The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow,
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.
And calm and patient Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.
Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot,
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.
She meets with smiles out bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.
--Whittier's “Battle Autumn of 1862”
The Summer and Fall of the “Battle Year” of 1862 had passed without
the Army of the Cumberland--then called the Army of the Ohio--being
able to bring its Rebel antagonist to a decisive struggle. In
September the two had raced entirely across the States of Tennessee
and Kentucky, for the prize of Louisville, which the Union army
won. In October the latter chased its enemy back through Kentucky,
without being able to inflict upon it more than the abortive blow
at Perryville, and November found the two opponents facing each
other in Middle Tennessee--the Army of the Cumberland at Nashville,
and the Rebel Army of the Tennessee at Murfeesboro, twenty-eight
miles distant. There the two equally matched giants lay confronting
each other, and sullenly making ready for the mighty struggle which
was to decide the possession of a territory equaling a kingdom in
extent.
In the year which had elapsed since the affair at Wildcat Harry
Glen's regiment had not participated in a single general engagement.
It had scouted and raided; it had reconnoitered and guarded; it
had chased guerrillas through the Winter's rain and mud for days
and nights together; it had followed John Morgan's dashing troopers
along limestone turnpikes that glowed like brick-kilns under the
July sun until three-fourths of the regiment had dropped by the
roadside in sheer exhaustion; it had marched over the mountains to
Cumberland Gap, and back over the mountains to Lexington; across
Kentucky and Tennessee to Huntsville, Ala., back across those States
to the Ohio River, and again back across Kentucky to Nashville,
beside side marches as numerous as the branches on a tree; 50 per
cent. of its number had fallen vicitms to sickness and hardship,
and 10 per cent. more had been shot, here and there, a man or two
at a time, on the picket or skirmish line, at fords or stockades
guarding railroad bridges. But while other regiments which had
suffered nothing like it had painted on their banners “Mill Springs,”
“Shiloh,” and “Perryville,” its colors had yet to receive their
maiden inscription. This was the hard luck of many of the regiments
in the left wing of Buell's army in 1862.
Kent Edwards, whose promotion to the rank of Sergeant, and reduction
for some escapade had been a usual monthly occurence during the year,
was fond of saying that the regiment was not sent to the field to
gain martial glory, but to train as book agents to sell histories
of the struggle, “When This Cruel War is Over.” Whereupon Abe
Bolton would improve the occasion to invoke a heated future for
every person in authority, from the President down to the Fifth
Corporal.
But for all this the 400 hardy boys who still remained to answer
roll-call, out of the 1,100 that had crossed the Ohio River
in September, 1861, were as fine a body of fighting men as ever
followed a flag, and there was no better soldier among them than
Harry Glen. Every day had been a growth to him, and every trial
had knit his spirit into firmer texture. For awhile he had made
it a matter of conscience to take an active part in everything that
his comrades were called upon to do. Soon this became a matter of
pleasure, for the satisfaction of successfully leading them through
difficulties and dangers more than compensated for the effort. But
while he had vindicated himself in their estimation, he yet lacked
that which the ordeal of a battle would give him at home, and more
than all, in Rachel's eyes. He heard nothing from or of her, but
he consoled himself with the hope that the same means by which she
had been so promptly informed of his misstep, would convey to her
an intimation of how well he was deserving her. When he gained
his laurels he would himself lay them at her feet. Until then he
could only hope and strive, cherishing all the while the love for
her that daily grew stronger in his heart.
---
A patient in her ward, recovering from a fever, attracted Rachel's
attention soon after her entrance upon duty at Nashville.
Womanly intuition showed her that no ordinary spirit slumbered
underneath the usual mountaineer characteristics. The long, lank,
black hair, the angular outlines, and the uncouth gestures were
common enough among those around her, but she saw a latent fire in
the usually dull and languid eyes, which transformed the man into
one in whose brain and hand slept many possibilities that were
liable to awaken at any moment. Still womanly, she could not help
betraying this fact by singling him out as the recipient of many
little attentions somewhat more special than those she bestowed on
others.
On the other hand, often as she moved about the ward she would in
turning discover his eyes fixed upon her movements with an expression
of earnest study. After awhile the study seemed to show that it
had been satisfactory, and one day, when the Surgeon had informed
him that he was now in a condition to return to duty whenever he
saw fit to do so, he asked Rachel:
“Kin I speak ter ye a moment in private, Miss?”
“Certainly,” she replied. “Come right in here.”
Entering the room he closed the door behind them, and made a minute
survey of the windows, and other points of vantage for eavesdroppers.
This done, he returned to where Rachel was watching his operations
with much curiosity, and said:
“Let's set down. I guess no one'll overhear us, ef we're keerful.
“Hev ye enny idee who I am?” he asked abruptly, as they sat down
on one of the rude benches with which the room was furnished.
“Not the slightest,” she answered, “except that you appear on the
roll as 'James Brown, No. 23,' no company or regiment given.”
“Very good. D'ye reckon thet enny o' them in thar hev?”--pointing
over his shoulder with his thumb to the ward.
“Of course I can not tell as to that. I never hear them say anything
about you. They seem to think that you are one of the loyal East
Tennesseans that are plentiful about here.”
“I've been afeered fur the last few days that some uv 'em were
Rebels in disguise, an' thet they sort o' suspicioned me. I hev
seed two on 'em eyein' me mouty hard. One has a red head, an'
'tother a long black beard.”
“I can perhaps set your anxiety at rest on that score. They ARE
Southerners, but loyal ones. They were forced into the Rebel army,
but made their escape at the first opportunity. They naturally
watch every Southern-looking man with great interest, fearing that
he may be an unpleasant acquaintance.”
“Desarters from the Rebel army, be they? Thet makes me so'. I
thot I'd seen 'em afore, an' this makes me sartin. They're mouty
bad pills, an' they hain't heah fur no good. but whar did I see
'em? In some Rebel camp somewhar? No; now I remember. Ef I hain't
powerfully fooled them's the two laddie-bucks thet Harry Glen an'
me gobbled up one fine mornin' an' tuck inter Wildcat. They're
bad aigs, ef ther ever war bad aigs.”
“Harry Glen, did you say? What do you know of Harry Glen?” Her
heart was in her mouth.
“What do I know of harry Glen? Why, jest heaps an' more yit. He's
one o' the best men thet ever wore blue clotes. But thet's nuther
heah nor thar. Thet hain't what I brung ye out heah ter talk on.”
“Go on,” said Rachel, resisting her eagerness to overwhelm him with
questions concerning the one man of all the world she most desired
to learn about. “I can spare you but little time.”
“All right, Miss. Ter begin with, my name's not Brown. Nary a
time. Hit's Fortner--Jim Fortner--the 'noted Scout,' ez I heered
ye readin' 'bout 'tother day, when ye war givin' the boys the war
news in the papers. I'm well-known ez a secret-sarvice man--tu
well-known, I'm afeered. I could git 'long 'ithout quite ez menny
'quaintances ez I hev gethered up lately. More 'specially o' the
kind, fur menny on 'em ar' only waitin' a good opportunity ter gin
me a gran' interduction to 'tarnity. I'd ruther know fewer folks
an' better ones, ez I wunst heered Harry Glen say.”
“What do you know of---” Rachel started to say, but before she
could finish the sentence Fortner resumed:
“I'm now 'bout ter start on the most 'portant work I ever done fur
the Gover'mint. Things ar' ripenin' fast fur the orfulest battle
ever fit in this ere co'ntry. Afore the Chrismuss snow flies
this ere army'll fall on them thar Rebels 'round Murfressboro like
an oak tree on a den o' rattlesnakes. Blood'll run like water in
a Spring thaw, an' them fellers'll hev so menny fun'rals ter tend
thet they won't hev no time for Chrismuss frolics. They've raced
back an' forrard, an' dodged up an' down fur a year now, but they're
at the eend uv ther rope, an' hit'll be a deth-nooze fur 'em. May
the pit o' hell open fur 'em.”
He watched Rachel's face closely as he spoke. She neither blanched
nor recoiled, but her eyes lighted up as if with anticipation of
the coming conflict, and she asked eagerly:
“O, are you only quite sure that our army will be victorious?”
His eyes shown with gratification.
“I knowed thet's the way ye'd take the news. I knowed the minit I
sot eyes on ye thet ye war good grit. I never git fooled much in
my guess o' people's backbone. Thar wuz Harry Glen--all his own
comrades thot he wuz white 'bout the liver, but I seed the minit I
laid my eyes onter him thet he hed ez good, stan'-up stuff in him
ez ennybody, w'en he got over his fust flightiness.”
Had this man some scheme that would bring her lover and her together?
“But what do you want of me?” Rachel asked, with all the composure
she could summon.
“Suthing a cussed sight more hon'rable an' more useful ter ther
Gover'mint then stayin' 'round heah nussin' these loafers,” he
answered roughly. “Hist! thar's a shadder nigh yon winder.” He
crossed the room with the quick, silent tread of a panther,
and his face darkened as he saw the objectionable red-headed and
black-bearded men walking away toward the parade-ground, with their
backs to the window. “Yer orful cute,” he said talking to himself,
and alluding to the retiring figures, “but ef I don't gin ye a trip
afore long thet'll make yer heels break yer pizen necks I hope I
may never see Rockassel Mountings agin. I'd do hit now, but I'm
a-trailin' bigger game. When hit's my day fur killin' skunks look
out--thet's all.”
Returning to the expectant Rachel he continued:
“I leave ter-night fur the Rebel army at Murfreesboro. Ole Rosy
hisself sends me, but I'm ter pick out the messengers ter send my
news back ter him by. I must hev sev'ral so's ter make dead sho'
thet ev'rything reaches 'im. I want ye fur the main one, becase
ye've got brains an' san', and then ye kin git thru the lines whar
a man can't. thar'll be nothin' bad 'bout hit. Ye'll ride ter
Murfreesboro an' back on yer own hoss, ez a young lady should,
an' if ye accomplish ennything hit'll be a greater sarvice tew the
country then most men kin do in ther lives. Hit'll be sum'thing
ter be proud of ez long's ye live. Will ye try hit?”
“Why don't you bring back the information yourself? Can't you come
back through the lines as easily as you go?”
“I mout, an' then ag'in I moutn't. Every time I go inter the Rebel
camps the chances get stronger thet I'll never come back ag'in.
Ez Harry Glen sez, the circle o' my onpleasant acquaintances--the
fellers thet's reachin' fur my top-knot--widens. Thar's so many
more on 'em layin' fur me all the time, thet the prospects keeps
gittin' brighter every day thet by-an'-by they'll fetch me. the
arrant I'm a-gwine on now is too important ter take any resks
'bout. I'm sartin to git the information thet Gineral Rosy wants,
but whether I kin git hit back ter him is ruther dubersome. I must
hev 'some help. Will ye jine in with me?”
“But how am I to know that all this is as you say?”
“By readin' these 'ere passes, all signed by Gineral Rosencrans's
own hand, or by takin' a walk with me up ter headquarters, whar
they'll tell ye thet I'm all right, an' ez straight ez a string.”
“But how can I do what you want? I know nothing of the country,
nor the people, and still less of this kind of service. I would
probably make a blunder that would spoil all.”
“I'll resk the blunders. ye kin ride critter-back can't ye?”
Rachel owned that she was a pretty fair horse-woman.
“Then all ye hev ter do is ter git yerself up ez ye see the young
women who are ridin' 'round heah, an' airly on the day arter
to-morrow mornin', mount a blooded mar that ye'll find standin'
afore the door thar, all rigged out ez fine ez silk, an' go down
the Lavergne turnpike, at a sharp canter, jes ez though ye war gwine
somewhar. Nobody on our lines 'll be likely ter say anything ter
ye, but ef they do, ye'll show 'em a pass from Gineral Rosy, which,
howsoever, ye 'll tar up afore ye reach Lavergne, fur ye 'll likely
find some o' t' other folks thar. Ef any o' them at Lavergne axes
ye imperent questions, ye must hev a story ready 'bout yer being
the Nashville niece o' Aunt Debby Brill, who lives on the left hand
o' the Nashville pike, jest north o' the public squar in Murfreesboro,
an' ye 're on yer way ter pay yer ole Aunty a long-promised visit.”
“there is such a woman in Murfreesboro?”
“Yes, an' she's talked a great deal 'bout her niece in Nashville,
who's comin' ter see her. I thought”--the earnestness of the eyes
relaxed to a suspicion of a twinkle--“thet sometime I mout come
across sich a niece fur the ole lady, an' hit wuz well ter be
prepared fur her.”
“But suppose they ask me about things in Nashville?”
“W'll, ye must fix up a story 'bout thet too. Ye needn't be
ver partickelar what hit is, so long's hit's awful savage on the
Yankees. Be keerful ter say frequently thet the yankees is awful
sick o' their job o' holdin' Nashville; that their new Dutch
Gineral is a mean brute, an' a coward beside, thet he's skeered
'bout out'n his wits half the time, an' he's buildin' the biggest
kind o' forts to hide behind, an' thet he won't dar show his nose
outside o' them--leastways not this 'ere Winter. Talk ez much ez
ye kin 'bout the sojers gwine inter Winter quarters; 'bout them
being mortally sartin not ter do anything tell next Spring, an'
'bout them desartin' by rijimints an' brigades, an' gwine home,
bekase they're sick an' tired o' the war.”
“My,” said Rachel, with a gasp, “what awful things to tell!”
“Yes,” returned the scout complacently, “I s'posed hit'd strike
you thet-a-way. But my experience with war is thet hit's jest plum
full o' awful things. In fact hit don't seem ter hev much else in
hit. All ye hev ter ax yerself is whether this is nigh on ter ez
awful ez the the things they 'uns do to we 'uns. Besides, we 'uns
are likely ter give they 'uns in a few days a heap more interestin'
things ter think about then the remarkable stories told by young
ladies out fur a mornin' ride.”
“I'll take some hours to think this matter over,” said Rachel, “and
give you your answer this afternoon. That'll be time enough, will
it not?”
“Heaps an' plenty, ma'am,” he answered, as he rose to go. “She'll
go,” he added to himself. “I'm not fooled a mite on thet 'ere
stock. I'll jest go to headquarters an' git things ready for her.”
He was right. The prospect of doing an important service on a grand
occasion was stimulous enough for Rachel's daring spirit, to make
her undertake anything, and when Fortner returned in the afternoon
he found her eager to set out upon the enterprise.
But as the evening came on with its depressing shadows and silence,
she felt the natural reaction that follows taking an irrevocable
step. The loneliness of her unlighted room was peopled with ghostly
memories of the horrors inflicted upon spies, and of tales she had
heard of the merciless cruelty of the Rebels among whom she was
going. She had to hold her breath to keep from shrieking aloud at
the terrors conjured up before her vision. Then the spasm passed,
and braver thoughts reasserted themselves. Fortner's inadvertent
words of praise of Harry Glen were recalled, and began glowing
like pots of incense to sweeten and purify the choking vapors in
her imagination.
Could it be that Harry had really retrieved himself? He had
certainly gained the not-easily-won admiration of this brave man,
and it had all been to render himself worthy of her! There was
rapture in the thought. Then her own heroic aspirations welled
up again, bringing intoxication at the prospect of ending the
distasteful routine of nursing, by taking an active part in what
would be a grand event of history. Fears and misgivings vanished
like the mists of the morning. She thought only of how to accomplish
her mission.
She lighted a candle and wrote four letters--one to her mother,
one to Dr. Denslow, one to Harry Glen in care of his mother, and
one to the Hospital Steward, asking him to mail the letters in case
he did not receive any contrary request from her before the 10th
of January.
She was too excited to sleep in the early part of the night, and
busied her waking hours in packing her clothing and books, and
maturing her plans.
She had much concern about her wardrobe. Never in all the days of
her village belleship had she been so anxious to be well-dressed as
now, when about to embark upon the greatest act of her life. She
planned and schemed as women will in such times, and rising early
the next morning she visited the stores in the city, and procured
the material for a superb riding habit. A cutter form a fashionable
establishment in Cincinnati was found in an Orderly Sergeant in one
of the convalescent wards, and enough tailors responded to the call
for such artisans, to give him all the help required. By evening
she was provided with a habit that, in material and that sovereign
but indescribable quality called “style,” was superior to those worn
by the young ladies who cantered about the streets of Nashville on
clean-limbed throroughbreds.
As she stood surveying the exquisite “set” of the garment in such
mirrors as she could procure, she said to herself quizzically:
“I feel now that the expedition is going to be a grand success. No
woman could fail being a heroine in such an inspiration of dress.
There is a moral support and encouragement about a perfectly made
garment that is hardly equaled by a clear conscience and righteousness
of motive.”
The next morning she came forth from her room attired for the journey.
A jaunty hat and feather sat gracefully above her face, to which
excitement had given a striking animation. One trimly-gauntleted
hand carried a dainty whip; the other supported the long skirts of
her riding habit as she moved through the ward with such a newly-added
grace and beauty that the patients, to whom her appearance had
become familiar, raised in their beds to follow the lovely spectacle
with their eyes, and then turned to each other to comment upon her
beauty.
At the door she found an orderly, holding a spirited young mare,
handsome enough for a Queen's palfrey, and richly caparisoned.
She sprang into the saddle and adjusted her seat with the easy
grace of an accomplished horsewoman.
A squad of “Convalescents” standing outside, and a group of
citizes watched her with an admiration too palpable for her to be
unconscious of it.
She smiled pleasantly upon the soldiers, and gave them a farewell
bow as she turned the mare's head away, to which they responded
with cheers.
A few hundred yards further, where an angle in the street would
take her from their view, she turned around again and waved her
handkerchief to them. The boys gave her another ringing cheer,
with waving hats and handkerchiefs; her steed broke into a canter
and she disappeared from view.
“Where is she going?” asked one of the soldiers.
“I don't know,” responded another gallantly; “but wherever it is,
it will be better than here, just because she's there.”
The sight of an orderly, coming with the morning mail, ended the
discussion by scattering the squad in a hurry.
Rachel cantered on, her spirits rising continually.
It was a bright, crisp morning--a Tennessee Winter morning--when
the air is as wine to the blood, and sets every pulse to leaping.
Delicate balsamic scents floated down from groves of shapely cedars.
Gratefully-astringent odors were wafted from the red oaks, ranked
upon the hillsides and still covered with their leaves, now turned
bright-brown, making them appear like serried phalanges of giant
knights, clad in rusted scale armor. The spicy smell of burning
cedar rose on the lazily-curling smoke from a thousand camp-fires.
The red-berried holly looked as fresh and bright as rose-bushes in
June, and the magnolias still wore their liveries of Spring. The
sun shone down with a tender fervor, as if wooing the sleeping buds
and flowers to wake from a slumber of which he had grown weary,
and start with him again through primrose paths on the pilgrimage
of blossoming and fruitage.
Rachel's nostrils expanded, and she drank deeply of the exhilarating
draughts of mountain air, with its delicious woodsy fragrance.
Her steed did the same, and the hearts of both swelled with the
inspiration.
Away she sped over the firm, smooth Murfreesboro Pike, winding
around hillsides and through valleys filled with infantry, cavalry
and artillery, through interminable masses of wagons, hers of braying
mules, and crowds of unarmed soldiers trudging back to Nashville,
on leave of absence, to spend the day seeing the sights of the
historic Tennessee capital. In the camps the soldiers were busy
with evergreen and bunting, and the contents of boxes received from
the North, preparing for the celebration of Christmas in something
like the manner of the old days of home and peace.
Like the sweet perfume of rose-attar from a bundle of letters
unwittingly stirred in a drawer, rose the fragrant memory of the
last of those Christmases in Sardis before the war, when winged
on he scent of evergreens, and the merry laughter of the church
decorators, came to her the knowledge that she had found a lodgment
in the heart of Harry Glen.
Was memory juggling with her senses, or was that really his voice
she heard in command, in a field to her left? She turned a swift,
startled look in that direction, and saw a Sergeant marching a large
squad at quick time to join a heavy “detail.” His back was toward
her, but his figure and bodily carriage were certainly those of
Harry Glen. But before she could make certain the squad was merged
with the “detail,” to the obliteration of all individuality, and
the whole mass disappeared around the hill.
She rode on to the top of the rim of hills which encircle that
most picturesque of Southern cities, and stopped for a moment for
a farewell to the stronghold of her friends, whose friendly cover
she was abandoning to venture, weak and weaponless, into the camp
of her enemies.
Above her the great black guns of a heavy fort pointed their sinister
muzzles down the Murfreesboro road, with fearful suggestiveness of
the dangers to be encountered there.
She remembered Lot's wife, but could not resist the temptation to
take a one backward look. She saw as grand a landscape picture as
the world affords.
Serenely throned upon the hill that dominated the whole of the lovely
valley of the Cumberland, stood the beautiful Capitol of Tennessee.
Ionic porticos and graceful Corinthian columns of dazzling white
limestone rose hundreds of feet above the fountains and magnolia-shaded
terraces that crowned the hill--still more hundreds of feet above
the densely packed roofs and spires of the city crowded upon
the hill's rocky sides. It was like some fine and pure old Greek
temple, standing on a romantic headland, far above the murk and
toil of sordid striving. But over the symmetrical pile floated a
banner that meant to the world all that was signified even by the
banners which Greece folded and laid away in eternal rest thousands
of years ago.
At the foot of the hill the Cumberland, clear as when it descended
from its mountains five hundred miles away, flowed between its
high, straight walls of limestone, spanned by cobweb-like bridges,
and bore on its untroubled breast a great fleet of high-chimneyed,
white-sided transports, and black, sullen gunboats. Miles away to
her left she saw the trains rushing into Nashville, unrolling as
they came along black and white ribbons against the sky.
“They're coming from the North,” she said, with an involuntary
sigh; “they're coming from home.”
She touched her mare's flank with the whip and sped on.
She soon reached the outer line of guards, by whom she was halted,
with a demand for her pass.
She produced the one furnished her, which was signed by Gen.
Rosencrans. While the Sergeant was inspecting it it occured to
her that now was the time to begin the role of a young woman with
rebellious proclivities.
“Is this the last guard-line I will have to pass?” she asked.
“Yes'm,” answered the Sergeant.
“You're quite sure?”
“Yes'm.”
“Then I won't have any further use for this--thing?” indicating
the pass, which she received back with fine loathing, as if it were
something infectious.
“No'm.”
“Quite sure?”
“Yes'm, quite sure.”
She rode over to the fire around which part of the guard were
sitting, held the pass over it by the extremest tips of her dainty
thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it upon the coals, as if it
were a rag from a small-pox hospital. Glancing at her finger-tips
an instant, as if they had been permanently contaminated by the
scrawl of the Yankee General, she touched her nag, and was off like
an arrow without so much as good day to the guards.
“She-cesh--clean to her blessed little toe-nails,” said the Sergeant,
gazing after her meditatively, as he fished around in his pouch
for a handful of Kinnikinnick, to replenish his pipe, “and she's
purtier'n a picture, too.”
“Them's the kind that's always the wust Rebels,” said the oracle of
the squad, from his seat by the fire. “I'll bet she's just loaded
down with information or ouinine. Mebbe both.”
She was now fairly in the enemy's country, and her heart beat faster
in momentary expectation of encountering some form of the perils
abounding there. But she became calm, almost joyous, as she passed
through mile after mile of tranquil landscape. The war might
as well have been on the other side of the Atlantic for any hint
she now saw of it in the peaceful, sun-lit fields and woods, and
streams of crystal spring-water. She saw women busily engaged in
their morning work about all the cabins and houses. With bare and
sinewy arms they beat up and down in tiresomely monotonous stroke
the long-handled dashers of cedar churns standing in the wide, open
“entries” of the “double-houses;” they arrayed their well-scalded
milk crocks and jars where the sun's rays would still further sweeten
them; they plied swift shuttles in the weaving sheds; they toiled
over great, hemispherical kettles of dye-stuffs or soap, swinging
from poles over open fires in the yard; they spread out long webs
of jeans and linen on the grass to dry or bleach, and all the while
they sang--sang the measured rhythm of familiar hymns in the high
soprano of white women--sang wild, plaintive lyrics in the liquid
contralto of negresses. Men were repairing fences, and doing other
Winter work in the fields, and from the woods came the ringing
staccato of choppers. She met on the road leisurely-traveling
negro women, who louted low to her, and then as she passed, turn
to gaze after her with feminine analysis and admiration for every
detail of her attire. Then came “Uncle Tom” looking men, driving
wagons loaded with newly-riven rails, breathing the virile pungency
of freshly-cut oak. Occasionally an old white man or woman rode
by, greeting her with a courteous “Howdy?”
The serenity everywhere intoxicated her with a half-belief that
the terrible Rebel army at Murfreesboro was only a nightmare of
fear-oppressed brains, and in her relief she was ready to burst
out in echo of a triumphant hymn ringing from a weaving-shed at
her right.
Her impulse was checked by seeing approach a figure harshly dissonant
to Arcadian surroundings.
It was a young man riding a powerful roan horse at an easy gallop,
and carrying in his hand, ready for instant use, a 16-shooting
Henry rifle. He was evidently a scout, but, as was usual with that
class, his uniform was so equally made up of blue and gray that
it was impossible to tell to which side he belonged. He reined
up as he saw Rachel, and looked at her for a moment in a way that
chilled her. They were now on a lonely bit of road, out of sight
and hearing of any person or house. All a woman's fears rose up in
her heart, but she shut her lips firmly, and rode directly toward
the scout. Another thought seemed to enter his mind, he touched
his horse up with his heel, and rode by her, saying courteously:
“Good morning, Miss,” but eyeing her intently as they passed. She
returned the salutation with a firm voice, and rode onward, but at
a little distance could not resist the temptation to turn and look
backward. To her horror the scout had stopped, half-turned his
horse, and was watching her as if debating whether or not to come
back after her. She yielded to the impulse of fear, struck her
mare a stinging blow, and the animal flew away.
Her fright subsided as she heard no hoof-beats following her, and
when she raised her eyes, she saw that she was approaching the
village of Lavergne, half-way to Murfreesboro, and that a party
of Rebel cavalry were moving toward her. She felt less tremor at
this first sight of the armed enemy than she had expected, after
her panic over the scout, and rode toward the horsemen with perfect
outward, and no little inward composure.
The Lieutenant in command raised his hat with the greatest gallantry.
“Good morning, Miss. From the city, I suppose?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she answered in tones as even as if speaking in a parlor;
“fortunately, I am at last from the city. I have been trying to
get away ever since it seemed hopeless that our people would not
redeem it soon.”
The conversation thus opened was carried on by Rachel giving
copious and disparaging information concerning the “Yankees,” and
the Lieutenant listening in admiration to the musical accents,
interrupting but rarely to interject a question or a favorable
comment. He was as little critical as ardent young men are apt
to be of the statements of captivating young women, and Rachel's
spirits rose as she saw that the worst she had to fear from this enemy
was an excess of devotioni. The story of her aunt at Murfreesboro
received unhesitating acceptance, and nothing but imperative scouting
orders prevented his escorting her to the town. He would, however,
send a non-commissioned officer with her, who would see that she
was not molested by any one. He requested permission to call upon
her at her aunt's, which Rachel was compelled to grant, for lack
of any ready excuse for such a contingency. With this, and many
smiles and bows, they parted.
All the afternoon she rode through camps of men in gray and
butternut, as she had ridden through those of men in blue in the
morning. In these, as in the others, she heard gay songs, dance
music and laughter, and saw thousands of merry boys rollicking in
the sunshine at games of ball and other sports, with the joyous
earnestness of a school-house playground. She tried, but in vain,
to realize that in a few days these thoughtless youths would be
the demons of the battle-field.
Just before dusk she came to the top of a low limestone ridge, and
saw, three miles away, the lights of Murfreesboro. At that moment
Fortner appeared, jogging leisurely toward her, mounted on a splendid
horse.
“O there's my Cousin Jim!” she exclaimed gleefully, “coming to meet
me. Sergeant, I am deeply obliged to you and to your Lieutenant,
for your company, and I will try to show my appreciation of it in
the future in some way more substantial than words. You need not
go any farther with me. I know that you and your horse are very
tired. Good by.”
The Sergeant was only too gald of this release, which gave him an
opportunity to get back to camp, to enjoy some good cheer that he
knew was there, and bidding a hasty good-night, he left at a trot.
Fortner and Rachel rode on slowly up the pike, traversing the ground
that was soon to run red with the blood of thousands.
They talked of the fearful probabilities of the next few days, and
halted for some minutes on the bridge across Stone River, to study
the wonderfully picturesque scene spread out before them. The
dusk was just closing down. The scowling darkness seemed to catch
around woods and trees and houses, and grow into monsters of vast
and somber bulk, swelling and spreding like the “gin” which escaped
from the copper can, in the “Arabian Nights,” until they touched
each other, coalesced and covered the whole land. Far away, at the
edge of the valley, the tops of the hills rose, distinctly lighted
by the last rays of the dying day, as if some strip of country
resisting to the last the invasion of the dark monsters.
A half-mile in front of the bridge was the town of Murfreesboro.
Bright lights streamed from thousands of windows and from bonfires
in the streets. Church bells rang out the glad acclaim of Christmas
from a score of steeples. The happy voices of childhood singing
Christmas carols; the laughter of youths and maidens strolling arm
in arm through the streets; the cheery songs of merry-making negroes;
silver-throated bands, with throbbing drums and gently-complaining
flutes, playing martial airs; long lines of gleaming camp-fires,
stretching over the undulating valley and rising hills like necklaces
of burning jewels on the breast of night,--this was what held them
silent and motionless.
Rachel at last spoke:
“It is like a scene of enchantment. It is more wonderful than
anything I ever read of.”
“Yes'm, hit's mouty strikin' now, an' when ye think how hit'll
all be changed in a little while ter more misery then thar is this
side o' hell, hit becomes all the more strikin'. Hit seems ter me
somethin' like what I've heered 'em read 'bout in the Bible, whar
they went on feastin' an' singin', an' dancin' an' frolickin', an'
the like, an' at midnight the inimy broke through the walls of ther
city, an' put 'em all ter the sword, even while they wuz settin'
round thar tables, with ther drinkin' cups in ther hands.”
“To think what a storm is about to break upon this scene of happiness
and mirth-making!” said Rachel, with a shudder.
“Yes, an' they seem ter want ter do the very things thet'll show
ther contempt o' righteousness, an' provoke the wrath o' the Lord.
Thar, where ye see thet house, all lit up from the basement ter the
look-out on the ruf, is whar one o' the most 'ristocratic families
in all Tennessee lives. There datter is bein' married to-night,
an' Major-Gineral Polk, the biggest gun in all these 'ere parts,
next ter ole Bragg, an' who is also 'Piscopalian Bishop o' Tennessee,
does the splicin'. They've got ther parlors, whar they'll dance,
carpeted with 'Merican flags, so thet the young bucks an' gals kin
show ther despisery of the banner thet wuz good enough for ther
fathers, by trampin' over hit all night. But we'll show hit ter
'em in a day or two whar they won't feel like cuttin' pigeon-wings
over hit. Ye jes stand still an' see the salvation o' the Lord.”
“I hope we will,” said Rachel, her horror of the storm that was
about to break giving away to indignation at the treatment of her
country's flag. “Shan't we go on? My long ride has made me very
tired and very hungry, and I know my horse is the same.”
Shortly after crossing the river they passed a large tent, with
a number of others clustered around it. All were festooned with
Rebel flags, and brilliantly lighted. A band came up in front of
the principal one and played the “Bonnie Blue Flag.”
“Thet's ole Gineral Bragg's headquarters,” explained Fortner. “He's
the king bee of all the Rebels in these heah parts, an' they think
he kin 'bout make the sun stand still ef he wants ter.”
They cantered on into the town, and going more slowly through the
great public square and the more crowded streets, came at last to
a modest house, standing on a corner, and nearly hidden by vines
and shrubbery.
A peculiar knock caused the door to open quickly, and before Rachel
was hardly aware of it, she was standing inside a comfortable room,
so well lighted that her eyes took some little time to get used to
such a change.
When they did so she saw that she was in the presence of a slender,
elderly woman, whose face charmed her.
“This is yer Aunt Debby Brill,” said Fortner, dryly, “who ye came
so fur ter see, an' who's bin 'spectin' ye quite anxiously.”
“Ye're very welcome, my dear,” said Aunt Debby, after a moment's
inspection which seemed to be entirely satisfactory. “Jest lay
off yer things thar on the bed, an' come out ter supper. I know
ye're sharp-set. A ride from Nashville sech a day ez this is mouty
good for the appetite, an' we've hed supper waitin' ye.”
Hastily throwing off her hat and gloves, she sat down with the rest,
to a homely but excellent supper, which they all ate in silence.
During the meal a muscular, well knit man of thirty entered.
“All clar, outside, Bill?” asked Fortenr.
“All clar,” replied the man. “Everybody's off on a high o' some
kind.”
Bill sat down and ate with the rest, until he satisfied his
hunger, and then rising he felt along the hewed logs which formed
the walls, until he found a splinter to serve as a tooth-pick.
Using this for a minute industriously, he threw it into the fire
and asked:
“Well?”
“Well,” answered Fortner. “I reckon hit's ez sartin ez anything
kin well be thet Wheeler's and Morgan's cavalry hez been sent off
inter Kentucky, and ez thet's what Ole rosy's been waitin' fur,
now's the time fur him ter put in his best licks. Ye'd better start
afore midnight fur Nashville. Ye'll hev this news, an' alos thet
thar's been no change in the location o' the Rebels, 'cept thet
Polk's an' Kirby Smith's corps are both heah at Murfreesboro, with
a strong brigade at Stewart's creek, an' another at Lavergne. Ye'd
better fallin with Boscall's rijiment, which'll go out ter Lavergne
to-night, ter relieve one o' the rijiments thar. Ye'd better not
try to git back heah ag'in tell arter the battle. Good by. God
bless ye. Miss, ye'd better git ter bed now, ez soon ez possible,
an' rest yerself fur what's comin'. We'll need every mite an'
grain of our strength.”