OVER THE HILLS
Dick and his little troop rode on through the silent country, and they
were so watchful and thorough that they protected fully the right flank
of the marching column. One or two shots were fired, but the reports
came from such distant points that he knew the bullets had fallen short.
But while he beat up the forests and fields for sharpshooters he was
very thoughtful. He had a mind that looked far ahead, even in youth,
and the incident at the house weighed upon him. He foresaw the coming
triumph of the North and of the Union, a triumph won after many great
disasters, but he remembered what an old man at a blacksmith shop in
Tennessee had told him and his comrades before the Battle of Stone
River. Whatever happened, however badly the South might be defeated,
the Southern soil would still be held by Southern people, and their
bitterness would be intense for many a year to come. The victor
forgives easily, the vanquished cannot forget. His imagination was
active and vivid, often attaining truths that logic and reason do not
reach, and he could understand what had happened at the house, where
the ordinary mind would have been left wondering.
It is likely also that the sergeant had a perception of it, though not
as sharp and clear as Dick's.
"When the war is over and the soldiers all go back, that is them that's
livin'," he said, "it won't be them that fought that'll keep the
grudge. It's the women who've lost their own that'll hate longest."
"I think what you say is true, Whitley," said Dick, "but let's not talk
about it any more. It hurts."
"Me too," said the sergeant. "But don't you like this country that
we're ridin' through, Mr. Mason?"
"Yes, it's fine, but most of it has been cropped too hard. I remember
reading somewhere that George Washington himself said, away back in the
last century, that slave labor, so careless and reckless, was ruining
the soil of Virginia."
"Likely that's true, sir, but it won't have much chance to keep on
ruinin' it. Wouldn't you say, sir, that was a Johnny on his horse up
there?"
"I can soon tell you," said Dick, unslinging his glasses.
On their right was a hill towering above the rest. The slopes were
wooded densely, but the crest was quite bare. Upon it sat a solitary
figure on horseback, evidently watching the marching column.
Dick put his glasses to his eyes. The hill and the lone sentinel
enlarged suddenly and came nearer. The pulses in his temples beat
hard. Although he could not see the watcher's face clearly, because he
too was using glasses, he knew him instantly. He would have known that
heroic figure and the set of the shoulders and head anywhere. He felt
astonishment at first, but it passed quickly. It was likely that they
should meet again some time or other, since the field of battle had
narrowed so much.
Sergeant Whitley, who invariably saw everything, had seen Dick's slight
start.
"Someone you know, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, sergeant. It's my cousin, Harry Kenton. You've heard me talk of
him often. A finer and braver and stronger fellow never lived. He's
using glasses too and I've no doubt he's recognized me."
Dick suddenly waved his glasses aloft, and Harry Kenton replied in like
manner.
"He sees and knows me!" cried Dick.
But the sergeant was very sober. He foresaw that these youths, bound
by such ties of blood and affection, might come into battle against
each other. The same thought was in Dick's mind, despite his pleasure
at the distant view of Harry.
"We exchanged shots in the Manassas campaign," said Dick. "We were
sheltered and we didn't know each other until several bullets had
passed."
"Three more horsemen have joined him," said the sergeant.
"Those are his friends," said Dick, who had put the glasses back to his
eyes. "Look how they stand out against the sun!"
The four horsemen in a row, at equal distances from one another, were
enlarged against a brilliant background of red and gold. Their
attitude was impressive, as they sat there, unmoving, like statues cut
in stone. They were in truth Harry and Dalton, St. Clair and Happy Tom,
and farther on the Invincibles were marching, the two colonels at their
head, to the Valley of Virginia to reinforce Early, and to make
headway, if possible, against Sheridan.
Harry was deeply moved. Kinship and the long comradeship of youth
count for much. Perhaps for more in the South than anywhere else.
Stirred by a sudden emotion he took off his cap and waved it as a
signal of hail and farewell. The four removed their own caps and waved
them also. Then they turned their horses in unison, rode over the hill
and were gone from Dick's sight.
Sergeant Whitley was not educated, but his experience was vast, he knew
men and he had the gift of sympathy. He understood Dick's feelings.
"All civil wars are cruel," he said. "The killing of one's own people
is worst of all."
But as they went on, Dick's melancholy fell from him, and he had only
pleasant recollections of the meeting. Besides, the continued movement
and freedom were inspiriting in the highest degree to youth. Although
it was August the day was cool, and the blue sky of Virginia was never
brighter. A refreshing breeze blew from dim, blue mountains that they
could see far ahead, and, as they entered a wide stretch of open
country where ambush was impossible, the trumpets called in the
flankers.
"We shall make the lower mountains about midnight, and we'd better camp
then until dawn. Don't you think so, gentlemen?" asked Colonel
Hertford of his associate colonels, Winchester and Bedford.
"The plan seems sound to me," replied Bedford, the Pennsylvanian. "Of
course, we want to reach Sheridan as soon as possible, but if we push
the horses too hard we'll break them down."
Dick had dropped back with Warner and Pennington, but he heard the
colonels talking.
"We all saw General Sheridan at the great battles in the West," he
said. "I particularly remember how he planted himself and the batteries
at Perryville and saved us from defeat, but he seems to be looming up
so much more now in the East."
"He's become the Stuart of our side," said Warner. "I've heard some of
the people at Washington don't believe in him, but he has General
Grant's confidence and that's enough for me. Not that I put military
authority over civil rule, but war has to be fought by soldiers. I
look for lively times in the Valley of Virginia."
"Anyway, the Lord has delivered me from the trenches at Petersburg,"
said Pennington. "Think of me, used to roaming over a thousand miles
of plains, shut up between mud walls only four or five feet apart."
"I believe that, with Sheridan, you're going to have all the roaming
you want," said Dick.
They passed silent farm houses, but took nothing from them. Ample
provision was carried on extra horses or their own, and the three
colonels were anxious not to inflame the country by useless seizures.
Twilight came, and the low mountains sank away in the dusk. But they
had already reached a higher region where nearly all the hills were
covered with forest, and Colonel Hertford once more spread out the
flankers, Dick and the sergeant, as before, taking the right with their
little troop.
The night was fortunately clear, almost as light as day, with a
burnished moon and brilliant stars, and they did not greatly fear
ambush. Dick shrewdly reckoned that Early would need all his men in
the valley, and, after the first day at sharpshooting, they would
withdraw to meet greater demands.
Nevertheless he took a rather wide circuit and came into a lonely
portion of the hills, where the forest was unbroken, save for the
narrow path on which they rode. The sergeant dismounted once and
examined the ground.
"Nothing has passed here," he said, "and the woods and thickets are so
dense that men can't ride through 'em."
The path admitted of only two abreast, and the forest was so heavy that
it shut out most of the moonlight. But they rode on confidently, Dick
and the sergeant leading. If it had not been for the size of the
trees, Dick would have thought that he was back in the Wilderness.
They heard now and then the wings of night birds among the leaves, and
occasionally some small animal would scuttle across the path. They
forded a narrow but deep stream, its waters black from decayed
vegetation, and continued to push on briskly through the unbroken
forest, until the sergeant said in a low voice to Dick:
"I think I hear something ahead of us."
They pulled back on the reins so suddenly that those behind almost rode
into them. Then they sat there, a solid, compact little group, while
Dick and the sergeant listened intently.
"It's hoofbeats," said Dick, "very faint, because they are far away."
"I think you are right, sir," said the sergeant.
"But they're coming this way."
"Yes, and at a steady pace. No stops and no hesitation."
"Which shows that it's somebody who doesn't fear any harm."
"The beats are pretty solid. A heavy man on a heavy horse."
"About three hundred yards away, don't you think?"
"About that, sir."
"Maybe a farmer going home?"
"Maybe, but I don't think so, sir."
"At any rate, we'll soon see, because our unknown comes on without a
break. There he is now!"
They had a comparatively clear view straight ahead, and the figure of a
man and a horse emerged from the shadows.
The sergeant raised his rifle, but, as the man came on without fear, he
dropped it again. Some strange effect of the moonlight exaggerated the
rider and his horse, making both look gigantic, blending them together
in such manner that a tremendous centaur seemed to be riding them down.
In an instant or two the general effect vanished and as a clear beam
fell upon the man's face Dick uttered an exclamation of relief.
"Shepard!" he said, and he felt then that he should have known before
that it was Shepard who was coming. He, alone of all men, seemed to
have the gift of omniscience and omnipresence. The spy drew his horse
to a halt directly in front of him and saluted:
"Lieutenant Mason, sir?" he said.
"I'm glad it's you, Mr. Shepard," said Dick. "I think that in this
wood we'll need the hundred eyes that once belonged to Argus, but which
he has passed on to you."
"Thank you, sir," said Shepard.
But the man at whom he looked most was the sergeant, and the sergeant
looked most at him. One was a sergeant and the other was a spy, but
each recognized in the other a king among men. Eyes swept over
powerful chests and shoulders and open, bold countenances, and
signified approval. They had met before, but they were more than well
met here in the loneliness and the dark, amid dangers, where skill and
courage, and not rank, counted. Then they nodded without speaking, as
an Indian chief would to an Indian chief, his equal.
"You were coming to meet us, Mr. Shepard?" said Dick.
"I expected to find you on this path."
"And you have something to tell?"
"A small Confederate force is in the mountains, awaiting Colonel
Hertford. It is inferior to his in numbers, but it knows the country
thoroughly and has the sympathy of all the inhabitants, who bring to it
news of everything."
"Do you know these Confederate troops?"
"Yes, sir. Their corps is a regiment called in General Lee's army the
Invincibles, but it includes two other skeleton regiments. Colonel
Talbot who leads the Invincibles is the commander of them all. He has,
I should say, slightly less than a thousand men."
"You know a good deal about this regiment called the Invincibles, do
you not, Mr. Shepard?"
"I do, sir. Its colonel, Talbot, and its lieutenant-colonel, St.
Hilaire, are as brave men as any that ever lived, and the regiment has
an extraordinary reputation in the Southern army for courage. Two of
General Lee's young staff officers are also with them now."
"Who are they?"
"Lieutenant Harry Kenton and Lieutenant George Dalton."
Dick with his troop rode at once to Colonel Hertford and reported.
Colonel Hertford listened and then glanced at Dick.
"Kenton is your cousin, I believe," he said.
"Yes, sir," replied Dick. "He has been in the East all the time. Once
in the second Manassas campaign we came face to face and fired at each
other, although we did not know who was who then."
"And now here you are in opposing forces again. With the war
converging as it is, it was more than likely that you should confront
each other once more."
"But I don't expect to be shooting at Harry, and I don't think he'll be
shooting at me."
"Will you ride into the woods again on the right, Mr. Shepard?" said
Colonel Hertford. "Perhaps you may get another view of this
Confederate force. Dick, you go with him. Warner, you and Pennington
come with me."
Dick and Shepard entered the woods side by side, and the youth who had
a tendency toward self-analysis found that his liking and respect for
the spy increased. The general profession of a spy might be disliked,
but in Shepard it inspired no repulsion, rather it increased his heroic
aspect, and Dick found himself relying upon him also. He felt
intuitively that when he rode into the forest with Shepard he rode into
no danger, or if by any chance he did ride into danger, they would,
under the guidance of the spy, ride safely out of it again.
Shepard turned his horse toward the deeper forest, which lay on the
left, and very soon they were out of sight of the main column, although
the sound of hoofs and of arms, clinking against one another, still
came faintly to them. Yet peace, the peace for which Dick longed so
ardently, seemed to dwell there in the woods. The summer was well
advanced and as the light winds blew, the leaves, already beginning to
dry, rustled against one another. The sound was pleasant and soothing.
He and Harry Kenton and other lads of their age had often heard it on
autumn nights, when they roamed through the forests around Pendleton in
search of the raccoon and the opossum. It all came back to him with
astonishing vividness and force.
He was boy and man in one. But he could scarcely realize the three
years and more of war that had made him a man. In one way it seemed a
century, and in another it seemed but yesterday. The water rose in his
eyes at the knowledge that this same cousin who was like a brother to
him, one with whom he had hunted, fished, played and swum, was there in
the woods less than a mile away, and that he might be in battle with
him again before morning.
"You were thinking of your cousin, Mr. Kenton," said Shepard suddenly.
"Yes, but how did you know?" asked Dick in surprise.
"Because your face suddenly became melancholy--the moonlight is good,
enabling me to read your look--and sadness is not your natural
expression. You recall that your cousin, of whom you think so much, is
at hand with your enemies, and the rest is an easy matter of putting
two and two together."
"You're right in all you say, Mr. Shepard, but I wish Harry wasn't
there."
Shepard was silent and then Dick added passionately:
"Why doesn't the South give up? She's worn down by attrition. She's
blockaded hard and fast! When she loses troops in battle she can't
find new men to take their places! She's short in food, ammunition,
medicines, everything! The whole Confederacy can't be anything but a
shell now! Why don't they quit!"
"Pride, and a lingering hope that the unexpected will happen. Yes,
we've won the war, Mr. Mason, but it's yet far from finished. Many a
good man will fall in this campaign ahead of us in the valley, and in
other campaigns too, but, as I see it, the general result is already
decided. Nothing can change it. Look between these trees, and you can
see the Southern force now."
Dick from his horse gazed into a valley down which ran a good turnpike,
looking white in the moonlight. Upon this road rode the Southern force
in close ranks, but too far away, for any sound of their hoof beats to
come to the watchers. The moon which was uncommonly bright now colored
them all with silver, and Dick, with his imaginative mind, easily
turned them into a train of the knights of old, clad in glittering
mail. They created such a sense of illusion and distance, time as well
as space, that the peace of the moment was not disturbed. It was a
spectacle out of the past, rather than present war.
"You are familiar with the country, of course," said Dick.
"Yes," replied Shepard. "Our road, as you know, is now running
parallel with that on which the Southern force is traveling, with a
broad ridge between. But several miles farther on the ridge becomes
narrower and the roads merge. We're sure to have a fight there. Like
you, I'm sorry your cousin Harry Kenton is with them."
"It seems that you and he know a good deal of each other."
"Yes, circumstances have brought us into opposition again and again
from the beginning of the war, but the same circumstances have made me
know more about him than he does about me. Yet I mean that we shall be
friends when peace comes, and I don't think he'll oppose my wish."
"He won't. Harry has a generous and noble nature. But he wouldn't
stand being patronized, merely because he happened to be on the beaten
side."
"I shouldn't think of trying to do such a thing. Now, we've seen
enough, and I think we'd better go back to the colonels, with our news."
They rode through the woods again, and, for most of the distance, there
was no sound from the marching troops. The wonderful feeling of peace
returned. The sky was as blue and soft as velvet. The great stars
glittered and danced, and the wind among the rustling leaves was like
the soft singing of a violin. At one point they crossed a little brook
which ran so swiftly down among the trees that it was a foam of water.
They dismounted, drank hastily, and then let the horses take their fill.
"I like these hills and forests and their clear waters," said Dick,
"and judging by the appearance it must be a fine country to which we're
coming."
"It is. It's something like your Kentucky Blue Grass, although it's
smaller and it's hemmed in by sharper and bolder mountains. But I
should say that the Shenandoah Valley is close to a hundred and twenty
miles long, and from twenty-five to forty miles wide, not including its
spur, the Luray Valley, west of the Massanuttons."
"As large as one of the German Principalities."
"And as fine as any of them."
"It's where Stonewall Jackson made that first and famous campaign of
his."
"And it's lucky for us that we don't have to face him there now. Early
is a good general, they say, but he's no Stonewall Jackson."
"And we're to be led by Sheridan. I think he saved us at Perryville in
Kentucky, but they say he's become a great cavalry commander. Do you
know him, Mr. Shepard?"
"Well. A young man, and a little man. Why, you'd overtop him more
than half a head, Mr. Mason, but he has a great soul for battle. He's
the kind that will strike and strike, and keep on striking, and that's
the kind we need now."
"Here are our own men just ahead. I see the three colonels riding
together."
They went forward swiftly and told what they had seen, Shepard also
describing the nature of the ground ahead, and the manner in which the
two roads converged.
"Which column do you think will reach the junction first?" asked
Colonel Hertford.
"They'll come to it about the same time," replied Shepard.
"And so a clash is unavoidable. It was not our purpose to fight before
we reached General Sheridan, but since the enemy wants it, it must be
that way."
Orders were issued for the column to advance as quietly as possible,
while skirmishers were thrown out to prevent any ambush. Shepard rode
again into the forest but Dick remained with Warner and Pennington.
Warner as usual was as cool as ice, and spoke in the precise, scholarly
way that he liked.
"We march parallel with the enemy," he said, "and yet we're bound to
meet him and fight. It's a beautiful mathematical demonstration. The
roads are not parallel in an exact sense but converge to a point.
Hence, it is not our wish, but the convergence of these roads that
brings us together in conflict. So we see that the greatest issues of
our life are determined by mathematics. It's a splendid and romantic
study. I wish you fellows would pay more attention to it."
"Mathematics beautiful and romantic!" exclaimed Pennington. "Why,
George, you're out of your head! There's nothing in the world I hate
more than the sight of an algebra!"
"The trouble is with you and not with the algebra. You were alluding
in a depreciatory manner to my head but it's your own head that fails.
When I said algebra was a beautiful and romantic study I used the
adjectives purposely. Out of thousands of adjectives in the dictionary
I selected those two to fit the case. What could be more delightful
than an abstruse problem in algebra? You never know along what
charming paths of the mind it will lead you. Moreover there is over it
a veil of mystery. You can't surmise what delightful secrets it will
reveal later on. What will the end be? What a powerful appeal such a
question will always make to a highly intelligent and imaginative mind
like mine! No poetry! No beauty! Why every algebraic problem from the
very nature of its being is surcharged with it! It's like the mystery
of life itself, only in this case we solve the mystery! And if I may
change the metaphor, an algebraic formula is like a magnificent
diamond, cutting its way through the thick and opaque glass, which
represents the unknown! I long for the end of the war for many reasons,
but chief among them is the fact that I may return to the romantic and
illimitable fields of the mathematical problem!"
"I didn't know anyone could ever become dithyrambic about algebra,"
said Dick.
"What's dithyrambic?" asked Pennington.
"Spouting, Frank. But George, as we know, is a queer fellow. They
grow 'em in Vermont, where they love steep mountains, deep ravines and
hard mathematics."
They had been speaking in low tones, but now they ceased entirely.
Shepard had come back from the forest, reporting that the junction of
the roads was near, and the Confederate force was marching toward it at
the utmost speed.
The hostile columns might be in conflict in a half hour now, and the
men prepared themselves. Innumerable battles and skirmishes could
never keep their hearts from beating harder when it became evident that
they were to go under fire once more. After the few orders necessary,
there was no sound save that of the march itself. Meanwhile the moon
and stars were doing full duty, and the night remained as bright as
ever.