_"Into the valley of death."_--Tennyson.
It was arranged that the command with which Griffith moved should, so
far as was possible, avoid collision with the enemy; move silently,
swiftly or slowly as occasion demanded, but at all times do everything
possible to give to the topographical engineers a clear, distinct and
minute knowledge of the country, so that in future intelligent action
could be sustained.
It was thought wise to take as few troops as safety would permit,
and, wherever knowledge of the proximity of the Southern forces was
obtained in time, take some other road or retire temporarily to
the seclusion of the mountains. All fighting was, if possible, to be
avoided. This was the plan of operations. At times they were far inside
the enemy's lines, but at distant points from the opposing force.
At other times they were again camped for a night with some advance
division of the federal troops farther northward. To those to whom their
object was unknown, their movements would have seemed unaccountable,
indeed.
In road or pass or village, many a familiar face did Griffith see, and
his relief was intense, if no look of recognition came into it.
His fatigue coat, from which the brass buttons had been taken, and
broad-brimmed, cord-decorated military hat, served as something of a
disguise with those who had never seen him in other than clerical garb.
Often a sharp pain shot through his heart as he rode through some one
of his old circuits, and a one time friendly face looked up at him,
at first with simply the curiosity and dislike bestowed upon the
staff officers of a hostile force, and then with a sudden flash
of recognition, there would come, also, a look of bitter personal
resentment, not meant for the staff, but for that son of the South, who,
as they felt, was betraying his friends. What his position or rank was
they did not know. His uniform was that of a civilian, excepting only
the hat; but that he was in and with and of the invading army was
enough. The information spread like wildfire.
"Griffith Davenport is with a brigade of Yankees! He knows every inch of
this country!" What this meant to both sides, was quickly understood.
Bitterness increased. That he should be shot at the first opportunity
was universally conceded. Griffith saw and felt it keenly. It made his
heart too heavy for words. At first he spoke to the General: "I knew
that man, General. He recognized me. Did you see how he turned suddenly
to look again? Did you see----?"
"Yes, I noticed, and I saw the look of hate, damn him; but you needn't
be afraid. The first time any assassination business is tried they will
find who they have got to deal with. I'll burn every God-damned house I
come to, and shoot several citizens in retaliation! Oh, I'm not half so
mild as I look! Don't you be afraid! They'll all think hell has broke
loose on earth, if they fire from ambush at you! They'll have to get you
in open battle, if they want to be treated with soldierly consideration,
and we don't intend you to be in any battle; so don't you be----"
"It is not that! It is not that, General," Griffith would say. He tried
to explain.
"Well, heavens and earth! What did you expect? You didn't expect 'em to
_like_ it, did you?"
Griffith sighed and gave it up. No, he did not expect them to like
it. He did not even hope that they could understand it fairly, and
yet----The home-coming was indeed bitter, and Griffith ceased to sing.
He saw maps made of the places he loved, and he saw in the distance
the peaceful old haunts filled with contending armies. He looked at
the trees that were still old and warm and loyal friends, in spite of
difference of creed or politics, and he dreamed of them when they should
be lopped of their branches and tom with shot and shell as they tried
vainly to shield with their own sturdy limbs those who knew no better
than to fight the battles of this life with sword and gun. One day, as
he rode slowly in advance of the rest, he suddenly looked up toward the
gnarled branch of a great tree, where he recalled that an old friend
of his had lived. The heads of three tiny squirrels peeped out, and the
mother frisked hard by. "Ah," he said, aloud, "how do you do,
Bunnie? Still living at the old home-place. See! Is it you or your
great-grandchildren? There's such a strong family likeness I can't
tell." The little animal whisked nearer, and looked with curious eyes
that were not afraid. "You do not blame me, and you do not hate me,
and you do not fear me, Bunnie. _You_ understand me better than men do,
after all." He sighed and tossed a bit of cracker toward the nest. It
fell far short, but the mother-squirrel whisked about here and there, and
flipped her tail and posed; but at last snatched up the proffered gift
and scampered up the tree. Griffith smiled.
"I've broken bread with one of my old friends at last," he said aloud.
"What did you say?" asked the General, halting suddenly. He had lowered
his voice to the danger pitch, as he had mistaken Griffith's low tone
for one of caution. He lifted his hand, and each of his officers down
the line did the same. There was an instant halt.
"What was it?" he asked again, under his breath.
"A nest of squirrels right where they were fifteen or twenty years ago.
I was renewing the acquaintance. _They_ were the first old friends that
have not been afraid of--who trusted me still. I was----"
A volley of oaths burst forth. "Attention! March!" he commanded, and
as the line officers repeated the command, the General's wrath waxed
furious. He did not dare to wreak it directly upon Griffith. He dashed
back down the line, swearing with that lurid facility and abandon for
which he was famous, at the astonished, but case-hardened and amused
men.
"Halted an army to talk to a God-damned squirrel!" he ground out between
his wrathful teeth, as he rejoined his staff. He whipped out a revolver
and fired at the nest. The bullet flew wide of the mark, but the little
heads disappeared in affright. The staff-officers looked at each other
and smiled. The contrast between the two at their head was a source of
constant, mild fun.
"Broken faith with even you, haven't I, Bunnie?" said Griffith,
softly, as he rode on. "Do you think I threw you the cracker so that I
could the better shoot you? I didn't, Bannie--but you will never know."
A half-mile further on Griffith halted. "General," he said, "this is the
only place for some distance now that we can halt for the night under
cover of a dense wood and still have water near. There is a creek just
below that rise. It is good water. It curves around this way, and the
horses can be picketed near it and still be hid. After this it will be
open country for ten miles or more. If----"
"Halt! Throw out pickets! Dismount! Break ranks!"
The orders were given and repeated. The appearance of a camp grew up
like magic. No fires were to be lighted until scout and picket reports
came in, but the men went about feeding their horses and making ready
for the fires and for "grub," as they called it. They were glad to
stretch themselves. It had been a long day's ride.
"We will signal from the rise over there, General," Griffith said. "If
from there we can see no camp-fires, there will be none near enough to
detect ours. Shall I return here, General, or----"
"Return here. Pick your escort."
Griffith rode away with his three sharpshooters. The tired men watched
eagerly for the signal, as they lay about on the ground. A shout went
up when they saw it, and fires were lighted and rations brought forth.
A young fellow with corporal's straps was humming as he lay on his back
with both feet far up on the body of a tree. He had carried with him all
day an empty tin can, and now he was making coffee in it. He turned from
time to time to peer into the can or readjust the sticks as they burned.
"We're tenting to-night on the old camp-ground."
His soft tenor rang out on the cool evening air as clear as the note of
a bird, despite his recumbent position. He lifted himself on one elbow
and peered again into the coffee, but the song ran on--
"Give us a song to cheer."
A group near him was deep in a game of cards. "Here! It's Towsy's
deal! Damned if I don't believe Jim would deal every hand if he wasn't
watched. He----"
"Our weary heart, a song of home----"
"Oh, dry up! Give us a rest!"
"Ouch! Stop that! If I don't----"
"Clubs again, by gad! Every time Stumpy deals, its clubs. I believe----"
"And friends we love so dear.
Many are the hearts that are weary to-night,
Wishing--"
The clear tenor had risen into steady continuity as the young corporal
sat half up to shake the tin can again. The card dealer joined in with
a mocking bass, then suddenly, voice after voice took up the refrain and
the very air seemed to come laden with it, from far and near. The volume
of sound died with the last note of the refrain, and once more the clear
tenor, lying on his back now, with both hands under his head, ran softly
on alone:
"We've been tenting to-night on the old camp-ground.
Thinking of days gone by--"
He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and, as he unfolded it, stooped
over and took one swallow of the coffee, and replaced the can on the
fire. Some hard tack lay beside him, and one biscuit reposed on his
stomach where he replaced it when he lay back again, and finished the
verse slowly. When the refrain began again, the cards were held down,
men in other groups straightened up from rekindling fires, others
stopped short in a game of quoits played with horseshoes picked up on
the banks of the creek. Water carriers set down their loads, or halted,
with pails still in hand, and added their voices to the melody. The
effect amongst the trees was indescribable. The picket in the distance
half halted in his tramp, and turned to listen. The moon was beginning
to swing up over the hill, from which the signal had come, and between
the trees it touched the face of the delicate-featured young corporal
of the sweet voice, and he turned the letter to catch the light from it,
and add to the glow of the firelight, that he might the better re-read
the treasured words. He was still humming softly, inarticulately, now. A
stick burned in two, and the can of precious coffee was slowly emptying
its overturned contents on the ground.
There was but one bite gone from the biscuit which lay on the blue coat.
Music and sentiment had triumphed over appetite and the young corporal
dozed off, asleep now with the letter still in his hand and the
noisy players about him. In the distance Griffith and his escort were
returning. Suddenly a shot rang out in the clear air! Then another
and another! The men were on their feet in an instant. The General
was hastily adjusting his field-glass, but in the moonlight it was but
slight help. He could see, as the smoke cleared away, six men instead of
four. So much he could make out, but no more. One was being lifted on
to a horse. All were dismounted. There was activity in the camp. Hasty
preparations were made to send a relief party. Who was shot? What did
it mean? Was there an ambush? Was the Guide deceived as to the safety of
this position? Would they have to fight or retreat? Had the Guide
been killed? Had some angry native seen and assassinated Griffith?
The officers consulted together hastily and orders were given, but the
little procession was slowly approaching.
They were not pursued. At least there was not to be a battle--and there
had been a capture, but who was killed? The Government Guide? Two were
walking--were they the assassin and his companion? When the little
procession reached the picket line it halted and there was some
readjustment of the body they were carrying, stretched between two
horses, where it lay motionless except as others lifted it. Beside it
walked another figure not in the federal uniform. Tall, lank, grim, and
limping painfully, with a blood-stain on the shoulder and a bullet
hole in the hat. The sharpshooters had done their work--but who was
it--_what_ was it that lay across those two horses that they were
leading? The whole camp was watching and alert. Cards, quoits, letters
had disappeared. At last they could see that the Body was not Griffith.
He still sat astride his splendid chestnut horse and the relief party
were talking to him. The procession moved to the General's tent.
Griffith looked pale and troubled. The sharpshooters were radiant. The
Body was lifted down, and its long pendant beard was matted and massed
with blood.
The pride, the joy, the ambition of Whiskers Biggs was brought low at
last! He was breathing still, but the feeble hand essayed in vain to
stroke the voluminous ornament and ambition of his life. The hand hung
limp and mangled by his side. The General questioned the other prisoner
in vain. He pointed to Griffith and preserved an unbroken silence.
Griffith spoke to him aside. The prisoner turned slowly to the
commander:
"I'll tell _him._ Few words comprehend the whole." Then he lapsed
into silence again and nothing could induce him to speak. The General
threatened, coaxed and commanded in vain. The imperturbable mountaineer
stood like one who heard not. All that the sharpshooters could tell was
soon told. Some one had fired from ambush, apparently at Griffith. They
had returned the fire instantly. Then they had found this man who was
dying and the other one beside him. "I know this man, General," said
Griffith. "He says that he will talk to me alone. May I--shall I----"
"He'll talk to _me_, God damn him! or he'll get a dose of---- Did you
fire at our men?" he demanded of the mountaineer. Lengthy Patterson
shifted his position to relieve his wounded leg. He gazed stolidly,
steadily, expressionlessly before him, and uttered not a sound. His gun
had been taken from him, and his hands seemed worse than useless without
this his one and only companion from whom he never separated. The hands
moved about in aimless action like the claws of some great lobster.
"It will go a good deal easier with you, you infernal idiot, if you'll
out with your story, tell your side of it How'd this thing happen?"
Lengthy glanced sidewise at the Body as it lay on the ground. "Friend of
mine," he said, and lapsed into silence again.
"Will you tell me, Lengthy?" asked Griffith. "Will you tell me in the
presence of the General? It would be better for us both if you will. I
wish----"
"'Twill?" asked Lengthy giving Griffith a long, slow look. "Better fer
yoh?"
"Yes," said Griffith, half choking up. He thought he had solved the
problem of why, with these two mountaineer marksmen as their antagonists
none of their party had been shot in the encounter. "Yes, better for me.
Do you care for that, Lengthy?" The woodsman gave another long look at
Griffith, and then pointed with his thumb at the figure on the ground.
"I done hit. Whis aimed t' kill yoh. Few words comp--" Griffith grasped
the great rough, helplessly groping hands in his. "I thought so, I
thought so," he said brokenly.
"And you stood by me even---- He was your friend, and----" Griffith's
voice broke.
In the pause that followed Lengthy was staring at the form on the
ground.
"Yes. Whis wus a frien' er mine; but Whis tuck aim at yoh.
Few-words-comprehends-th'-whole!" The last sentence seemed to be all one
Word. Griffith was still holding the great hands.
"Did you know I was with Northern troops, Lengthy? Did you know----?"
"Knowed hit wus you. Didn't keer who t'other fellers wus. He tuck aim.
Seed whar he wus pintin'--Few words----"
"Are you a Union man, Lengthy?"
"Naw."
"Rebel, are you?" asked the General, sharply. There was a profound
silence. The mountaineer did not even turn his head.
"I asked you if you were a rebel, God damn you! Can't you hear?" shouted
the General thoroughly angry. "I'll let you know----"
"Are you on the Confederate side, Lengthy?" began Griffith. The
mountaineer had not indicated in any way whatever that he had heard
any previous question. "Naw," he said slowly and as if with a mental
reservation. The General shot forth a perfect volley of oaths and
questions and threats, but the immobility of the mountaineer remained
wholly undisturbed. There was not even the shadow of a change of
expression on the bronzed face.
"What the General wants to know--what I want to know is, Lengthy, which
side are you on? Are you----"
"On youm."
"On Davenport's side against the world!" remarked a staff officer aside,
smiling. The mountaineer heard. He turned slowly until the angle of his
vision took in the speaker.
"On his side agin the worl'. Few words----"
The rest was drowned in a shout of laughter, in which the irascible
Commander joined. Griffith's eyes filled. Lengthy saw--and
misinterpreted. He forgot the wound in his leg, and that his trusty gun
was his no more. He sprang to Griffith's side.
"On his side agin the _hull_ o' yuh!" he said, like a tiger at bay. The
sorely tried leg gave way and he fell in a heap at Griffith's feet.
"Here! Quick! Get the surgeon. We forgot his wounds. He is shot in the
leg and here----" Griffith was easing the poor fellow down as he
talked, trying to get him into a better position. Some one offered him
a canteen. The surgeon came and began cutting the boot from the swollen
leg.
"Do _everything_ for him, Doctor--everything you would for me," said
Griffith hoarsely. "He killed his friend and risked his own life to save
me. He----"
His voice broke and he walked away into the darkness. Presently Lengthy
opened his eyes and asked feebly, "Whar's the Parson?"
"Who?"
"The Parson."
"Oh," said the surgeon kindly, "you want the Chaplain. Oh, you're not
going to die! You're all right! You've lost a lot of blood and stood on
that leg too long, but----"
"Whah's Parson Dav'npoht?"
A light dawned upon the surgeon. He had never thought of Griffith as a
clergyman only as he had heard it laughed over that the General swore so
continuously in his presence. He sent for Griffith. When he came Lengthy
saw that his eyes were red. He motioned the others to go away. Then he
whispered, "Th' other fellers--our soldiers--th----"
"You mean the Confederate troops, the Southern men?" asked Griffith, and
Lengthy nodded; "Jest over yander. Layin' fer ye."
"I looked everywhere for smoke, Lengthy. I didn't see any signs of camp
fires. I----"
"Jest what me an' Whis was doin' fer t'other side when we seed ye.
Hain't got no fires. Hain't goin't' make none."
"Do you mean that you were doing a sort of scout or advance duty for the
reb--the Confederates, when you met us, Lengthy?"
He nodded. "Jest thet."
"You were to go back and tell them about----"
"We wus. Saw you. Didn't go. Him 'n me qua'l'd 'bout----"
"About shooting me?"
Lengthy nodded again. "He aimed at ye. I got him fust." There was a long
pause.
"Do you want to go back to your camp, Lengthy, if--"
"Naw."
Presently he said: "They's mo' o' them then they is o' you alls."
Griffith grasped his idea. "You think we better leave here? You think
they will attack?"
"Kin leave me layin' here. They'll git me--'n' _him_;" he pointed with
his thumb again toward the friend of his life--the body that lay
awaiting burial on the morrow.
"Would you rather go with us?" began Griffith, and the swarthy face
lightened up.
"Kin you alls take me?"
"Certainly, certainly, if you want to go. We won't leave you. The
General----"
"Hain't goin' with him. Goin' 'th you."
"All right, all right, Lengthy. You shall go with _me_ and you shall
_stay_ with me."
The mountaineer turned his head slowly. The narcotic the surgeon had
given was overcoming him. He did not understand it, and he was vainly
struggling against a sleep which he did not comprehend.
"You--alls--better--light--out. They is mo' o' them and--they--is
mad--plum--through. Few--words--com--com----"
The unaccustomed effort at linguistic elaboration exhausted him, and,
together with the sleeping potion, Lengthy was rendered unconscious
of all pain, and an hour later he was borne on a stretcher between two
horses as the engineer's party silently retraced its steps and left the
camp deserted and desolate with its one silent occupant lying stark in
the moonlight, with its great mass of matted beard upon its lifeless
breast.