LIEUTENANT McNEIL
The Williamsport ferry-boat came slowly across the Potomac, from the
Maryland to the Virginia side. The clear, deep water lay faintly blue
beneath the winter sky, and the woods came so close that long branches
of sycamore swept the flood. In that mild season every leaf had not
fallen; up and down the river here the dull red of an oak met the eye,
and there the faded gold of a willow.
The flatboat, a brown shadow beneath a creaking wire and pulley, came
slowly to the southern side of the stream. The craft, squat to the water
and railed on either side, was in the charge of an old negro. Clustered
in the middle of the boat appeared a tall Marylander in blue jeans, two
soldiers in blue cloth, and a small darky in a shirt of blue gingham.
All these stared at a few yards of Virginia road, shelving, and
overarched by an oak that was yet touched with maroon, and stared at a
horseman in high boots, a blue army overcoat, and a blue and gold cap,
who, mounted upon a great bay horse, was waiting at the water's edge.
The boat crept into the shadow of the trees.
One of the blue soldiers stood watchfully, his hands upon an Enfield
rifle. The other, a middle-aged, weather-beaten sergeant-major who had
been leaning against the rail, straightened himself and spoke, being now
within a few feet of the man on horseback.
"Your signal was all right," he said. "And your coat's all right. But
how did your coat get on this side of the river?"
"It's been on this side for some time," explained the man on horseback,
with a smile. "Ever since Uncle Sam presented it to me at Wheeling--and
that was before Bull Run." He addressed the negro. "Is this the fastest
this boat can travel? I've been waiting here half an hour."
The sergeant-major persisted. "Your coat's all right, and your signal's
all right, and if it hadn't ha' been, our sharpshooters wouldn't ha'
left much of you by now--Your coat's all right, and your signal's all
right, but I'm damned if your voice ain't Southern--" The head of the
boat touched the shore and the dress of the horseman was seen more
closely.--"Lieutenant," ended the speaker, with a change of tone.
The rider, dismounting, led his horse down the yard or two of road and
into the boat. "So, Dandy! Just think it's the South Branch, and come
on! Thirty miles since breakfast, and still so gaily!"
Horse and man entered the boat, which moved out into the stream.
"I was once," stated the sergeant-major, though still in the proper
tone of respect toward a lieutenant, "I was once in Virginia for a
month, down on the Pamunkey--and the people all said 'gaily.'"
"They say it still," answered the rider. "Not so much, though, in my
part of Virginia. It's Tuckahoe, not Cohee. I'm from the valley of the
South Branch, between Romney and Moorefield."
The heretofore silent blue soldier shifted his rifle. "What in hell--"
he muttered. The sergeant-major looked at the Virginia shore, looked at
the stranger, standing with his arm around his horse's neck, and looked
at the Williamsport landing, and the cannon frowning from Doubleday's
Hill. In the back of his head there formed a little picture--a drumhead
court-martial, a provost guard, a tree and a rope. Then came the hand of
reason, and wiped the picture away. "Pshaw! spies don't _say_ they're
Southern. And, by jiminy! one might smile with his lips, but he couldn't
smile with his eyes like that. And he's lieutenant, and there's such a
thing, Tom Miller, as being too smart!--" He leaned upon the rail, and,
being an observant fellow, he looked to see if the lieutenant's hand
trembled at all where it lay upon the horse's neck. It did not; it
rested as quiet as an empty glove. The tall Marylander began to speak
with a slow volubility. "There was a man from the Great Kanawha to
Williamsport 't other day--a storekeeper--a big, fat man with a beard
like Abraham's in the 'lustrated Bible. I heard him a-talking to the
colonel. 'All the Union men in northwestern Virginia are on the Ohio
side of the mountains,' said he. 'Toward the Ohio we're all for the
Union,' said he. 'There's more Northern blood than Southern in that
section, anyway,' said he. 'But all this side of the Alleghenies is
different, and as for the Valley of the South Branch--the Valley of the
South Branch is a hotbed of rebels.' That's what he said--'a hotbed of
rebels.' 'As for the mountain folk in between,' he says, 'they hunt with
guns, and the men in the valley hunt with dogs, and there ain't any love
lost between them at the best of times. Then, too, it's the feud that
settles it. If a mountain man's hereditary enemy names his baby
Jefferson Davis, then the first man, he names his Abraham Lincoln, and
shoots at the other man from behind a bush. And _vice versa_. So it
goes. But the valley of the South Branch is old stock,' he says, 'and a
hotbed of rebels.'"
"When it's taken by and large, that is true," said the horseman with
coolness. "But there are exceptions to all rules, and there are some
Union men along the South Branch." He stroked his horse's neck. "So,
Dandy! Aren't there exceptions to all rules?"
"He's a plumb beauty, that horse," remarked the sergeant-major. "I don't
ride much myself, but if I had a horse like that, and a straight road,
and weather like this, I wouldn't ask any odds between here and
Milikenville, Illinois! I guess he's a jim dandy to travel,
Lieutenant--"
"McNeill," said the Virginian. "It is lovely weather. You don't often
have a December like this in your part of the world."
"No, we don't. And I only hope 't will last."
"I hope it will," assented McNeill. "It's bad marching in bad weather."
"I don't guess," said the sergeant-major, "that we'll do much marching
before springtime."
"No, I reckon not," answered the man from the South Branch. "I came from
Romney yesterday. General Kelly is letting the men build cabins there.
That doesn't look like moving."
"We're doing the same here," said the sergeant-major, "and they say that
the army's just as cosy at Frederick as a bug in a rug. Yes, sir; it's
in the air that we'll give the rebels rope till springtime."
The ferry-boat touched the northern bank. Here were a little, rocky
shore, an expanse of swampy ground, a towpath, a canal, a road cut
between two hills, and in the background a village with one or two
church spires. The two hills were white with tents, and upon the brow
cannon were planted to rake the river. Here and there, between the river
and the hills, were knots of blue soldiers. A freight boat loaded with
hay passed snail-like down the canal. It was a splendid early afternoon,
cool, still, and bright. The tall Marylander and the three blue soldiers
left the boat, the man from Romney leading his horse. "Where's
headquarters?" he demanded. "I'll go report, and then get something to
eat for both Dandy and myself. We've got to make Frederick City
to-night."
"The large wall tents over there on the hill," directed the
sergeant-major. "It's a long way to Frederick, but Lord! with that
horse--" He hesitated for a moment, then spoke up in a courageous,
middle-aged, weather-beaten fashion, "I hope you'll have a pleasant
ride, lieutenant! I guess I was a little stiffer'n good manners calls
for, just at first. You see there's been so much talk of--of--of
_masquerading_--and your voice is Southern, if your politics ain't! 'T
isn't my usual way."
Lieutenant McNeill smiled. "I am sure of that, sergeant! As you say,
there has been a deal of masquerading, and this side of the river
naturally looks askance at the other. But you see, General Kelly _is_
over there, and he happens, just now, to want to communicate with
General Banks." His smile grew broader. "It's perfectly natural, but
it's right hard on the man acting courier! Lord knows I had trouble
enough running Ashby's gauntlet without being fired on from this side!"
"That's so! that's so!" answered the sergeant cordially. "Well, good
luck to you getting back! You may find some friends here. We've a
company or two of Virginians from the Ohio."
General Kelly's messenger proceeded to climb the hill to the wall tents
indicated. There was a short delay, then he found himself in the
presence of the colonel commanding at Williamsport. "From General Kelly
at Romney? How did you get here?"
"I left Romney, sir, yesterday morning, and I came by bridle paths
through the mountains. I was sent because I have hunted over every mile
of that country, and I could keep out of Ashby's way. I struck the river
above Bath, and I worked down through the woods to the ferry. I have a
letter for General Banks."
Drawing out a wallet, he opened it and handed to the other the missive
in question. "If I was chased I was to destroy it before capture," he
said. "The slip with it is a line General Kelly gave me."
The colonel commanding at Williamsport glanced at the latter document.
"A native of the South Branch valley," he said crisply. "That's a
disaffected region."
"Yes, sir. It is. But there are one or two loyal families."
"You wish to go on to Frederick this afternoon?"
"Yes, sir. As soon as my horse is a little rested. My orders are to use
all dispatch back to Romney with General Banks's answer."
The colonel, seated at a table, weighed General Kelly's letter in his
hand, looked at the superscription, turned it over, and studied the
seal. "Do the rebels on the other side show any signs of coming
activity? Our secret service men have not been very successful--they
make statements that it is hard to credit. I should be glad of any
reliable information. What did you see or hear coming through?"
The lieutenant studied the floor a moment, shrugged, and spoke out.
"Ashby's active enough, sir. Since yesterday I have just grazed three
picket posts. He has vedettes everywhere. The report is that he has
fifteen hundred troopers--nearly all valley men, born to the saddle and
knowing every crook and cranny of the land. They move like a whirlwind
and deal in surprises--
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold--
Only these cohorts are grey, not purple and gold. That's Ashby. On the
other hand, Jackson at Winchester need not, perhaps, be taken into
account. The general impression is that he'll stay where he is until
spring. I managed to extract some information from a mountain man above
Sleepy Creek. Jackson is drilling his men from daylight until dark. It
is said that he is crazy on the subject--on most subjects, in fact; that
he thinks himself a Cromwell, and is bent upon turning his troops into
Ironsides. Of course, should General Banks make any movement to
cross--preparatory, say, to joining with General Kelly--Jackson might
swing out of Winchester and give him check. Otherwise, he'll probably
keep on drilling--"
"The winter's too far advanced," said the colonel, "for any such
movement upon our part. As soon as it is spring we'll go over there and
trample out this rebellion." He weighed Kelly's letter once more in his
hand, then restored it to the bearer. "It's all right, Lieutenant
McNeill. I'll pass you through.--You read Byron?"
"Yes," said Lieutenant McNeill briefly. "He's a great poet. 'Don Juan,'
now, and Suvaroff at Ismail--
He made no answer, but he took the city.
The bivouac, too, in Mazeppa." He restored General Kelly's letter and
the accompanying slip to his wallet. "Thank you, sir. If I am to make
Frederick before bedtime I had better be going--"
"An aide of General Banks," remarked the colonel, "is here, and is
returning to Frederick this afternoon. He is an Englishman, I believe,
of birth. You might ride together--Very opportunely; here he is!"
A tall, blond being, cap-a-pie for the road, had loomed in dark blue
before the tent door. "Captain Marchmont," said the colonel, "let me
make you acquainted with Lieutenant McNeill, a _loyal_ Virginian bearing
a letter from General Kelly to General Banks--a gentleman with a taste,
too, for your great poet Byron. As you are both riding to Frederick, you
may find it pleasant to ride in company."
"I must ride rapidly," said McNeill, "but if Captain Marchmont--"
"I always ride rapidly," answered the captain. "Learned it in Texas in
1843. At your service, lieutenant, whenever you're ready."
The road to Frederick lay clear over hill and dale, past forest and
stream, through a gap in the mountain, by mill and barn and farmhouse,
straight through a number of miles of crystal afternoon. Out of
Williamsport conversation began. "When you want a purchaser for that
horse, I'm your man," said the aide. "By any chance, _do_ you want to
sell?"
McNeill laughed. "Not to-day, captain!" He stroked the brown shoulder.
"Not to-day, Dun--Dandy!"
"What's his name? Dundandy?"
"No," replied the lieutenant. "Just Dandy. I'm rather fond of him. I
think we'll see it out together."
"Yes, they aren't bad comrades," said the other amicably. "In '53, when
I was with Lopez in Cuba, I had a little black mare that was just as
well worth dying for as a woman or a man or most causes, but, damn me!
she died for me--carried me past a murderous ambuscade, got a bullet for
her pains, and never dropped until she reached our camp!" He coughed.
"What pleasant weather! Was it difficult getting through Jackson's
lines?"
"Yes, rather."
They rode for a time in silence between fields of dead aster and
goldenrod. "When I was in Italy with Garibaldi," said Captain Marchmont
thoughtfully, "I saw something of kinsmen divided in war. It looked a
very unnatural thing. You're a Virginian, now?"
"Yes, I am a Virginian."
"And you are fighting against Virginia. Curious!"
The other smiled. "To be where you are you must believe in the
inviolability of the Union."
"Oh, I?" answered Marchmont coolly. "I believe in it, of course. I am
fighting for it. It chanced, you see, that I was in France--and out of
service and damnably out at elbows, too!--when Europe heard of Bull Run.
I took passage at once in a merchant ship from Havre. It was my
understanding that she was bound for New Orleans, but instead she put
into Boston Harbour. I had no marked preference, fighting being fighting
under whatever banner it occurs, so the next day I offered my sword to
the Governor of Massachusetts. North and South, they're none of mine.
But were I in England--where I haven't been of late years--and a row
turned up, I should fight with England."
"No doubt," answered the other. "Your mind travels along the broad and
simple lines of the matter. But with us there are many subtle and
intricate considerations."
Passing now through woods they started a covey of partridges. The small
brown and white shapes vanished in a skurry of dead leaves. "No doubt,
no doubt!" said the soldier of fortune. "At any rate, I have rubbed off
particularity in such matters. Live and let live--and each man to run
the great race according to his inner vision! If he really conflicts
with me, I'll let him know it."
They rode on, now talking, now silent. To either side, beyond stone
walls, the fields ran bare and brown to distant woods. The shadow of the
wayside trees grew longer and the air more deep and cold. They passed a
string of white-covered wagons bearing forage for the army. The sun
touched the western hills, rimming them as with a forest fire. The
horsemen entered a defile between the hills, travelled through twilight
for a while, then emerged upon a world still softly lighted. "In the
country at home," said the Englishman, "the waits are practicing
Christmas carols."
"I wish," answered the Virginian, "that we had kept that old custom. I
should like once to hear English carols sung beneath the windows on a
snowy night." As he rode he began to sing aloud, in a voice not
remarkable, but good enough to give pleasure--
"As Joseph was a-walking,
He heard an angel sing,
'This night shall be born
Our Heavenly King--'"
"Yes, I remember that one quite well," said Captain Marchmont, and
proceeded to sing in an excellent bass,--
"He neither shall be born
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in the place of Paradise,
But in an ox's stall--
"Do you know the next verse?"
"Yes," said McNeill.
"He neither shall be clothed
In purple nor in pall,
But all in fair linen
As are babies all!"
"That's it," nodded the other. "And the next goes,--
"He neither shall be rocked
In silver nor in gold
But in a wooden cradle
That rocks on the mould--"
Alternately they sang the carol through. The sun went down, but the pink
stayed in the sky and was mirrored in a tranquil stream which they
crossed. It faded at last into the quiet dusk. A cricket chirped from a
field of dried Michaelmas daisies. They overtook and passed an infantry
regiment, coming up, an officer told them, from Harper's Ferry. The
night fell, cold and still, with many stars. "We are not far from
Frederick," said Marchmont. "You were never here before?"
"No."
"I'll take you at once to General Banks. You go back to Kelly at Romney
to-morrow."
"Just as soon as General Banks shall have answered General Kelly's
letter."
"You have an occasional fight over there?"
"Yes, up and down the line. Ashby's command is rather active."
"By George! I wish I were returning with you! When you've reported I'll
look after you if you'll allow me. Pleasant enough mess.--Major Hertz,
whom I knew in Prussia, Captain Wingate of your old army and one or two
others."
"I'm exceedingly obliged," said McNeill, "but I have ridden hard of
late, and slept little, and I should prove dull company. Moreover
there's a good priest in Frederick who is a friend of a friend of mine.
I have a message for him, and if General Banks permits, I shall sleep
soundly and quietly at his house to-night."
"Very good," said Marchmont. "You'll get a better night there, though
I'm sorry not to have you with us.--There are the lights of Frederick,
and here's the picket. You have your pass from Williamsport?"
McNeill gave it to a blue soldier, who called a corporal, who read it by
a swinging lantern. "Very good. Pass, Lieutenant McNeill."
The two rode on. To left and right were lighted streets of tents, varied
here and there by substantial cabins. Commissary quarters appeared,
sutlers' shops, booths, places of entertainment, guardhouses, a chapel.
Soldiers were everywhere, dimly seen within the tents where the door
flap was fastened back, plain to view about the camp-fires in open
places, clustering like bees in the small squares from which ran the
camp streets, thronging the trodden places before the sutlers,
everywhere apparent in the foreground and divined in the distance. From
somewhere came the strains of "Yankee Doodle." A gust of wind blew out
the folds of the stars and stripes, fastened above some regimental
headquarters. The city of tents and of frame structures hasty and crude,
of fires in open places, of sutlers' shops and cantines, and booths of
strolling players, of chapels and hospitals, of fluttering flags and
wandering music, of restless blue soldiers, oscillating like motes in
some searchlight of the giants, persisted for a long distance. At last
it died away; there came a quiet field or two, then the old Maryland
town of Frederick.