AN OLD ENEMY
Despite the brilliant sunset the night came on very dark and heavy with
damp. The road through the gap was none too good and the lofty slopes
clothed in forest looked menacing. Many sharpshooters might lurk
there, and the three colonels were anxious to reach Sheridan with their
force intact, at least without further loss after the battle with
Colonel Talbot's command.
The column was halted and it was decided to send out another scouting
party to see if the way was clear. Twenty men, of whom the best for
such work were Shepard and Whitley, were chosen, and Dick, owing to his
experience, was put in nominal command, although he knew in his heart
that the spy and the sergeant would be the real leaders, a fact which
he did not resent. Warner and Pennington begged to go too, but they
were left behind.
Shepard had received a remount, and, as all of them rode good horses,
they advanced at a swift trot through the great gap. The spy, who knew
the pass, led the way. The column behind, although it was coming
forward at a good pace, disappeared with remarkable quickness. Dick,
looking back, saw a dusky line of horsemen, and then he saw nothing.
He did not look back again. His eyes were wholly for Shepard and the
dim path ahead.
The aspect of the mountains, which had been so inviting before they
came to them, changed wholly. Dick did not long so much for green
foliage now, as a chill wind began to blow. All of them carried cloaks
or overcoats rolled tightly and tied to their saddles, which they
loosed and put on. The wind rose, and, confined within the narrow
limits of the pass, it began to groan loudly. A thin sheet of rain
came on its edge, and the drops were almost as cold as those of winter.
Dick's first sensation of uneasiness and discomfort disappeared
quickly. Like his cousin, Harry, he had inherited a feeling for the
wilderness. His own ancestor, Paul Cotter, had been a great woodsman
too, and, as he drew on the buckskin gauntlets and wrapped the heavy
cloak about his body, his second sensation was one of actual physical
pleasure. Why should he regard the forest with a hostile eye? His
ancestors had lived in it and often its darkness had saved them from
death by torture.
He looked up at the dark slopes, but he could see only the black masses
of foliage and the thin sheets of driven rain. For a little while, at
least, his mind reproduced the wilderness. It was there in all its
savage loneliness and majesty. He could readily imagine that the
Indians were lurking in the brush, and that the bears and panthers were
seeking shelter in their dens. But his own feeling of safety and of
mental and physical pleasure in the face of obstacles deepened.
"I've been just that way myself," said Sergeant Whitley, who was riding
beside him and who could both see and read his face. "On the plains
when we were so well wrapped up that the icy winds whistling around us
couldn't get at us then we felt all the better. But it was best when
we were inside the fort and the winter blizzard was howling."
"A lot of us were talking a little while back about what they were
going to do after the war. What's your plan, sergeant, if you have
any?"
"I do have a plan, Mr. Mason. I was a lumberman, as you know, before I
entered the regular army, and when the fighting's done I think I'll go
back to it. I can swing an axe with the best of 'em, but I mean after
a while to have others swinging axes for me. If I can I'm going to
become a big lumberman. I'd rather be that than anything else."
"It's a just and fine ambition, sergeant, I feel sure that you're going
to become a man of money and power. Mr. Warner means to become
president of Harvard, twenty or twenty-five years from now, and my
cousin Harry Kenton, a reconstructed rebel, is going to deliver an
address there to the new president's young men, while Mr. Pennington
and I, as the president's guests, are going to sit on the stage and
smile. Right now, and with authority from Mr. Warner, I'm going to
invite you as the lumber king of the Northwest to sit on the stage with
us on that occasion, as the guest of President Warner, and smile with
us."
"If I become what you predict I'll accept," said the sergeant.
The chances were a thousand to one against the prophecy, but it all
came true, just as they wished.
The rain increased a little, although it was not yet able to penetrate
Dick's heavy coat, but they were compelled to go more slowly on account
of the thickening darkness. They reached very soon the crest of the
pass and halted there a little while to see or hear any sign of a human
being. But no sound came to them and they resumed the scout in the
darkness, riding now down the slope which would end before long in a
great valley.
The ground softened by the rain deadened the footsteps of their horses,
and they made little noise as they rode down the narrow pass, examining
as well as they could the dripping forest on either side of the road.
Shepard was a bit ahead, and Dick and the sergeant, riding side by
side, came next. Behind were the troopers, a small picked band, daring
horsemen, used to every kind of danger.
They did not really anticipate the presence of an enemy in the pass.
They knew that Colonel Talbot's command had turned toward the
southwest. All the other Confederate forces must be gathering far up
the valley to meet Sheridan, and the South was too much reduced to
raise new men. Yet after a half hour's moderate riding down the slope
Dick became sure that some one was in the narrow belt of forest on
their right, where the slope was less steep than on their left.
At first it seemed to be an intuition, merely a feeling brought on
waves of air that men, enemies, were in the wood. Then he knew that
the feeling was due to sounds as of someone moving lightly through a
wet thicket, but unable to keep the boughs from giving forth a rustle.
He was about to call to Shepard, but before he could do so the spy
stopped. Then all the others stopped also.
"Did you hear it?" Dick whispered to Sergeant Whitley.
"Yes," replied the sergeant. "Men are moving in the thicket on our
right. I couldn't hear much, but they must be as numerous as we are.
They're enemies or they'd have come out. They're on foot, too, as they
couldn't manage horses in those deep woods. Likely they've left their
mounts with a guard on top of a ridge, as men on foot wouldn't be
abroad at such a time on such a night."
"Then it's an ambush!" said Dick, and he added in a sharp voice:
"Pull away to the left, men, under cover!"
Shepard was the first to turn and all the others followed instantly.
Three jumps of the horses and they were among the bushes and trees on
the left. It was lucky for them that they had heard the sound of the
wet bushes rustling together, as a dozen rifles flashed in the dusk on
the other side of the road. Bullets cut the leaves about them. Two or
three buried themselves with a plunk in the trunks of trees, one killed
a horse, the trooper springing clear without hurt, and one man was
wounded slightly in the arm.
"Take cover," called Dick, "but don't lose your horses!"
They dismounted and concealed themselves behind the trunks of trees.
Some hastily tethered their horses to bushes, but others hung the
bridle over an arm. They knew that if a combat was to occur it must be
fought on foot, but, for the present, they were compelled to wait. Yet
if their enemy was hidden from them they also were hidden from him.
All the conditions of an old Indian battle in darkness and ambush were
reproduced, and Dick was deeply grateful that he had at his elbow two
redoubtable champions like Whitley and Shepard. They were peculiarly
fitted for such work as that which lay before them, and he was ready
and willing to take advice from either.
"It's a small party," whispered Shepard, "probably not much larger than
ours. They must have expected to make a complete ambush, but we heard
them too soon."
"It's surely not a part of Colonel Talbot's command," said Dick. "If
so, Harry Kenton and his friends would certainly be there and I
shouldn't like to be in battle with them again."
"Never a fear of that," said Sergeant Whitley. "It's more likely to be
some guerrilla band, roaming around as it pleases. The condition of
the country and these mountains give such fellows a chance. I'm going
to lie down and creep forward as we used to do on the plains. I want
to get a sight of those fellows, that is, if you say so, sir."
"Of course," said Dick, "but don't take too big risks, sergeant. We
can't afford to let you be shot."
"Never fear," said the sergeant, dropping almost flat upon his face,
and creeping slowly forward.
The dusky figure worming itself through the bushes heightened the
illusion of an old Indian combat. The sergeant was a scout and trailer
feeling for the enemy and he reminded Dick of his famous ancestor, Paul
Cotter. Several more shots were fired by the foe, but they did not
hurt anybody, all of them flying overhead. Dick's men were anxious to
send random bullets in reply into the thickets, but he restrained them.
It would be only a waste, and while it was annoying to be held there,
it could not be helped. Some of the horses reared and plunged with
fright at the shots, but silence soon came.
Dick still watched the sergeant as he edged forward, inch by inch. Had
not his eyes been following the dusky figure he could not have picked
it out from the general darkness. But he still saw it faintly, a
darker blur against the dark earth. Yielding a little to his own
anxiety, he handed the bridle of his horse to his orderly, and moved
toward the edge of the woodland strip, bending low, and using the tree
trunks for shelter.
At the last tree he knelt and looked for those on the other side. The
sergeant was already beyond cover, but he lay so low in the grass that
Dick himself could scarcely discern him.
The wind was still driving the thin sheets of rain before it, and was
keeping up a howling and whistling in the pass, a most sinister sound
to one not used to the forest and darkness, although Dick paid no
attention to it.
Twice the clouds parted slightly and showed a bit of moonlight, but the
gleam was so brief that it was gone in a second or two. Nevertheless
at the second ray Dick saw crouched beside a tree at the far side of
the road a small hunched figure holding a rifle, the head crowned by an
enormous flap-brimmed hat. His imagination also made him see small,
close-set, menacing red eyes, and he knew at once that it was Slade,
the same guerrilla leader who had once pursued him with such deadly
vindictiveness through the Mississippi forest and swamps. He had heard
that he had come farther north and had united his band with that of
Skelly, who pretended to be on the other side. But one could never
tell about these outlaws. When they were distant from the regular
armies nobody was safe from them.
"Did you see?" whispered Dick to the sergeant who had crept to his side.
"Yes, I caught a glimpse of him. It was Slade, who tried so hard to
kill you down there in the Vicksburg campaign. If we get another ray
of the moonlight I'll pick him off, that is if you say so, sir."
"I've no objection, sergeant. Such a man as Slade cumbers the earth.
Besides, he'll do everything he can now to kill us."
The sergeant knelt, carbine raised, and waited for the ray of
moonlight. He was a dead shot, and he believed that he would not miss,
but when the ray came at last Slade was not there. Whitley uttered a
low exclamation of disgust.
"A good chance gone," he said, "and it may never come again. I'd have
saved the lives of a lot of good men."
But a flash came from the thicket, and the sergeant from the grass
replied. A cry followed his shot, showing that some one had received
his bullet, but Dick knew instinctively that it was not Slade, the
crafty leader he was sure now being safe behind the trunk of a tree.
Presently the sergeant fired from another point, and then crept hastily
away lest the flash of his rifle betray him. A dozen shots were fired
by Slade's band, but no harm was done, and then, the sergeant coming
back, Dick held a consultation with his two lieutenants and advisers.
"Perhaps we may flank them," he said. "We can divide our force, and
taking them by surprise drive them out of the wood."
But Sergeant Whitley, wary and weatherwise, was against it.
"The risk would be too great, sir," he said. "We can afford to wait
while they can't. Our whole column will be up in time, while it's not
likely that anybody can come to help Slade. It's true too, sir, that
this rain is going to stop. The clouds are beginning to clear away,
and when there's light we'll have a fair chance at 'em."
"I think," said Dick, "that it will be best for Mr. Shepard to return
and hurry up a relieving column. What do you say?"
"I think so too, sir," said Shepard. "I can lead my horse back some
distance through the forest, then mount and gallop up the road. They
may be gone before I come again, but if they are not we can soon drive
them away."
"We'll cover you with our rifles against any rush made by Slade's men,"
said Dick.
But it did not become necessary to fire. Shepard was able to lead his
horse through the woods without noise, until he was at least three
hundred yards on the return journey. Then he mounted and galloped at
great speed up the pass. Dick heard the distant thud of hoofs growing
fainter and fainter until they died away altogether, and he knew that
Slade must have heard them too. And a man as acute and experienced as
the guerrilla chief would easily divine their meaning.
The rain ceased, and the moaning and whistling of the wind in the pass
became a murmur. The clouds parted and sank away toward every horizon,
leaving the full dome of the sky, shot with a bright moon and millions
of dancing stars. A silvery light over the woods and thickets drove
away the deep darkness, and when Sergeant Whitley crept forward again
to spy out the enemy he found that they were gone. He trailed them up
the lofty slope and discovered, as he had surmised, that they had left
their horses there while they attempted the ambush. He was sure now
that they were far away, and he returned with his story, just as
Shepard arrived with the vanguard of the column, led by Colonel
Winchester.
"And so it was Slade!" said the Colonel.
"Undoubtedly, sir," said Dick. "I saw him plainly, and so did Sergeant
Whitley."
"I'm not sorry he's here," said Colonel Winchester thoughtfully, "and I
hope the story that he and Skelly have joined bands is true, because if
they are in this region they're so far away from Pendleton that your
people are safe from mischief at their hands."
"I hadn't thought of it in that way, sir, but it's just as you say. I'd
rather have to fight them here than have them attacking our innocent
people at home. In the early part of the war Skelly called himself a
Unionist, did he not?"
"Yes, and he may do so yet, but names are nothing to him. He'd rob,
and murder, too, with equal zest under either flag."
"It's so," said Dick, and he felt the full truth as he thought of
Pendleton, and his beautiful young mother, alone in her house, save for
the gigantic and faithful Juliana. But Juliana was an armed host
herself, and Dick smiled at the recollection of the strong and honest
black face that had bent over him so often. He prayed without words
that these ruthless guerrillas, no matter what flag they bore, should
never come to Pendleton.
"I don't think our column on its present march need fear anything from
Slade and his band," said Colonel Winchester. "Such as he can operate
only from ambush, and so far as Virginia is concerned, in the
mountains. Shepard says we'll be out of the pass in another hour, and
by that time it will be day. I'll be glad, too, as the cold rain and
the darkness and the long ride are beginning to affect the men."
The column resumed its march, Dick rode by the side of Colonel
Winchester. Time, propinquity, genuine esteem, and a fourth influence
which Dick did not as yet suspect, were fast knitting these two,
despite the difference in age, into a friendship which nothing could
break. The meeting with Slade was forgotten quickly, by all except
those concerned, and by most of those too, so vast was the war and so
little space did it afford for the memory of brief events. Yet it
lingered a while with Dick. Twice now he had met Slade and he felt
that he would meet him yet again at points far apart.
Dawn came slow and gray in a cloudy sky, but the sun soon broke
through. The heat returned and the earth began to dry. The three
colonels felt it necessary to give their men rest and food, and let
them dry their uniforms, which had become wet in many cases, despite
their overcoats and heavy cloaks.
They were now in a deep cove of the great Valley of Virginia, with the
steep mountains just behind them, and far beyond the dim blue outline
of other mountains enclosing it on the west. As the fires blazed up
and the men made coffee and cooked their breakfasts, Dick's heart
leaped. This was the great valley once more, where so much history had
been made. Lee and Grant were deadlocked in the trenches before
Petersburg, but here in the valley history would be made again. It was
the finest part of Virginia, the greatest state of the Confederacy, and
Dick knew in his heart that some heavy blows would soon be struck,
where fields already had been won and lost in desperate strife.
But the men were very cheerful. The little band of skirmishers or
sharpshooters under Slade had been brushed aside easily, and now that
they were in the valley they did not foresee any further attempt to
stop their march to Sheridan. The three colonels shared in the view,
and when the men had finished breakfast and dried themselves at their
fires they remounted and rode away gaily. High spirits rose again in
youthful veins, and some lad of a mellow voice began to sing. By and
by all joined and a thousand voices thundered out:
"Oh, share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee
To give a sweetness to its shade
And happiness to me.
"Here from the splendid, gay parade
Of noise and folly free
No sorrows can my peace invade
If only blessed with thee.
"Then share my cottage, gentle maid,
It only waits for thee
To give a sweetness to its shade
And happiness to me."
Colonel Hertford made no attempt to check them as they rode across the
fields, yet green here, despite the summer's heat.
"They're bravest when they sing," he said to Colonel Winchester.
"It encourages them," said Colonel Winchester, "and I like to hear it
myself. It's a wonderful effect, a thousand or more strong lads
singing, as they sweep over the valley toward battle."
Dick, Pennington and Warner had joined in the song, but the youth some
distance ahead of them was leader. They finished "Gentle Maid" and
then, with the same lad leading them, swung into a song that made Dick
start and that for a moment made other mountains and another valley
stand out before him, sharp and clear.
"Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the Southern moon
Far o'er the mountain, breaks the day too soon.
In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell,
Weary looks, yet tender, speak their fond farewell.
Nita! Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part,
Nita! Juanita! Lean thou on my heart.
"When in thy dreaming moons like these shall shine again,
And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain,
Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
Nita! Juanita! Let me linger by thy side.
Nita! Juanita! Be my own fair bride."
They put tremendous heart and energy into the haunting old song as they
sang, and Dick still saw Sam Jarvis, the singer of the hills, and his
valley, where the paths of Harry Kenton and himself had crossed, though
at times far apart.
"Now!" shouted the young leader, "The last verse again!" and with
increased heart and energy they thundered out:
"When in thy dreaming moons like these shall shine again,
And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain,
Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
Nita! Juanita! Let me linger by thy side.
Nita! Juanita! Be my own fair bride."
The mighty chorus sank away and the hills gave it back in echoes until
the last one died.
"It's sung mostly in the South," said Dick to Warner and Pennington.
"True," said Warner, "but before the war songs were not confined to one
section. They were the common property of both. We've as much right
to sing Juanita as the Johnnies have."
All that day they rode and sang, going north toward Halltown, where the
forces of Sheridan were gathering, and the valley, although lone and
desolate, continually unfolded its beauty before them. The mountains
were green near by and blue in the distance, and the fertile floor that
they enclosed, like walls, was cut by many streams. Here, indeed, was
a region that had bloomed before the war, and that would bloom again,
no matter what war might do.
They found inhabited houses now and then, but all the men of military
age were gone away and the old men, the women and the children would
answer nothing. The women were not afraid to tell the Yankees what
they thought of them, and in this war which was never a war on women
the troopers merely laughed, or, if they felt anger, they hid it.
On they went through night and day, and now they drew near to Sheridan.
Scouts in blue met them and the gallant column shook their sabers and
saluted. Yes, it was true, they said, that Sheridan was gathering a
fine army and he and all of his men were eager to march, but Colonel
Hertford's force, sent by General Grant to help, would be welcomed with
shouts. The fame of its three colonels had gone on before.
It was bright noon when they approached the northern end of the valley,
and Dick saw a horseman followed by a group of about twenty men
galloping toward them. The leader was a short, slender man, sitting
firmly in his saddle.
"General Sheridan!" exclaimed Shepard.
Colonel Hertford instantly ordered his trumpeter to sound a signal, and
the troopers, stopping and drawing up in a long line, awaited the man
who was to command them, and who was coming on so fast. Again Dick
examined him closely through his glasses, and he saw the young, tanned
face under the broad brim of his hat, and the keen, flashing eyes. He
noticed also how small he was. Sheridan was but five feet five inches
in height and he weighed in the momentous campaign now about to begin,
only one hundred and fifteen pounds! As slight as a young boy, he
gave, nevertheless, an impression of the greatest vigor and endurance.
He reined in his horse a score of yards in front of the long line and
was about to speak to Colonel Hertford, who sat his saddle before it,
Colonel Winchester and Colonel Bedford on either side of him, but there
was a sudden interruption.
Fifteen hundred sabers flashed aloft, the blazing sunlight glittering
for a moment on their broad blades. Then they swept in mighty curves,
all together, and from fifteen hundred throats thundered:
"Sheridan! Sheridan! Sheridan!"
The sabers made another flashing curve, sank back into their scabbards,
and the men were silent.
Sheridan's tanned face flushed deeply, and a great light leaped up in
his eyes, as he received the magnificent salute. His own sword sprang
out, and made the salute in reply. Then, riding a little closer, he
said in a loud, clear tone that all could hear:
"Men, I have been looking for you! I have come forward to meet you! I
knew that you were great horsemen, gallant soldiers, but I see that you
are even greater and more gallant men than I had hoped. The Army of
the Potomac has sent its best as a gift to the Army of the Shenandoah.
Men, I thank you for this welcome, the warmest I have ever received!"
Again the sabers flashed aloft, made their glittering curve, and again
from muscular throats came the thunderous cheer:
"Sheridan! Sheridan! Sheridan!"
Then the young general shook hands heartily with the three colonels,
the young aides were introduced, and with Sheridan himself at their
head the whole column swept off toward the north, and to the camp of
the Army of the Shenandoah which lay but a little distance away.