"THE BATH AND ROMNEY TRIP"
Richard Cleave and his horse, two tired wights, turned a corner in the
wood and came with suddenness upon a vedette, posted beneath a beech
tree. The vedette brought his short rifle to bear upon the apparition.
"Halt! Halt, you in blue! Halt, I say, or I'll blow your head off."
Down an aisle of the woods, deep in russet leaves, appeared a grey
figure. "Hello, Company F! It's all right! It's all right! It's Captain
Cleave, 65th Virginia. Special service." Musket in hand, Allan came at a
run through the slanting sunshine of the forest. "It's all right,
Cuninghame--Colonel Ashby will understand."
"Here," said the vedette, "is Colonel Ashby now."
From another direction, out of the filmy and amethyst haze that closed
each forest vista, came a milk-white horse, stepping high over the
fallen leaves. The rider, not tall, black-bearded, with a pale, handsome
face, sat like a study for some great sculptor's equestrian masterpiece.
In a land where all rode well, his was superb horsemanship. The cape of
his grey coat was lined with scarlet, his soft wide hat had a black
plume; he wore long boots and white gauntlets. The three beneath the
beech saluted. He spoke in a pensive and musical voice. "A prisoner,
Cuninghame? Where did you get him?--Ah, it's Richard Cleave!"
The bright December day wore on, sunny and cold in the woods, sunny and
cold above the river. The water, clear now of mist, sparkled, a stream
of diamonds, from shore to shore, except where rose Dam No. 5. Here the
diamonds fell in cataracts. A space of crib-work, then falling gems,
another bit of dry logs in the sun, then again brilliancy and thunder of
water over the dam; this in sequence to the Maryland side. That side
reached, there came a mere ribbon of brown earth, and beyond this ran
the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. To-day boats from Cumberland were going
down the canal with coal and forage, and boats from Harper's Ferry were
coming up with a reinforcing regiment of soldiers for Lander at Hancock.
It was bright and lively weather, and the negroes talked to the mules on
the towpath, and the conductors of coal and forage hailed the soldiers,
and the soldiers shouted back. The banks rang to laughter and voices.
"Where're you fellows going?"--"Going to Hancock,--no, don't know where
it is!"--"Purty day! Seen any rebels crost the river?"--"At Williamsport
they told us there was a rebel spy got away this morning--galloped down
a cliff like Israel Putnam and took to the river, and if he was drowned
or not they don't know--" "No, he wasn't drowned; he got away, but he
was shot. Anyhow, they say he hadn't been there long enough to find out
anything."--"Wish _I_ could find out something--wish I could find out
when we're going to fight!"--"Low braidge!"--"That's a pretty big dam.
What's the troops over there in the field? Indiana? That's a right nice
picnic-ground--
'Kiss me good-bye, my dear,' he said;
'When I come back, we will be wed.'
Crying, she kissed him, 'Good-bye, Ned!'
And the soldier followed the drum,
The drum,
The echoing, echoing drum!"
Over on the Virginia side, behind the friendly woods paced through by
Ashby's men, the height of the afternoon saw the arrival of the advance
guard of that portion of the Army of the Valley which was to cover
operations against Dam No. 5. Later in the day came Garnett with the
remainder of the Stonewall Brigade and a two-gun detachment of the
Rockbridge Artillery, and by sunset the militia regiments were up. Camp
was pitched behind a line of hills, within the peninsula made by the
curve of the river. This rising ground masked the movement; moreover,
with Ashby between any body of infantry and an enemy not in unreasonable
force, that body worked and ate and slept in peace of mind. Six miles
down the river, over on the Maryland side, was Williamsport, with an
infantry command and with artillery. Opposite Dam No. 5 in the Maryland
fields beyond the canal, troops were posted, guarding that very stretch
of river. From a little hill above the tents frowned their cannon. At
Hancock, at Hagerstown, and at Frederick were other thousands, and all,
from the general of the division to the corporal drilling an awkward
squad in the fields beside the canal, thought of the Army of the Valley
as at Winchester.
With the Confederate advance guard, riding Little Sorrel, his cadet cap
over his eyes, his uniform whole and clean, but discoloured like a
November leaf from rain and dust and dust and rain, with great boots and
heavy cavalry spurs, with his auburn beard and his deep-set grey-blue
eyes, with his forehead broad and high, and his aquiline nose, and his
mouth, wide and thin-lipped, came Jackson. The general's tent was a rude
affair. His soldiers pitched it beneath a pine, beside a small trickling
stream half choked with leaves. The staff was quartered to right and
left, and a clump of pines in the rear served for an Arcadian kitchen. A
camp-stool and a table made of a board laid upon two stumps of trees
furnished the leaf-strewn terrace before the tent. Here, Cleave, coming
to report, found his commander.
Jackson was sitting, feet planted as usual, arms at side as usual,
listening to his chief of staff. He acknowledged Cleave's salute, with a
glance, a slight nod of the head, and a motion of the hand to one side.
The young man waited, standing by a black haw upon the bank of the
little stream. The respectful murmur of the chief of staff came to an
end. "Very good, major. You will send a courier back to Falling Waters
to halt General Carson there. He is to be prepared to make a diversion
against Williamsport in the morning. I will give precise instructions
later. What of this mill by the river?"
"It is a very strong, old, stone mill, sir, with windows. It would
command any short-range attack upon the workers."
"Good! good! We will put riflemen there. As soon as General Garnett is
up, send him to me."
From the not-distant road came a heavy rumble of wheels and the sound of
horses' feet. "There are the guns, now, sir."
"Yes. They must wait until nightfall to get into position. Send Captain
McLaughlin to me in half an hour's time."
"Yes, sir. Captain Colston of the 2d is here--"
"Very good. I will see him now. That is all, major."
The chief of staff withdrew. Captain Colston of the 2d approached from
the shadows beyond the big pine and saluted. "You are from this region,
captain?"
"Yes, sir. The _Honeywood_ Colstons."
"This stone mill is upon your land?"
"Yes, sir. My mother owns it."
"You have been about the dam as a boy?"
"Yes, sir. In the water above it and in the water below it. I know every
log, I reckon. It works the mill."
"If we break it, it will work the mill no longer. In addition, if the
enemy cross, they will probably destroy the property."
"Yes, sir. My mother and I would not let that weigh with us. As I know
the construction I should esteem it an honour, sir, if I might lead the
party. I think I may say that I know where the cribs could be most
easily cut."
"Very good then, sir. You will report for duty at nine to-night. Captain
Holliday of the 33d and Captain Robinson of the 27th, with a number of
their men, have volunteered for this service. It is not without danger,
as you know. That is all."
Captain Colston departed. "Now, Captain Cleave," said the general.
A few minutes later, the report ended, Jackson refolded General Banks's
letter to General Kelly and put it into his pocket-book. "Good! good!"
he said, and turned slightly on the camp-stool so as to face the river
and the north. "It's all right, captain, it's all right!"
"I wish, sir," said Cleave, "that with ten times the numbers you have,
you were leading us across the river. We might force a peace, I think,
and that right quickly."
Jackson nodded. "Yes, sir, I ought to have every soldier in Virginia--if
they could be gotten here in time every soldier in the Carolinas. There
would then be but a streamlet of blood where now there is going to be a
great river. The streamlet should run through the land of them with whom
we are righteously at war. As it is, the great river will run through
ours." He rose. "You have done your mission well, sir. The 65th will be
up presently."
* * * * *
It took three days to cut Dam No. 5. On the fourth the brigade went back
to Winchester. A week later came Loring with the Army of the Kanawha,
and on the third of January the whole force found itself again upon the
road.
In the afternoon the weather changed. The New Year had come in smiling,
mild as April, dust in the roads, a blue sky overhead. The withered
goldenrod and gaunt mullein stalks and dead asters by the wayside almost
seemed to bloom again, while the winter wheat gave an actual vernal
touch. The long column, winding somewhere--no one knew where, but anyhow
on the Pugh Town Road and in a northwesterly direction (even Old Jack
couldn't keep them from knowing that they were going northwest!)--was in
high spirits. At least, the Stonewall Brigade was in spirits. It was
said that Loring's men didn't want to come, anyhow. The men whistled and
sang, laughed, joked, were lavish of opinions as to all the world in
general and the Confederate service in particular. They were sarcastic.
The Confederate private was always sarcastic, but throughout the morning
there had been small sting in their remarks. Breakfast--"at early
dawn"--was good and plentiful. Three days' rations had been served and
cooked, and stowed in haversacks. But, so lovely was the weather, so
oppressive in the sunshine would be a heavy weight to carry, so obliging
were the wagon drivers, so easy in many regiments the Confederate
discipline, that overcoats, blankets, and, in very many instances
haversacks, had been consigned before starting to the friendly care of
the wagons in the rear. The troops marched light, and in a good humour.
True, Old Jack seemed bent on getting there--wherever "there" was--in a
tremendous hurry. Over every smooth stretch the men were double-timed,
and there was an unusual animus against stragglers. There grew, too, a
moral certitude that from the ten minutes' lawful rest in each hour at
least five minutes was being filched. Another and still more certain
conclusion was that the wagon train was getting very far behind.
However, the morning was still sweet, and the column, as a whole,
cheerful. It was a long column--the Stonewall Brigade, three brigades of
Loring's, five batteries, and a few cavalry companies; eight thousand,
five hundred men in all.
Mid-day arrived, and the halt for dinner. Alas for the men without
haversacks! They looked as though they had borne all the burdens of the
march. There was hunger within and scant sympathy without. "Didn't the
damned fools know that Old Jack always keeps five miles ahead of wagon
trains and hell fire?" "Here, Saunders! take these corn pones over to
those damned idiots with the compliments of Mess No. 4. We know that
they have Cherrystone oysters, canvas-back ducks, terrapin, and peach
brandy in their haversacks, and that they meant to ask us to join them.
So unfortunate!"
The cavalry marched on, the artillery marched on, the infantry marched
on. The bright skies subtly changed. The blue grew fainter; a haze,
white, harsh, and cold, formed gradually, and a slight wind began to
blow. The aster and goldenrod, the dried ironweed and sumach, the red
rose hips and magenta pokeberry stalks looked dead enough now, dead and
dreary upon the weary, weary road. The men sang no more; the more weakly
shivered. Before long the sky was an even greyish-white, and the wind
had much increased. Coming from the northwest, it struck the column in
the face; moreover, it grew colder and colder. All types shivered now,
the strong and the weak, the mounted officer and the leg-weary private,
the men with overcoats, and the men without. The column moved slower and
slower, all heads bent before the wind, which now blew with violence. It
raised, too, a blinding dust. A curt order ran down the lines for less
delay. The regiments changed gait, tried quick time along a level
stretch, and left behind a large number of stragglers. The burst of
speed was for naught, they went the slower thereafter, and coming to a
long, bleak hill, crept up it like tortoises--but without protecting
shells. By sunset the cold was intense. Word came back that the head of
the column was going into camp, and a sigh of approbation arose from
all. But when brigade by brigade halted, deployed, and broke ranks, it
appeared that "going into camp" was rather a barren phrase. The wagons
had not come up; there were no tents, no blankets, no provisions. A
northwester was blowing, and the weather-wise said that there would be
snow ere morning. The regiments spread over bare fields, enclosed by
rail fences. There were a small, rapidly freezing stream and thick
woods, skirting the fields. In the woods were fallen boughs and pine
cones enough to make the axes in the company wagons not greatly missed,
and detachments were sent to gather fagots. The men, cold and exhausted,
went, but they looked wistfully at the rail fences all around them, so
easy to demolish, so splendid to burn! Orders on the subject were
stringent. _Officers will be held responsible for any destruction of
property. We are here to protect and defend, not to destroy._ The men
gathered dead branches and broke down others, heaped them together in
the open fields, and made their camp-fires. The Rockbridge Artillery
occupied a fallow field covered with fox grass, dead Michaelmas daisy,
and drifted leaves. It was a good place for the poor horses, the battery
thought. But the high wind blew sparks from the fires and lighted the
grass. The flames spread and the horses neighed with terror. The battery
was forced to move, taking up position at last in a ploughed field where
the frozen furrows cut the feet, and the wind had the sweep of an
unchained demon. An infantry regiment fared better. It was in a stretch
of fenced field between the road and the freezing brook. A captain,
native of that region, spoke to the lieutenant-colonel, and the latter
spoke to the men. "Captain ---- says that we are camping upon his land,
and he's sorry he can't give us a better welcome! But we can have his
fence rails. Give him a cheer, and build your fires!" The men cheered
lustily, and tore the rails apart, and had rousing fires and were
comfortable; but the next morning Stonewall Jackson suspended from duty
the donor of his own fences. The brigades of Loring undoubtedly suffered
the most. They had seen, upon the Monterey line, on the Kanawha, the
Gauley, and the Greenbriar, rough and exhausting service. And then, just
when they were happy at last in winter quarters, they must pull up
stakes and hurry down the Valley to join "Fool Tom Jackson" of the
Virginia Military Institute and one brief day of glory at Manassas!
Loring, a gallant and dashing officer, was popular with them. "Fool Tom
Jackson" was not. They complained, and they very honestly thought that
they had upon their side justice, common sense, and common humanity--to
say nothing of military insight! The bitter night was bitterer to them
for their discontent. Many were from eastern Virginia or from the states
to the south, not yet inured to the winter heights and Stonewall
Jackson's way. They slept on frozen ground, surrounded by grim
mountains, and they dreamed uneasily of the milder lowlands, of the yet
green tangles of bay and myrtle, of quiet marshes and wide, unfreezing
waters. In the night-time the clouds thickened, and there came down a
fine rain, mixed with snow. In the morning, fields, hillsides, and road
appeared glazed with ice--and the wagons were not up!
The country grew rougher, lonelier, a series of low mountains and partly
cleared levels. To a few in the creeping column it may have occurred
that Jackson chose unfrequented roads, therefore narrow, therefore worse
than other roads, to the end that his policy of utter secrecy might be
the better served; but to the majority his course seemed sprung from a
certain cold wilfulness, a harshness without object, unless his object
were to wear out flesh and bone. The road, such as it was, was sheeted
with ice. The wind blew steadily from the northwest, striking the face
like a whip, and the fine rain and snow continued to fall and to freeze
as it fell. What, the evening before, had been hardship, now grew to
actual misery. The column faltered, delayed, halted, and still the order
came back, "The general commanding wishes the army to press on." The
army stumbled to its now bleeding feet, and did its best with a hill
like Calvary. Up and down the column was heard the report of muskets,
men falling and accidentally discharging their pieces. The company
officers lifted monotonous voices, weary and harsh as reeds by a winter
pond. _Close up, men--close up--close up!_
In the afternoon Loring, riding at the head of his brigades, sent a
staff officer forward with representations. The latter spurred his
horse, but rapid travelling was impossible upon that ice-sheathed road.
It was long before he overtook the rear of the Stonewall Brigade.
Buffeted by the wind, the grey uniforms pale under a glaze of sleet, the
red of the colours the only gleam of cheer, the line crawled over a long
hill, icy, unwooded, swept by the shrieking wind. Stafford in passing
exchanged greetings with several of the mounted officers. These were in
as bad case as their men, nigh frozen themselves, distressed for the
horses beneath them, and for the staggering ranks, striving for anger
with the many stragglers and finding only compunction, in blank
ignorance as to where they were going and for what, knowing only that
whereas they had made seventeen miles the day before, they were not
likely to make seven to-day. He passed the infantry and came up with the
artillery. The steep road was ice, the horses were smooth shod. The poor
brutes slipped and fell, cutting themselves cruelly. The men were down
in the road, lifting the horses, dragging with them at gun and caisson.
The crest of the hill reached, the carriages must be held back, kept
from sliding sideways in the descent. Going down was worse than coming
up. The horses slipped and fell; the weight of gun and caisson came upon
them; together they rolled to the foot, where they must be helped up and
urged to the next ascent. Oaths went here and there upon the wind, hurt
whinnies, words of encouragement, cracking of whips, straining and
groaning of gun carriages.
Stafford left the artillery behind, slowly climbed another hill, and
more slowly yet picked his way down the glassy slope. Before him lay a
great stretch of meadow, white with sleet, and beyond it he saw the
advance guard disappearing in a fold of the wrinkled hills. As he rode
he tried to turn his thoughts from the physical cold and wretchedness to
some more genial chamber of the brain. He had imaginative power, ability
to build for himself out of the void. It had served him well in the
past--but not so well the last year or two. He tried now to turn the
ring and pass from the bitter day and road into some haunt of warmth and
peace. Albemarle and summer--Greenwood and a quiet garden. That did not
answer! Harassment, longing, sore desire, check and bitterness--unhappiness
there as here! He tried other resting places that once had
answered, poets' meadows of asphodel, days and nights culled like a
bouquet from years spent in a foreign land, old snatches
out of boyhood. These answered no longer, nor did a closing of the eyes
and a sinking downward, downward through the stratas of being into some
cavern, reckonless and quiet, of the under-man. It as little served to
front the future and try to climb, like Jack of the Beanstalk, to some
plane above and beyond war and disappointment and denying. He was
unhappy, and he spoke wearily to his horse, then shut his lips and faced
the Siberian road. Entering in his turn the fold of the hills, he soon
came up with the advance. As he passed the men on foot a sudden swirl of
snow came in larger flakes from the leaden skies. Before him were a
dozen horsemen, riding slowly. The air was now filled with the great
white flakes; the men ahead, in their caped overcoats, with their hats
drawn low, plodding on tired horses between the hills, all seen vaguely
through the snow veil, had a sudden wintry, desolate, and far-away
seeming. He said to himself that they were ghosts from fifty years back,
ghosts of the Grand Army in the grasp of General January. He made what
haste he could and came up with Stonewall Jackson, riding with Ashby and
with his staff. All checked their horses, the general a little advanced,
Stafford facing him. "From General Loring, sir."
"Good! What does he want?"
"There is much suffering among his men, sir. They have seen hard service
and they have faced it gallantly--"
"Are his men insubordinate?"
"Not at all, sir. But--"
"You are, I believe, the officer whom General Loring sent me once
before?"
"Yes, general. Many of the men are without rations. Others are almost
barefoot. The great number are unused to mountain work or to so
rigorous a climate."
The commanding general sat regarding the emissary with a curious chill
blankness. In peace, to the outward eye he was a commonplace man; in war
he changed. The authority with which he was clothed went, no doubt, for
much, but it was rather, perhaps, that a door had been opened for him.
His inner self became visible, and that imposingly. The man was there; a
firm man, indomitable, a thunderbolt of war, a close-mouthed,
far-seeing, praying and worshipping, more or less ambitious, not always
just, patriotically devoted fatalist and enthusiast, a mysterious and
commanding genius of an iron sort. When he was angered it was as though
the offender had managed to antagonize some natural law, or force or
mass. Such an one had to face, not an irritated human organism, but a
Gibraltar armed for the encounter. The men who found themselves
confronted by this anger could and did brace themselves against it, but
it was with some hopelessness of feeling, as of hostility upon a plane
where they were at a disadvantage. The man now sitting his horse before
him on the endless winter road was one not easily daunted by outward
aspects. Nevertheless he had at this moment, in the back of his head, a
weary consciousness that war was roseate only to young boys and girls,
that the day was cold and drear, the general hostile, the earth overlaid
with dull misery, that the immortals, if there were any, must be
clamouring for the curtain to descend forever upon this shabby human
stage, painful and sordid, with its strutting tragedians and its
bellman's cry of _World Drama_! The snow came down thickly, in large
flakes; a horse shook himself, rubbed his nose against his fellow's
neck, and whinnied mournfully. The pause, which had seemed long, was not
really so. Jackson turned toward the group of waiting officers. "Major
Cleave."
Cleave pushed his horse a little into the road. "Sir."
"You will return with this officer to General Loring's command. It is
far in the rear. You will give General Loring this note." As he spoke he
wrote upon a leaf torn from his pocket-book. The words as he traced them
read: "_General Jackson's compliments to General Loring. He has some
fault to find with the zeal of General Loring, his officers and men.
General Loring will represent to himself that in war soldiers are
occasionally called upon to travel in winter weather. Campaigns cannot
always be conducted in seasons of roses. General Loring will urge his
men forward, without further complaint. T. J. Jackson, Major-General._"
He folded the leaf and gave it to Richard Cleave, then touched Little
Sorrel with his heavy spur and with Ashby and the staff rode on through
the falling snow, between the hills. The small cavalry advance passed,
too, grey and ghost-like in the grasp of General January, disappearing
within the immense and floating veil of the snow. When all were gone
Stafford and Cleave turned their horses' heads toward the distant
column, vaguely seen in the falling day. Stafford made an expressive
sound.
"I am sorry," said Cleave gravely. "But when you have been with him
longer you will understand him better."
"I think that he is really mad."
The other shook his head. "He is not mad. Don't get that idea, Stafford.
It _is_ hard on the troops, poor fellows! How the snow falls! We had
better turn out and let the guns pass."
They moved into the untrodden snow lying in the fence corners and
watched the guns, the horses, and men strain past with a sombre noise.
Officers and men knew Richard Cleave, and several hailed him. "Where in
hell are we going, Cleave? Old Jack likes you! Tell him, won't you, that
it's damned hard on the horses, and we haven't much to eat ourselves?
Tell him even the guns are complaining! Tell him--Yes, sir! Get up
there, Selim! Pull, Flora, pull!--Whoa!--Damnation! Come lay a hand to
this gun, boys! Where's Hetterich! Hetterich, this damned wheel's off
again!"
The delay threatening to be considerable, the two men rode on, picking
their way, keeping to the low bank, or using the verge of the crowded
road. At last they left the artillery, and found themselves again upon a
lonely way. "I love that arm," said Cleave. "There isn't a gun there
that isn't alive to me." He turned in his saddle and looked back at the
last caisson vanishing over the hill.
"Shall you remain with the staff?"
"No. Only through this campaign. I prefer the line."
The snow fell so fast that the trampled and discoloured road was again
whitening beneath it. Half a mile ahead was visible the Stonewall
Brigade, coming very slowly, beaten by the wind, blinded by the snow, a
spectral grey serpent upon the winding road.
Stafford spoke abruptly. "I am in your debt for the arrangements I found
made for me in Winchester. I have had no opportunity to thank you. You
were extremely good so to trouble yourself--"
"It was no trouble. As I told you once before, I am anxious to serve
you."
They met the brigade, Garnett riding at the head. "Good-day, Richard
Cleave," he said. "We are all bound for Siberia, I think!" Company by
company the regiments staggered by, in the whirling snow, the colours
gripped by stiffening hands. There were blood stains on the frozen
ground. Oh, the shoes, the shoes that a non-manufacturing country with
closed ports had to make in haste and send its soldiers! Oh, the
muskets, heavy, dull, ungleaming, weighting the fiercely aching
shoulders! Oh, the snow, mounded on cap, on cartridge box, on rolled
blanket and haversack. Oh, the northwest wind like a lash, the pinched
stomach, the dry lips, the wavering sight, the weariness excessive! The
strong men were breathing hard, their brows drawn together and upward.
The weaker soldiers had a ghastly look, as of life shrunk to a point.
_Close up, men! Close up--close up!_
Farther down the line, on the white bank to which they tried to keep,
the column almost filling the narrow road, Cleave checked his horse. "I
have a brother in this regiment, and he has been ill--"
A company came stumbling by, heads bent before the bitter wind. He spoke
to its captain, the captain spoke to a lieutenant, the lieutenant to a
private in the colour guard, who at once fell out of line and sprang
somewhat stiffly across the wayside depression to the two horsemen drawn
up upon the bank. "Well, Richard! It's snowing."
"Have you had anything to eat, Will?"
"Loads. I had a pone of cornbread and a Mr. Rat in my file had a piece
of bacon. We added them and then divided them, and it was lovely, so far
as it went!" He laughed ruefully. "Only I've still that typhoid fever
appetite--"
His brother took from under the cape of his coat a small parcel. "Here
are some slices of bread and meat. I hoped I would see you, and so I
saved them. Where is that comforter Miriam knitted you?"
The boy's eyes glistened as he put out a gaunt young hand and took the
parcel. "Won't Mr. Rat and I have a feast! We were just talking of old
Judge at the Institute, and of how good his warm loaves used to taste!
Seems like an answer to prayer. Thank you, Richard! Miriam's comforter?
There's a fellow, a clerk from the store at Balcony Falls, who hasn't
much stamina and no shoes at all. They were bad when he started, and one
fell to pieces yesterday, and he left most of the other on that bad
piece of road this morning. So at the last halt we cut my comforter in
two and tied up his feet with it--I didn't need it, anyway." He looked
over his shoulder. "Well, I'd better be catching up!"
Richard put a hand upon his arm. "Don't give away any more clothing. You
have your blanket, I see."
"Yes, and Mr. Rat has an oilcloth. Oh, we'll sleep. I could sleep now--"
he spoke dreamily; "right in that fence corner. Doesn't it look soft and
white?--like a feather bed with lovely clean sheets. The fence rails
make it look like my old crib at home--" He pulled himself together with
a jerk. "You take care of yourself, Richard! I'm all right. Mr. Rat and
I were soldiers before the war broke out!" He was gone, stumbling
stiffly across to the road, running stiffly to overtake his company. His
brother looked after him with troubled eyes, then with a sigh picked up
the reins and followed Stafford toward the darkening east.
The two going one way, the haggard regiments another, the line that
seemed interminable came at last toward its end. The 65th held the rear.
There were greetings from many throats, and from Company A a cheer.
Hairston Breckinridge, now its captain, came across. "_Judge Allen's
Resolutions_--hey, Richard! The world has moved since then! I wish
Fincastle could see us now--or rather I don't wish it! Oh, we're holding
out all right! The men are trumps." Mathew Coffin, too, came up. "It
doesn't look much, Major Cleave, like the day we marched away! All the
serenading and the flowers--we never thought war could be ugly." He
glanced disconsolately down at a torn cuff and a great smear of frozen
mire adorning his coat. "I'm rather glad the ladies can't see us."
The Stonewall Brigade went by. There was again a stretch of horribly cut
road, empty save for here and there poor stragglers, sitting dismally
huddled together beneath a cedar, or limping on painful feet, hoping
somewhere to overtake "the boys." A horse had fallen dead and had been
dragged out of the road and through a gap in the fencing into a narrow
field. Beyond this, on the farther boundary of grey rails, three
buzzards were sitting, seen like hobgoblins through the veiling snow.
The afternoon was closing in; it could only be said that the world was a
dreary one.
The Army of the Kanawha, Loring's three brigades, with the batteries
attached, came into view a long way off, grey streaks upon the road.
Before the two horsemen reached it it had halted for the night, broken
ranks, and flowed into the desolate fields. There was yet an hour of
daylight, but discontent had grown marked, the murmuring loud, and the
halt was made. A few of the wagons were up, and a dark and heavy wood
filling a ravine gave fagots for the gathering. The two aides found
Loring himself, middle-aged and imposing, old Indian fighter, hero of
Contreras, Churubusco, Chapultepec, and Garita de Belen, commander,
since the transference of General Robert E. Lee to South Carolina, of
the Army of the Kanawha, gallant and dashing, with an arm left in
Mexico, with a gift for picturesque phrases, with a past full of variety
and a future of a like composition, with a genuine tenderness and care
for his men, and an entire conviction that both he and his troops were
at present in the convoy of a madman--they found Loring seated on a log
beside a small fire and engaged in cooling in the snow a too-hot tin cup
of coffee. His negro servant busily toasted hardtack; a brigadier seated
on an opposite log was detailing, half fiercely, half plaintively, the
conditions under which his brigade was travelling. The two from Jackson
dismounted, crunched their way over the snow and saluted. The general
looked up. "Good-evening, gentlemen! Is that you, Stafford? Well, did
you do your prettiest--and did he respond?"
"Yes, sir, he responded," replied Stafford, with grimness. "But not by
me.--Major Cleave, sir, of his staff."
Cleave came forward, out of the whirling snow, and gave Jackson's
missive. It was so dull and dark a late afternoon that all things were
indistinct. "Give me a light here, Jupiter!" said Loring, and the negro
by the fire lit a great sliver of pine and held it like a torch above
the page. Loring read, and his face grew purple. With a suppressed oath
he sat a moment, staring at the paper, then with his one hand folded it
against his knee. His fingers shook, not with cold, but with rage. "Very
good, very good! That's what he says, isn't it, all the time? 'Very
good!' or is it 'Good, good!'" He felt himself growing incoherent,
pulled himself sharply together, and with his one hand thrust the paper
into his breast pocket. "It's all right, Stafford. Major Cleave, the
Army of the Kanawha welcomes you. Will you stay with us to-night, or
have you fifty miles to make ere dawn?"
Cleave, it appeared, had not fifty miles to make, but four. He must
report at the appointed bivouac. Loring tore with his one hand a leaf
from his pocket-book, found his pencil, and using a booted knee for a
table, wrote a line, folded and superscribed it. "This for General
Jackson. Ugh, what freezing weather! Sit down and drink a cup of coffee
before you go. You, too, Maury. Here, Jupiter! hot coffee. Major Cleave,
do you remember Aesop's fables?"
"Yes, sir,--a number of them."
"A deal of knowledge there of damned human nature! The frog that swelled
and swelled and thought himself an ox. Curious how your boyhood books
come back into your mind! Sit down, gentlemen, sit down! Reardon's got a
box of cigars tucked away somewhere or he isn't Reardon--"
Along the edge of the not-distant ravine other small fires had been
built. From the circle about one of these arose a quavering voice--a
soldier trying to sing cheer into company.
Dere was an old niggah, dey called him Uncle Ned--
He's dead long ago, long ago!
He had no wool on de top ob his head,
De place whar de wool ought to grow.
Den lay down de shubble an de hoe,
Hang up de fiddle an de bow--