Produced by Ken Reeder
THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL
THE STORY OF THE GREAT VALLEY CAMPAIGN
By Joseph A. Altsheler
FOREWORD
“The Scouts of Stonewall,” while an independent story, is in effect a
continuation of the series which began with “The Guns of Bull Run”
and which was carried on in “The Guns of Shiloh.” The present romance
reverts to the Southern side, and is concerned with the fortunes of
Harry Kenton and his friends.
THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.
THE GUNS OF SHILOH.
THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.
THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.
THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.
THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.
THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.
THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.
DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.
COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.
MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.
JULIANA, Mrs. Mason's Devoted Colored Servant.
COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason's Regimental Commander.
COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles,
a Southern Regiment.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the
Invincibles.
ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.
PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.
WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.
DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.
GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.
FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.
ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.
TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.
TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.
SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.
IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis' Nephew.
AUNT “SUSE,” A Centenarian and Prophetess.
BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.
JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.
JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.
DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.
ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.
JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.
JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.
JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.
JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.
WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.
MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.
HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.
DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.
VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.
JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.
CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.
COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.
CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.
JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.
JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.
MR. CULVER, A State Senator.
MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.
ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.
JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.
JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.
U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.
ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.
STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.
PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.
GEORGE H. THOMAS, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.
A. P. HILL, Southern General.
W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.
GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.
AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.
TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.
J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.
RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.
JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.
WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.
SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.
LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.
BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.
NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.
GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.
DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.
W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.
JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.
P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.
WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.
JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of
the United States.
And many others
IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
BULL RUN
KERNSTOWN
CROSS KEYS
WINCHESTER
PORT REPUBLIC
THE SEVEN DAYS
MILL SPRING
FORT DONELSON
SHILOH
PERRYVILLE
STONE RIVER
THE SECOND MANASSAS
ANTIETAM
FREDERICKSBURG
CHANCELLORSVILLE
GETTYSBURG
CHAMPION HILL
VICKSBURG
CHICKAMAUGA
MISSIONARY RIDGE
THE WILDERNESS
SPOTTSYLVANIA
COLD HARBOR
FISHER'S HILL
CEDAR CREEK
APPOMATTOX
CONTENTS
I. IN THE VALLEY
II. THE FOOT CAVALRY
III. STONEWALL JACKSON'S MARCH
IV. WAR AND WAITING
V. THE NORTHERN ADVANCE
VI. KERNSTOWN
VII. ON THE RIDGES
VIII. THE MOUNTAIN BATTLE
IX. TURNING ON THE FOE
X. WINCHESTER
XI. THE NIGHT RIDE
XII. THE CLOSING CIRCLE
XIII. THE SULLEN RETREAT
XIV. THE DOUBLE BATTLE
XV. THE SEVEN DAYS
THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL
CHAPTER I. IN THE VALLEY
A young officer in dingy Confederate gray rode slowly on a powerful
bay horse through a forest of oak. It was a noble woodland, clear of
undergrowth, the fine trees standing in rows, like those of a park. They
were bare of leaves but the winter had been mild so far, and a carpet of
short grass, yet green, covered the ground. To the rider's right flowed
a small river of clear water, one of the beautiful streams of the great
Virginia valleys.
Harry Kenton threw his head back a little and drew deep breaths of the
cool, crisp air. The light wind had the touch of life in it. As the
cool puffs blew upon him and filled his lungs his chest expanded and
his strong pulses beat more strongly. But a boy in years, he had already
done a man's work, and he had been through those deeps of passion and
despair which war alone brings.
A year spent in the open and with few nights under roof had enlarged
Harry Kenton's frame and had colored his face a deep red. His great
ancestor, Henry Ware, had been very fair, and Harry, like him, became
scarlet of cheek under the beat of wind and rain.
Had anyone with a discerning eye been there, to see, he would have
called this youth one of the finest types of the South that rode forth
so boldly to war. He sat his saddle with the ease and grace that come
only of long practice, and he controlled his horse with the slightest
touch of the rein. The open, frank face showed hate of nobody, although
the soul behind it was devoted without any reserve to the cause for
which he fought.
Harry was on scout duty. Although an officer on the staff of Colonel
Talbot, commander of the Invincibles, originally a South Carolina
regiment, he had developed so much skill in forest and field, he had
such acuteness of eye and ear, that he was sent often to seek the camps
of the enemy or to discover his plans. His friends said that these
forest powers were inherited, that they came from some far-away ancestor
who had spent his life in the wilderness, and Harry knew that what they
said was true.
Despite the peaceful aspect of the forest and the lack of human presence
save his own, he rode now on an errand that was full of danger. The
Union camp must lie on the other side of that little river, not many
miles farther on, and he might meet, at any moment, the pickets of the
foe. He meant to take the uttermost risk, but he had no notion of being
captured. He would suffer anything, any chance, rather than that. He had
lately come into contact with a man who had breathed into him the fire
and spirit belonging to legendary heroes. To this man, short of words
and plain of dress, nothing was impossible, and Harry caught from him
not merely the belief, but the conviction also.
Late in the autumn the Invincibles, who had suffered severely at Bull
Run and afterward had been cut down greatly in several small actions in
the mountains, had been transferred to the command of Stonewall Jackson
in the Shenandoah Valley. Disease and the hospital had reduced the
regiment to less than three hundred, but their spirits were as high as
ever. Their ranks were renewed partly with Virginians. Colonel Talbot
and Lieutenant-Colonel St. Hilaire had recovered from small wounds, and
St. Clair and Langdon were whole and as hard as iron. After a period of
waiting they were now longing for action.
There was some complaint among the Invincibles when they were detached
from the main army to the service of Jackson, but Harry did not share
in it. When he heard of the order he remembered that dread afternoon at
Bull Run, when all seemed lost, and the most vivid of his memories was
the calm figure riding back and forth just beyond the pines among which
he stood, and gathering for a fresh charge the stern ranks of his men
who were to turn almost sure defeat into absolutely sure victory. The
picture of the man in the heart of that red glare among the showers of
bullets had been burned so deeply into Harry's memory that he could call
it up, almost as vivid as life itself at any time. Surely that was a
leader to follow, and he, at least, would wish to ride where Stonewall
led.
But action did not come as soon as he had expected. Jackson was held by
commands from Richmond. The great army of the South waited, because the
great army of the North, under McClellan, also waited and temporized
while the autumn was passing fast.
But Jackson, while held in the bonds of orders, did not sleep. The most
active youth of his command rode day and night toward the northern
end of the valley, where the forces of the Union were gathering. The
movements of Banks and Kelly and the other Northern commanders were
watched continually by keen eyes trained in the southern forests. Slim
striplings passed in the night through the little towns, and the people,
intensely loyal to the South, gave them the news of everything.
Harry had seen the whole autumn pass and winter come, and the war, save
for a fitful skirmish now and then, stood at a pause in the valley. Yet
he rode incessantly, both with the others and alone, on scouting duty.
He knew every square mile of the country over a wide range, and he had
passed whole nights in the forest, when hail or snow was whistling by.
But these had been few. Mostly mild winds blew and the hoofs of his
horse fell on green turf.
Harry was intensely alert now. He was far from his command, and he knew
that he must see and hear everything or he would soon be in the hands of
the enemy. He rode on rather slowly, and amid continued silence. He saw
on his left a white house with green shutters and a portico. But the
shutters were closed tightly and no smoke rose from the chimneys.
Although house and grounds showed no touch of harm, they seemed to bear
the brand of desolation. The owners had fled, knowing that the sinister
march of war would pass here.
Harry's mood changed suddenly from gladness to depression. The
desolate house brought home to him the terrible nature of war. It meant
destruction, wounds and death, and they were all the worse because it
was a nation divided against itself, people of the same blood and the
same traditions fighting one another.
But youth cannot stay gloomy long, and his spirits presently flowed
back. There was too much tang and life in that crisp wind from the west
for his body to droop, and a lad could not be sad long, with brilliant
sunshine around him and that shining little river before him.
The thrill of high adventure shot up from his soul. He had ceased to
hate the Northern soldiers, if he had ever hated them at all. Now
they were merely brave opponents, with whom he contended, and success
demanded of either skill, daring and energy to the utmost degree. He was
resolved not to fail in any of these qualities.
He left the desolate house a mile behind, and then the river curved a
little. The woods on the farther shore came down in dense masses to the
edge of the stream, and despite the lack of foliage Harry could not see
far into them. The strong, inherited instincts leaped up. His nostrils
expanded and a warning note was sounded somewhere in the back of his
brain.
He turned his horse to the left and entered the forest on his own side
of the river. They were ancient trees that he rode among, with many
drooping and twisted boughs, and he was concealed well, although he
could yet see from his covert the river and the forest on the other
shore.
The song of a trumpet suddenly came from the deep woodland across the
shining stream. It was a musical song, mellow and triumphant on every
key, and the forest and hills on either shore gave it back, soft and
beautiful on its dying echoes. It seemed to Harry that the volume of
sound, rounded and full, must come from a trumpet of pure gold. He had
read the old romances of the Round Table, and for the moment his
head was full of them. Some knight in the thicket was sending forth a
challenge to him.
But Harry gave no answering defiance. Now the medieval glow was gone,
and he was modern and watchful to the core. He had felt instinctively
that it was a trumpet of the foe, and the Northern trumpets were not
likely to sing there in Virginia unless many Northern horsemen rode
together.
Then he saw their arms glinting among the trees, the brilliant beams of
the sun dancing on the polished steel of saber hilt and rifle barrel.
A minute more, and three hundred Union horsemen emerged from the forest
and rode, in beautiful order, down to the edge of the stream.
Harry regarded them with an admiration which was touched by no hate.
They were heavily built, strong young men, riding powerful horses, and
it was easy for anyone to see that they had been drilled long and well.
Their clothes and arms were in perfect order, every horse had been
tended as if it were to be entered in a ring for a prize. It was his
thought that they were not really enemies, but worthy foes. That ancient
spirit of the tournament, where men strove for the sake of striving,
came to him again.
The Union horsemen rode along the edge of the stream a little space,
and then plunged into a ford. The water rose to their saddle skirts, but
they preserved their even line and Harry still admired. When all were on
his own shore the golden trumpet sang merrily again, and they turned the
heads of their horses southward.
Harry rode deeper into the ancient wood. They might throw out scouts or
skirmishers and he had no mind to be taken. It was his belief that they
came from Romney, where a Northern army had gathered in great force and
would eventually march toward Jackson at Winchester. But whatever their
errand, here was something for him to watch, and he meant to know what
they intended.
The Northern troop, youths also, the average of their age not much more
than twenty, rode briskly along the edge of the little river, which was
a shining one for them, too, as well as Harry. They knew that no enemy
in force was near, and they did not suspect that a single horseman
followed, keeping in the edge of the woods, his eyes missing nothing
that they did.
As for themselves, they were in the open now and the brilliant sunshine
quickened their blood. Some of them had been at Bull Run, but the sting
of that day was going with time. They were now in powerful force at the
head of the great Virginia valleys, and they would sweep down them with
such impact that nothing could stand before them. The trumpet sang its
mellow triumphant note again, and from across a far range of hills came
its like, a low mellow note, faint, almost an echo, but a certain reply.
It was the answer from another troop of their men who rode on a parallel
line several miles away.
The lone lad in the edge of the forest heard the distant note also, but
he gave it no heed. His eyes were always for the troop before him. He
had already learned from Stonewall Jackson that you cannot do two things
at once, but the one thing that you do you must do with all your might.
The troop presently left the river and entered the fields from which
the crops had been reaped long since. When the horsemen came to a fence
twelve men dismounted and threw down enough panels for the others to
ride through without breaking their formation. Everything was done with
order and precision. Harry could not keep from admiring. It was not
often that he saw so early in the war troops who were drilled so
beautifully, and who marched so well together.
Harry always kept on the far side of the fields, and as the fences were
of rails with stakes and riders he was able by bending very low in the
saddle to keep hidden behind them. Nevertheless it was delicate work. He
was sure that if seen he could escape to the forest through the speed
of his horse. But he did not want to be driven off. He wished to follow
that troop to its ultimate destination.
Another mile or two and the Union force bore away to the right, entering
the forest and following a road, where the men rode in files, six
abreast. They did not make much noise, beyond the steady beating of the
hoofs, but they did not seem to seek concealment. Harry made the obvious
deduction that they thought themselves too far beyond the range of the
Southern scouts to be noticed. He felt a thrill of satisfaction, because
he was there and he had seen them.
He rode in the forest parallel with the troop and at a distance of about
four hundred yards. There was scattered undergrowth, enough to hide
him, but not enough to conceal those three hundred men who rode in close
files along a well-used road.
Harry soon saw the forest thinning ahead of him and then the trumpet
sang its mellow, golden note again. From a point perhaps a mile ahead
came a reply, also the musical call of the trumpet. Not an echo, but
the voice of a second trumpet, and now Harry knew that another force was
coming to join the first. All his pulses began to beat hard, not
with nervousness, but with intense eagerness to know what was afoot.
Evidently it must be something of importance or strong bodies of Union
cavalry would not be meeting in the woods in this manner.
After the reply neither trumpet sounded again, and the troop that Harry
was following stopped while yet in the woods. He rode his horse behind a
tall and dense clump of bushes, where, well hidden, he could yet see all
that might happen, and waited.
He heard in a few minutes the beat of many hoofs upon the hard road,
advancing with the precision and regularity of trained cavalry. He saw
the head of a column emerge upon the road and an officer ride forward
to meet the commander of the first troop. They exchanged a few words and
then the united force rode southward through the open woods, with the
watchful lad always hanging on their rear.
Harry judged that the new troop numbered about five hundred men, and
eight hundred cavalry would not march on any mere scouting expedition.
His opinion that this was a ride of importance now became a conviction,
and he hardened his purpose to follow them to the end, no matter what
the risk.
It was now about noon, and the sun became warm despite the December day.
The turf softened under the rays and the Union cavalry left an immense
wide trail through the forest. It was impossible to miss it, and Harry,
careful not to ride into an ambush of rear guard pickets, dropped back a
little, and also kept slightly to the left of the great trail. He could
not see the soldiers now, but occasionally he heard the deep sound of so
many hoofs sinking into the soft turf. Beyond that turfy sigh no sound
from the marching men came to him.
The Union troop halted about two o'clock in the afternoon, and the men
ate cold food from the knapsacks. They also rested a full hour, and
Harry, watching from a distance, felt sure that their lack of hurry
indicated a night attack of some kind. They had altered their course
slightly, twice, and when they started anew they did so a third time.
Now their purpose occurred suddenly to Harry. It came in a flash of
intuition, and he did not again doubt it for a moment. The head of the
column was pointed straight toward a tiny village in which food and
ammunition for Stonewall Jackson were stored. The place did not have
more than a dozen houses, but one of them was a huge tobacco barn
stuffed with powder, lead, medicines, which were already worth their
weight in gold in the Confederacy, and other invaluable supplies. It had
been planned to begin their removal on the morrow to the Southern camp
at Winchester, but it would be too late unless he intervened.
If he did not intervene! He, a boy, riding alone through the forest, to
defeat the energies of so many men, equipped splendidly! The Confederacy
was almost wholly agricultural, and was able to produce few such
supplies of its own. Nor could it obtain them in great quantities from
Europe as the Northern navy was drawing its belt of steel about the
Southern coasts. That huge tobacco barn contained a treasure beyond
price, and Harry was resolved to save it.
He did not yet know how he would save it, but he felt that he would. All
the courage of those border ancestors who won every new day of life
as the prize of skill and courage sprang up in him. It was no vain
heritage. Happy chance must aid those who trusted, and, taking a
deep curve to the left, he galloped through the woods. His horse
comparatively fresh after easy riding, went many miles without showing
any signs of weariness.
The boy knew the country well, and it was the object of his circuit to
take him ahead of the Union troop and to the village which held a
small guard of perhaps two hundred men. If the happy chance in which he
trusted should fail him after all, these men could carry off a part of
the supplies, and the rest could be destroyed to keep them from falling
into Northern hands.
He gave his horse a little breathing space and then galloped harder
than ever, reckoning that he would reach the village in another hour. He
turned from the woods into one of the narrow roads between farms, just
wide enough for wagons, and increased his speed.
The afternoon sun was declining, filling the west with dusky gold, and
Harry still rode at a great pace along the rough road, wondering all
the while what would be the nature of the lucky chance, in which he was
trusting so firmly. Lower sank the sun and the broad band of dusky gold
was narrowing before the advance of the twilight. The village was not
now more than two miles away, and the road dipped down before him.
Sounds like that made by the force behind him, the rattle of arms, the
creak of leather and the beat of hoofs, came suddenly to his ears.
Harry halted abruptly and reined his horse into some bushes beside the
road. Then he heard the sounds more plainly. They were made by cavalry,
riding slowly. The great pulses in his throat leaped in quick alarm.
Was it possible that they had sent a portion of their force swiftly by
another route, and that it was now between him and the village?
He listened again and with every faculty strained. The cavalrymen were
riding toward him and they could not be a part of the Union force. Then
they must be of his own South. Surely this was the happy chance of which
he had dreamed! Again the great pulses leaped, but with a different
emotion.
Scorning every risk, he reined his horse back into the road and rode
straight forward. The heads of men were just topping the rise, and a few
moments later they and the horses they bestrode came into full view. It
was a thankful thrill that shot through him now. The sun, almost sunk,
sent a last golden shower across them and disclosed the dingy gray of
their uniforms and the lean, tanned faces.
Uttering a shout of joy and holding up a hand to show that he was a
friend, Harry galloped forward. A young man at the head of the troop, a
captain by his uniform, and evidently the leader, gave the signal to his
men to stop, and received the boy who came alone.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I'm Harry Kenton, a lieutenant in the army of Stonewall Jackson, and
an aide on the staff of Colonel Leonidas Talbot, colonel of the regiment
known as the Invincibles.”
“I've heard of that regiment. South Carolinians at first, but now mostly
Virginians.”
“The Virginians filled up the gaps that were made on the battlefield.”
Harry spoke proudly, and the young captain smiled. The boy regarded
him with increasing interest. Somehow he was reminded of Jeb Stuart,
although this man was younger, not having passed his boyhood long.
It was evident that he was tall. Thick, yellow curls showed from under
the edge of his cap. His face, like Harry's, had turned red before wind
and rain. His dress was a marvel, made of the finest gray without a spot
or stain. A sash of light blue silk encircled his waist, and the costly
gray cloak thrown back a little from his shoulders revealed a silk
lining of the same delicate blue tint. His gauntlets were made of the
finest buckskin, and a gold-hilted small sword swung from his sash.
“A dandy,” thought Harry, “but the bravest of the brave, for all that.”
“My name's Sherburne, Captain Philip Sherburne,” said the young leader.
“I'm from the Valley of Virginia, and so are my men. We belong to
Stonewall Jackson's army, too, but we've been away most of the time on
scouting duty. That's the reason you don't know us. We're going toward
Winchester, after another of our fruitless rides.”
“But it won't be fruitless this time!” exclaimed Harry, eagerly. “A
Union force of nearly a thousand men is on its way to destroy the
stores at the village, the stores that were to be moved to a safer place
to-morrow!”
“How do you know?”
“I've seen 'em. I was behind 'em at first and followed 'em for a long
time before I guessed their purpose. Then I curved about 'em, galloped
through the woods, and rode on here, hoping for the lucky chance that
has come with you.”
Harry, as he spoke, saw the eyes of the young captain leap and flame,
and he knew he was in the presence of one of those knightly souls,
thrown up so often in the war, most often by the border States. They
were youths who rode forth to battle in the spirit of high romance.
“You ask us to go back to the village and help defend the stores?” said
Philip Sherburne.
“That's just what I do ask--and expect.”
“Of course. We'd have done it without the asking, and glad of it. What a
chance for us, as well as for you!”
He turned and faced his men. The golden glow of the sun was gone now,
but a silver tint from the twilight touched his face. Harry saw there
the blaze of the knightly spirit that craved adventure.
“Men,” he said in clear, happy tones, “we've ridden for days and days in
quests that brought nothing. Now the enemy is at hand, nearly a thousand
strong, and means to destroy our stores. There are two hundred of you
and there are two hundred more guarding the stores. If there's a single
one among you who says he must ride on to Winchester, let him hold up
his hand.”
Not a hand was raised, and the bold young captain laughed.
“I don't need to put the other side of the question,” he said to Harry.
“They're as eager as I am to scorch the faces of the Yankees.”
The order was given to turn and ride. The “men,” not one of whom was
over twenty-five, obeyed it eagerly, and galloped for the village, every
heart throbbing with the desire for action. They were all from the rich
farms in the valleys. Splendid horsemen, fine marksmen, and alive with
youth and courage, no deed was too great for them. Harry was proud
to ride with them, and he told more of the story to Sherburne as they
covered the short distance to the village.
“Old Jack would order us to do just what we're doing,” said Sherburne.
“He wants his officers to obey orders, but he wants them to think, too.”
Harry saw his eyes flash again, and something in his own mind answered
to the spirit of adventure which burned so brightly in this young man.
He looked over the troop, and as far as he could see the faces of all
were flushed with the same hope. He knew with sudden certainty that the
Union forces would never take that warehouse and its precious contents.
These were the very flower of that cavalry of the South destined to
become so famous.
“You know the village?” said Sherburne to Harry.
“Yes, I passed there last night.”
“What defense has it?”
“About two hundred men. They are strangers to the region, drawn from the
Tidewater country, and I don't think they're as good as most of General
Jackson's men.”
“Lack of discipline, you think?”
“Yes, but the material is fine.”
“All right. Then we'll see that they acquire discipline. Nothing like
the enemy's fire to teach men what war is.”
They were riding at good speed toward the village, while they talked,
and Harry had become at once the friend and lieutenant of young Captain
Sherburne. His manner was so pleasant, so intimate, so full of charm,
that he did not have the power or the will to resist it.
They soon saw Hertford, a village so little that it was not able to put
itself on the map. It stood on the crest of a low hill, and the tobacco
barn was about as large as all the other buildings combined. The
twilight had now merged into night, but there was a bright sky and
plenty of stars, and they saw well.
Captain Sherburne stopped his troop at a distance of three or four
hundred yards, while they were still under cover of the forest.
“What's the name of the commander there?” he asked.
“McGee,” Harry replied. “Means well, but rather obstinate.”
“That's the way with most of these untrained men. We mustn't risk being
shot up by those whom we've come to help. Lasley, give them a call from
the bugle. Make it low and soft though. We don't want those behind us to
hear it.”
Lasley, a boy no older than Harry, rode forward a dozen yards in front
of the troop, put his bugle to his lips and blew a soft, warning call.
Harry had been stirred by the first sound of a hostile trumpet hours
before, and now this, the note of a friend, thrilled him again. He gazed
intently at the village, knowing that the pickets would be on watch, and
presently he saw men appear at the edge of the hill just in front of
the great warehouse. They were the pickets, beyond a doubt, because the
silver starshine glinted along the blades of their bayonets.
The bugler gave one more call. It was a soft and pleasing sound. It said
very plainly that the one who blew and those with him were friends.
Two men in uniform joined the pickets beside the warehouse, and looked
toward the point whence the note of the bugle came.
“Forward!” said Captain Philip Sherburne, himself leading the way, Harry
by his side. The troops, wheeling back into the road and marching by
fours in perfect order, rode straight toward the village.
“Who comes?” was the stern hail.
“A troop of Stonewall Jackson's cavalry to help you,” replied Sherburne.
“You are about to be attacked by a Northern division eight hundred
strong.”
“Who says so?” came the question in a tone tinged with unbelief, and
Harry knew that it was the stubborn and dogmatic McGee who spoke.
“Lieutenant Harry Kenton of the Invincibles, one of Stonewall Jackson's
best regiments, has seen them. You know him; he was here yesterday.”
As he spoke, Captain Sherburne sprang from his horse and pointed to
Harry.
“You remember me, Captain McGee,” said Harry. “I stopped with you a
minute yesterday. I rode on a scouting expedition, and I have seen the
Union force myself. It outnumbers us at least two to one, but we'll have
the advantage of the defense.”
“Yes, I know you,” said McGee, his heavy and strong, but not very
intelligent face, brightening a little. “But it's a great responsibility
I've got here. We ought to have had more troops to defend such valuable
stores. I've got two hundred men, captain, and I should say that you've
about the same.”
It was then that Captain Philip Sherburne showed his knightly character,
speaking words that made Harry's admiration of him immense.
“I haven't any men, Captain McGee,” he said, “but you have four hundred,
and I'll help my commander as much as I can.”
McGee's eyes gleamed. Harry saw that while not of alert mind he was
nevertheless a gentleman.
“We work together, Captain Sherburne,” he said gratefully, “and I thank
God you've come. What splendid men you have!”
Captain Sherburne's eyes gleamed also. This troop of his was his pride,
and he sought always to keep it bright and sharp like a polished sword
blade.
“Whatever you wish, Captain McGee. But it will take us all to repel
the enemy. Kenton here, who saw them well, says they have a fine,
disciplined force.”
The men now dismounted and led their horses to a little grove just in
the rear of the warehouse, where they were tethered under the guard of
the villagers, all red-hot partisans of the South. Then the four hundred
men, armed with rifles and carbines, disposed themselves about the
warehouse, the bulk of them watching the road along which the attacking
force was almost sure to come.
Harry took his place with Sherburne, and once more he was compelled
to admire the young captain's tact and charm of manner. He directed
everything by example and suggestion, but all the while he made the
heavy Captain McGee think that he himself was doing it.
Sherburne and Harry walked down the road a little distance.
“Aren't you glad to be here, Kenton?” asked the captain in a somewhat
whimsical tone.
“I'm glad to help, of course.”
“Yes, but there's more. When I came to war I came to fight. And if we
save the stores look how we'll stand in Old Jack's mind. Lord, Kenton,
but he's a queer man! You'd never take any notice of him, if you didn't
know who he was, but I'd rather have one flash of approval from those
solemn eyes of his than whole dictionaries of praise from all the other
generals I know.”
“I saw him at Bull Run, when he saved the day.”
“So did I. The regiment that I was with didn't come up until near the
close, but our baptism of battle was pretty thorough, all the same.
Hark! did you think you heard anything, Kenton?”
Harry listened attentively.
“Yes, I hear something,” he replied. “It's very soft, but I should say
that it's the distant beat of hoofs.”
“And of many hoofs.”
“So I think.”
“Then it's our friends of the North, coming to take what we want to
keep. A few minutes more, Kenton, and they'll be here.”
They slipped back toward the warehouse, and Harry's heart began to throb
heavily. He knew that Sherburne's words would soon come true.