
south in the western field. We can't be more than two or three hundred
miles from the Gulf. Besides, we've already taken New Orleans, the
biggest city of the South, and our fleet is coming up the river to meet
us. Yet in the East we don't seem to make any progress at all. We lose
great battles there and Fredericksburg they say was just a slaughter of
our men. How do you make it out, Dick?”

“I've thought of several reasons for it. Our generals in the West are
better than our generals in the East, or their generals in the East are
better than their generals in the West. And then there are the rivers.
In the East they mostly run eastward between the two armies, and they
are no help to us, but a hindrance rather. Here in the West the rivers,
and they are many and great, mostly run southward, the way we want to
go, and they bring our gunboats on their bosoms. Excuse my poetry, but
it's what I mean.”

“You must be right. I think that all the reasons you give apply
together. But our command of the water has surely been a tremendous
help. And then we've got to remember, Dick, that there was never a navy
like ours. It goes everywhere and it does everything. Why, if Admiral
Farragut should tell one of those gunboats to steam across the
Mississippi bottoms it would turn its saucy nose, steer right out of
the water into the mud, and blow up with all hands aboard before it quit
trying.”

“You two fellows talk too much,” said Pennington. “You won't let
President Lincoln and Grant and Halleck manage the war, but you want to
run it yourselves.”

“I don't want to run anything just now, Frank,” rejoined Dick. “What I'm
thinking about most is rest and something to eat. I'd like to get rid,
too, of about ten pounds of Mississippi mud that I'm carrying.”

“Well, I can catch a glint of white pillars through those trees.
It means the 'big house' of a plantation, and you'll probably find
somewhere back of it the long rows of cabins, inhabited by the dark
people, whom we've come to raise to the level of their masters, if not
above them. I can see right now the joyous welcome we'll receive from
the owners of the big house. They'll be standing on the great piazza,
waving Union flags and shouting to us that they have ready cooling
drinks and luxurious food for us all.”

“It's hardly a joke to me. Whatever the cause of the war, it's the
bitterness of death for these people to be overrun. Besides, I remember
the words of that old fellow in the blacksmith shop before we fought
the battle of Stone River. He said that even if they were beaten they'd
still be there holding the land and running things.”

“That's true,” said Warner. “I've been wondering how this war would end,
and now I'm wondering what will happen after it does end. But here we
are at the gate. What big grounds! These great planters certainly had
space!”

“And what silence!” said Dick. “It's uncanny, George. A place like this
must have had a thousand slaves, and I don't see any of them rushing
forward to welcome their liberators.”

“Probably contraband, gone long ago to Ben Butler at New Orleans. I
don't believe there's a soul here.”

“Remember that lone house in Tennessee where a slip of a girl brought
Forrest down on us and had us cut pretty nearly to pieces.”

“I couldn't forget it.”

Nor could Colonel Winchester. The house, large and low, stood in grounds
covering an area of several acres, enclosed by a paling fence, now
sagging in many places. Great stone posts stood on either side of the
gateway, but the gate was opened, and it, too, sagged.

The grounds had evidently been magnificent, both with flowers and forest
trees. Already many of the flowers were blooming in great luxuriance and
brilliancy, but the walks and borders were untrimmed. The house was of
wood, painted white with green shutters, and as they drew nearer they
appreciated its great size, although it was only two stories in height.
A hundred persons could have slept there, and twice as many could have
found shade in the wide piazzas which stretched the full length of the
four sides.

But all the doors and shutters were closed and no smoke rose from any
chimney. They caught a glimpse of the cabins for the slaves, on lower
ground some distance behind the great house. The whole regiment reined
up as they approached the carriage entrance, and, although they were
eight hundred strong, there was plenty of room without putting a single
hoof upon a flower.

It was a great place. That leaped to the eye, but it was not marked upon
Colonel Winchester's map, nor had he heard of it.

“It's a grand house,” he said to his aides, “and it's a pity that it
should go to ruin after the slaves are freed, as they certainly will
be.”

“But it was built upon slave labor,” said Warner.

“So it was, and so were many of the most famous buildings in the world.
But here, I'm not going to get into an argument about such questions
with young men under my command. Besides, I'm fighting to destroy
slavery, not to study its history. Sergeant Whitley, you're an
experienced trailer: do you see any signs that troops have passed here?”

“None at all, sir. Down near the gate where the drive is out of repair
I noticed wheel tracks, but they were several days old. The freshest of
them were light, as if made by buggies. I judge, sir, that it was the
family, the last to leave.”

“And the wagons containing their valuables had gone on ahead?”

“It would seem so, sir.”

Colonel Winchester sighed.

“An invader is always feared and hated,” he said.

“But we do come as enemies,” said Dick, “and this feeling toward us
can't be helped.”

“That's true. No matter what we do we'll never make any friends here in
one of the Gulf states, the very core of Southern feeling. Dick, take
a squad of men and enter the house. Pennington, you and Warner go with
him.”

Dick sprang down instantly, chose Sergeant Whitley first and with the
others entered the great portico. The front door was locked but it
was easy enough to force it with a gun butt, and they went in, but
not before Dick had noticed over the door in large letters the name,
“Bellevue.” So this was Bellevue, one of the great cotton plantations of
Mississippi. He now vaguely remembered that he had once heard his uncle,
Colonel Kenton, speak of having stopped a week here. But he could not
recall the name of the owner. Strong for the Union as he was Dick was
glad that the family had gone before the Northern cavalry came.

The house was on a splendid scale inside also, but all the rugs and
curtains were gone. As they entered the great parlor Dick saw a large
piece of paper, and he flushed as he read written upon it in tall
letters:

          TO THE YANKEE RAIDERS:
     YOU NEED NOT LOOK FOR THE SILVER.
      IT HAS BEEN TAKEN TO VICKSBURG.


“Look at that!” he said indignantly to Warner. “See how they taunt us!”

But Warner laughed.

“Maybe some of our men at New Orleans have laid us open to such a stab,”
 he said. Then he added whimsically:

“We'll go to Vicksburg with Grant, Dick, and get that silver yet.”

“The writing's fresh,” said Sergeant Whitley, who also looked at the
notification. “The paper hasn't begun to twist and curl yet. It's not
been posted up there many hours.”

Colonel Winchester entered at that moment and the notice was handed to
him. He, too, flushed a little when he read it, but the next instant he
laughed. Dick then called his attention to the apparent fact that it had
been put there recently.

“May I speak a word, Colonel,” said Warner, who had been thinking so
hard that there was a line the full length of his forehead.

“Yes, George, a dozen if you like. Go ahead. What is it?”

“The sergeant, who has had much experience as a trailer, told us that
the tracks made by the buggy wheels were several days old. The slaves
probably had been sent southward before that time. Now some one who
saw our advance has come back, and, whoever it was, he was thoroughly
familiar with the house. He couldn't have been a servant. Servants
don't leave taunts of that kind. It must have been somebody who felt our
coming deeply, and if it had been an elderly man he would have waited
for action, he wouldn't have used saucy words. So, sir, I think it must
have been a boy. Just like Pennington there, for instance.”

“Good, George, go on with your reasonings.”

“As surely, sir, as z plus y equals the total of the two, the one who
put up the placard was a son of the owner. He alone would feel deeply
enough to take so great a risk. The conditions absolutely demand that
the owner has such a son and that he has done it.”

“Very good, George. I think you're right, and this youth in giving way
to a natural burst of anger, although he did not mean to do so, has
posted up for us a warning. A lad of his spirit would go in search
of Forrest, and we cannot forget our experience with that general in
Tennessee. Now, boys, we'll make ready for the night, which is not far
away.”

The house was built for a Southern climate, although Dick had learned
that it could be cold enough in Central Mississippi in midwinter. But
it was spring now and they opened all the doors and windows, letting the
pleasant air rush through the musty house.

“It may rain,” said Colonel Winchester, “and the officers will sleep
inside. The men will spread their blankets on the piazzas, and the
horses will be tethered in the grounds. I hate to see the flowers and
grass trodden down, but nature will restore them.”

Some of the soldiers gathered wood from heaps nearby and fires were
kindled in the kitchen, and also on the hearths in the slave quarters.
Colonel Winchester had been truly called the father of his regiment.
He was invariably particular about its health and comfort, and, as he
always led it in person in battle, there was no finer body of men in the
Union service.

Now he meant for his men to have coffee, and warm food after this long
and trying ride and soon savory odors arose, although the cooking was
not begun until after dark, lest the smoke carry a signal to a lurking
enemy. The cavalrymen cut the thick grass which grew everywhere, and fed
it to their horses, eight hundred massive jaws munching in content. The
beasts stirred but little after their long ride and now and then one
uttered a satisfied groan.

The officers drank their coffee and ate their food on the eastern
piazza, which overlooked a sharp dip toward a creek three or four
hundred yards away. The night had rushed down suddenly after the fashion
of the far South, and from the creek they heard faintly the hoarse frogs
calling. Beyond the grounds a close ring of sentinels watched, because
Colonel Winchester had no mind to be surprised again by Forrest or by
Fighting Joe Wheeler or anybody else.

The night was thick and dark and moist with clouds. Dick, despite the
peace that seemed to hang over everything, was oppressed. The desolate
house, even more than the sight of the field after the battle was over,
brought home to him the meaning of war. It was not alone the death
of men but the uprooting of a country for their children and their
children's children as well. Then his mind traveled back to his uncle,
Colonel Kenton, and suddenly he smote his knee.

“What is it, Dick,” asked Colonel Winchester, who sat only two or three
yards away.

“Now I remember, sir. When I was only seven or eight years old I heard
my uncle tell of stopping, as I told you, at a great plantation in
Mississippi called Bellevue, but I couldn't recall the name of its
owner. I know him now.”

“What is the name, Dick?”

“Woodville, John Woodville. He was a member of the Mississippi Senate,
and he was probably the richest man in the State.”

“I think I have heard the name. He is a Confederate colonel now, with
Pemberton's army. No doubt we'll have to fight him later on.”

“Meanwhile, we're using his house.”

“Fortune of war. But all war is in a sense unfair, because it's usually
a question of the greater force. At any rate, Dick, we won't harm
Colonel Woodville's home.”

“Yet in the end, sir, a lot of these great old country places will go,
and what will take their place? You and I, coming from a border state,
know that the colored race is not made up of Uncle Toms.”

“Well, Dick, we haven't won yet, and until we do we won't bother
ourselves about the aftermath of war. I'm glad we found so large a place
as this. At the last moment I sent part of the men to the cabins, but
at least three or four hundred must lie here on the piazzas. And most of
them are already asleep. It's lucky they have roofs. Look how the clouds
are gathering!”

As much more room had been made upon the piazzas by the assignment of
men to the cabins, Colonel Winchester and some of his officers also
rested there. Dick, lying between the two blankets which he always
carried in a roll tied to his saddle, was very comfortable now, with his
head on his knapsack. The night had turned cooler, and, save when faint
and far lightning quivered, it was heavy and dark with clouds. But the
young lieutenants, hardened by two years of war and life in the open,
felt snug and cosy on the broad, sheltered piazza. It was not often they
found such good quarters, and Dick, like Colonel Winchester, was truly
thankful that they had reached Bellevue before the coming storm.

It was evident now that the night was going to be wild. The lightning
grew brighter and came nearer, cutting fiercely across the southern sky.
The ominous rumble of thunder, which reminded Dick so much of the mutter
of distant battle, came from the horizon on which the lightning was
flashing.

Colonel Winchester, Pennington and Warner had gone to sleep, but Dick
was wakeful. He had again that feeling of pity for the people who had
been compelled to flee from such a house, and who might lose it forever.
It seemed to him that all the men, save himself and the sentinels, were
asleep, sleeping with the soundness and indifference to surroundings
shown by men who took their sleep when they could.

The horses stamped and moved uneasily beneath the threat of the
advancing storm, but the men slept heavily on.

Dick knew that the sentinels were awake and watchful. They had a
wholesome dread of Forrest and Wheeler, those wild riders of the South.
Some of them had been present at that terrible surprise in Tennessee,
and they were not likely to be careless when they were sure that Forrest
might be near, but he remained uneasy nevertheless, and, although he
closed his eyes and sought a soft place for his head on the saddle,
sleep did not come.

He was sure that his apprehension did not come from any fear of an
attack by Forrest or Wheeler. It was deeper-seated. The inherited sense
that belonged to his great grandfather, who had lived his life in the
wilderness, was warning him. It was not superstition. It seemed to Dick
merely the palpable result of an inheritance that had gone into the
blood. His famous great-grandfather, Paul Cotter, and his famous friend,
Henry Ware, had lived so much and so long among dangers that the very
air indicated to them when they were at hand.

Dick looked down the long piazza, so long that the men at either end of
it were hidden by darkness. The tall trees in the grounds were nodding
before the wind, and the lightning flashed incessantly in the southwest.
The thunder was not loud, but it kept up a continuous muttering and
rumbling. The rain was coming in fitful gusts, but he knew that it would
soon drive hard and for a long time.

Everybody within Dick's area of vision was sound asleep, except himself.
Colonel Winchester lay with his head on his arm and his slumber was so
deep that he was like one dead. Warner had not stirred a particle in the
last half-hour. Dick was angry at himself because he could not sleep.
Let the storm burst! It might drive on the wide roof of the piazza
and the steady beating sound would make his sleep all the sounder and
sweeter. He recalled, as millions of American lads have done, the days
when he lay in his bed just under the roof and heard hail and sleet
drive against it, merely to make him feel all the snugger in the bed
with his covers drawn around him.

The fitful gusts of rain ceased, and then it came with a steady pour and
roar, driving directly down, thus leaving the men on the outer edges of
the piazzas untouched and dry. Still, Dick did not sleep, and at last
he arose and walked softly into the house. Here the sense of danger
grew stronger. He was reminded again of his early boyhood, when some one
blindfolded was told to find a given object, and the others called “hot”
 when he was near or “cold” when he was away. He was feeling hot now.
That inherited sense, the magnetic feeling out of the past, was warning
him.

Dick felt sure that some one not of their regiment was in the building.
He neither saw nor heard the least sign of a presence, but he was
absolutely certain that he was not alone within Bellevue. Since the
lightning had ceased it was pitchy dark inside. There was a wide hall
running through the building, with windows above the exits, but he saw
nothing through them save the driving rain and the dim outline of the
threshing trees.

He turned into one of the side rooms, and then he paused and pushed
himself against the wall. He was sure now that he heard a soft footstep.
The darkness was so intense that it could be felt like a mist. He waited
but he did not hear it again, and then he began to make his way around
the wall, stepping as lightly as he could.

He had gone through most of the rooms at their arrival and he still
retained a clear idea of the interior of the house. He knew that there
was another door on the far side of the chamber in which he stood, and
he meant to follow the wall until he reached it. Some one had been in
the room with him and Dick believed that he was leaving by the far door.

While he heard no further footsteps he felt a sudden light draught on
his face and he knew that the door had been opened and shut. He might
go to Colonel Winchester and tell him that a lurking spy or somebody
of that character was in the house, but what good would it do? A spy
at such a time and in such a place could not harm them, and the whole
regiment would be disturbed for nothing. He would follow the chase
alone.

He found the door and passed into the next room. Its windows opened upon
the southern piazza and two or three shutters were thrown back. A faint
light entered and Dick saw that no one was there but himself. He could
discern the dim figures of the soldiers sleeping on the piazza and
beyond a cluster of the small pines grown on lawns.

Dick felt that he had lost the trail for the time, but he did not intend
to give it up. Doubtless the intruder was some one who knew the house
and who was also aware of his presence inside. He also felt that he
would not be fired upon, because the stranger himself would not wish to
bring the soldiers down upon him. So, with a hand upon his pistol butt,
he opened the side door and followed once more into the darkness.

The ghostly chase went on for a full half-hour, Dick having nothing to
serve him save an occasional light footfall. There was one period of
more than half an hour when he lost the fugitive entirely. He wandered
up to the second floor and then back again. There, in a room that had
been the library, he caught a glimpse of the man. But the figure was so
shadowy that he could tell nothing about him.

“Halt!” cried Dick, snatching out his pistol. But when he leveled it
there was nothing to aim at. The figure had melted away, or rather it
had flitted through another door. Dick followed, chagrined. The stranger
seemed to be playing with him. Obviously, it was some one thoroughly
acquainted with the house, and that brought to Dick's mind the thought
that he himself, instead of the other man, was the stranger there.

He came at last to a passage which led to the kitchen, a great room,
because many people were often guests at Bellevue, and here he stopped
short, while his heart suddenly beat hard. A distinct odor coming from
different points suddenly assailed his nostrils. He had smelled it too
often in the last two years to be mistaken. It was smoke, and Bellevue
had been set on fire in several places.

He inhaled it once or twice and then he saw again the shadowy figure
flitting down to the passage and to a small door that, unnoticed by the
soldiers, opened on the kitchen garden in the rear of the house.

Dick never acted more promptly. Instantly he fired his pistol into the
ceiling, the report roaring in the confined spaces of the house, and
then shouting with all his might: “Fire! Fire! Fire!” as he dashed down
the passage he ran through the little door, which the intruder had left
open, and pursued him in the darkness and rain into the garden. There
was a flash ahead of him and a bullet whistled past his ear, but he
merely increased his speed and raced in the direction of the flash. As
he ran he heard behind him a tremendous uproar, the voices and tread
of hundreds of soldiers, awakened suddenly, and he knew that they would
rush through Bellevue in search of the fires.

But it was Dick's impulse to capture the daring intruder who would
destroy the house over their heads. Built of wood, it would burn so
fast, once the torches were set, that the rain would have little effect
upon the leaping flames, unless measures were taken at once, which he
knew that the regiment would do, under such a capable man as Colonel
Winchester. Meanwhile he was hot in pursuit.

The trail which was not that of footsteps, but of a shadowy figure, ran
between tall and close rows of grapevines so high on wooden framework
that they hid any one who passed. The suspicion that Dick had held at
first was confirmed. This was no stranger, no intruder. He knew every
inch of both house and grounds, and, after having set the house on fire,
he had selected the only line of retreat, but a safe one, through the
thick and lofty vegetation of the garden, which ran down to the edge
of the ravine in the rear, where he could slip quietly under the fence,
drop through the thick grass into the ravine unseen by the pickets, and
escape at his leisure in the darkness.

Dick was so sure of his theory that he strained every effort to overtake
the figure which was flitting before him like a ghost. In his eagerness
he had forgotten to shout any alarm about the pickets, but it would
have been of no avail, as most of them, under the impulse of alarm, had
rushed forward to help extinguish the fires.

He saw the fugitive reach the end of the garden, drop almost flat, and
then slip under a broken place in the palings. At an ordinary time
he would have stopped there, but all the instincts of the hunter were
aroused. It was still raining, and he was already soaked. Wet branches
and leaves struck him in the face as he passed, but his energy and
eagerness were undimmed.

He, too, dropped at the hole under the broken palings and slid forward
face foremost. The wet grass was as slippery as ice, and after he passed
through the hole Dick kept going. Moreover, his speed increased. He had
not realized that the garden went to the very edge of the ravine, and he
was shooting down a steep slope to the depth of thirty feet. He grasped
instinctively at weeds and grass as he made his downward plunge and
fetched up easily at the bottom.

He sprang to his feet and saw the shadowy fugitive running down the
ravine. In an instant he followed headlong, tripped once or twice on the
wet grass, but was up every time like lightning, and once more in swift
pursuit. The fugitive turned once, raised his pistol and pulled the
trigger again, evidently forgetful that it was empty. When the hammer
snapped on the trigger he uttered a low cry of anger and hurled the
useless weapon into the grass. Then he whirled around and faced Dick,
who was coming on, eager and panting.

Dick's own pistol was empty and he did not carry his small sword. He
stopped abruptly when the other turned, and, in the dim light and rain,
he saw that his opponent was a young man or rather youth of about his
own size and age. When he saw the lad cast the pistol aside Dick, moved
by some chivalrous impulse, dropped his own in the grass.

Then the two stared at each other. They were far beyond the line of the
pickets, and as they stood in the deep ravine there was no chance that
any one would either see or hear them. As Dick gazed intently, the face
and figure of his antagonist shaped themselves more distinctly in the
dim light. He beheld before him a tall youth, extremely well built, fair
of face, his brown hair slightly long. He wore rain-soaked civilian's
garb.

He saw that the youth was panting like himself, but it was not wholly
the result of flight. His face expressed savage anger and indignation.

“You dirty Yankee!” he said.

Dick started. No one had ever before addressed him with such venom.

“If by Yankee you mean loyalty to the Union then I'm one,” he said, “and
I'm proud of it. What's more I'm willing to tell who I am. My name is
Richard Mason. I'm from Kentucky, and I'm a lieutenant in the regiment
of Colonel Arthur Winchester, which occupies the building behind us.”

“From Kentucky and consorting with Yankees! A lot of you are doing it,
and you ought to be on our side! We hate you for it more than we do the
real Yankees!”

“It's our right to choose, and we've chosen. And now, since you're
talking so much about right and wrong, who may you be, Mr. Firebug?”

Even in the dark Dick saw his opponent's face flush, and his eyes flash
with deadly hostility.

“My name is Victor Woodville,” he replied, “and my father is Colonel
John Woodville, C.S.A. He is the owner of the house in which your
infamous Yankee regiment is encamped.”

“And which you have tried to burn?”

“I'd rather see it burn than shelter Yankees. You'd burn it anyway later
on. Grant's troops have already begun to use the torch.”

“At any rate you'll go before our colonel. He'll want to ask you a lot
of questions.”

“I'm not going before your colonel.”

“Oh, yes, you are.”

“Who's going to take me?”

“I am.”

“Then come on and do it.”

Dick advanced warily. Both had regained their breath and strength now.
Dick with two years of active service in the army had the size and
muscles of a man. But so had his opponent. Each measured the other, and
they were formidable antagonists, well matched.

Dick had learned boxing at the Pendleton Academy, and, as he approached
slowly, looking straight into the eyes of his enemy, he suddenly shot
his right straight for Woodville's chin. The Mississippian, as light on
his feet as a leopard, leaped away and countered with his left, a blow
so quick and hard that Dick, although he threw his head to one side,
caught a part of its force just above his ear. But, guarding himself, he
sprang back, while Woodville faced him, laughing lightly.

Dick shook his head a little and the singing departed. Just above his
ear he felt a great soreness, but he was cool now. Moreover, he was
losing his anger.

“First blow for you,” he said. “I see that you know how to use your
fists.”

“I hope to prove it.”

Woodville, stepping lightly on his toes and feinting with his left,
caught Dick on his cheek bone with his right. Then he sought to spring
away, but Dick, although staggered, swung heavily and struck Woodville
on the forehead. The Mississippian went down full length on the slippery
grass but jumped to his feet in an instant. Blood was flowing from his
forehead, whence it ran down his nose and fell to the earth, drop by
drop. Dick himself was bleeding from the cut on his cheek bone.

The two faced each other, cool, smiling, but resolute enemies.

“First knockdown for you,” said Woodville, “but I mean that the second
shall be mine.”

“Go in and try.”

But Woodville drew back a little, and as Dick followed, looking for an
opening he was caught again a heavy clip on the side of the head. He
saw stars and was not able to return the blow, but he sprang back and
protected himself once more with his full guard, while he regained his
balance and strength.

“Am I a firebug?” asked Woodville tauntingly.

Dick considered. This youth interested him. There was no denying that
Woodville had great cause for anger, when he found his father's house
occupied by a regiment of the enemy. He considered it defilement. The
right or wrong of the war had nothing to do with it. It was to him a
matter of emotion.

“I'll take back the epithet 'firebug,'” he said, “but I must stick to my
purpose of carrying you to Colonel Winchester.”

“Always provided you can: Look out for yourself.”

The Mississippian, who was wonderfully agile, suddenly danced in--on his
toes it seemed to Dick--and landed savagely on his opponent's left ear.
Then he was away so quickly and lightly that Dick's return merely cut
the air.

The Kentuckian felt the blood dripping from another point. His ear,
moreover, was very sore and began to swell rapidly. One less enduring
would have given up, but he had a splendid frame, toughened by incessant
hardship. And, above all, enclosed within that frame was a lion heart.
He shook his head slightly, because a buzzing was going on there, but in
a moment or two it stopped.

“Are you satisfied?” asked young Woodville.

“You remember what Paul Jones said: 'I've just begun to fight.'”

“Was it Paul Jones? Well, I suppose it was. Anyhow, if you feel that way
about it, so do I. Then come on again, Mr. Richard Mason.”

Dick's blood was up. The half-minute or so of talk had enabled him to
regain his breath. Although he felt that incessant pain and swelling in
his left ear, his resolution to win was unshaken. Pride was now added to
his other motives.

He took a step forward, feinted, parried skillfully, and then stepped
back. Woodville, always agile as a panther, followed him and swung for
the chin, but Dick, swerving slightly to one side, landed with great
force on Woodville's jaw. The young Mississippian fell, but, while Dick
stood looking at him, he sprang to his feet and faced his foe defiantly.
The blood was running down his cheek and dyeing the whole side of his
face. But Dick saw the spirit in his eye and knew that he was far from
conquered.

Woodville smiled and threw back his long hair from his face.

“A good one for you. You shook me up,” he admitted, “but I don't see any
sign of your ability to carry me to that Yankee colonel, as you boasted
you would do.”

“But I'm going to do it.”

The rain increased and washed the blood from both their faces. It was
dark within the ravine, but they had been face to face so long that they
could read the eyes of each other. Those of Woodville like those of Dick
ceased to express great anger. In the mind of each was growing a respect
for his antagonist. The will to conquer remained, but not the desire to
hate.

“If you're going to do it, then why don't you?” said Woodville.

Dick moved slowly forward, still watching the eyes of the Mississippian.
He believed now that Woodville, agile and alert though he might be, had
not fully recovered his strength. There was terrific steam in that last
punch and the head of the man who had received it might well be buzzing
yet.

Dick then moved in with confidence, but a lightning blow crashed through
his guard, caught him on the chin and sent him to earth. He rose,
though still half-stunned, and saw that the confident, taunting look had
returned to Woodville's face. Fortunate now for Dick that the pure blood
of great woods rangers flowed in his veins, and that he had inherited
from them too an iron frame. His chin was cut and he had seen a thousand
stars. But his eyes cleared and steadily he faced his foe.

“Do I go with you to your colonel?” asked Woodville, ironically.

“You do,” replied Dick firmly.

He looked his enemy steadily in the eye again, and he felt a great sense
of triumph. After such severe punishment he was stronger than ever and
he knew it.

Therefore he must win. He struck heavily, straight for the angle of
Woodville's chin. The Mississippian evaded the blow and flashed in with
his left. But Dick, who was learning to be very wary, dodged it and came
back so swiftly that Woodville was caught and beaten to his knees.

But the son of the house of Bellevue was still so agile that he was
able to recover his feet and spring away. Dick saw, however, that he was
panting heavily. The blow had taken a considerable part of his remaining
strength. He also saw that his antagonist was regarding him with a
curious eye.

“You fight well, Yank,” said Woodville, “although I ought not to call
you Yank, but rather a traitor, as you're a Kentuckian. Still, I've
put my marks on you. You're bleeding a lot and you'd be a sight if it
weren't for this cleansing rain.”

“I've been putting the map of Kentucky on your own face. You don't look
as much like Mississippi as you did. You'll take notice too that you
didn't burn the house. If you'll glance up the side of this ravine
you'll see just a little dying smoke. Eight hundred soldiers put it out
in short order.”

Woodville's face flushed, and his eyes for the first time since the
beginning of the encounter shone with an angry gleam. But the wrathful
fire quickly died.

“On the whole, I'm not sorry,” he said. “It was an impulse that made me
do it. Our army will come and drive you away, and our house will be our
own again.”

“That's putting it fairly. What's the use of burning such a fine place
as Bellevue? Still, we want you. Our colonel has many questions to ask
you.”

“You can't take me.”

Dick judged that the crucial moment had now come. Woodville was
breathing much more heavily than he was, and seemed to be near
exhaustion. Dick darted boldly in, received a swinging right and left on
either jaw that cut his cheeks and made the blood flow. But he sent his
right to Woodville's chin and the young Mississippian without a sound
dropped to the ground, lying relaxed and flat upon his back, his white
face, streaked with red, upturned to the rain.

He was so still that Dick was seized with fear lest he had killed him.
He liked this boy who had fought him so well and, grasping him by both
shoulders, he shook him hard. But when he loosed him Woodville fell back
flat and inert.

Dick heard the waters of a brook trickling down the ravine, and,
snatching off his cap, he ran to it. He filled the cap and returned just
in time to see Woodville leap lightly to his feet and disappear with the
speed of a deer among the bushes.




CHAPTER II. FORREST


Dick dashed after the fugitive, but he had disappeared utterly, and the
dense bushes impeded the pursuer. He was hot and angry that he had been
deluded so cleverly, but then came the consolation that, after all, he
had won in the fistic encounter with an antagonist worthy of anybody.
And after this came a second thought that caused him to halt abruptly.

He and Woodville had fought it out fairly. Their fists had printed upon
the faces of each other the stamp of a mutual liking. Why should he
strive to take young Woodville before Colonel Winchester? Nothing was
to be gained by it, and, as the Mississippian was in civilian's garb, he
might incur the punishment of a spy. He realized in a flash that, since
he had vindicated his own prowess, he was glad of Woodville's escape.

He turned and walked thoughtfully back up the ravine. Very little noise
came from the house and the thin spires of smoke had disappeared. He
knew now that the fires had been put out with ease, thanks to his
quick warning. Before starting he had recovered both his own pistol and
Woodville's, and he was particularly glad to find the latter because
it would be proof of his story, if proof were needed. The rain had not
ceased nor had the heavy darkness lifted, but the looming shadow of the
big house was sufficient guide. He found the place where he had slipped
down the bank and the torn bushes and grass showed that he had made a
fine trail. He pulled himself back up by the bushes and reentered the
garden, where he was halted at once by two watchful sentries.

“Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester's staff,” he said,
“returning from the pursuit of a fugitive.”

The men knew him and they said promptly:

“Pass Lieutenant Mason.”

But despite the dark they stared at him very curiously, and when he
walked on toward the piazza one of them muttered to the other:

“I guess he must have overtook that fugitive he was chasin'.”

Dick walked up the steps upon the piazza, where some one had lighted a
small lamp, near which stood Colonel Winchester and his staff.

“Here's Dick!” exclaimed Warner in a tone of great relief.

“And we thought we had lost him,” said Colonel Winchester, gladness
showing in his voice. Then he added: “My God, Dick, what have you been
doing to yourself?”

“Yes, what kind of a transformation is this?” added a major. “You've
certainly come back with a face very different from the one with which
you left us!”

Dick turned fiery red. He suddenly became conscious that he had a left
ear of enormous size, purple and swollen, that his left eye was closing
fast, that the blood was dripping from cuts on either cheek, that the
blood had flowed down the middle of his forehead and had formed a little
stalactite on the end of his nose, that his chin had been gashed in five
places by a strong fist, and that he had contributed his share to the
bloodshed of the war.

“If I didn't know these were modern times,” said Warner, “I'd say that
he had just emerged from a sanguinary encounter bare-handed in the Roman
arena with a leopard.”

Dick glared at him.

“It was you who gave the alarm of fire, was it not?” asked Colonel
Winchester.

“Yes, sir. I saw the man who set the fires and I pursued him through the
garden and into the ravine that runs behind it.”

“Your appearance indicates that you overtook him.”

Dick flushed again.

“I did, sir,” he replied. “I know I'm no beauty at present, but neither
is he.”

“It looks as if it had been a matter of fists?”

“It was, sir. Both of us fired our pistols, but missed. Then we threw
our weapons to one side and clashed. It was a hard and long fight, sir.
He hit like a pile driver, and he was as active as a deer. But I was
lucky enough to knock him out at last.”

“Then why does your face look like a huge piece of pickled beef?” asked
the incorrigible Warner mischievously.

“You wait and I'll make yours look the same!” retorted Dick.

“Shut up,” said Colonel Winchester. “If I catch you two fighting I may
have you both shot as an example.”

Dick and Warner grinned good-naturedly at each other. They knew that
Colonel Winchester did not dream of carrying out such a threat, and they
knew also that they had no intention of fighting.

“And after you knocked him out what happened?” asked the colonel.

Dick looked sheepish.

“He lay so still I was afraid he was dead,” he replied. “I ran down to
a brook, filled my cap with water, and returned with it in the hope
of reviving him. I got there just in time to see him vanishing in the
bushes. Pursuit was hopeless.”

“He was clever,” said the Colonel. “Have you any idea who he was?”

“He told me. He was Victor Woodville, the son of Colonel John Woodville,
C.S.A., the owner of this house.”

“Ah!” said Colonel Winchester, and then after a moment's thought he
added: “It's just as well he escaped. I should not have known what to do
with him. But we have you, Dick, to thank for giving the alarm. Now, go
inside and change to some dry clothes, if you have any in your baggage,
and if not dry yourself before a fire they're going to build in the
kitchen.”

“Will you pardon me for speaking of something, sir?”

“Certainly. Go ahead.”

“I think the appearance of young Woodville here indicates the nearness
of Forrest or some other strong cavalry force.”

“You're right, Dick, my officers and I are agreed upon it. I have
doubled the watch, but now get yourself to that fire and then to sleep.”

Dick obeyed gladly enough. The night had turned raw and chill, and the
cold water dripped from his clothes as he walked. But first he produced
Woodville's pistol and handed it to Colonel Winchester.

“There's my antagonist's pistol, sir,” he said. “You'll see his initials
on it.”

“Yes, here they are,” said Colonel Winchester: “'V.W., C.S.A.' It's a
fine weapon, but it's yours, Dick, as you captured it.”

Dick took it and went to the kitchen, where the big fire had just begun
to blaze. He was lucky enough to be the possessor of an extra uniform,
and before he changed into it--they slept with their clothes on--he
roasted himself before those glorious coals. Then, as he was putting on
the fresh uniform, Warner and Pennington appeared.

“What would you recommend as best for the patient, Doctor,” said Warner
gravely to Pennington.

“I think such a distinguished surgeon as you will agree with me that his
wounds should first be washed and bathed thoroughly in cold water.”

“And after that a plentiful application of soothing liniment.”

“Yes, Doctor. That is the best we can do with the simple medicines we
have, but it especially behooves us to reduce the size of that left ear,
or some of the boys will say that we have a case of elephantiasis on our
hands.”

“While you're reducing the size of it you might also reduce the pain in
it,” said Dick.

“We will,” said Pennington; “we've got some fine horse liniment here.
I brought it all the way from Nebraska with me, and if it's good for
horses it ought to be good for prize fighters, too. That was surely a
hefty chap who fought you. If you didn't have his pistol as proof I'd
say that he gave you a durned good licking. Isn't this a pretty cut down
the right cheek bone, George?”

“Undoubtedly, but nothing can take away the glory of that left ear.
Why, if Dick could only work his ears he could fan himself with it
beautifully. When I meet that Woodville boy I'm going to congratulate
him. He was certainly handy with his fists.”

“Go on, fellows,” said Dick, good-naturedly. “In a week I won't have a
wound or a sign of a scar. Then I'll remember what you've said to me and
I'll lick you both, one after the other.”

“Patient is growing delirious, don't you think so, Doctor?” said Warner
to Pennington.

“Beyond a doubt. Violent talk is always proof of it. Better put him to
bed. Spread his two blankets before the fire, and he can sleep there,
while every particle of cold and stiffness is being roasted out of him.”

“You boys are very good to me,” said Dick gratefully.

“It's done merely in the hope that your gratitude will keep you from
giving us the licking you promised,” said Pennington.

Then they left him and Dick slept soundly until he was awakened the next
day by Warner. The fire was out, the rain had ceased long since and the
sun was shining brilliantly.

“Hop up, Dick,” said Warner briskly. “Breakfast's ready. Owing to your
wound we let you sleep until the last moment. Come now, take the foaming
coffee and the luscious bacon, and we'll be off, leaving Bellevue again
to its masters, if they will come and claim it.”

“Has anything happened in the night?”

“Nothing since you ran your face against a pile driver, but Sergeant
Daniel Whitley, who reads the signs of earth and air and wood and water,
thinks that something is going to happen.”

“Is it Forrest?”

“Don't know, but it's somebody or something. As soon as we can eat our
luxurious breakfasts we mean to mount and ride hard toward Grant. We're
scouts, but according to Whitley the scouts are scouted, and this is a
bad country to be trapped in.”

Dick was so strong and his blood was so pure that he felt his wounds
but little now. The cuts and bruises were healing fast and he ate with a
keen appetite. He heard then of the signs that Whitley had seen. He had
found two broad trails, one three miles from the house, and the other
about four miles. Each indicated the passage of several hundred men, but
he had no way of knowing whether they belonged to the same force. They
were bound to be Confederate cavalry as Colonel Winchester's regiment
was known to be the only Union force in that section.

Dick knew their position to be dangerous. Colonel Winchester had done
his duty in discovering that Forrest and Wheeler were raiding through
Mississippi, and that a heavy force was gathering in the rear of Grant,
who intended the siege of Vicksburg. It behooved him now to reach Grant
as soon as he could with his news.

Refreshed and watchful, the regiment rode away from Bellevue. Dick
looked back at the broad roof and the great piazzas, and then he thought
of young Woodville with a certain sympathy. They had fought a good fight
against each other, and he hoped they would meet after the war and be
friends.

It was about an hour after sunrise, and the day was bright and warm. The
beads of water that stood on every leaf and blade of grass were drying
fast, and the air, despite its warmth, was pure and bracing. Dick, as
he looked at the eight hundred men, tanned, experienced and thoroughly
armed, under capable leaders, felt that they were a match for any roving
Southern force.

“Just let Forrest come on,” he said. “I know that the Colonel is aching
to get back at him for that surprise in Tennessee, and I believe we
could whip him.”

“You're showing great spirit for a man who was beaten up in the prize
ring as you were last night. I thought you'd want to rest for a few
days.”

“Drop it, George. I did get some pretty severe cuts and bruises, but I
was lucky enough to have the services of two very skillful and devoted
young physicians. Their treatment was so fine that I'm all right
to-day.”

“Unless I miss my guess, we'll need the services of doctors again before
night comes. No mountains are here, but this is a great country for
ambush. It's mostly in forest, and even in the open the grass is already
very tall. Besides, there are so many streams, bayous, and ponds. Notice
how far out on the flanks the skirmishers and scouts are riding, and
others ride just as far ahead.”

Two miles from Bellevue and they came to a small hill, covered with
forest, from the protection of which the officers examined the country
long and minutely, while their men remained hidden among the deep
foliaged trees. Dick had glasses of his own which he put to his eyes,
bringing nearer the wilderness, broken here and there by open spaces
that indicated cotton fields. Yet the forest was so dense and there
was so much of it that a great force might easily be hidden within its
depths only a mile away.

“Have we any information at all about Forrest's strength?” whispered
Pennington to Dick.

“His full force isn't down here. It is believed he has not more than a
thousand or twelve hundred men. But he and his officers know the country
thoroughly, and of course the inhabitants, being in full sympathy with
them, will give them all the information they need. The news of every
movement of ours has been carried straight to the rebel general.”

“And yet the country seems to have no people at all. We come to but few
houses, and those few are deserted.”

“So they are. What was that? Did you see it, Frank?”

“What was what?”

“I forgot that you are not using glasses. I caught a momentary glitter
in the woods. I think it was a sunbeam passing through the leaves and
striking upon the polished barrel of a rifle. Ah! there it is again! And
Colonel Winchester has seen it too.”

The colonel and his senior officers were now gazing intently at the
point in the wood where Dick had twice seen the gleam, and, keener-eyed
than they, he continued to search the leafy screen through his own
glasses. Soon he saw bayonets, rifles, horses and men advancing swiftly,
and then came two of their own scouts galloping.

“The enemy is advancing!” they cried. “It's Forrest!”

A thrill shot through Dick. The name of Forrest was redoubtable, but
he knew that every man in the regiment was glad to meet him again. He
glanced at Colonel Winchester and saw that his face had flushed. He knew
that the colonel was more than gratified at this chance.

“We'll make our stand here,” said Colonel Winchester. “The hill runs to
the right, and, as you see over there, it is covered with forest without
undergrowth. Thus we can secure protection, and at the same time be able
to maneuver, mounted.”

The regiment was posted rapidly in two long lines, the second to fire
between the intervals of the first. They carried carbines and heavy
cavalry sabers, and they were the best mounted regiment in the Northern
service.

Yet these men, brave and skillful as they were, were bound to feel
trepidation, although they did not show it. They were far in the
Southern forest, cut off from their army, and Forrest, in addition
to his own cavalry, might have brought with him fresh reserves of the
enemy.

Dick, Warner, and Pennington, as usual, remained close to their colonel,
and Sergeant Daniel Whitley was not far away. But Colonel Winchester
presently rode along the double line of his veterans, and he spoke to
them quietly but with emphasis and conviction:

“My lads,” he said, “you see Forrest's men coming through the woods to
attack us. Forrest is the greatest cavalry leader the South has, west of
the Alleghanies. Some of you were with me when we were surprised and cut
up by him in Tennessee. But you will not be surprised by him now, nor
will you be cut up by him. All of you have become great riders, a match
for Forrest's own, and as I look upon your faces here I know that there
is no fear in a single heart. You have served under Grant, and you have
served under Thomas. They are two generals who always set their faces
toward the front and never turn them toward the rear. You will this day
prove yourselves worthy of Grant and Thomas.”

They were about to cheer, but he checked it with the simple gesture of
a raised hand. Then they did a thing that only a beloved leader could
inspire. Every man in the regiment, resting his carbine across the
pommel of his saddle, drew his heavy cavalry saber and made it whirl in
coils of glittering light about his head.

The great pulse in Dick's throat leaped as he saw. The long double line
seemed to give back a double flash of flame. Not a word was said, and
then eight hundred sabers rattled together as they were dropped back
into their scabbards. Colonel Winchester's face flushed deeply at the
splendid salute, but he did not speak either. He took off his cap and
swept it in a wide curve to all his men. Then he turned his face toward
the enemy.

The Southern trumpet was singing in the forest, and the force of
Forrest, about twelve hundred strong, was emerging into view. Dick,
through his glasses, saw and recognized the famous leader, a powerful,
bearded man, riding a great bay horse. He had heard many descriptions of
him and he knew him instinctively. He also recognized the fact that the
Winchester regiment had before it the most desperate work any men could
do, if it beat off Forrest when he came in his own country with superior
numbers.

Neither side had artillery, not even the light guns that could be
carried horse- or muleback. It must be left to carbine and saber.
Colonel Winchester carefully watched his formidable foe, trying to
divine every trick and expedient that he might use. He had a memory to
avenge. He had news to carry to Grant, and Forrest must not keep
him from carrying it. Moreover, his regiment and he would gain great
prestige if they could beat off Forrest. There would be glory for the
whole Union cavalry if they drove back the Southern attack. Dick saw the
glitter of his colonel's eye and the sharp compression of his lips.

But the men of Forrest, although nearly within rifle shot, did not
charge. Their bugle sang again, but Dick did not know what the tune
meant. Then they melted away into the deep forest on their flank, and
some of the troop thought they had gone, daunted by the firm front of
their foe.

But Dick knew better. Forrest would never retreat before an inferior
force, and he was full of wiles and stratagems. Dick felt like a
primitive man who knew that he was being stalked by a saber-toothed
tiger through the dense forest.

Colonel Winchester beckoned to Sergeant Whitley. “Pick a half-dozen
sharp-eyed men,” he said, “and ride into those woods. You're experienced
in this kind of war, Whitley, and before you go tell me what you think.”

“General Forrest, sir, besides fighting as a white man fights, fights
like an Indian, too; that is, he uses an Indian's cunning, which is
always meant for ambush and surprise. He isn't dreaming of going away.
They're coming back through the thick woods.”

“So I think. But let me know as soon as you can.”

Ten minutes after the sergeant had ridden forward with his comrades they
heard the sound of rapid rifle shots, and then they saw the little band
galloping back.

“They're coming, sir,” reported the sergeant. “Forrest has dismounted
several hundred of his men, and they are creeping forward from tree to
tree with their rifles, while the others hold their horses in the rear.”

“Then it's an Indian fight for the present,” said Colonel Winchester.
“We'll do the same.”

He rapidly changed his lines of battle. The entire front rank was
dismounted, while those behind held their horses. The four hundred in
front, spreading out in as long a line as possible in order to protect
their flanks, took shelter behind the trees and awaited the onset.

The attack was not long in coming. The Southern sharpshooters, creeping
from tree to tree, began to fire. Scores of rifles cracked and Dick,
from a convenient place behind a tree, saw the spouts of flame appearing
along a line of four or five hundred yards. Bullets whizzed about him,
and, knowing that he would not be needed at present for any message, he
hugged the friendly bark more tightly.

“It's lucky we have plenty of trees,” said a voice from the shelter of
the tree next to him. “We have at least one for every officer and man.”

It was Warner who spoke and he was quite cheerful. Like Colonel
Winchester, he seemed to look forward to the combat with a certain joy,
and he added:

“You'll take notice, Dick, old man, that we've not been surprised.
Forrest hasn't galloped over us as he did before. He's taking the
trouble to make the approach with protected riflemen. Now what is the
sergeant up to?”

Sergeant Whitley, after whispering a little with Colonel Winchester,
had stolen off toward the right with fifty picked riflemen. When they
reached the verge of the open space that lay between the two sides they
threw themselves down in the thick, tall grass. Neither Dick nor Warner
could see them now. They beheld only the stems of the grass waving as if
under a gentle wind. But Dick knew that the rippling movement marked the
passage of the riflemen.

Meanwhile the attack in their front was growing hotter. At least six
or seven hundred sharpshooters were sending a fire which would have
annihilated them if it had not been for the trees. As it was, fragments
of bark, twigs, and leaves showered about them. The whistling of the
bullets and their chugging as they struck the trees made a continuous
sinister note.

The Union men were not silent under this fire. Their own rifles were
replying fast, but Colonel Winchester continually urged them to take
aim, and, while death and wounds were inflicted on the Union ranks, the
Southern were suffering in the same manner.

Dick turned his eyes toward the right flank, where the fifty picked
riflemen, Sergeant Whitley at their head, were crawling through the
tall grass. He knew that they were making toward a little corner of the
forest, thrust farther forward than the rest, and presently when the
rippling in the grass ceased he was sure that they had reached it. Then
the fifty rifles cracked together and the Southern flank was swept by
fifty well-aimed bullets. Lying in their covert, Whitley's men reloaded
their breech-loading rifles and again sent in a deadly fire.

The main Northern force redoubled its efforts at the same time. The men
in blue sent in swarms of whistling bullets and Dick saw the front line
of the South retreating.

“We're rousing the wolves from their lairs,” explained Pennington
exultantly as he sprang from his tree, just in time for a bullet to send
his hat flying from his head. Fortunately, it clipped only a lock of
hair, but he received in a good spirit Warner's admonishing words:

“Don't go wild, Frank. We've merely repelled the present attack. You
don't think that Forrest with superior forces is going to let us alone,
do you?”

“No, I don't,” replied Pennington, “and don't you get behind that tree.
It's mine, and I'm coming back to it. I've earned it. I held it against
all kinds of bullets. Look at the scars made on each side of it by rebel
lead.”

The firing now died. Whitley's flank movement had proved wholly
successful, and Colonel Winchester reinforced him in the little forest
peninsula with fifty more picked men, where they lay well hidden, a
formidable force for any assailant.

The silence now became complete, save for the stamping of the impatient
horses and the drone of insects in the woods and grass. Dick, lying
on his stomach and using his glasses, could see nothing in the forest
before them. It was to him in all its aspects an Indian battle, and he
believed in spite of what Warner had said that the enemy had retired
permanently.

Colonel Winchester and all the officers rose to their feet presently and
walked among the trees. No bullets came to tell them that they were
rash and then the senior officers held a conference, while all the men
remounted, save a dozen or so who would ride no more. But the colonel
did not abate one whit of his craft or caution.

They resumed the march toward Grant, but they avoided every field or
open space. They would make curves and lose time in order to keep in the
dense wood, but, as Dick knew, Colonel Winchester still suspected that
Forrest was hovering somewhere on his flank, covered by the great forest
and awaiting a favorable opportunity to attack.

They approached one of the deep and narrow streams that ultimately
find their way to the Mississippi. It had only one ford, and the scouts
galloping back informed them that the farther shore was held by a
powerful force of cavalry.

“It's Forrest,” said Colonel Winchester with quiet conviction. “Knowing
every path of the woods, they've gone ahead of us, and they mean to cut
us off from Grant. Nevertheless we'll make a way.”

He spoke firmly, but the junior officers of the staff did not exactly
see how they were going to force a ford defended by a larger number of
cavalry under the redoubtable Forrest.

“I didn't think Forrest would let us alone, and he hasn't,” said
Pennington.

“No, he hasn't,” said Warner, “and it seems that he's checkmated us,
too. Why, that river is swollen by the rains so much that it's a hard
job to cross it if no enemy were on the other side. But you'll note,
also, that the enemy, having got to the other side, can't come back
again in our face to attack us.”

“But we want to go on and they don't,” said Dick. “They're satisfied
with the enforced status quo, and we're not. Am I right, Professor?”

“You certainly are,” replied Warner. “Now, our colonel is puzzled, as
you can tell by his looks, and so would I be, despite my great natural
military talents.”

The Winchester regiment fell back into the woods, leaving the two
forces out of rifle shot of each other. Sentinels were posted by both
commanders not far from the river and the rest, dismounting, took their
ease, save the officers, who again went into close conference.

Afterward they sat among the trees and waited. It was low ground, with
the earth yet soaked from the heavy rain of the night before, and the
heat grew heavy and intense. The insects began to drone again, and once
more mosquitoes made life miserable. But the soldiers did not complain.
It was noon now, and they ate food from their knapsacks. Two springs of
clear water were found a little distance from the river and all drank
there. Then they went back to their weary waiting.

On the other side of the river they could see the dismounted troopers,
playing cards, sleeping or currying their horses. They seemed to be in
no hurry at all. Colonel Winchester sent divisions of scouts up and down
the stream, and, both returning after a while, reported that the river
was not fordable anywhere.

Colonel Winchester sat down under a tree and smoked his pipe. The longer
he smoked the more corrugated his brow became. He looked angrily at the
ford, but it would be folly to attempt a passage there, and, containing
himself as best he could, he waited while the long afternoon waned. His
men at least would get a good rest.

Dick and his comrades, selecting the dryest place they could find,
spread their blankets and lay down. Protecting their faces from the
mosquitoes with green leaves, they sank into a deep quiet. Dick even
drowsed for a while. He could not think of a way out of the trap, and
he was glad it was the duty of older men like Colonel Winchester and the
majors and captains to save them.

The heat of the day increased with the coming of afternoon, and Dick's
eyelids grew heavier. He had become so thoroughly hardened to march and
battle that the presence of the enemy on the other side of a river did
not disturb him. What was the use of bothering about the rebels as long
as they did not wish to fire upon one?

His eyes closed for a few minutes, and then his dreaming mind traversed
space with incredible rapidity. He was back in Pendleton, sitting on
the portico with his mother, watching the flowers on the lawn nod in the
gentle wind. His cousin Harry Kenton saluted him with a halloo and came
bounding toward the porch, and the halloo caused Dick to awake and sit
up. He rubbed his eyes violently and looked around a little bit ashamed.
But two captains older than himself were sound asleep with their backs
against trees.

Dick stood up and shook himself violently. Whatever others might do he
must not allow himself to relax so much. He saw that the sun was slowly
descending and that the full heat of the afternoon was passing. Colonel
Winchester had withdrawn somewhat among the trees and he beckoned to
him. Sergeant Whitley was standing beside the colonel.

“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester, “colored men have brought us news that
Colonel Grierson of our army, with a strong raiding force of nearly two
thousand cavalry is less than a day's march away and on the same side
of this river that we are. We have received the news from three separate
sources and it must be true. Probably Forrest's men know it, too, but
expect Grierson to pass on, wholly ignorant that we're here. I have
chosen you and Sergeant Whitley to bring Grierson to our relief. The
horses are ready. Now go, and God speed you. The sergeant will tell you
what we know as you ride.”

Dick sprang at once into the saddle, and with a brief good-bye he and
the sergeant were soon in the forest riding toward the southeast. Dick
was alive and energetic again. All that laziness of mind and body was
gone. He rode on a great ride and every sense was alert.

“Tell me,” he said, “just about what the news is.”

“Three men,” replied the sergeant, “came in at different times with
tales, but the three tales agree. Grierson has made a great raid, even
further down than we have gone. He has more than double our numbers, and
if we can unite with him it's likely that we can turn Forrest into the
pursued instead of the pursuer. They say we can hit his trail about
twenty-five miles from here, and if that's so we'll bring him up to the
ford by noon to-morrow. Doesn't it look promising to you, Lieutenant
Mason?”

“It does look promising, Sergeant Whitley, if we don't happen to be
taken by the Johnnies who infest this region. Besides, you'll have to
guide through the dark to-night. You're trained to that sort of thing.”

“You can see pretty well in the dark yourself, sir; and since our way
lies almost wholly through forest I see no reason why we should be
captured.”

“That's so, sergeant. I'm just as much of an optimist as you are. You
keep the course, and I'm with you to the finish.”

They rode rather fast at first as the sun had not yet set, picking their
way through the woods, and soon left their comrades out of sight. The
twilight now came fast, adding a mournful and somber red to the vast
expanse of wilderness. The simile of an Indian fight returned to Dick
with increased force. This was not like any battle with white men in
the open fields. It was a combat of raiders who advanced secretly under
cover of the vast wilderness.

The twilight died with the rapidity of the South, and the darkness,
thick at the early hours, passed over the curve of the earth. For a time
Dick and the sergeant could not see many yards in front and they rode
very slowly. After a while, as the sky lightened somewhat and their eyes
also grew keen, they made better speed. Then they struck a path through
the woods leading in the right direction, and they broke into a trot.

The earth was so soft that their horses' feet gave back but little
sound, and both were confident they would not meet any enemy in the
night at least.

“Straight southeast,” said the sergeant, “and we're bound to strike
Grierson's tracks. After that we'd be blind if we couldn't follow the
trail made by nearly two thousand horsemen.”

The path still led in the direction they wished and they rode on
silently for hours. Once they saw a farmhouse set back in the woods, and
they were in fear lest dogs come out and bark alarm, but there was no
sound and they soon left it far behind.

They passed many streams, some of which were up to their saddle girths,
and then they entered a road which was often so deep in mud that they
were compelled to turn into the woods on the side. But no human being
had interfered with their journey, and their hopes rose to the zenith.

They came, finally, into an open region of cotton fields, and the
sergeant now began to watch closely for the great trail they hoped to
find. A force as large as Grierson's would not attempt a passage through
the woods, but would seek some broad road and Sergeant Whitley expected
to find it long before morning.

It was now an hour after midnight and they reckoned that they had come
about the right distance. There was a good moon and plenty of stars and
the sergeant gave himself only a half-hour to find the trail.

“There's bound to be a wide road somewhere among these fields, the kind
we call a county road.”

“It's over there beyond that rail fence,” said Dick. They urged their
horses into a trot, and soon found that Dick was right. A road of red
clay soft from the rains stretched before them.

“A man doesn't have to look twice here for a trail. See,” said the
sergeant.

The road from side to side was plowed deep with the hoofs of horses,
every footprint pointing northward.

“Grierson's cavalry,” said Dick.

“I take it that it can't be anything else. There is certainly in these
parts no rebel force of cavalry large enough to make this trail.”

“How old would you say these tracks are?”

“Hard to tell, but they can't have been made many hours ago. We'll press
forward, lieutenant, and we can save time going through the fields on
the edge of the road.”

Although they had to take down fences they made good speed and just
as the sun was rising they saw the light of a low campfire among some
trees, lining either bank of a small creek. They approached warily,
until they saw the faded blue uniforms. Then they galloped forward,
shouting that they were friends, and in a few minutes were in the
presence of Grierson himself.

He had been making a great raid, but he was eager now for the
opportunity to strike at Forrest. He must give his horses a short rest,
and then Dick and the sergeant should guide him at speed to the ford
where the opposing forces stood.

“It's twenty-five miles, you tell me?” said Grierson to Dick.

“As nearly as I can calculate, sir. It's through swampy country, but I
think we ought to be there in three or four hours.”

“Then lead the way,” said Grierson. “Like your colonel, I'll be glad to
have a try at Forrest.”

Sergeant Whitley rode in advance. A lumberman first and then a soldier
of the plains, he had noted even in the darkness every landmark and he
could lead the way back infallibly. But he warned Grierson that such a
man as Forrest would be likely to have out scouts, even if they had to
swim the river. It was likely that they could not get nearer by three or
four miles to Colonel Winchester without being seen.

“Then,” said Grierson, who had the spirit of a Stuart or a Forrest,
“we'll ride straight on, brushing these watchers out of our way, and if
by any chance their whole force should cross, we'll just meet and fight
it.”

“The little river is falling fast,” said the sergeant. “It's likely that
it'll be fordable almost anywhere by noon.”

“Then,” said Grierson, “it'll be all the easier for us to get at the
enemy.”

Dick, just behind Grierson, heard these words and he liked them. Here
was a spirit like Colonel Winchester's own, or like that of the great
Southern cavalry leaders. The Southerners were born on horseback, but
the Northern men were acquiring the same trick of hard riding. Dick
glanced back at the long column. Armed with carbine and saber the men
were riding their trained horses like Comanches. Eager and resolute
it was a formidable force, and his heart swelled with pride and
anticipation. He believed that they were going to give Forrest all he
wanted and maybe a little more.

Up rose the sun. Hot beams poured over forest and field, but the
cavalrymen still rode fast, the scent of battle in their nostrils. Dick
knew that these Southern streams, flooded by torrents of rain, rose fast
and also fell fast.

“How much further now, sergeant?” asked Grierson, as they turned from a
path into the deep woods.

“Not more than three miles, sir.”

“And they know we're coming. Listen to that!”

Several rifles cracked among the trees and bullets whizzed by them.
Forrest's skirmishers and scouts were on the south side of the stream.
As they had foreseen, the river had sunk so much that it was fordable
now at many points. Dick was devoutly grateful that they had found
Grierson. Otherwise the Winchester regiment would have been flanked, and
its destruction would have followed.

Skirmishers were detached from Grierson's command and drove off the
Southern riflemen. Dick heard the rattling fire of their rifles in the
deep wood, but he seldom saw a figure. Then he heard another fire, heavy
and continuous, in their front, coming quite clearly on a breeze that
blew toward them.

“Your whole regiment is engaged,” exclaimed Grierson. “Forrest must have
forded the river elsewhere!”

He turned and shook aloft his saber.

“Forward, lads!” he shouted. “Gallant men of our own army will be
overwhelmed unless we get up in time!”

The whole force broke into a gallop through the woods, the fire in their
front rapidly growing heavier. In ten minutes they would be there, but
rifles suddenly blazed from the forest on their flank and many saddles
were emptied. Nothing upsets like surprise, and for a few moments the
whole command was in disorder. It was evident that Forrest was attacking
Winchester with only a part of his force, while he formed an ambush for
Grierson.

But the Northern cavalrymen had not learned in vain through disaster and
experience. Grierson quickly restored order and drew his men back into
the forest. As the enemy followed the Northern carbines began to flash
fast. The troopers in gray were unable to flank them or drive them back.
Grierson, sure of his superior numbers, pushed on toward Winchester,
while fighting off the foe at the same time.

Dick and the sergeant kept in the van, and presently they came within
sight of Colonel Winchester's men, who, dismounted, were holding off as
best they could the overwhelming attack of Forrest. The Southern leader,
after sending the majority of his men to a new crossing lower down had
forced the ford before the Winchester regiment, and would have crushed
it if it had not been for the opportune arrival of Grierson.

But a tremendous cheer arose as the Northern cavalry leader, who was
already proving his greatness, charged into the battle with his grim
troopers. The men in blue were now more numerous, and, fighting with the
resolve to win or die, they gradually forced back Forrest. Dick began to
foresee a victory won over the great Southern cavalryman.

But the astute Forrest, seeing that the odds were now heavily against
him, ordered a retreat. The trumpets sang the recall and suddenly
the Southern horsemen, carrying their dead with them, vanished in the
forest, where the Northern cavalry, fearful of ambushes and new forces,
did not dare to pursue.

But Winchester and Grierson were shaking hands, and Winchester thanked
the other in brief but emphatic words.

“Say no more, colonel,” exclaimed Grierson. “We're all trying to serve
our common country. You'd help me just the same if we had the chance,
and I think you'll find the road clear to Grant. While the siege of
Vicksburg was determined on long ago, as you know, I believe that he is
now moving toward Grand Gulf. You know he has to deal with the armies of
Johnston and Pemberton.”

“We'll find him,” said Winchester.

A quarter of an hour later his regiment was galloping toward Grant,
while Grierson's command rode eastward to deal with other forces of the
Confederacy.




CHAPTER III. GRANT MOVES


The Winchester regiment had not suffered greatly. A dozen men who had
fallen were given speedy burial, and all the wounded were taken away on
horseback by their friends. Dick rejoiced greatly at their escape from
Forrest, and the daring and skill of Grierson. He felt anew that he was
in stronger hands in the West than he had been in the East. In the East
things seemed to go wrong nearly always, and the West they seemed to
go right nearly always. It could not be chance continued so long. He
believed in his soul that it was Grant, the heroic Thomas, and the great
fighting powers of the western men, used to all the roughness of life
out-of-doors and on the border.

They turned their course toward the Mississippi and that afternoon they
met a Union scout who told them that Grant, now in the very heart of the
far South, was gathering his forces for a daring attack upon Grand
Gulf, a Confederate fortress on the Mississippi. In the North and at
Washington his venture was regarded with alarm. There was a telegram
to him to stop, but it was sent too late. He had disappeared in the
Southern wilderness.

But Dick understood. He had both knowledge and intuition. Colonel
Winchester on his long and daring scout had learned that the Confederate
forces in the South were scattered and their leaders in doubt. Grant,
taking a daring offensive and hiding his movements, had put them on the
defensive, and there were so many points to defend that they did not
know which to choose. Joe Johnston, just recovered from his wound at
Fair Oaks the year before, and a general of the first rank, was coming,
but he was not yet here.

Meanwhile Pemberton held the chief command, but he seemed to lack energy
and decision. There were forces under other generals scattered along the
river, including eight thousand commanded by Bowen, who held Grand Gulf,
but concert of action did not exist among them.

This knowledge was not Dick's alone. It extended to every man in
the regiment, and when the colonel urged them to greater speed they
responded gladly.

“If we don't ride faster,” he said, “we won't be up in time for the
taking of Grand Gulf.”

No greater spur was needed and the Winchester regiment went forward as
fast as horses could carry them.

“I take it that Grant means to scoop in the Johnnies in detail,” said
Warner.

“It seems so,” said Pennington. “This is a big country down here, and we
can fight one Confederate army while another is mired up a hundred miles
away.

“That's General Grant's plan. He doesn't look like any hero of romance,
but he acts like one. He plunges into the middle of the enemy, and if he
gets licked he's up and at 'em again right away.”

Night closed in, and they stopped at an abandoned plantation--it seemed
to Dick that the houses were abandoned everywhere--where they spent the
night. The troopers would have willingly pushed on through the darkness,
but the horses were so near exhaustion that another hour or two would
have broken them down permanently. Moreover, Colonel Winchester did not
feel much apprehension of an attack now. Forrest had certainly turned
in another direction, and they were too close to the Union lines to be
attacked by any other foe.

The house on this plantation was not by any means so large and fine as
Bellevue, but, like the other, it had broad piazzas all about it, and
Dick, in view of his strenuous experience, was allowed to take his
saddle as a pillow and his blankets and go to sleep soon after dark in a
comfortable place against the wall.

Never was slumber quicker or sweeter. There was not an unhealthy tissue
in his body, and most of his nerves had disappeared in a life amid
battles, scoutings, and marchings. He slept heavily all through the
night, inhaling new strength and vitality with every breath of the
crisp, fresh air. There was no interruption this time, and early in the
morning the regiment was up and away.

They descended now into lower grounds near the Mississippi. All around
them was a vast and luxuriant vegetation, cut by sluggish streams and
bayous. But the same desolation reigned everywhere. The people had fled
before the advance of the armies. Late in the afternoon they saw pickets
in blue, then the Mississippi, and a little later they rode into a Union
camp.

“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester, “I shall want you to go with the senior
officers and myself to report to General Grant on the other side of the
Mississippi. You rode on that mission to Grierson and he may want to ask
you questions.”

Dick was glad to go with them. He was eager to see once more the man who
had taken Henry and Donelson and who had hung on at Shiloh until Buell
came. The general's tent was in a grove on a bit of high ground, and he
was sitting before it on a little camp stool, smoking a short cigar, and
gazing reflectively in the direction of Grand Gulf.

He greeted the three officers quietly but with warmth and then he
listened to Colonel Winchester's detailed account of what he had seen
and learned in his raid toward Jackson. It was a long narrative, showing
how the Southern forces were scattered, and, as he listened, Grant's
face began to show satisfaction.

But he seldom interrupted.

“And you think they have no large force at Jackson?” he said.

“I'm quite sure of it,” replied Colonel Winchester.

Grant chewed his cigar a little while and then said:

“Grierson is doing well. It was an achievement for you and him to beat
off Forrest. It will raise the prestige of our cavalry, which needs it.
I believe it was you, Lieutenant Mason, who brought Grierson.”

“It was chiefly, sir, a sergeant named Whitley. I rode with him and
outranked him, but he is a veteran of the plains, and it was he who did
the real work.”

The general's stern features were lightened by a smile.

“I'm glad you give the sergeant credit,” he said. “Not many officers
would do it.”

He listened a while longer and then the three were permitted to withdraw
to their regiment, which was posted back of Grand Gulf, and which had
quickly become a part of an army flushed with victory and eager for
further action.

Before sunset Dick, Warner, and Pennington looked at Grand Gulf, a
little village standing on high cliffs overlooking the Mississippi,
just below the point where the dark stream known as the Big Black River
empties into the Father of Waters. Around the crown of the heights was a
ring of batteries and lower down, enclosing the town, was another ring.

Far off on the Mississippi the three saw puffing black smoke marking
the presence of a Union fleet, which never for one instant in the whole
course of the war relaxed its grip of steel upon the Confederacy. Dick's
heart thrilled at the sight of the brave ships. He felt then, as most of
us have felt since, that whatever happened the American navy would never
fail.

“I hear the ships are going to bombard,” said Warner.

“I heard so, too,” said Pennington, “and I heard also that they will
have to do it under the most difficult circumstances. The water in front
of Grand Gulf is so deep that the ships can't anchor. It has a swift
current, too, making at that point more than six knots an hour. There
are powerful eddies, too, and the batteries crowning the cliffs are
so high that the cannon of the gunboats will have trouble in reaching
them.”

“Still, Mr. Pessimist,” said Dick, “remember what the gunboats did at
Fort Henry. You'll find the same kind of men here.”

“I wasn't trying to discourage you. I was merely telling the worst
first. We're going to win. We nearly always win here in the West, but it
seems to me the country is against us now. This doesn't look much like
the plains, Dick, with its big, deep rivers, its high bluffs along the
banks, and its miles and miles of swamp or wet lowlands. How wide would
you say the Mississippi is here?”

“Somewhere between a mile and a mile and a half.”

“And they say it's two or three hundred feet deep. Look at the steamers,
boys. How many are there?”

“I count seven pyramids of smoke,” said Warner, “four in one group and
three in another. All the pyramids are becoming a little faint as the
twilight is advancing. Dick, you call me a cold mathematical person, but
this vast river flowing in its deep channel, the dark bluffs up there,
and the vast forests would make me feel mighty lonely if you fellows
were not here. It's a long way to Vermont.”

“Fifteen hundred or maybe two thousand miles,” said Dick, “but look
how fast the dark is coming. I was wrong in saying it's coming. It just
drops down. The smoke of the steamers has melted into the night, and you
don't see them any more. The surface of the river has turned black as
ink, the bluffs of Grand Gulf have gone, and we've turned back three or
four hundred years.”

“What do you mean by going back three or four hundred years?” asked
Warner, looking curiously at Dick.

“Why, don't you see them out there?”

“See them out there? See what?”

“Why, the queer little ships with the high sides and prows! On my soul,
George, they're the caravels of Spain! Look, they're stopping! Now they
lower something in black over the side of the first caravel. I see a man
in a black robe like a priest, holding a cross in his hand and standing
at the ship's edge saying something. I think he's praying, boys. Now
sailors cut the ropes that hold the dark object. It falls into the river
and disappears. It's the burial of De Soto in the Father of Waters which
he discovered!”

“Dick, you're dreaming,” exclaimed Pennington.

“Yes, I know, but once there was a Chinaman who dreamed that he was a
lily. When he woke up he didn't know whether he was a Chinaman who had
dreamed he was a lily or a lily now dreaming he was a Chinaman.”

“I like that story, Dick, but you've got too much imagination. The tale
of the death and burial of De Soto has always been so vivid to you that
you just stood there and re-created the scene for yourself.”

“Of course that's it,” said Pennington, “but why can't a fellow create
things with his mind, when things that don't exist jump right up before
his eyes? I've often seen the mirage, generally about dark, far out on
the western plains. I've seen a beautiful lake and green gardens where
there was nothing but the brown swells rolling on.”

“I concede all you say,” said Dick readily. “I have flashes sometimes,
and so does Harry Kenton and others I know.”

“Flashes! What do you mean?” asked Warner.

“Why, a sort of lightning stroke out of the past. Something that lasts
only a second, but in which you have a share. Boys, one day I saw myself
a Carthaginian soldier following Hannibal over the Alps.”

“Maybe,” said Pennington, “we have lived other lives on this earth, and
sometimes a faint glimpse of them comes to us. It's just a guess.”

“That's so,” said Warner, “and we'd better be getting back to the
regiment. Grand Gulf defended by Bowen and eight thousand good men is
really enough for us. I think we're going to see some lively fighting
here.”

The heavy boom of a cannon from the upper circle of batteries swept over
the vast sheet of water flowing so swiftly toward the Gulf. The sound
came back in dying echoes, and then there was complete silence among
besieged and besiegers.

The Winchesters had found a good solid place, a little hill among the
marshes, and they were encamped there with their horses. Dick had no
messages to carry, but he remained awake, while his comrades slept
soundly. He had slept so much the night before that he had no desire for
sleep now.

From his position he could see the Confederate bluffs and a few lights
moving there, but otherwise the two armies were under a blanket of
darkness. He again felt deeply the sense of isolation and loneliness,
not for himself alone, but for the whole army. Grant had certainly shown
supreme daring in pushing far into the South, and the government at
Washington had cause for alarm lest he be reckless. If there were any
strong hand to draw together the forces of the Confederacy they could
surely crush him. But he had already learned in this war that those who
struck swift and hard were sure to win. That was Stonewall Jackson's
way, and it seemed to be Grant's way, too.

Still unable to sleep, he walked to a better position, where he could
see the shimmering dark of the river and the misty heights with their
two circles of cannon. A tall figure standing there turned at his tread
and he recognized Colonel Winchester.

“Uneasy at our position, Dick?” said the colonel, fathoming his mind at
once.

“A little, sir, but I think General Grant will pull us through.”

“He will, Dick, and he'll take this fort, too. Grant's the hammer we've
been looking for. Look at his record. He's had backsets, but in the end
he's succeeded in everything he's tried. The Confederate government and
leaders have made a mess of their affairs in the West and Southwest, and
General Grant is taking full advantage of it.”

“Do we attack in the morning, sir?”

“We do, Dick, though not by land. Porter, with his seven gunboats, is
going to open on the fort, but it will be a hazardous undertaking.”

“Because of the nature of the river, sir?”

“That's it. They can't anchor, and with full steam up, caught in all the
violent eddies that the river makes rounding the point, they'll have to
fire as best they can.”

“But the gunboats did great work at Fort Henry, sir.”

“So they did, Dick, and we've come a long way South since then, which
means that we're making progress and a lot of it here in the West. Well,
we'll see to-morrow.”

They walked back to their own camp and sleep came to Dick at last. But
he awoke early and found that the thrill of expectation was running
through the whole army. Their position did not yet enable them to attack
on land, but far out on the river they saw the gunboats moving. Porter,
the commander, divided them into two groups. Four of the gunboats were
to attack the lower circle of batteries and three were to pour their
fire upon the upper ring.

Dick by day even more than by night recognized the difficulty of the
task. Before them flowed the vast swift current of the Mississippi,
gleaming now in the sunshine, and beyond were the frowning bluffs,
crested and ringed with cannon. Grant had with him twenty thousand men
and his seven gunboats, and Bowen, eight thousand troops. But if the
affair lasted long other Southern armies would surely come.

Dick and his comrades had little to do but watch and thousands watched
with them. When the sun was fully risen the seven boats steamed out in
two groups, four farther down the river in order to attack the lower
batteries, while the other three up the stream would launch their fire
against those on the summit.

He watched the crest of the cliffs. He saw plainly through his glasses
the muzzles of cannon and men moving about the batteries. Then there
was a sudden blaze of fire and column of smoke and a shell struck in the
water near one of the gunboats. The boat replied and its comrades also
sent shot and shell toward the frowning summit. Then the batteries, both
lower and upper, replied with full vigor and all the cliffs were wrapped
in fire and smoke.

The boats steamed in closer and closer, pouring an incessant fire from
their heavy guns, and both rings of batteries on the cliffs responded.
The water of the river spouted up in innumerable little geysers and now
and then a boat was struck. Over both cliffs and river a great cloud
of smoke lowered. It grew so dense that Dick and his comrades, watching
with eagerness, were unable to tell much of what was happening.

Yet as the smoke lifted or was shot through with the blaze of cannon
fire they saw that their prophecies were coming true. The boats in water
too deep for anchorage were caught in the powerful eddies and their
captains had to show their best seamanship while they steamed back and
forth.

The battle between ship and shore went on for a long time. It seemed at
last to the watching Union soldiers that the fire from the lower line of
batteries was diminishing.

“We're making some way,” said Warner.

“It looks like it,” said Dick. “Their lower batteries are not so well
protected as the upper.”

“If we were only over there, helping with our own guns.”

“But there's a big river in between, and we've got to leave it to the
boats for to-day, anyhow.”

“Look again at those lower batteries. Their fire is certainly
decreasing. I can see it die down.”

“Yes, and now it's stopped entirely. The boats have done good work!”

A tremendous cheer burst from the troops on the west shore as they saw
how much their gallant little gunboats had achieved. Every gun in the
lower batteries was silent now, but the top of the cliffs was still
alive with flame. The batteries there were far from silent. Instead
their fire was increasing in volume and power.

The four gunboats that had silenced the lower batteries now moved up to
the aid of their comrades, and the seven made a united effort, steaming
forward in a sort of half-moon, and raining shot and shell upon the
summits. But the guns there, well-sheltered and having every advantage
over rocking steamers, maintained an accurate and deadly fire. The
decks of the gunboats were swept more than once. Many men were killed or
wounded. Heavy shot crashed through their sides, and Dick expected every
instant to see some one of them sunk by a huge exploding shell.

“They can't win! They can't win!” he exclaimed. “They'd better draw off
before they're sunk!”

“So they had,” said Warner sadly. “Boats are at a disadvantage fighting
batteries. The old darky was right when he preferred a train wreck to a
boat wreck, 'ef the train's smashed, thar you are on the solid ground,
but ef the boat blows up, whar is you?' That's sense. The boats are
retiring! It's sad, but it's sense. A boat that steams away will live to
fight another day.”

Dick was dejected. He fancied he could hear the cheering of their foes
at what looked like a Union defeat, but he recalled that Grant, the
bulldog, led them. He would never think of retiring, and he was sure to
be ready with some new attempt.

The gunboats drew off to the far western shore and lay there, puffing
smoke defiantly. Their fight with the batteries had lasted five hours
and they had suffered severely. It seemed strange to Dick that none of
them had been sunk, and in fact it was strange. All had been hit many
times, and one had been pierced by nearly fifty shot or shell. Their
killed or wounded were numerous, but their commanders and crews were
still resolute, and ready to go into action whenever General Grant
wished.

“Spunky little fellows,” said Pennington. “We don't have many boats out
where I live, but I must hand a bunch of laurel to the navy every time.”

“And you can bind wreaths around the hair of those navy fellows, too,”
 said Warner, “and sing songs in their honor whether they win or lose.”

“Now I wonder what's next,” said Dick.

To their surprise the gunboats opened fire again just before sundown,
and the batteries replied fiercely. Rolling clouds of smoke mingled
with the advancing twilight, and the great guns from either side flashed
through the coming darkness. Then from a stray word or two dropped
by Colonel Winchester Dick surmised the reason of this new and rather
distant cannonade.

He knew that General Grant had transports up the river above Grand Gulf,
and he believed that they were now coming down the stream under cover of
the bombardment and the darkness. He confided his belief to Warner, who
agreed with him. Presently they saw new coils of smoke in the darkness
and knew they were right. The transports, steaming swiftly, were soon
beyond the range of the batteries, and then the gun boats, drawing off,
dropped down the river with them.

Long before the boats reached a point level with Grant's camp the army
was being formed in line for embarkation on the gunboats and transports.
The horses were to be placed on one or two of the transports and the men
filled all the other vessels.

“You can't down Grant,” said Pennington. “A failure with him merely
means that he's going to try again.”

“But don't forget the navy and the Father of Waters,” said Dick, as
their transports swung from the shore upon the dark surface of the
river. “The mighty rivers help us. Look how we went up the Cumberland
and the Tennessee and now we've harnessed a flowing ocean for our
service.”

“Getting poetical, Dick,” said Warner.

“I feel it and so do you. You can't see the bluffs any more. There's
nothing in sight, but the lights of the steamers and the transports. We
must be somewhere near the middle of the stream, because I can't make
out either shore.”

There were two regiments aboard the transport, the Winchester and one
from Ohio, which had fought by their side at both Perryville and Stone
River. Usually these boys chattered much, but now they were silent,
permeated by the same feelings that had overwhelmed Dick. In the
darkness--all lights were concealed as much as possible--with both banks
of the vast river hidden from them, they felt that they were in very
truth afloat upon a flowing ocean.

They knew little about their journey, except that they were destined for
the eastern shore, the same upon which Grand Gulf stood, but they did
not worry about this lack of knowledge. They were willing to trust to
Grant, and most of them were already asleep, upon the decks, in the
cabins, or in any place in which a human body could secure a position.

Dick did not sleep. The feeling of mystery and might made by the
tremendous river remained longer in his sensitive and imaginative
nature. His mind, too, looked backward. He knew that the great
grandfathers of Harry Kenton and himself, the famous Henry Ware and the
famous Paul Cotter, had passed up and down this monarch of streams.
He knew of their adventures. How often had he and his cousin, who now,
alas! was on the other side, listened to the stories of those mighty
days as they were handed from father to son! Those lads had floated
in little boats and he was on a steamer, but it seemed to him that the
river with its mighty depths took no account of either, steamer or canoe
being all the same to its vast volume of water.

He was standing by the rail looking over, when happening to glance back
he saw by the ship's lantern what he thought was a familiar face. A
second glance and he was sure. He remembered that fair-haired Ohio lad,
and, smiling, he said:

“You're one of those Ohio boys who, marching southward from its mouth
in the Ohio, drank the tributary river dry clear to its source, the
mightiest achievement in quenching thirst the world has ever known.
You're the boy, too, who told about it.”

The youth moved forward, gazed at him and said:

“Now I remember you, too. You're Dick Mason of the Winchester regiment.
I heard the Winchesters were on board, but I haven't had time to look
around. It was hot when we drank up the river, but it was hotter that
afternoon at Perryville. God! what a battle! And again at Stone
River, when the Johnnies surprised us and took us in flank. It was you
Kentuckians then who saved us.”

“Just as you would have saved us, if it had been the other way.”

“I hope so. But, Mason, we left a lot of the boys behind. A big crowd
stopped forever at Perryville, and a bigger at Stone River.”

“And we left many of ours, too. I suppose we'll land soon, won't we, and
then take these Grand Gulf forts with troops.”

“Yes, that's the ticket, but I hear, Mason, it's hard to find a landing
on the east side. The banks are low there and the river spreads out to
a vast distance. After the boats go as far as they can we'll have to get
off in water up to our waists and wade through treacherous floods.”

The question of landing was worrying Grant at that time and worrying him
terribly. The water spread far out over the sunken lands and he might
have to drop down the river many miles before he could find a landing on
solid ground, a fact which would scatter his army along a long line, and
expose it to defeat by the Southern land forces. But his anxieties were
relieved early in the morning when a colored man taken aboard from a
canoe told him of a bayou not five miles below Grand Gulf up which his
gunboats and transports could go and find a landing for the troops on
solid ground.

Dick was asleep when the boats entered the bayou, but he was soon
awakened by the noise of landing. It was then that most of the
Winchester and of the Ohio regiment discovered that they were comrades,
thrown together again by the chances of war, and there was a mighty
welcome and shaking of hands. But it did not interfere with the rapidity
of the landing. The Winchester regiment was promptly ordered forward
and, advancing on solid ground, took a little village without firing a
shot.

All that day troops came up and Grant's army, after having gone away
from Grand Gulf in darkness, was coming back to it in daylight.

“They say that Pemberton at Vicksburg could gather together fifty
thousand men and strike us, while we've only twenty thousand here,” said
Pennington.

“But he isn't going to do it,” said Warner. “How do I know? No, I'm not
a prophet nor the son of a prophet. There's nothing mysterious about
it. This man Grant who leads us knows the value of time. He makes up his
mind fast and he acts fast. The Confederate commander doesn't do either.
So Grant is bound to win. Let z equal resolution and y equal speed and
we have z plus y which equals resolution and speed, that is victory.”

“I hope it will work out that way,” said Dick, “but war isn't altogether
mathematics.”

“Not altogether, but that beautiful study plays a great part in every
campaign. People are apt to abuse mathematics, when they don't know what
they're talking about. The science of mathematics is the very basis of
music, divine melody, heaven's harmony.”

“You needn't tell me,” said Pennington, “that a plus b and z minus y
lie at the basis of 'Home, Sweet Home' and the 'Star Spangled Banner.'
I accept a lot of your tales because you come from an old state like
Vermont, but there's a limit, George.”

Warner looked at him pityingly.

“Frank,” he said, “I'm not arguing with you. I'm telling you. Haven't
you known me long enough to accept whatever I say as a fact, and to
accept it at once and without question? Not to do so is an insult to me
and to the truth. Now say over slowly with me: 'The basis of music is
mathematics.'”

They said slowly together:

“The basis of music is mathematics.”

“Now I accept your apologies,” said Warner loftily.

Pennington laughed.

“You're a queer fellow, George,” he said. “When this war is over and I
receive my general's uniform I'm coming up into the Vermont mountains
and look your people over. Will it be safe?”

“Of course, if you learn to read and write by then, and don't come
wearing your buffalo robe. We're strong on education and manners.”

“Why, George,” said Pennington in the same light tone, “I could
read when I was two years old, and, as for writing, I wrote a lot of
text-books for the Vermont schools before I came to the war.”

“Shut up, you two,” said Dick. “Don't you know that this is a war and
not a talking match?”

“It's not a war just now, or at least there are a few moments between
battles,” retorted Warner, “and the best way I can use them is in
instructing our ignorant young friend from Nebraska.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Colonel Winchester, who ordered
the regiment to move to a new point. General Grant had decided to attack
a little town called Port Gibson, which commanded the various approaches
to Grand Gulf. If he could take that he might shut up Bowen and his
force in Grand Gulf. On the other hand, if he failed he might be shut
in himself by Confederate armies gathering from Jackson, Vicksburg, and
elsewhere. The region, moreover, was complicated for both armies by the
mighty Mississippi and the Big Black River, itself a large stream, and
there were deep and often unfordable bayous.

But Grant showed great qualities, and Dick, who was experienced enough
now to see and know, admired him more than ever. He pushed forward with
the utmost resolution and courage. His vanguard, led by McClernand, and
including the Winchester regiment, seized solid ground near Port Gibson,
but found themselves confronted by a formidable Southern force. Bowen,
who commanded in Grand Gulf, was brave and able. Seeing the Union army
marching toward his rear, and knowing that if Grant took it he would be
surrounded, both on land and water, by a force outnumbering his nearly
three to one, he marched out at once and took station two miles in front
of Port Gibson.

Dick was by the side of Colonel Winchester as he rode forward. The faint
echo of shots from the skirmishers far in front showed that they had
roused up an enemy. Glasses were put in use at once.

“The Confederates are before us,” said Colonel Winchester.

“So they are, and we're going to have hard fighting,” said a major.
“Look what a position!”

Dick said nothing, but he was using his glasses, too. He saw before him
rough ground, thickly sown with underbrush. There was also a deep ravine
or rather marsh choked with vines, bushes, reeds, and trees that like a
watery soil. The narrow road divided and went around either end of the
long work, where the two divisions united again on a ridge, on which
Bowen had placed his fine troops and artillery.

“I don't see their men yet, except a few skirmishers,” said Dick.

“No, but we'll find them in some good place beyond it,” replied Colonel
Winchester, divining Bowen's plan.

It was night when the army in two divisions, one turning to the right
and the other to the left, began the circuit of the great marshy ravine.
Dick noticed that the troops who had struggled so long in mud and water
were eager. Here, west of the Alleghanies, the men in blue were always
expecting to win.

The sky was sown with stars, casting a filmy light over the marching
columns. Dick was with the troops passing to the right, and he observed
again their springy and eager tread.

Nor was the night without a lively note. Skirmishers, eager riflemen
prowling among the bushes, fired often at one another, and now and then
a Union cannon sent a shell screaming into some thick clump of forest,
lest a foe be lurking there for ambush.

The reports of the rifles and cannon kept every one alert and watchful.
Early in the night while it was yet clear Dick often saw the flashes
from the firing, but, as the morning hours approached, heavy mists began
to rise from that region of damp earth and great waters. He shivered
more than once, and on the advice of Sergeant Whitley wrapped his
cavalry cloak about him.

“Chills and fever,” said the sergeant sententiously. “So much water and
marsh it's hard to escape it. The sooner we fight the better.”

“Well, that's what General Grant thinks already,” said Dick; “so I
suppose he doesn't need chills and fever to drive him on. All the same,
Sergeant, I'll wrap up as you say.”

All the men in the Winchester regiment were soon doing the same. The
mists of the Mississippi, the Big Black and the bayous were raw and
cold, although it would be hot later on. But the period of coldness did
not last long. Soon the low sun showed in the east and the warm daylight
came. In the new light they saw the Confederate forces strongly posted
on the ridge where the halves of the road rejoined. As the Union column
came into view a cannon boomed and a shell burst in the road so near
that dirt was thrown upon them as it exploded and one man was wounded.
At the same time the column on the left under Osterhaus appeared, having
performed its semicircle about the marsh, and the whole Union army,
weary of body but eager of soul, pressed forward. The Winchester
regiment and the Ohio regiment beside it charged hotly, but were
received with a fire of great volume and accuracy that swept them from
the road. Another battery on their far left also raked them with a cross
fire, and so terrible was their reception that they were compelled to
abandon some of their own cannon and seek shelter.

The Winchester regiment, except the officers, were not mounted in this
march, as Grant would not wait for their horses, which were on another
transport. The very fact saved from death many who would have made a
more shining target. Dick's own horse was killed at the first fire,
and as he leaped clear to escape he went down to his waist in a marsh,
another fact which saved his life a second time as the new volleys swept
over his head. The horses of other officers also were killed, and the
remainder, finding themselves such conspicuous targets, sprang to the
ground. The frightened animals, tearing the reins from their hands,
raced through the thickets or fell into the marsh.

All the time Dick heard the shells and bullets shrieking and whining
over his head. But, regaining his courage and presence of mind, he
slowly pulled himself out of the marsh, taking shelter behind a huge
cypress that grew at its very edge. As he dashed the mud out of his eyes
he heard a voice saying:

“Don't push! There's room enough here for the three of us. In fact,
there's room enough behind the big trees for all the officers.”

It was Warner who was speaking with such grim irony, and Pennington by
his side was hugging the tree. Shells and shot shrieked over their heads
and countless bullets hummed about them. The soldiers also had taken
shelter behind the trees, and Warner's jest about the officers was
a jest only. Nevertheless the Southern fire was great in volume and
accuracy. Bowen was an able commander with excellent men, and from
his position that covered the meeting of the roads he swept both Union
columns with a continuous hail of death.

“We must get out of this somehow,” said Dick. “If we're held here in
these swamps and thickets any longer the Johnnies can shoot us down at
their leisure.”

“But we won't be held!” exclaimed Pennington. “Look! One of our brigades
is through, and it's charging the enemy on the right!”

It was Hovey who had forced his way through a thicket, supposed to be
impenetrable, and who now, with a full brigade behind him, was rushing
upon Bowen's flank. Then, while the Southern defense was diverted to
this new attack, the Winchester and the Ohio regiment attacked in front,
shouting with triumph.

Hovey's rush was overpowering. He drove in the Southern flank, taking
four cannon and hundreds of prisoners, but the dauntless Confederate
commander, withdrawing his men in perfect order, retreated to a second
ridge, where he took up a stronger position than the first.

Resolute and dangerous, the men in gray turned their faces anew to the
enemy and sent back a withering fire that burned away the front ranks
of the Union army. Osterhaus, in spite of every effort, was driven back,
and the Winchesters and their Ohio friends were compelled to give ground
too. It seemed that the utmost of human effort and defiance of death
could not force the narrow passage.

But a new man, a host in himself, came upon the field. Grant, who had
been on foot for two days, endeavoring to get his army through the
thickets and morasses, heard the booming of the cannon and he knew that
the vanguards had clashed. He borrowed a cavalry horse and, galloping
toward the sound of the guns, reached the field at mid-morning. Grant
was not impressive in either figure or manner, but the soldiers had
learned to believe in him as they always believe in one who leads them
to victory.

A tremendous shout greeted his coming and the men, snatching off their
hats and caps, waved them aloft. Grant took no notice but rapidly
disposed his troops for a new and heavier battle. Dick felt the strong
and sure hand over them. The Union fire grew in might and rapidity.
McPherson arrived with two brigades to help Osterhaus, and the
strengthened division was able to send a brigade across a ravine, where
it passed further around Bowen's flank and assailed him with fury.

Dick felt that their own division under McClernand was also making
progress. Although many men were falling they pressed slowly forward,
and Grant brought up help for them too. For a long time the struggle was
carried on. It was one of the little battles of the war, but its results
were important and few were fought with more courage and resolution.
Bowen, with only eight thousand against twenty thousand, held fast
throughout all the long hot hours of the afternoon. Grant, owing to the
nature of the field, was unable to get all his numbers into battle at
once.

But when the twilight began to show Dick believed that victory was at
hand. They had not yet driven Bowen out, but they were pressing him
so close and hard, and Grant was securing so many new positions of
advantage, that the Southern leader could not make another such fight
against superior numbers in the morning.

Twilight turned into night and Bowen and his men, who had shown so much
heroism, retreated in the dark, leaving six guns and many prisoners as
trophies of the victors.

It was night when the battle ceased. Cannon and rifles flashed at fitful
intervals, warning skirmishers to keep away, but after a while they
too ceased and the Union army, exhausted by the long march of the night
before and the battle of the day, threw itself panting upon the ground.
The officers posted the sentinels in triple force, but let the remainder
of the men rest.

As Dick lay down in the long grass two or three bullets dropped from
his clothes and he became conscious, too, that a bullet had grazed his
shoulder. But these trifles did not disturb him. It was so sweet to
rest! Nothing could be more heavenly than merely to lie there in the
long, soft grass and gaze up at the luminous sky, into which the stars
now stole to twinkle down at him peacefully.

“Don't go to sleep, Dick,” said a voice near him. “I admit the
temptation is strong. I feel it myself, but General Grant may have to
send you and me forward to-night to win another battle.”

“George, I'm glad to hear your preachy voice over there. Hurt any?”

“No. A million cannon balls brushed my right cheek and another million
brushed my left cheek, but they didn't touch me. They scared me to
death, but in the last few minutes I've begun to come back to life. In a
quarter of an hour I'll be just as much alive as I ever was.”

“Do you know anything of Pennington?”

“Yes. The rascal is lying about six feet beyond me, sound asleep. In
spite of all I could do he wouldn't stay awake. I've punched him all
over to see if he was wounded, but as he didn't groan at a single punch,
he's all right.”

“That being the case, I'm going to follow Pennington's example. You may
lecture me as much as you please, George, but you'll lecture only the
night, because I'll be far away from here in a land of sweet dreams.”

“All right, if you're going to do it, I will too. You'll hear my snore
before I hear yours.”

Both sank in a few minutes into a deep slumber, and when they awoke the
next morning they found that Bowen had abandoned Port Gibson and had
retreated into Grand Gulf again. There was great elation among the lads
and Dick began to feel that the position of the Union army in the far
South was strengthened immeasurably. He heard that Sherman, who had
stood so staunchly at Shiloh, was on his way to join Grant. Their united
forces would press the siege of Grand Gulf and would also turn to strike
at any foe who might approach from the rear.

Never since the war began had Dick felt so elated as he did that
morning. When he saw the short, thick-set figure of Grant riding by
he believed that the Union, in the West at least, had found its man at
last.




CHAPTER IV. DICK'S MISSION


The night came down warm and heavy. Spring was far advanced in that
Southern region, and foliage and grass were already rich and heavy.
Dick, from his dozing position beside a camp fire, saw a great mass of
tall grass and green bushes beyond which lay the deep waters of a still
creek or bayou. The air, although thick and close, conduced to rest and
the peace that reigned after the battle was soothing to his soul.

His friends, the two lads, who were knitted to him by so many hardships
and dangers shared, were sound asleep, and he could see their tanned
faces when the light of the flickering fires fell upon them. Good
old Warner! Good old Pennington! The comradeship of war knitted youth
together with ties that never could be broken.

He moved into an easier position. He lay upon the soft turf and he had
doubled his blanket under his head as a pillow. At first the droning
noises of camp or preparation had come from afar, but soon they ceased
and now the frogs down by the sluggish waters began to croak.

It was a musical sound, one that he had heard often in his native state,
and, singularly enough, the lad drew encouragement from it. “Be of good
cheer! Be of good cheer! Trust in the future! Trust in the future!” said
all those voices down among the swamps and reeds. And then Dick said
to himself: “I will trust and I will have hope!” He remembered his last
glimpse of Grant's short, strong figure and the confidence that this man
inspired in him. He, with tens of thousands of others, Abraham Lincoln
at their head, had been looking for a man, they had looked long and in
vain for such a man, but Dick was beginning to believe that they had
found him at last.

It would take much of a man to stand before the genius of Lee, but it
might be Grant. Dick's faith in the star of his country, shattered so
often for the moment, began to rise that night and never sank again.

He fell asleep to the homely music of the frogs among the reeds, and
slept without stir until nearly dawn.

Just as the first strip of gray showed in the east Colonel Winchester
walked toward the spot where Dick and his comrades lay. The colonel had
not slept that night. His fine face was worn and thin, but the blue eyes
were alight with strength and energy. He had just left a conference of
high officers, and he came upon a mission. He reached the three lads,
and looked down at them with a sort of pity. He knew that it was his
duty to awake them at once and send them upon a perilous errand, but
they were so young, and they had already been through so much that he
hesitated.

He put his hand upon Dick's shoulder and shook him. But it took more
than one shake to awaken the lad, and it was fully a minute before he
opened his eyes and sat up. Dick conscious but partly and rubbing his
sleepy eyes, asked:

“What is it? Are we to go into battle again? Yes, sir! Yes, sir! I'm
ready!”

“Not that, Dick, but I've orders for you.”

Dick now awoke completely and saw that it was Colonel Winchester. He
sprang to his feet and saluted.

“We'll wake up Warner and Pennington next,” said the colonel, “because
they go also on the kind of duty to which you're assigned.”

“I'm glad of that,” said Dick warmly.

Warner and Pennington were aroused with difficulty, but, as soon as
they realized that Colonel Winchester was before them and that they were
selected for a grave duty, they became at once keen and alert.

“Lads,” said the colonel briefly, “you've all felt that we're now led by
a great commander. But energy and daring on the part of a leader demand
energy and daring on the part of his men. General Grant is about to
undertake a great enterprise, one that demands the concentration of his
troops. I want you, Warner, to go to General Sherman with this dispatch,
and here is one for you, Pennington, to take to General Banks.”

He paused a moment and Dick asked:

“Am I to be left out?”

Colonel Winchester smiled.

He liked this eagerness on the part of his boys, and yet there was
sadness in his smile, too. Young lieutenants who rode forth on errands
often failed to come back.

“You're included, Dick,” he said, “and I think that yours is the most
perilous mission of them all. Pennington, you and Warner can be making
ready and I'll tell Dick what he's to do.”

The Vermonter and the Nebraskan hurried away and Colonel Winchester,
taking Dick by the arm, walked with him beyond the circle of firelight.

“Dick,” he said gently, “they asked me to choose the one in my command
whom I thought most fit for this duty to be done, and I've selected you,
although I'm sending you into a great peril.”

Dick flushed with pride at the trust. Youth blinded him at present to
its perils.

“Thank you, sir,” he said simply.

“You will recall Major Hertford, who was with us in Kentucky before the
Shiloh days?”

“I could not forget him, sir. One of our most gallant officers.”

“You speak truly. He is one of our bravest, and also one of our ablest.
I speak of him as Major Hertford, but he has lately been promoted to the
rank of colonel, and he is operating toward the East with a large body
of cavalry, partly in conjunction with Grierson, who saved us at the
ford.”

“And you want me to reach him, sir!”

“You've divined it. He is near Jackson, the capital of this state, and,
incidentally, you're to discover as much as you can about Jackson and
the Confederate dispositions in that direction. We wish Hertford to join
General Grant's advance, which will presently move toward Jackson, and
we rely upon you to find him.”

“I'll do it, if he's to be found at all,” said Dick fervently.

“I knew it, but, Dick, you're to go in your uniform. I'll not have you
executed as a spy in case you're taken. Nor are you to carry any written
message to Colonel Hertford. He knows you well, and he'll accept your
word at once as truth. Now, this is a ride that will call for woodcraft
as well as soldiership.”

“I start at once, do I not, sir?”

“You do. Warner and Pennington are ready now, and your own horse is
waiting for you. Here is a small map which I have reason to believe is
accurate, at least fairly so, although few of our men know much of this
country. But use it, lad, as best you can.”

It was a sheet of thick fibrous paper about six inches square and, after
a hasty glance at it, Dick folded it up carefully and put it in his
pocket. Warner and Pennington appeared then, mounted and armed and ready
to tell him good-bye. He and Colonel Winchester watched them a moment
or two as they rode away, and then an orderly appeared with Dick's
own horse, a fine bay, saddled, bridled, saddlebags filled with food,
pistols in holsters, and a breech-loading rifle strapped to the saddle.

“I've made your equipment the best I could,” said Colonel Winchester,
“and after you start, lad, you must use your own judgment.”

He wrung the hand of the boy, for whom his affection was genuine and
deep, and Dick sprang into the saddle.

“Good-bye, colonel,” he said, “I thank you for this trust, and I won't
fail.”

It was not a boast. It was courage speaking from the heart of youth and,
as Dick rode out of the camp on his good horse, he considered himself
equal to any task. He felt an enormous pride because he was chosen for
such an important and perilous mission, and he summoned every faculty to
meet its hardships and dangers.

He had the password, and the sentinels wished him good luck. So did the
men who were gathering firewood. One, a small, weazened fellow, gave him
an envious look.

“Wish I was going riding with you,” he said. “It's fine in the woods
now.”

Dick laughed through sheer exuberance of spirits.

“Maybe it is and maybe it isn't,” he said. “Perhaps the forest is filled
with rebel sharpshooters.”

“If you ride toward Jackson you're likely to strike Confederate bands.”

“I didn't say where I'm going, but you may be certain I'll keep a watch
for those bands wherever I may be.”

The little man was uncommonly strong nevertheless, as he carried on his
shoulder a heavy log which he threw down by one of the fires, but Dick,
absorbed in his journey, forgot the desire of the soldier to be riding
through the forest too.

He soon left the camp behind. He looked back at it only once, and beheld
the luminous glow of the campfires. Then the forest shut it out and he
rode on through a region almost abandoned by its people owing to the
converging armies. He did not yet look at his map, because he knew that
he would soon come into the main road to Jackson. It would be sufficient
to determine his course then.

Dick was not familiar with the farther South, which was a very different
region from his own Kentucky. His home was a region of firm land, hills
and clear streams, but here the ground lay low, the soil was soft and
the waters dark and sluggish. But his instincts as a woodsman were
fortified by much youthful training, and he felt that he could find the
way.

It gave him now great joy to leave the army and ride away through the
deep woods. He was tired of battle and the sight of wounds and death.
The noises of the camp were painful to his ear, and in the forest he
found peace.

He was absolutely alone in his world, and glad of it. The woods were in
all the depth and richness of a Southern spring. Vast masses of green
foliage billowed away to right and left. Great festoons of moss hung
from the oaks, and trailing vines wrapped many of the trees almost to
their tops. Wild flowers, pink, yellow and blue, unknown by name to
Dick, bloomed in the open spaces.

The air of early morning was crisp with the breath of life. He had come
upon a low ridge of hard ground, away from the vast current and low,
sodden shores of the Mississippi. Here was a clean atmosphere, and the
forest, the forest everywhere. A mockingbird, perched on a bough almost
over his head, began to pour forth his liquid song, and from another far
away came the same song like an echo. Dick looked up but he could not
see the bird among the branches. Nevertheless he waved his hand toward
the place from which the melody came and gave a little trill in reply.
Then he said aloud:

“It's a happy omen that you give me. I march away to the sound of
innocent music.”

Then he increased his speed a little and rode without stopping until he
came to the main road to Jackson. There he examined his map upon which
were marked many rivers, creeks, lagoons and bayous, with extensive
shaded areas meaning forests. In the southeastern corner of the map was
Jackson, close to which he meant to go.

He rode on at a fair pace, keeping an extremely careful watch ahead and
on either side of the road. He meant to turn aside soon into the woods,
but for the present he thought himself safe in the road--it was not
likely that Southern raiders would come so near to the Union camp.

His feeling of peace deepened. He was so far away now that no warlike
sound could reach him. Instead the song of the mockingbird pursued
him. Dick, full of youth and life, began to whistle the tune with the
songster, and his horse perhaps soothed too by the rhythm broke into the
gentle pace which is so easy for the rider.

It was early dawn, and the west was not yet wholly light. The east was
full of gold, but the silver lingered on the opposite horizon, and
the hot sun of Mississippi did not yet shed its rays over the earth.
Instead, a cool breeze blew on Dick's face, and the quick blood was
still leaping in his veins. The road dipped down and he came to a brook,
which was clear despite its proximity to the mighty yellow trench of the
Mississippi.

He let his horse drink freely, and, while he drank, he surveyed the
country as well as he could. On his left he saw through a fringe of
woods a field of young corn and showing dimly beyond it a small house.
Unbroken forest stretched away on his right, but in field as well as
forest there was no sign of a human being.

He studied his map again, noting the great number of water courses,
which in the spring season were likely to be at the flood, and, for
the first time, he realized the extreme difficulty of his mission.
Mississippi was in the very heart of the Confederacy. He could not
expect any sympathetic farmers to help him or show him the way. More
likely as he advanced toward Jackson he would find the country swarming
with the friends of the Confederacy, and to pass through them would
demand the last resource of skill and courage. Perhaps it would have
been wiser had he put on citizens clothes and taken his chances as a
spy! He did not know that Colonel Winchester would have ordered the
disguise had the one who rode on this most perilous mission been any
other than he.

The realization brought with it extreme caution. Growing up in a country
which was still mainly in forest, not differing much from its primitive
condition, save for the absence of Indians and big game, he had learned
to be at home in the woods, and now he turned from the path, riding
among the trees.

He kept a course some distance from the road, where he was sheltered
by the deep foliage and could yet see what was passing along the main
artery of travel. The ground at times was spongy, making traveling hard,
and twice his horse swam deep creeks. He would have turned into the road
at these points but the bridges were broken down and he had no other
choice.

The morning waned, and the coolness departed. The sun hung overhead,
blazing hot, and the air in the forest grew dense and heavy. He would
have been glad to turn back into the road, in the hope of finding a
breeze in the open space, but caution still kept him in the forest.
He soon saw two men in brown jeans riding mules, farmers perhaps, but
carrying rifles on their shoulders, and, drawing his horse behind a big
tree, he waited until they passed.

They rode on unseeing and he resumed his journey, to stop an hour later
and eat cold food, while he permitted his horse to graze in an opening.
He had seen only three houses, one a large colonial mansion, with the
smoke rising from several chimneys, and the others small log structures
inhabited by poor farmers, but nobody was at work in the fields.

When he resumed the journey he was thankful that he had kept to the
woods as a body of Confederate cavalry, coming out of a path from the
north, turned into the main road and advanced at a good pace toward
Jackson. They seemed to be in good spirits, as he could hear them
talking and laughing, but he was glad when they were out of sight as
these Southerners had keen eyes and a pair of them might have discerned
him in the brush.

He went deeper into the woods and made another long study of his map. It
seemed to him now that he knew every hill and lagoon and road and path,
and he resolved to ride a straight course through the forest. There
was a point, distinctly marked north of Jackson, where he was to find
Hertford if he arrived in time, or to wait for him if he got there ahead
of time, and he believed that with the aid of the map he could reach it
through the woods.

He rode now by the sun and he saw neither path nor fields. He was in the
deep wilderness once more. The mockingbirds sang around him again and
through the rifts in the leaves he saw the sailing hawks seeking their
prey. Three huge owls sitting in a row on a bough slept undisturbed
while he passed. He took it as an omen that the wilderness was deserted,
and his confidence was strong.

But the firm ground ceased and he rode through a region of swamps. The
hoofs of his horse splashed through mud and water. Now and then a snake
drew away its slimy length and Dick shuddered. He could not help it.
Snakes, even the harmless, always gave him shivers.

The wilderness now had an evil beauty. The vegetation was almost
tropical in its luxuriance, but Dick liked better the tender green of
his more northern state. Great beds of sunflowers nodded in the light
breeze. Vast masses of vines and creepers pulled down the trees, and
on many of the vines deep red roses were blooming. Then came areas
of solemn live oaks and gloomy cypresses, where no mockingbirds were
singing.

He rode for half a mile along a deep lagoon or bayou, he did not know
which, and saw hawks swoop down and draw fish from its dark surface.
The whole scene was ugly and cruel, and he was glad when he left it and
entered the woods again. Once he thought he heard the mellow voice of a
negro singing, but that was the only sound, save the flitting of small
wild animals through the undergrowth.

He came, mid-afternoon, to a river, which he made his horse swim boldly
and then entered forest that seemed more dense than ever. But the ground
here was firmer and he was glad of a chance to rest both himself and his
mount. He dismounted, tethered the horse and stretched his own limbs,
weary from riding.

It was a pretty little glade, surrounded by high forest, fitted for rest
and peace, but his horse reared suddenly and tried to break loose. There
was a heavy crashing in the undergrowth and a deer, wild with alarm,
darting within a dozen feet of Dick, disappeared in the forest, running
madly.

He knew there were many deer in the Mississippi woods, but he was
observant and the flight aroused his attention. His first thought that
he and his horse had scared the deer could not be true, because it had
come from a point directly behind and had rushed past them. Then its
alarm must have been caused by some other human being near by in the
forest or by a panther. His theory inclined to the human being.

Dick was troubled. The more he thought of the incident the less he liked
it. He made no effort to hide from himself the dangers that surrounded
him in the land of the enemy, and remounting he rode briskly forward. As
the ground was firm and the forest was free enough from undergrowth to
permit of speed he finally broke into a gallop which he maintained for a
half-hour.

He struck marsh again and was a long time in passing through it. But
when he was a half-mile on the other side he drew into a dense cluster
of bushes and waited. He could not get the flight of the deer out of
his mind, and knowing that it was well in the wilderness to obey
premonitions he watched more closely.

Dick sat on his horse behind the bush a full five minutes, and presently
he became conscious that his heart was pounding heavily. He exerted his
will and called himself foolish, but in vain. The flight of the deer
persisted in his mind. It was a warning that somebody else was in the
woods not far behind him, and, while he waited, he saw a shadow among
the trees.

It was only a shadow, but it was like the figure of a man. A single
glimpse and he was gone. The stranger, whoever he was, had darted back
in the undergrowth. Dick waited another five minutes, but the shadow did
not reappear. He felt a measure of relief because all doubts were gone
now. He was sure that he was followed, but by whom?

He knew that his danger had increased manifold. Some Southern scout or
skirmisher had discovered his presence and, in such a quest, the trailer
had the advantage of the trailed. Yet he did not hesitate. He knew his
general direction and, shifting the pistols from the saddle-holsters to
his belt he again urged his horse forward.

When they came to good ground he walked, leading his mount, as the
animal was much exhausted by the effort the marshes needed. But whenever
the undergrowth grew dense he stopped to look and listen. He did not see
the shadow and he heard nothing save the ordinary sounds of the woods,
but either instinct or imagination told him that the stranger still
followed.

The sun was far down the westward slope, but it was still very hot
in the woods. There was no breeze. Not a leaf, nor a blade of grass
stirred. Dick heard his heart still pounding. The unseen pursuit--he had
no doubt it was there--was becoming a terrible strain upon his nerves.
The perspiration ran down his face, and he sought with angry eyes for a
sight of the fellow who presumed to hang upon his tracks.

He began to wonder what he would do when the night came. There would be
no rest, no sleep for him, even in the darkness. Twice he curved from
his course and hid in the undergrowth to see his pursuer come up, but
there was nothing. Then he reasoned with himself. He had not really seen
the flitting figure of a man. It was merely the effect of an alarmed
imagination, and he told himself to ride straight on, looking ahead, not
back. But reason again yielded to instinct and he curved once more into
the deep forest, where the tangle of vines and undergrowth also was so
thick that it would take a keen eye to find him.

Dick looked back along the path which he had come and he was confident
that he saw some of the tall bushes shake a little. It could not be
wind, because the air was absolutely still, and soon he was convinced
that his instinct had been right all the time. Fancy had played him no
trick and the shadow that he had seen was a human figure.

He felt with all the force of conviction that he was in great danger,
but he did not know what to do. So he did nothing, but sat quietly on
his horse among the bushes. The heat was intense there and innumerable
flies, gnats, and mosquitoes assailed him. The mosquitoes were so fierce
that they drew blood from his face a half-dozen times.

Alone in the heat of the deep marshy wilderness he felt fear more than
in battle. Danger threatened here in a mysterious, invisible fashion and
he could only wait.

He saw a bush move again, but much nearer, and then came the crack of
a rifle. If his horse, alarmed perhaps, had not thrown up his head
suddenly, and received the bullet himself the lad's career would have
ended there.

The horse made a convulsive leap, then staggered for a few seconds,
giving his rider time to spring clear, and fell among the bushes.
Dick dropped down behind him and quickly unstrapped the rifle from the
saddle, meaning to use the animal's body as a breastwork against renewed
attack.

His fear, the kind of fear that the bravest feel, had been driven away
by rage. The killing of his innocent horse, although the bullet was
intended for him, angered him as much as if he had received a wound
himself. The spirit of his ancestor, the shrewd and wary Indian fighter,
descended upon him again, and, lying upon his stomach behind the horse,
with the rifle ready he was anxious for the attack to come.

Dick was firmly convinced that he had but a single enemy. Otherwise he
would have been attacked in force earlier, and more than one shot would
have been fired. But the report of the rifle was succeeded by deep
silence. The forest was absolutely still, not a breath of wind stirring.
His enemy remained invisible, but the besieged youth was confident that
he was lying quiet, awaiting another chance. Dick, still hot with anger,
would wait too.

But other enemies were far more reckless than the hidden marksman. The
swarm of gnats, flies, and mosquitoes assailed him again and he could
have cried out in pain. His only consolation lay in the fact that the
other man might be suffering just as much.

He was aware that his enemy might try a circling movement in order to
reach him on the flank or from behind, but he believed that his ear
would be keen enough to detect him if he came near. Moreover he lay in
a slight dip with the body of the horse in front of him, and it would
require an uncommon sharpshooter to reach him with a bullet. If he could
only stand those terrible mosquitoes an hour he felt that he might get
away, because then the night would be at hand.

He saw with immense relief that the sun was already very low. The
heat, gathered in the woods, was at its worst, and over his head the
mosquitoes buzzed and buzzed incessantly. It seemed to him a horrible
sort of irony that he might presently be forced from his shelter by
mosquitoes and be killed in flight to another refuge.

But he was endowed with great patience and tenacity and he clung to his
shelter, relying rather upon ear than eye to note the approach of an
enemy. Meanwhile the sun sank down to the rim of the wood, and the
twilight thickened rapidly in the east. Then a shot was fired from the
point from which the first had come. Dick heard the bullet singing over
his head, but it gave him satisfaction because he was able to locate his
enemy.

He sought no return fire, but lay in the dip, wary and patient. The sun
sank beyond the rim, the western sky flamed blood red for a few moments,
and then the Southern night swept down so suddenly that it seemed to
come with violence. Dick believed that his escape was now at hand, but
he still showed an infinite patience.

He did not stir from his place until the night was almost black, and
then, carrying his weapons and the saddlebag of provisions, he crept
among the thickets.

When he stood up he found himself stiff from lying long in a cramped
position. His face burned from the bites of the mosquitoes, which still
hung in swarms about him, and he felt dizzy.

But Dick remembered his mission, and his resolve to perform it was not
shaken a particle. He had lost his horse, but he could walk. Perhaps his
chance of success would be greater on foot in such a dangerous country.

He advanced now with extreme caution, feeling the way carefully and
testing the ground before he put his foot down solidly. Still trusting
to his ears he stopped now and then, and listened for some sound from
his enemy in pursuit. But nothing came, and soon he became quite sure
that he had shaken him off. He was merely a dot in the wilderness in the
dark, and, feeling secure now, he pressed forward with more speed.

He was hoping to get to a piece of firm, high ground, where he might
secure a measure of protection from those terrible mosquitoes which
still buzzed angrily about his head. In an hour chance favored him, as
he reached a low ridge much rockier than usual in that region. He would
have built a little smudge fire to protect himself from the mosquitoes,
but it would be sure to draw the lurking sharpshooter, and instead he
found a nook in the ridge, under the low boughs of a great oak. Then
he took a light blanket which he carried tied to his saddlebags, and
wrapped it around his neck and face, covering everything but his mouth
and eyes.

He sank into the nook with his back against the turf, and the reclining
position was wonderfully easy. The mosquitoes, apparently finding the
points of exposure too small, left him alone and went away. His face
still burned from numerous stings, but he forgot it in present comfort.
There was food in the saddlebags, and he ate enough for his needs. Then
he laid the saddlebags beside him and the rifle across his knees and
stared out into the darkness.

He felt a great relief after his extreme danger and long exertions.
It was both physical and mental, and sitting there alone in a sunken
wilderness he was nevertheless happy. Believing that the mosquitoes
would not come back, he wrapped the blanket about his whole body by and
by, and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

Dick had no plans for the night. He did not know whether he intended to
remain there long or not, but nature settled doubts for him. His head
drooped, and soon he slept as easily and peacefully as if he had been at
home at Pendleton in his own bed.

Then the wilderness blotted him out for the time. The little wild
animals scurried through the grass or ran up trees. In the far distance
an owl hooted solemnly at nothing, and he slept the mighty sleep of
exhaustion.




CHAPTER V. HUNTED


Dick slept the whole night through, which was a very good thing for him,
because he needed it, and because he could have made no progress in the
thick darkness through the marshy wilderness. No human beings saw him,
but the wild animals took more than one look. Not all were little. One
big clumsy brute, wagging his head in a curious, comic way, shuffled up
from the edge of the swamp, sniffed the strange human odor, and, still
wagging his comic head, came rather close to the sleeping boy. Then the
black bear decided to be afraid, and lumbered back into the bushes.

An owl perched on a bough almost over Dick's head, but this was game far
too large for Mr. Owl's beak and talons, and he soon flew away in search
of something nearer his size. A raccoon on a bough stared with glowing
eyes and then slid out of sight.

Man, although he had just come, became king of this swamp, king for the
night. The prowling beasts and birds of prey, after their first look,
gave Dick all the berth he needed, and he did not awake until a bright
sun was well above the edge of the earth. Then he rose, shook himself,
much like an animal coming from its lair, and bathed his face in a
little stream which ran down the hill into the swamp. It was swollen and
painful from the mosquito bites, but he resolved not to think of them,
and ate breakfast from the saddlebags, after which he studied his map a
little.

Baggage and rifle on shoulder, he pursued a course south by east. There
was a strong breeze which gave him a rest from the dreaded insects, and
he pushed on with vigorous footsteps. The country remained thoroughly
wild, and he soon had proof of it. Another deer, this time obviously
started up by himself, sprang from the canebrake and darted away in the
woods. He noted tracks of bear and resolved some day when the war was
over to come there hunting.

His course led him again from firm ground into a region of marshes and
lagoons, which he crossed with difficulty, arriving about an hour before
noon at a considerable river, one that would require swimming unless he
found a ford somewhere near. He was very weary from the journey through
the marsh and, sitting on a log, he scraped from his clothes a portion
of the mud they had accumulated on the way.

He was a good swimmer, but he had his arms and ammunition to keep dry,
and he did not wish to trust himself afloat on the deep current. Wading
would be far better, and, when his strength was restored, he walked up
the bank in search of a shallower place.

He came soon to a point, where the cliff was rather high, although it
was clothed in dense forest here as elsewhere, and when he reached the
crest he heard a sound like the swishing of waters. Alert and suspicious
he sank down among the trees and peered over the bank. Two men in a
canoe were paddling in a leisurely manner along the stream.

The men were in faded and worn Confederate uniforms, and Dick saw
their rifles lying in the bottom of the boat. He also saw that they
had strong, resolute faces. They were almost opposite him and they were
closely scanning the forest on his side of the river. He was glad that
he had not tried to swim the stream, and he was glad too that he had
kept so well under cover. The men in the canoe were surely keen of eye,
and they must be a patrol.

He sank closer to the earth and did not stir. One of the watchers drew
in his paddle and took up his rifle, while the other propelled the canoe
very slowly. It seemed that they expected something or somebody, and it
suddenly occurred to him that it might be he. He felt a little shiver of
apprehension. How could they know he was coming? It was mysterious and
alarming.

He waited for them to pass down the river and out of sight, but at the
curve they turned and came back against the stream, the man with the
rifle in his hand still keenly watching the western shore, where Dick
lay hidden. Neither of them spoke, and the only sound was the swishing
of the paddle. The hoot of an owl came from the depths of the forest
behind him and he knew that it was a signal. The hair of his head
lifted.

He felt the touch of the supernatural. The invisible pursuer was behind
him again, and the silent soldiers held the crossing. The hoot of the
owl came again, a little nearer now. He was tempted to rise and run, but
his will held him back from such folly. His unknown enemy could pursue,
because his boots left a deep trail in the soft earth. That was why he
had been able to follow again in the morning.

He crept back some distance from the river and then, rising, retreated
cautiously up the stream. He caught glimpses of the water twice through
the bushes, and each time the canoe was moving up the river also, one
man paddling and the other, rifle on his arm, watching the western
shore.

Dick had a feeling that he was trapped. Colonel Winchester had been wise
to make him wear his uniform, because it was now certain that he
was going to be taken, and death had always been the punishment of
a captured spy. He put down the thought resolutely, and began to run
through the forest parallel with the river. If it were only the firm
hard ground of the North he could hide his trail from the man behind
him, but here the soil was so soft that every footstep left a deep mark.
Yet he might find fallen trees thrown down by hurricanes, and in a few
minutes he came to a mass of them. He ran deftly from trunk to trunk,
and then continued his flight among the bushes. It broke his trail less
than a rod, but it might take his pursuer ten minutes to recover it, and
now ten minutes were precious.

The soil grew harder and he made better speed, but when he looked
through the foliage he saw the canoe still opposite him. It was easy for
them, on the smooth surface of the river, to keep pace with him, if such
was their object. Furious anger took hold of him. He knew that he must
soon become exhausted, while the men in the canoe would scarcely feel
weariness. Then came the idea.

The canoe was light and thin almost like the birch bark Indian canoe of
the north, and he was a good marksman. It was a last chance, but raising
his rifle he fired the heavy bullet directly at the bottom of the canoe.
As the echo of the first shot was dying he slipped in a cartridge and
sent a second at the same target. He did not seek to kill the men, his
object was the canoe, and as he ran rapidly away he saw it fill with
water and sink, the two soldiers in the stream swimming toward the
western shore.

Dick laughed to himself. He had won a triumph, although he did not yet
know that it would amount to anything. At any rate the men could no
longer glide up and down the river at their leisure looking for him to
come forth from the forest.

He knew that the shots would bring the single pursuer at full speed,
and, as he had saved some ounces of strength, he now ran at his utmost
speed. The river curved again and just beyond the curve it seemed
shallow to him. He plunged in at once, and waded rapidly, holding his
rifle, pistols and saddlebags above his head. He was in dread lest he
receive a bullet in his back, but he made the farther shore, ran into
the dense undergrowth and sank down dripping and panting.

He had made the crossing but he did not forget to be ready. He rapidly
reloaded his rifle, and fastened the pistols at his belt. Then he looked
through the bushes at the river. The two canoemen, water running from
them in streams, were on the other bank, though a little farther down
the stream. He believed that they were no longer silent. He fondly
imagined that they were cursing hard, if not loud.

His relief was so great that, forgetting his own bedraggled condition,
he laughed. Then he looked again to see what they were going to do. A
small man, his face shaded by the broad brim of a hat, emerged from the
woods and joined them. Dick was too far away to see his face, even
had it been uncovered, but his figure looked familiar. Nevertheless,
although he tried hard, he could not recall where he had seen him
before. But, as he carried a long-barreled rifle, Dick was sure that
this was his unknown pursuer. There had certainly been collusion
also between him and the men in the boat, as the three began to talk
earnestly, and to point toward the woods on the other side.

Dick felt that he had avenged himself upon the boatmen, but his rage
rose high against the little man under the broad-brimmed hat. It was he
who had followed him so long, and who had tried ruthlessly to kill him.
The lad's rifle was of the most improved make and a bullet would reach.
He was tempted to try it, but prudence came to his rescue. Still lying
close he watched them. He felt sure that they would soon be hunting for
his footprints, but he resolved to stay in his covert, until they began
the crossing of the river, to which his trail would lead when they found
it.

He saw them cease talking and begin searching among the woods. It might
be at least a half-hour before they found the trail and his strength
would be restored fully then. His sinking of the canoe had been in
reality a triumph, and so he remained at ease, watching the ford.

He was quite sure that when his trail was found the little man would
be the one to find it, and sure enough at the end of a half-hour the
weazened figure led down to the ford. Dick might have shot one of them
in the water, but he had no desire to take life. It would serve no
purpose, and, refreshed and strengthened, he set out through the forest
toward Jackson.

He came to a brook soon, and, remembering the old device of Indian
times, he waded in it at least a half-mile. When he left it he passed
through a stretch of wood, crossed an old cotton field and entered the
woods again. Then he sat down and ate from his store, feeling that he
had shaken off his pursuers. Another examination of his map followed. He
had kept fixed in his mind the point at which he was to find Hertford,
and, being a good judge of direction, he felt sure that he could yet
reach it.

The sun, now high and warm, had dried his clothing, and, after the food,
he was ready for another long march. He struck into a path and walked
along it, coming soon to a house which stood back a little distance from
a road into which the path merged. A man and two women standing on the
porch stared at him curiously, but he pretended to take no notice. After
long exposure to weather, blue uniforms did not differ much from gray,
and his own was now covered with mud. He could readily pass as a soldier
of the Confederacy unless they chose to ask too many questions.

“From General Pemberton's army?” called the man, when he was opposite
the house.

Dick nodded and stepped a little faster.

“Won't you stop for a bite and fresh water with friends of the cause?”

“Thanks, but important dispatches. Must hurry.” They repeated the
invitation. He shook his head, and went on. He did not look back, but he
was sure that they stared at him as long as he was in sight. Then, for
safety's sake, he left the road and entered the wood once more.

He had now come to country comparatively free from swamp and marsh, and
pursued his way through a great forest, beautiful with live oaks and
magnolias. In the afternoon he took a long rest by the side of a clear
spring, where he drew further upon the store of food in his saddlebags,
which he calculated held enough for another day. After that he would
have to forage upon the country.

He would sleep the second night in the forest, his blanket being
sufficient protection, unless rain came, which he would have to endure
as best he could. Another look at his map and he believed that on the
following afternoon he could reach Hertford.

He took the remaining food from his saddlebags, wrapped it in his
blanket, and strapped the pack on his back. Then, in order to lighten
his burden, he hung the saddlebags on the bough of a tree and abandoned
them, after which he pressed forward through the woods with renewed
speed.

He came at times to the edge of the forest and saw houses in the fields,
but he always turned back among the trees. He could find only enemies
here, and he knew that it was his plan to avoid all human beings.
Precept and example are of great power and he recalled again much that
he had heard of his famous ancestor, Paul Cotter. He had been compelled
to fight often for his life and again to flee for it from an enemy who
reserved torture and death for the captured. Dick felt that he must do
as well, and the feeling increased his vigor and courage.

A little later he heard a note, low, faint and musical. It was behind
him, but he was sure at first that it was made by negroes singing. It
was a pleasing sound. The negro had a great capacity for happiness, and
Dick as a young lad had played with and liked the young colored lads of
his age.

But as he walked on he heard the low, musical note once more and, as
before, directly behind him. It seemed a little nearer. He paused and
listened. It came again, always nearer and nearer, and now it did not
seem as musical as before. There was a sinister thread in that flowing
note, and suddenly Dick remembered.

He was a daring horseman and with his uncle and cousin and others at
Pendleton he had often ridden after the fox. It was the note of the
hounds, but of bloodhounds, and this time they were following him. From
the first he had not the slightest doubt of it. Somebody, some traitor
in the Union camp, knew the nature of his errand, and was hanging on to
the pursuit like death.

Dick knew it was the little man whom he had seen by the river, and
perhaps the canoemen were with him--he would certainly have comrades,
or his own danger would be too great--and they had probably obtained the
bloodhounds at a farmhouse. Nearly everybody in Mississippi kept hounds.

The long whining note came again and much nearer. Now all music was gone
from it for Dick. It was ferocious, like the howl of the wolf seeking
prey, and he could not restrain a shudder. His danger had returned with
twofold force, because the hounds would unerringly lead his pursuers
through the forest as fast as they could follow.

He did not yet despair. A new resolution was drawn from the depths of
his courage. He did not forget that he was a good marksman and he
had both rifle and pistols. He tried to calculate from that whining,
ferocious note how many hounds were pursuing, and he believed they were
not many. Now he prepared for battle, and, as he ran, he kept his eye on
the ground in order that he might choose his own field.

He saw it presently, a mass of fallen timber thrown together by a great
storm, and he took his place on the highest log, out of reach of a
leaping hound. Then, lying almost flat on the log and with his rifle
ready, he waited, his heart beating hard with anger that he should be
pursued thus like an animal.

The howling of the hounds grew more ferocious, and it was tinged with
joy. The trail had suddenly grown very hot, and they knew that the
quarry was just before them. Dick caught a good view of a long, lean,
racing figure bounding among the trees, and he fired straight at a spot
between the blazing eyes. The hound fell without a sound, and with equal
ease he slew the second. The third and last drew back, although the lad
heard the distant halloo of men seeking to drive him on.

Dick sprang from his log and ran through the forest again. He knew
that the lone hound after his first recoil would follow, but he had his
reloaded rifle and he had proved that he knew how to shoot. It would
please him for the hound to come within range.

When he took to renewed flight the hound again whined ferociously and
Dick glanced back now and then seeking a shot. Once he caught a glimpse
of two or three dusky figures some distance behind the hound, urging
him on, and his heart throbbed with increased rage. If they presented an
equal target he would fire at them rather than the hound.

He could run no longer, and his gait sank to a walk. His very exhaustion
brought him his opportunity, as the animal came rapidly within range,
and Dick finished him with a single lucky shot. Then, making an extreme
effort, he fled on a long time, and, while he was fleeing, he saw the
sun set and the night come.

The strain upon him had been so great that his nerves and brain were
unsteady. Although the forest was black with night he saw it through a
blood-red mist. Something in him was about to burst, and when he saw a
human figure rising up before him it broke and he fell.

Dick was unconscious a long time. But when he awoke he found himself
wrapped in a blanket, while another was doubled under his head. It was
pitchy dark, but he beheld the outline of a human figure, sitting by his
side. He strove to rise, but a powerful hand on his shoulder pushed him
back, though gently, and a low voice said:

“Stay still, Mr. Mason. We mustn't make any sound now!”

Dick recognized in dim wonder the voice of Sergeant Daniel Whitley. How
he had come there at such a time, and what he was doing now was past all
guessing, but Sergeant Whitley was a most competent man. He knew more
than most generals, and he was filled with the lore of the woods. He
would trust him. He let his head sink back on the folded blanket, and
his heavy eyes closed again.

When Dick roused from his stupor the sergeant was still by his side,
and, as his eyes grew used to the darkness, he noticed that Whitley was
really kneeling rather than sitting, crouched to meet danger, his finger
on the trigger of a rifle. Dick's brain cleared and he sat up.

“What is it, Sergeant?” he whispered.

“I see you're all right now, Mr. Mason,” the sergeant whispered back,
“but be sure you don't stir.”

“Is it the Johnnies?”

“Lean over a little and look down into that dip.”

Dick did so, and saw four men hunting among the trees, and the one
who seemed to be their leader was the little weazened fellow, with the
great, flap-brimmed hat.

“They're looking for your trail,” whispered the sergeant, “but they
won't find it. It's too dark, even for a Sioux Indian, and I've seen
them do some wonderful things in trailing.”

“I seem to have met you in time, Sergeant.”

“So you did, sir, but more of that later. Perhaps you'd better lie down
again, as you're weak yet. I'll tell you all they do.”

“I'll take your advice, Sergeant, but am I sound and whole? I felt
something in me break, and then the earth rose up and hit me in the
face.”

“I reckon it was just the last ounce of breath going out of you with a
pop. They're hunting hard, Mr. Mason, but they can't pick up the trace
of a footstep. Slade must be mad clean through.”

“Slade! Slade! Who's Slade?”

“Slade is a spy partly, and an outlaw mostly, 'cause he often works on
his own hook. He's the weazened little fellow with so much hat-brim, and
he's about twenty different kinds of a demon. You've plenty of reason to
fear him, and it's lucky we've met.”

“It's more than luck for me, Sergeant. It's salvation. I believe it
wouldn't have been half as hard on me if somebody had been with me, and
you're the first whom I would have chosen. Are they still in the dip,
Sergeant?”

“No, they've passed to the slope on the right, and I think they'll go
over the hill. We're safe here so long as we remain quiet; that is, safe
for the time. Slade will hang on as long as there's a possible chance to
find us.”

“Sergeant, if they do happen to stumble upon us in the dark I hope
you'll promise to do one thing for me.”

“I'll do anything I can, Mr. Mason.”

“Kill Slade first. That little villain gives me the horrors. I believe
the soul of the last bloodhound I shot has been reincarnated in him.”

“All right, Mr. Mason,” returned the sergeant, placidly, “if we have to
fight I'll make sure of Slade at once. Is there anybody else you'd like
specially to have killed?”

“No thank you, Sergeant. I don't hate any of the others, and I suppose
they'd have dropped the chase long ago if it hadn't been for this fellow
whom you call Slade. Now, I think I'll lie quiet, while you watch.”

“Very good, sir. I'll tell you everything I can see. They're passing
over the hill out of sight, and if they return I won't fail to let you
know.”

Sergeant Whitley, a man of vast physical powers, hardened by the long
service of forest and plain, was not weary at all, and, in the dusk, he
looked down with sympathy and pity at the lad who had closed his eyes.
He divined the nature of the ordeal through which he had gone. Dick's
face, still badly swollen from the bites of the mosquitoes, showed
all the signs of utter exhaustion. The sergeant could see, despite the
darkness, that it was almost the face of the dead, and he knew that
happy chance had brought him in the moment of Dick's greatest need.

He ceased to whisper, because Dick, without intending it, had gone
to sleep again. Then the wary veteran scouted in a circle about their
refuge, but did not discover the presence of an enemy.

He sat down near the sleeping lad, with his rifle between his knees,
and watched the moon come out. Owing to his wilderness experience he had
been chosen also to go on a scout toward Jackson, though he preferred to
make his on foot, and the sound of Dick's shots at the hounds had drawn
him to an observation which finally turned into a rescue.

After midnight the sergeant slept a little while, but he never awakened
Dick until it was almost morning. Then he told him that he would go with
him on the mission to Hertford, and Dick was very glad.

“What's become of Slade and his men?” asked Dick.

“I don't know,” replied the sergeant, “but as they lost the trail in the
night, it's pretty likely they're far from here. At any rate they're not
bothering us just now. How're you feeling, Mr. Mason?”

“Fine, except that my face still burns.”

“We'll have to hold up a Confederate house somewhere and get oil of
pennyroyal. That'll cure you, but I guess you've learned now, Mr.
Mason, that mosquitoes in a southern swamp are just about as deadly as
bullets.”

“So they are, Sergeant, and this is not my first experience. Luck has
been terribly against me this trip, but it turned when I met you last
night.”

“Yes, Mr. Mason. In this case two rifles are better than one. We're
prowling right through the heart of the Confederacy, but I'm thinking
we'll make it. We've got a great general now, and we mustn't fail to
bring up Colonel Hertford and his cavalry. I've an idea in my head that
General Grant is going to carry through big plans.”

“Then I think it's time we were starting.”

“So do I, Mr. Mason, and now will you take these crackers and smoked
ham? I've plenty in my knapsack. I learned on the plains never to travel
without a food supply. If a soldier starves to death what use is he to
his army? And I reckon you need something to eat. You were about tired
out when I met you last night.”

“I surely was, Sergeant, but I'm a new man this morning. You and I
together can't fail.”

Dick, in truth, felt an enormous relief. He and his young comrades had
learned to trust Sergeant Whitley implicitly, with his experience of
forest and plain and his infinite resource.

“Where do you figure we are, Sergeant?” he asked.

“In the deep woods, Mr. Mason, but we haven't turned much from the line
leading you to the place where you were to meet Colonel Hertford. You
haven't really lost time, and we'll start again straight ahead, but
we've got to look out for this fellow Slade, who's as tricky and
merciless as they ever make 'em.”

“Tell me more about Slade, Sergeant.”

“I don't know a lot, but I heard of him from some of our scouts. He was
an overseer of a big plantation before the war. From somewhere up North,
I think, but now he's more of a rebel than the rebels themselves. Often
happens that way. But you've got to reckon with him.”

“Glad I know that much. He reminds me of a man I've seen, though I can't
recall where or when. It's enough, though, to watch out for Slade. Come
on, Sergeant, I'm feeling so fine now that with your help I'm able to
fight a whole army.”

The two striding through the forest, started toward the meeting place
with Hertford. Now that he had the powerful comradeship of Sergeant
Whitley, the wilderness became beautiful instead of gloomy for Dick.
The live oaks and magnolias were magnificent, and there was a wild
luxuriance of vegetation. Birds of brilliant plumage darted among the
foliage, and squirrels chattered on the boughs. He saw bear tracks
again, and called the sergeant's attention to them.

“It would be nice to be hunting them, instead of men,” said Whitley.
“You can find nice, black fellows down here, good to eat, and it's a
deal safer to hunt them than it is the grizzlies and silver-tips of the
Rockies.”

They saw now much cleared land, mostly cotton fields, and now and then
a white man or a negro working, but there was always enough forest
for cover. They waded the numerous brooks and creeks, allowing their
clothing to dry in the warm sun, as they marched, and about two hours
before sunrise the sergeant, wary and always suspicious, suggested that
they stop a while.

“I've an idea,” he said, “that Slade and his men are still following us.
Oh, he's an ugly fellow, full of sin, and if they're not far behind us
we ought to know it.”

“Just as you say,” said Dick, glad enough to shift the responsibility
upon such capable shoulders. “How would this clump of bushes serve for a
hiding place while we wait?”

“Good enough. Indians pursued, often ambush the pursuer, and as we've
two good men with two good rifles, Mr. Mason, we'll just see what this
Slade is about.”

“When I last saw him,” said Dick, “he had the two canoemen with him, and
perhaps they've picked up the owner of the hounds.”

“That's sure, and they're likely to be four. We're only two, but we've
got the advantage of the ambush, and that's a big one. If you agree
with me, Mr. Mason, we'll wait here for 'em. We were sent out to take
messages, not to fight, but since these fellows hang on our trail we may
get to Colonel Hertford all the quicker because we do fight.”

“Your opinion's mine too, Sergeant. I'm not in love with battle, but I
wouldn't mind taking a shot or two at these men. They've given me a lot
of trouble.”

The sergeant smiled.

“That's the way it goes,” he said. “You don't get mad at anybody in
particular in a big battle, but if two or three fellows lay around in
the woods popping away at you you soon get so you lose any objections to
killing, and you draw a bead on 'em as soon as a chance comes.”

“That's the way I feel, Sergeant. It isn't Christian, but I suppose it
has some sort of excuse.”

“Of course it has. Drop a little lower, Mr. Mason. I see the bushes out
there shaking.”

“And that's the sign that Slade and his men have come. Well, I'm not
sorry.”

Both Dick and the sergeant lay almost flat with their heads raised a
little, and their rifles pushed forward. The bushes ceased to shake,
but Dick had no doubt their pursuers were before them. They had probably
divined, too, that the quarry was at bay and was dangerous. Evidently
the sergeant had been correct when he said Slade was full of craft and
cunning.

While they waited the spirit of Dick's famous ancestor descended upon
him in a yet greater measure. Their pursuers were not Indians, but this
was the deep wilderness and they were merely on a skirt of the great
war. Many of the border conditions were reproduced, and they were to
fight as borderers fought.

“What do you think they're doing?” Dick whispered.

“Feeling around for us. Slade won't take any more risk than he has to.
Did you see those two birds fly away from that bough, sudden-like? I
think one of the men has just crept under it. But the fellow who exposes
himself first won't be Slade.”

Dick's inherited instinct was strong, and he watched not only in front,
but to right and left also. He knew that cunning men would seek to flank
and surprise them, and he noticed that the sergeant also watched in a
wide circle. He still drew tremendous comfort from the presence of the
skillful veteran, feeling that his aid would make the repulse of Slade a
certainty.

A rifle cracked suddenly in the bushes to their right, and then another
by his side cracked so suddenly that only a second came between. Dick
heard a bullet whistle over their heads, but he believed that the one
from his comrade's rifle had struck true.

“I've no way of telling just now,” said the sergeant, calmly, “but I
don't believe that fellow will bother any more. If we can wing another
they're likely to let us alone and we can go on. They must know by
the trail that we're now two instead of one, and that their danger has
doubled.”

Dick had felt that the danger to their pursuers had more than doubled.
He had an immense admiration for the sergeant, who was surely showing
himself a host. The man, trained so long in border war, was thoroughly
in his element. His thick, powerful figure was drawn up in the fashion
of a panther about to spring. Bulky as he was he showed ease and grace,
and wary eyes, capable of reading every sign, continually scanned the
thickets.

“They know just where we are, of course,” whispered the sergeant, “but
if we stay close they'll never get a good shot at us.”

Dick caught sight of a head among some bushes and fired. The head
dropped back so quickly that he could not tell whether or not his bullet
sped true. After a long wait the sergeant suggested that they creep
away.

“I think they've had enough,” he said. “They've certainly lost one man,
and maybe two. Slade won't care to risk much more.”

Dick was glad to go and, following the sergeant's lead, he crawled four
or five hundred yards, a most painful but necessary operation. Then they
stood up, and made good time through the forest. Both would have been
willing to stay and fight it out with Slade and what force he had left,
but their mission was calling them, and forward they went.

“Do you think they'll follow us?” asked Dick.

“I reckon they've had enough. They may try to curve ahead of us and give
warning, but the salute from the muzzles of our rifles has been too warm
for any more direct pursuit. Besides, we're going to have a summer storm
soon, and like as not they'll be hunting shelter.”

Dick, in the excitement of battle and flight, had not noticed the
darkening skies and the rising wind. Clouds, heavy and menacing, already
shrouded the whole west. Low thunder was heard far in the distance.

“It's going to be a whopper,” said the sergeant, “something like those
big storms they have out on the plains. We must find shelter somewhere,
Mr. Mason, or it will leave us so bedraggled and worn out that for a
long time we won't be able to move on.”

Dick agreed with him entirely, but neither yet knew where the shelter
was to be found. They hurried on, looking hopefully for a place.
Meanwhile the storm, its van a continual blaze of lightning and roar of
thunder, rolled up fast from the southwest. Then the lightning ceased
for a while and the skies were almost dark. Dick knew that the rain
would come soon, and, as he looked eagerly for shelter, he saw a
clearing in which stood a small building of logs.

“A cornfield, Sergeant,” he exclaimed, “and that I take it is a crib.”

“A crib that will soon house more than corn,” said the sergeant. “Two
good Union soldiers are about to stop there. It's likely the farmer's
house itself is just beyond that line of trees, but he won't be coming
out to this crib to-night.”

“Not likely. Too much darkness and rain. Hurry, Sergeant, I can hear
already the rush of the rain in the forest.”

They ran across the field, burst open the door of the crib, leaped in
and banged the door shut again, just as the van of the rain beat upon it
with an angry rush.

Save for a crack or two they had no light, but they stood upon a dry
floor covered deep with corn shucks, and heard the rain sweep and roar
upon the roof. On one side was a heap of husked corn which they quickly
piled against the door in order to hold it before the assaults of the
wind, and then they sought warm places among the shucks.

It was a small crib, and the rain drove in at the cracks, but it
furnished abundant shelter for its two new guests. Dick had never been
in a finer hotel. He lay warm and dry in a great heap of shucks, and
heard the wind and rain beat vainly upon walls and roof and the thunder
rumble as it moved off toward the east. He felt to the full the power of
contrast.

“Fine in here, isn't it, Sergeant?” he said.

“Fine as silk,” replied the sergeant from his own heap of shucks. “We
played in big luck to find this place, 'cause I think it's going to rain
hard all night.”

“Let it. It can't get me. Sergeant, I've always known that corn is our
chief staple, but I never knew before that the shucks, which so neatly
enclose the grains and cob, were such articles of luxury. I'm lying upon
the most magnificent bed in the United States, and it's composed wholly
of shucks.”

“It's no finer than mine, Mr. Mason.”

“That's so. Yours is just like mine, and, of course, it's an exception.
Now, I wish to say, Sergeant, the rain upon the roof is so soothing that
I'm likely to go to sleep before I know it.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Mason, and it's more'n likely I'll follow. All trails
will be destroyed by the storm and nobody will think of looking here for
us to-night.”

Both soon slept soundly, and all through the night the rain beat upon
the roof.




CHAPTER VI. A BOLD ATTACK


Dick was the first to awake. The sergeant had not slept the night before
at all, and, despite his enormous endurance, he was overpowered. Having
fallen once into slumber he remained there long.

It was not yet morning and the rain was yet falling steadily. Its sweep
upon the roof was still so pleasant and soothing that Dick resolved to
go to sleep again, after he had looked about a little. He had grown used
to dusk and he could see just a little. The sergeant, buried all but his
head among the corn shucks, was breathing deeply and peacefully.

He looked out at one of the cracks, but he saw only rain sweeping by
in misty sheets. The road that ran by the field was invisible. He gave
devout thanks that this tight little corn crib had put itself in their
way. Then he returned to his slumbers, and when he awoke again the
sergeant was sitting by one of the cracks smoothing his thick hair with
a small comb.

“I always try to keep as neat as I can, Mr. Mason,” he said, apologizing
for such weakness. “It gives you more courage, and if I get killed I
want to make a decent body. Here's your breakfast, sir. There's enough
left for the two of us, and I've divided it equally.”

Cold ham, bacon and crackers were laid out on clean shucks, and they ate
until nothing was left. It was now full daylight, and the rain was dying
away to a sprinkle. The farmer might come out at any time to his crib,
and they felt that they must be up and away.

They bade farewell to their pleasant shelter of a night, and, after
pulling through the deep mud of the field, entered again the forest,
which was now soaking wet.

“If Colonel Hertford is near where we reckon he is we ought to meet him
by nightfall,” said Sergeant Whitley.

“We're sure to reach him before then,” said Dick joyously.

“Colonel Hertford is a mighty good man, and if he says he's going to
be at a certain place at a certain time I reckon he'll be there, Mr.
Mason.”

“And then we'll bring him back and join General Grant. What do you think
of our General, Sergeant?”

Dick spoke with all the freedom then so prevalent in the American
armies, where officer and man were often on nearly a common footing, and
the sergeant replied with equal freedom.

“General Grant hits and hammers, and I guess that's what war is,”
 he said. “On the plains we had a colonel who didn't know much about
tactics. He said the only way to put down hostile Indians was to find
'em, and beat 'em, and I guess that plan will work in any war, big or
little.”

“I heard before I left the army that Washington was getting scared,
afraid that he was taking too big a risk here in the heart of the
Confederacy, and that his operations might be checked by orders from the
capital.”

Sergeant Whitley smiled a wise smile.

“We sergeants learn to know the officers,” he said, “and I've had the
chance to look at General Grant a lot. He doesn't say much, but I guess
he's doing a powerful lot of thinking, while he's chawing on the end of
his cigar. You notice, Mr. Mason, that he takes risks.”

“He took a big one at Shiloh, and came mighty near being nipped.”

“But he wasn't nipped after all, and now, if I can judge by the signs,
he's going to take another chance here. I wouldn't be surprised if he
turned and marched away from the Mississippi, say toward Jackson.”

“But that wouldn't be taking Vicksburg.”

“No, but he might whip an army of the Johnnies coming to relieve
Vicksburg, and I've a sneaking idea that the General has another daring
thought in mind.”

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“When he turns eastward he'll be away from the telegraph. Maybe he
doesn't want to receive any orders from the capital just now.”

“I believe you've hit it, Sergeant. At least I hope so, and anyway we
want to reach Colonel Hertford right away.”

Still following the map and also consulting their own judgment, they
advanced now at a good rate. But as they came into a more thickly
populated country they were compelled to be exceedingly wary. Once a
farmer insisted on questioning them, but they threatened him with their
rifles and then plunged into a wood, lest he bring a force in pursuit.

In the afternoon, lying among some bushes, they saw a large Confederate
force, with four cannon, pass on the road toward Jackson.

“Colonel Hertford might do them a lot of damage if he could fall on them
with his cavalry,” said the sergeant thoughtfully.

“So he could,” said Dick, “but I imagine that General Grant wants the
colonel to come at once.”

They turned northward now and an hour later found numerous hoofprints in
a narrow road.

“All these were made by well-shod horses,” said the sergeant, after
examining the tracks critically. “Now, we've plenty of horseshoes and
the Johnnies haven't. That's one sign.”

“What's the other?”

“I calculate that about six hundred men have passed here, and that's
pretty close to the number Colonel Hertford has, unless he's been in a
hot fight.”

“Good reasoning, Sergeant, and I'll add a third. Those men are riding
directly toward the place where, according to our maps and information,
we ought to meet Colonel Hertford.”

“All these things make me sure our men have passed here, Mr. Mason.
Suppose we follow on as hard as we can?”

Cheered by the belief that they were approaching the end of their quest
they advanced at such a rate that the great trail rapidly grew fresher.

“Their horses are tired now,” said the sergeant, “and likely we're going
as fast as they are. They're our men sure. Look at this old canteen that
one of 'em has thrown away. It's the kind they make in the North. He
ought to have been punished for leaving such a sign.”

“I judge, Sergeant, from the looks of this road, that they can't now be
more than a mile away.”

“Less than that, Mr. Mason. When we reach the top of the hill yonder I
think we'll see 'em.”

The sergeant's judgment was vindicated again. From the crest they saw a
numerous body of muddy horsemen riding slowly ahead. Only the brilliant
sunlight made their uniforms distinguishable, but they were, beyond a
doubt, the troops of the Union. Dick uttered a little cry of joy and the
sergeant's face glowed.

“We've found 'em,” said the sergeant.

“And soon we ride,” said Dick.

They hurried forward, shouted and waved their rifles.

The column stopped, and two men, one of whom was Colonel Hertford
himself, rode back, looking curiously at the haggard and stained faces
of the two who walked forward, still swinging their rifles.

“Colonel Hertford,” said Dick joyfully, “we've come with a message for
you from General Grant.”

“And who may you be?” asked Hertford in surprise.

“Why, Colonel, don't you know me? I'm Lieutenant Richard Mason of
Colonel Winchester's regiment, and this is Sergeant Daniel Whitley of
the same regiment.”

The colonel broke into a hearty laugh, and then extended his hand to
Dick.

“I should have known your voice, my boy,” he said, “but it's certainly
impossible to recognize any one who is as thickly covered with dry
Mississippi mud as you are. What's your news, Dick?”

Dick told him and the sergeant repeated the same tale. He knew them both
to be absolutely trustworthy, and their coming on such an errand through
so many dangers carried its own proof.

“We've several spare horses, bearing provisions and arms,” said Colonel
Hertford. “Two can be unloaded and be made ready for you and the
sergeant. I fancy that you don't care to keep on walking, Dick?”

“I've had enough to last me for years, Colonel.”

They were mounted in a few minutes, and rode with the colonel. The world
had now changed for Dick. Astride a good horse and in a column of six
hundred men he was no longer the hunted. These troopers and he were
hunters now.

The column turned presently into another road and advanced with speed in
the direction of Grant. Colonel Hertford asked Dick many questions about
Slade.

“I've been hearing of him since we were on this raid,” he said. “He's
more of a guerilla than a regular soldier, but he may be able to gather
a considerable force. I wish we could cut him off.”

“So do I,” said Dick, but his feeling was prompted chiefly by Slade's
determined attempts upon his life.

Colonel Hertford now pushed forward his men. He, too, was filled with
ambitions. He began to have an idea of Grant's great plans, in which
all the Union leaders must cooperate, and he meant that his own little
command should be there, whenever the great deed, whatever it might be,
was done. He talked about it with Dick, who he knew was a trusted
young staff officer, and the two, the lad and the older man, fed the
enthusiasm of each other.

This attack deep into the flank of the Confederacy appealed to them with
its boldness, and created a certain romantic glow that seemed to clothe
the efforts of a general so far from the great line of battle in the
East. They talked, too, of the navy which had run past forts on the
Mississippi, and which had shown anew all its ancient skill and courage.

As they talked, twilight came, and the road led once more through the
deep woods, where the shade turned the twilight into the darkness of
night. Then rifles flashed suddenly in the thickets, and a half-dozen
horsemen fell. The whole column was thrown for an instant or two into
disorder, frightened horses rearing and stamping, and, before their
riders could regain control, another volley came, emptying a half-dozen
saddles.

Colonel Hertford gave rapid commands. Then, shouting and waving his
saber he galloped boldly into the forest, reckless of trees and bushes,
and Dick, the sergeant, and the whole troop followed. The lad was nearly
swept from his horse by a bough, but he recovered himself in time to see
the figures of men on foot fleeing rapidly through the dusk.

Bullets pattered on bark and leaves, and the angry horsemen, after
discharging their carbines, swept forward with circling sabers. But the
irregulars who had ambushed them, save a few fallen before the bullets,
escaped easily in the dense woods, and under cover of the darkness which
was now coming down, thick and fast.

A trumpet sounded the recall and the cavalrymen, sore and angry, drew
back into the road. They had lost a dozen good men, but Colonel Hertford
felt that they could not delay for vengeance. Grant's orders were to
come at once; and he intended to obey them.

“I'd wager a year's pay against a Confederate five-dollar note,” said
Sergeant Whitley to Dick, “that the man who laid that ambush was Slade.
He'll keep watch on us all the way to Grant, and he'll tell the Southern
leaders everything the general is doing. Oh, he's a good scout and spy.”

“He's proved it,” said Dick, “and I'd like to get a fair shot at him.”

They rode nearly all night and most of the next day, and, in the
afternoon, they met other men in blue who told them that a heavy Union
force was advancing. They had no doubt now that Grant's great plan was
already working and in a short time they reached McPherson, advancing
with Logan's division. Hertford reported at once to McPherson, who was
glad enough to have his cavalry, and who warmly praised Dick and the
sergeant for the dangerous service they had done so well. As it would
have been unwise for them to attempt to reach Grant then he kept them
with him in the march on Jackson.

Dick slept that night under the stars, but thousands of Union men were
around him and he felt neither the weight of responsibility, nor the
presence of danger. He missed Warner and Pennington, but he and the
sergeant were happy. Beyond a dou

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/9745