Produced by Ken Reeder
THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA
A STORY OF THE WESTERN CRISIS
By Joseph A. Altsheler
FOREWORD
“The Rock of Chickamauga,” presenting a critical phase of the great
struggle in the west, is the sixth volume in the series, dealing with
the Civil War, of which its predecessors have been “The Guns of Bull
Run,” “The Guns of Shiloh,” “The Scouts of Stonewall,” “The Sword of
Antietam” and “The Star of Gettysburg.” Dick Mason who fights on the
Northern side, is the hero of this romance, and his friends reappear
also.
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. AT BELLEVUE
II. FORREST
III. GRANT MOVES
IV. DICK'S MISSION
V. HUNTED
VI. A BOLD ATTACK
VII. THE LITTLE CAPITAL
VIII. CHAMPION HILL
IX. THE OPEN DOOR
X. THE GREAT ASSAULT
XI. THE TAKING OF VICKSBURG
XII. AN AFFAIR OF THE MOUNTAINS
XIII. THE RIVER OF DEATH
XIV. THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA
XV. BESIDE THE BROOK
THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA
CHAPTER I. AT BELLEVUE
“You have the keenest eyes in the troop. Can you see anything ahead?”
asked Colonel Winchester.
“Nothing living, sir,” replied Dick Mason, as he swept his powerful
glasses in a half-curve. “There are hills on the right and in the
center, covered with thick, green forest, and on the left, where the
land lies low, the forest is thick and green too, although I think I
catch a flash of water in it.”
“That should be the little river of which our map tells. And you,
Warner, what do your eyes tell you?”
“The same tale they tell to Dick, sir. It looks to me like a
wilderness.”
“And so it is. It's a low-lying region of vast forests and thickets,
of slow deep rivers and creeks, and of lagoons and bayous. If Northern
troops want to be ambushed they couldn't come to a finer place for it.
Forrest and five thousand of his wild riders might hide within rifle
shot of us in this endless mass of vegetation. And so, my lads, it
behooves us to be cautious with a very great caution. You will recall
how we got cut up by Forrest in the Shiloh time.”
“I do, sir,” said Dick and he shuddered as he recalled those terrible
moments. “This is Mississippi, isn't it?”
Colonel Winchester took a small map from his pocket, and, unfolding it,
examined it with minute care.
“If this is right, and I'm sure it is,” he replied, “we're far down in
Mississippi in the sunken regions that border the sluggish tributaries
of the Father of Waters. The vegetation is magnificent, but for a home
give me higher ground, Dick.”
“Me too, sir,” said Warner. “The finest state in this Union is Vermont.
I like to live on firm soil, even if it isn't so fertile, and I like to
see the clear, pure water running everywhere, brooks and rivers.”
“I'll admit that Vermont is a good state for two months in the year,”
said Dick.
“Why not the other ten?”
“Because then it's frozen up, solid and hard, so I've heard.”
The other boys laughed and kept up their chaff, but Colonel Winchester
rode soberly ahead. Behind him trailed the Winchester regiment, now
reorganized and mounted. Fresh troops had come from Kentucky, and
fragments of old regiments practically destroyed at Perryville and Stone
River had been joined to it.
It was a splendid body of men, but of those who had gone to Shiloh only
about two hundred remained. The great conflicts of the West, and the
minor battles had accounted for the others. But it was perhaps one of
the reliefs of the Civil War that it gave the lads who fought it little
time to think of those who fell. Four years crowded with battles, great
and small, sieges and marches absorbed their whole attention.
Now two men, the dreaded Forrest and fierce little Joe Wheeler, occupied
the minds of Winchester and his officers. It was impossible to keep
track of these wild horsemen here in their own section. They had a habit
of appearing two or three hundred miles from the place at which they
were expected.
But the young lieutenants while they watched too for their redoubtable
foes had an eye also for the country. It was a new kind of region for
all of them. The feet of their horses sank deep in the soft black soil,
and there was often a sound of many splashings as the regiment rode
across a wide, muddy brook.
Dick noted with interest the magnolias and the live oaks, and the great
stalks of the sunflower. Here in this Southern state, which bathed
its feet in the warm waters of the Gulf, spring was already far along,
although snows still lingered in the North.
The vegetation was extravagant in its luxuriance and splendor. The
enormous forest was broken by openings like prairies, and in every one
of them the grass grew thick and tall, interspersed with sunflowers and
blossoming wild plants. Through the woods ran vast networks of vines,
and birds of brilliant plumage chattered in the trees. Twice, deer
sprang up before them and raced away in the forest. It was the
wilderness almost as De Soto had traversed it nearly four centuries
before, and it had a majesty which in its wildness was not without its
sinister note.
They approached a creek, deeper and wider than usual, flowing in slow,
yellow coils, and, as they descended into the marsh that enclosed its
waters, there was a sharp crackling sound, followed quickly by another
and then by many others. The reports did not cease, and, although
blood was shed freely, no man fell from his horse, nor was any wounded
mortally. But the assault was vicious and it was pushed home with the
utmost courage and tenacity, although many of the assailants fell never
to rise again. Cries of pain and anger, and imprecations arose from the
stricken regiment.
“Slap! Slap!”
“Bang! Bang!”
“Ouch! He's got his bayonet in my cheek!”
“Heavens, that struck me like a minie ball! And it came, whistling and
shrieking, too, just like one!”
“Phew, how they sting! and my neck is bleeding in three places!”
“By thunder, Bill, I hit that fellow, fair and square! He'll never
trouble an honest Yankee soldier again!”
The fierce buzzing increased all around them and Colonel Winchester
shouted to his trumpeter:
“Blow the charge at once!”
The man, full willing, put the trumpet to his lips and blew loud and
long. The whole regiment went across the creek at a gallop--the water
flying in yellow showers--and did not stop until, emerging from the
marsh, they reached the crest of a low hill a mile beyond. Here, stung,
bleeding and completely defeated by the enemy they stopped for repairs.
An occasional angry buzz showed that they were not yet safe from the
skirmishers, but their attack seemed a light matter after the full
assault of the determined foe.
“I suppose we're all wounded,” said Dick as he wiped a bleeding cheek.
“At least as far as I can see they're hurt. The last fellow who got his
bayonet in my face turned his weapon around and around and sang merrily
at every revolution.”
“We were afraid of being ambushed by Forrest,” said Warner, speaking
from a swollen countenance. “Instead we struck something worse; we rode
straight into an ambush of ten billion high-powered mosquitoes, every
one tipped with fire. Have we got enemies like these to fight all the
way down here?”
“They sting the rebels, too,” said Pennington.
“Yes, but they like newcomers best, the unacclimated. When we rode down
into that swamp I could hear them shouting, to one another: 'That fat
fellow is mine, I saw him first! I've marked the rosy-cheeked boy for
mine. Keep away the rest of you fellows!' I feel as if I'd been through
a battle. No more marshes for me.”
Some of the provident produced bottles of oil of pennyroyal. Sergeant
Daniel Whitley, who rode a giant bay horse, was one of the most
foreseeing in this respect, and, after the boys had used his soothing
liniment freely, the fiery torment left by the mosquito's sting passed
away.
The sergeant seemed to have grown bigger and broader than ever. His
shoulders were about to swell through his faded blue coat, and the hand
resting easily on the rein had the grip and power of a bear's paw. His
rugged face had been tanned by the sun of the far south to the color of
an Indian's. He was formidable to a foe, and yet no gentler heart beat
than that under his old blue uniform. Secretly he regarded the young
lieutenants, his superiors in military rank and education, as brave
children, and often he cared for them where his knowledge and skill were
greater than theirs or even than that of colonels and generals.
“God bless you, Sergeant,” said Dick, “you don't look like an angel, but
you are one--that is, of the double-fisted, fighting type.”
The sergeant merely smiled and replaced the bottle carefully in his
pocket, knowing that they would have good use for it again.
The regiment after salving its wounds resumed its watchful march.
“Do you know where we're going?” Pennington asked Dick.
“I think we're likely if we live long enough to land in the end before
Vicksburg, the great Southern fortress, but as I gather it we mean
to curve and curl and twist about a lot before then. Grant, they say,
intends to close in on Vicksburg, while Rosecrans farther north is
watching Bragg at Chattanooga. We're a flying column, gathering up
information, and ready for anything.”
“It's funny,” said Warner thoughtfully, “that we've already got so far
south in the western field. We can't be more than two or three hundred
miles from the Gulf. Besides, we've already taken New Orleans, the
biggest city of the South, and our fleet is coming up the river to meet
us. Yet in the East we don't seem to make any progress at all. We lose
great battles there and Fredericksburg they say was just a slaughter of
our men. How do you make it out, Dick?”
“I've thought of several reasons for it. Our generals in the West are
better than our generals in the East, or their generals in the East are
better than their generals in the West. And then there are the rivers.
In the East they mostly run eastward between the two armies, and they
are no help to us, but a hindrance rather. Here in the West the rivers,
and they are many and great, mostly run southward, the way we want to
go, and they bring our gunboats on their bosoms. Excuse my poetry, but
it's what I mean.”
“You must be right. I think that all the reasons you give apply
together. But our command of the water has surely been a tremendous
help. And then we've got to remember, Dick, that there was never a navy
like ours. It goes everywhere and it does everything. Why, if Admiral
Farragut should tell one of those gunboats to steam across the
Mississippi bottoms it would turn its saucy nose, steer right out of
the water into the mud, and blow up with all hands aboard before it quit
trying.”
“You two fellows talk too much,” said Pennington. “You won't let
President Lincoln and Grant and Halleck manage the war, but you want to
run it yourselves.”
“I don't want to run anything just now, Frank,” rejoined Dick. “What I'm
thinking about most is rest and something to eat. I'd like to get rid,
too, of about ten pounds of Mississippi mud that I'm carrying.”
“Well, I can catch a glint of white pillars through those trees.
It means the 'big house' of a plantation, and you'll probably find
somewhere back of it the long rows of cabins, inhabited by the dark
people, whom we've come to raise to the level of their masters, if not
above them. I can see right now the joyous welcome we'll receive from
the owners of the big house. They'll be standing on the great piazza,
waving Union flags and shouting to us that they have ready cooling
drinks and luxurious food for us all.”
“It's hardly a joke to me. Whatever the cause of the war, it's the
bitterness of death for these people to be overrun. Besides, I remember
the words of that old fellow in the blacksmith shop before we fought
the battle of Stone River. He said that even if they were beaten they'd
still be there holding the land and running things.”
“That's true,” said Warner. “I've been wondering how this war would end,
and now I'm wondering what will happen after it does end. But here we
are at the gate. What big grounds! These great planters certainly had
space!”
“And what silence!” said Dick. “It's uncanny, George. A place like this
must have had a thousand slaves, and I don't see any of them rushing
forward to welcome their liberators.”
“Probably contraband, gone long ago to Ben Butler at New Orleans. I
don't believe there's a soul here.”
“Remember that lone house in Tennessee where a slip of a girl brought
Forrest down on us and had us cut pretty nearly to pieces.”
“I couldn't forget it.”
Nor could Colonel Winchester. The house, large and low, stood in grounds
covering an area of several acres, enclosed by a paling fence, now
sagging in many places. Great stone posts stood on either side of the
gateway, but the gate was opened, and it, too, sagged.
The grounds had evidently been magnificent, both with flowers and forest
trees. Already many of the flowers were blooming in great luxuriance and
brilliancy, but the walks and borders were untrimmed. The house was of
wood, painted white with green shutters, and as they drew nearer they
appreciated its great size, although it was only two stories in height.
A hundred persons could have slept there, and twice as many could have
found shade in the wide piazzas which stretched the full length of the
four sides.
But all the doors and shutters were closed and no smoke rose from any
chimney. They caught a glimpse of the cabins for the slaves, on lower
ground some distance behind the great house. The whole regiment reined
up as they approached the carriage entrance, and, although they were
eight hundred strong, there was plenty of room without putting a single
hoof upon a flower.
It was a great place. That leaped to the eye, but it was not marked upon
Colonel Winchester's map, nor had he heard of it.
“It's a grand house,” he said to his aides, “and it's a pity that it
should go to ruin after the slaves are freed, as they certainly will
be.”
“But it was built upon slave labor,” said Warner.
“So it was, and so were many of the most famous buildings in the world.
But here, I'm not going to get into an argument about such questions
with young men under my command. Besides, I'm fighting to destroy
slavery, not to study its history. Sergeant Whitley, you're an
experienced trailer: do you see any signs that troops have passed here?”
“None at all, sir. Down near the gate where the drive is out of repair
I noticed wheel tracks, but they were several days old. The freshest of
them were light, as if made by buggies. I judge, sir, that it was the
family, the last to leave.”
“And the wagons containing their valuables had gone on ahead?”
“It would seem so, sir.”
Colonel Winchester sighed.
“An invader is always feared and hated,” he said.
“But we do come as enemies,” said Dick, “and this feeling toward us
can't be helped.”
“That's true. No matter what we do we'll never make any friends here in
one of the Gulf states, the very core of Southern feeling. Dick, take
a squad of men and enter the house. Pennington, you and Warner go with
him.”
Dick sprang down instantly, chose Sergeant Whitley first and with the
others entered the great portico. The front door was locked but it
was easy enough to force it with a gun butt, and they went in, but
not before Dick had noticed over the door in large letters the name,
“Bellevue.” So this was Bellevue, one of the great cotton plantations of
Mississippi. He now vaguely remembered that he had once heard his uncle,
Colonel Kenton, speak of having stopped a week here. But he could not
recall the name of the owner. Strong for the Union as he was Dick was
glad that the family had gone before the Northern cavalry came.
The house was on a splendid scale inside also, but all the rugs and
curtains were gone. As they entered the great parlor Dick saw a large
piece of paper, and he flushed as he read written upon it in tall
letters:
TO THE YANKEE RAIDERS:
YOU NEED NOT LOOK FOR THE SILVER.
IT HAS BEEN TAKEN TO VICKSBURG.
“Look at that!” he said indignantly to Warner. “See how they taunt us!”
But Warner laughed.
“Maybe some of our men at New Orleans have laid us open to such a stab,”
he said. Then he added whimsically:
“We'll go to Vicksburg with Grant, Dick, and get that silver yet.”
“The writing's fresh,” said Sergeant Whitley, who also looked at the
notification. “The paper hasn't begun to twist and curl yet. It's not
been posted up there many hours.”
Colonel Winchester entered at that moment and the notice was handed to
him. He, too, flushed a little when he read it, but the next instant he
laughed. Dick then called his attention to the apparent fact that it had
been put there recently.
“May I speak a word, Colonel,” said Warner, who had been thinking so
hard that there was a line the full length of his forehead.
“Yes, George, a dozen if you like. Go ahead. What is it?”
“The sergeant, who has had much experience as a trailer, told us that
the tracks made by the buggy wheels were several days old. The slaves
probably had been sent southward before that time. Now some one who
saw our advance has come back, and, whoever it was, he was thoroughly
familiar with the house. He couldn't have been a servant. Servants
don't leave taunts of that kind. It must have been somebody who felt our
coming deeply, and if it had been an elderly man he would have waited
for action, he wouldn't have used saucy words. So, sir, I think it must
have been a boy. Just like Pennington there, for instance.”
“Good, George, go on with your reasonings.”
“As surely, sir, as z plus y equals the total of the two, the one who
put up the placard was a son of the owner. He alone would feel deeply
enough to take so great a risk. The conditions absolutely demand that
the owner has such a son and that he has done it.”
“Very good, George. I think you're right, and this youth in giving way
to a natural burst of anger, although he did not mean to do so, has
posted up for us a warning. A lad of his spirit would go in search
of Forrest, and we cannot forget our experience with that general in
Tennessee. Now, boys, we'll make ready for the night, which is not far
away.”
The house was built for a Southern climate, although Dick had learned
that it could be cold enough in Central Mississippi in midwinter. But
it was spring now and they opened all the doors and windows, letting the
pleasant air rush through the musty house.
“It may rain,” said Colonel Winchester, “and the officers will sleep
inside. The men will spread their blankets on the piazzas, and the
horses will be tethered in the grounds. I hate to see the flowers and
grass trodden down, but nature will restore them.”
Some of the soldiers gathered wood from heaps nearby and fires were
kindled in the kitchen, and also on the hearths in the slave quarters.
Colonel Winchester had been truly called the father of his regiment.
He was invariably particular about its health and comfort, and, as he
always led it in person in battle, there was no finer body of men in the
Union service.
Now he meant for his men to have coffee, and warm food after this long
and trying ride and soon savory odors arose, although the cooking was
not begun until after dark, lest the smoke carry a signal to a lurking
enemy. The cavalrymen cut the thick grass which grew everywhere, and fed
it to their horses, eight hundred massive jaws munching in content. The
beasts stirred but little after their long ride and now and then one
uttered a satisfied groan.
The officers drank their coffee and ate their food on the eastern
piazza, which overlooked a sharp dip toward a creek three or four
hundred yards away. The night had rushed down suddenly after the fashion
of the far South, and from the creek they heard faintly the hoarse frogs
calling. Beyond the grounds a close ring of sentinels watched, because
Colonel Winchester had no mind to be surprised again by Forrest or by
Fighting Joe Wheeler or anybody else.
The night was thick and dark and moist with clouds. Dick, despite the
peace that seemed to hang over everything, was oppressed. The desolate
house, even more than the sight of the field after the battle was over,
brought home to him the meaning of war. It was not alone the death
of men but the uprooting of a country for their children and their
children's children as well. Then his mind traveled back to his uncle,
Colonel Kenton, and suddenly he smote his knee.
“What is it, Dick,” asked Colonel Winchester, who sat only two or three
yards away.
“Now I remember, sir. When I was only seven or eight years old I heard
my uncle tell of stopping, as I told you, at a great plantation in
Mississippi called Bellevue, but I couldn't recall the name of its
owner. I know him now.”
“What is the name, Dick?”
“Woodville, John Woodville. He was a member of the Mississippi Senate,
and he was probably the richest man in the State.”
“I think I have heard the name. He is a Confederate colonel now, with
Pemberton's army. No doubt we'll have to fight him later on.”
“Meanwhile, we're using his house.”
“Fortune of war. But all war is in a sense unfair, because it's usually
a question of the greater force. At any rate, Dick, we won't harm
Colonel Woodville's home.”
“Yet in the end, sir, a lot of these great old country places will go,
and what will take their place? You and I, coming from a border state,
know that the colored race is not made up of Uncle Toms.”
“Well, Dick, we haven't won yet, and until we do we won't bother
ourselves about the aftermath of war. I'm glad we found so large a place
as this. At the last moment I sent part of the men to the cabins, but
at least three or four hundred must lie here on the piazzas. And most of
them are already asleep. It's lucky they have roofs. Look how the clouds
are gathering!”
As much more room had been made upon the piazzas by the assignment of
men to the cabins, Colonel Winchester and some of his officers also
rested there. Dick, lying between the two blankets which he always
carried in a roll tied to his saddle, was very comfortable now, with his
head on his knapsack. The night had turned cooler, and, save when faint
and far lightning quivered, it was heavy and dark with clouds. But the
young lieutenants, hardened by two years of war and life in the open,
felt snug and cosy on the broad, sheltered piazza. It was not often they
found such good quarters, and Dick, like Colonel Winchester, was truly
thankful that they had reached Bellevue before the coming storm.
It was evident now that the night was going to be wild. The lightning
grew brighter and came nearer, cutting fiercely across the southern sky.
The ominous rumble of thunder, which reminded Dick so much of the mutter
of distant battle, came from the horizon on which the lightning was
flashing.
Colonel Winchester, Pennington and Warner had gone to sleep, but Dick
was wakeful. He had again that feeling of pity for the people who had
been compelled to flee from such a house, and who might lose it forever.
It seemed to him that all the men, save himself and the sentinels, were
asleep, sleeping with the soundness and indifference to surroundings
shown by men who took their sleep when they could.
The horses stamped and moved uneasily beneath the threat of the
advancing storm, but the men slept heavily on.
Dick knew that the sentinels were awake and watchful. They had a
wholesome dread of Forrest and Wheeler, those wild riders of the South.
Some of them had been present at that terrible surprise in Tennessee,
and they were not likely to be careless when they were sure that Forrest
might be near, but he remained uneasy nevertheless, and, although he
closed his eyes and sought a soft place for his head on the saddle,
sleep did not come.
He was sure that his apprehension did not come from any fear of an
attack by Forrest or Wheeler. It was deeper-seated. The inherited sense
that belonged to his great grandfather, who had lived his life in the
wilderness, was warning him. It was not superstition. It seemed to Dick
merely the palpable result of an inheritance that had gone into the
blood. His famous great-grandfather, Paul Cotter, and his famous friend,
Henry Ware, had lived so much and so long among dangers that the very
air indicated to them when they were at hand.
Dick looked down the long piazza, so long that the men at either end of
it were hidden by darkness. The tall trees in the grounds were nodding
before the wind, and the lightning flashed incessantly in the southwest.
The thunder was not loud, but it kept up a continuous muttering and
rumbling. The rain was coming in fitful gusts, but he knew that it would
soon drive hard and for a long time.
Everybody within Dick's area of vision was sound asleep, except himself.
Colonel Winchester lay with his head on his arm and his slumber was so
deep that he was like one dead. Warner had not stirred a particle in the
last half-hour. Dick was angry at himself because he could not sleep.
Let the storm burst! It might drive on the wide roof of the piazza
and the steady beating sound would make his sleep all the sounder and
sweeter. He recalled, as millions of American lads have done, the days
when he lay in his bed just under the roof and heard hail and sleet
drive against it, merely to make him feel all the snugger in the bed
with his covers drawn around him.
The fitful gusts of rain ceased, and then it came with a steady pour and
roar, driving directly down, thus leaving the men on the outer edges of
the piazzas untouched and dry. Still, Dick did not sleep, and at last
he arose and walked softly into the house. Here the sense of danger
grew stronger. He was reminded again of his early boyhood, when some one
blindfolded was told to find a given object, and the others called “hot”
when he was near or “cold” when he was away. He was feeling hot now.
That inherited sense, the magnetic feeling out of the past, was warning
him.
Dick felt sure that some one not of their regiment was in the building.
He neither saw nor heard the least sign of a presence, but he was
absolutely certain that he was not alone within Bellevue. Since the
lightning had ceased it was pitchy dark inside. There was a wide hall
running through the building, with windows above the exits, but he saw
nothing through them save the driving rain and the dim outline of the
threshing trees.
He turned into one of the side rooms, and then he paused and pushed
himself against the wall. He was sure now that he heard a soft footstep.
The darkness was so intense that it could be felt like a mist. He waited
but he did not hear it again, and then he began to make his way around
the wall, stepping as lightly as he could.
He had gone through most of the rooms at their arrival and he still
retained a clear idea of the interior of the house. He knew that there
was another door on the far side of the chamber in which he stood, and
he meant to follow the wall until he reached it. Some one had been in
the room with him and Dick believed that he was leaving by the far door.
While he heard no further footsteps he felt a sudden light draught on
his face and he knew that the door had been opened and shut. He might
go to Colonel Winchester and tell him that a lurking spy or somebody
of that character was in the house, but what good would it do? A spy
at such a time and in such a place could not harm them, and the whole
regiment would be disturbed for nothing. He would follow the chase
alone.
He found the door and passed into the next room. Its windows opened upon
the southern piazza and two or three shutters were thrown back. A faint
light entered and Dick saw that no one was there but himself. He could
discern the dim figures of the soldiers sleeping on the piazza and
beyond a cluster of the small pines grown on lawns.
Dick felt that he had lost the trail for the time, but he did not intend
to give it up. Doubtless the intruder was some one who knew the house
and who was also aware of his presence inside. He also felt that he
would not be fired upon, because the stranger himself would not wish to
bring the soldiers down upon him. So, with a hand upon his pistol butt,
he opened the side door and followed once more into the darkness.
The ghostly chase went on for a full half-hour, Dick having nothing to
serve him save an occasional light footfall. There was one period of
more than half an hour when he lost the fugitive entirely. He wandered
up to the second floor and then back again. There, in a room that had
been the library, he caught a glimpse of the man. But the figure was so
shadowy that he could tell nothing about him.
“Halt!” cried Dick, snatching out his pistol. But when he leveled it
there was nothing to aim at. The figure had melted away, or rather it
had flitted through another door. Dick followed, chagrined. The stranger
seemed to be playing with him. Obviously, it was some one thoroughly
acquainted with the house, and that brought to Dick's mind the thought
that he himself, instead of the other man, was the stranger there.
He came at last to a passage which led to the kitchen, a great room,
because many people were often guests at Bellevue, and here he stopped
short, while his heart suddenly beat hard. A distinct odor coming from
different points suddenly assailed his nostrils. He had smelled it too
often in the last two years to be mistaken. It was smoke, and Bellevue
had been set on fire in several places.
He inhaled it once or twice and then he saw again the shadowy figure
flitting down to the passage and to a small door that, unnoticed by the
soldiers, opened on the kitchen garden in the rear of the house.
Dick never acted more promptly. Instantly he fired his pistol into the
ceiling, the report roaring in the confined spaces of the house, and
then shouting with all his might: “Fire! Fire! Fire!” as he dashed down
the passage he ran through the little door, which the intruder had left
open, and pursued him in the darkness and rain into the garden. There
was a flash ahead of him and a bullet whistled past his ear, but he
merely increased his speed and raced in the direction of the flash. As
he ran he heard behind him a tremendous uproar, the voices and tread
of hundreds of soldiers, awakened suddenly, and he knew that they would
rush through Bellevue in search of the fires.
But it was Dick's impulse to capture the daring intruder who would
destroy the house over their heads. Built of wood, it would burn so
fast, once the torches were set, that the rain would have little effect
upon the leaping flames, unless measures were taken at once, which he
knew that the regiment would do, under such a capable man as Colonel
Winchester. Meanwhile he was hot in pursuit.
The trail which was not that of footsteps, but of a shadowy figure, ran
between tall and close rows of grapevines so high on wooden framework
that they hid any one who passed. The suspicion that Dick had held at
first was confirmed. This was no stranger, no intruder. He knew every
inch of both house and grounds, and, after having set the house on fire,
he had selected the only line of retreat, but a safe one, through the
thick and lofty vegetation of the garden, which ran down to the edge
of the ravine in the rear, where he could slip quietly under the fence,
drop through the thick grass into the ravine unseen by the pickets, and
escape at his leisure in the darkness.
Dick was so sure of his theory that he strained every effort to overtake
the figure which was flitting before him like a ghost. In his eagerness
he had forgotten to shout any alarm about the pickets, but it would
have been of no avail, as most of them, under the impulse of alarm, had
rushed forward to help extinguish the fires.
He saw the fugitive reach the end of the garden, drop almost flat, and
then slip under a broken place in the palings. At an ordinary time
he would have stopped there, but all the instincts of the hunter were
aroused. It was still raining, and he was already soaked. Wet branches
and leaves struck him in the face as he passed, but his energy and
eagerness were undimmed.
He, too, dropped at the hole under the broken palings and slid forward
face foremost. The wet grass was as slippery as ice, and after he passed
through the hole Dick kept going. Moreover, his speed increased. He had
not realized that the garden went to the very edge of the ravine, and he
was shooting down a steep slope to the depth of thirty feet. He grasped
instinctively at weeds and grass as he made his downward plunge and
fetched up easily at the bottom.
He sprang to his feet and saw the shadowy fugitive running down the
ravine. In an instant he followed headlong, tripped once or twice on the
wet grass, but was up every time like lightning, and once more in swift
pursuit. The fugitive turned once, raised his pistol and pulled the
trigger again, evidently forgetful that it was empty. When the hammer
snapped on the trigger he uttered a low cry of anger and hurled the
useless weapon into the grass. Then he whirled around and faced Dick,
who was coming on, eager and panting.
Dick's own pistol was empty and he did not carry his small sword. He
stopped abruptly when the other turned, and, in the dim light and rain,
he saw that his opponent was a young man or rather youth of about his
own size and age. When he saw the lad cast the pistol aside Dick, moved
by some chivalrous impulse, dropped his own in the grass.
Then the two stared at each other. They were far beyond the line of the
pickets, and as they stood in the deep ravine there was no chance that
any one would either see or hear them. As Dick gazed intently, the face
and figure of his antagonist shaped themselves more distinctly in the
dim light. He beheld before him a tall youth, extremely well built, fair
of face, his brown hair slightly long. He wore rain-soaked civilian's
garb.
He saw that the youth was panting like himself, but it was not wholly
the result of flight. His face expressed savage anger and indignation.
“You dirty Yankee!” he said.
Dick started. No one had ever before addressed him with such venom.
“If by Yankee you mean loyalty to the Union then I'm one,” he said, “and
I'm proud of it. What's more I'm willing to tell who I am. My name is
Richard Mason. I'm from Kentucky, and I'm a lieutenant in the regiment
of Colonel Arthur Winchester, which occupies the building behind us.”
“From Kentucky and consorting with Yankees! A lot of you are doing it,
and you ought to be on our side! We hate you for it more than we do the
real Yankees!”
“It's our right to choose, and we've chosen. And now, since you're
talking so much about right and wrong, who may you be, Mr. Firebug?”
Even in the dark Dick saw his opponent's face flush, and his eyes flash
with deadly hostility.
“My name is Victor Woodville,” he replied, “and my father is Colonel
John Woodville, C.S.A. He is the owner of the house in which your
infamous Yankee regiment is encamped.”
“And which you have tried to burn?”
“I'd rather see it burn than shelter Yankees. You'd burn it anyway later
on. Grant's troops have already begun to use the torch.”
“At any rate you'll go before our colonel. He'll want to ask you a lot
of questions.”
“I'm not going before your colonel.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“Who's going to take me?”
“I am.”
“Then come on and do it.”
Dick advanced warily. Both had regained their breath and strength now.
Dick with two years of active service in the army had the size and
muscles of a man. But so had his opponent. Each measured the other, and
they were formidable antagonists, well matched.
Dick had learned boxing at the Pendleton Academy, and, as he approached
slowly, looking straight into the eyes of his enemy, he suddenly shot
his right straight for Woodville's chin. The Mississippian, as light on
his feet as a leopard, leaped away and countered with his left, a blow
so quick and hard that Dick, although he threw his head to one side,
caught a part of its force just above his ear. But, guarding himself, he
sprang back, while Woodville faced him, laughing lightly.
Dick shook his head a little and the singing departed. Just above his
ear he felt a great soreness, but he was cool now. Moreover, he was
losing his anger.
“First blow for you,” he said. “I see that you know how to use your
fists.”
“I hope to prove it.”
Woodville, stepping lightly on his toes and feinting with his left,
caught Dick on his cheek bone with his right. Then he sought to spring
away, but Dick, although staggered, swung heavily and struck Woodville
on the forehead. The Mississippian went down full length on the slippery
grass but jumped to his feet in an instant. Blood was flowing from his
forehead, whence it ran down his nose and fell to the earth, drop by
drop. Dick himself was bleeding from the cut on his cheek bone.
The two faced each other, cool, smiling, but resolute enemies.
“First knockdown for you,” said Woodville, “but I mean that the second
shall be mine.”
“Go in and try.”
But Woodville drew back a little, and as Dick followed, looking for an
opening he was caught again a heavy clip on the side of the head. He
saw stars and was not able to return the blow, but he sprang back and
protected himself once more with his full guard, while he regained his
balance and strength.
“Am I a firebug?” asked Woodville tauntingly.
Dick considered. This youth interested him. There was no denying that
Woodville had great cause for anger, when he found his father's house
occupied by a regiment of the enemy. He considered it defilement. The
right or wrong of the war had nothing to do with it. It was to him a
matter of emotion.
“I'll take back the epithet 'firebug,'” he said, “but I must stick to my
purpose of carrying you to Colonel Winchester.”
“Always provided you can: Look out for yourself.”
The Mississippian, who was wonderfully agile, suddenly danced in--on his
toes it seemed to Dick--and landed savagely on his opponent's left ear.
Then he was away so quickly and lightly that Dick's return merely cut
the air.
The Kentuckian felt the blood dripping from another point. His ear,
moreover, was very sore and began to swell rapidly. One less enduring
would have given up, but he had a splendid frame, toughened by incessant
hardship. And, above all, enclosed within that frame was a lion heart.
He shook his head slightly, because a buzzing was going on there, but in
a moment or two it stopped.
“Are you satisfied?” asked young Woodville.
“You remember what Paul Jones said: 'I've just begun to fight.'”
“Was it Paul Jones? Well, I suppose it was. Anyhow, if you feel that way
about it, so do I. Then come on again, Mr. Richard Mason.”
Dick's blood was up. The half-minute or so of talk had enabled him to
regain his breath. Although he felt that incessant pain and swelling in
his left ear, his resolution to win was unshaken. Pride was now added to
his other motives.
He took a step forward, feinted, parried skillfully, and then stepped
back. Woodville, always agile as a panther, followed him and swung for
the chin, but Dick, swerving slightly to one side, landed with great
force on Woodville's jaw. The young Mississippian fell, but, while Dick
stood looking at him, he sprang to his feet and faced his foe defiantly.
The blood was running down his cheek and dyeing the whole side of his
face. But Dick saw the spirit in his eye and knew that he was far from
conquered.
Woodville smiled and threw back his long hair from his face.
“A good one for you. You shook me up,” he admitted, “but I don't see any
sign of your ability to carry me to that Yankee colonel, as you boasted
you would do.”
“But I'm going to do it.”
The rain increased and washed the blood from both their faces. It was
dark within the ravine, but they had been face to face so long that they
could read the eyes of each other. Those of Woodville like those of Dick
ceased to express great anger. In the mind of each was growing a respect
for his antagonist. The will to conquer remained, but not the desire to
hate.
“If you're going to do it, then why don't you?” said Woodville.
Dick moved slowly forward, still watching the eyes of the Mississippian.
He believed now that Woodville, agile and alert though he might be, had
not fully recovered his strength. There was terrific steam in that last
punch and the head of the man who had received it might well be buzzing
yet.
Dick then moved in with confidence, but a lightning blow crashed through
his guard, caught him on the chin and sent him to earth. He rose,
though still half-stunned, and saw that the confident, taunting look had
returned to Woodville's face. Fortunate now for Dick that the pure blood
of great woods rangers flowed in his veins, and that he had inherited
from them too an iron frame. His chin was cut and he had seen a thousand
stars. But his eyes cleared and steadily he faced his foe.
“Do I go with you to your colonel?” asked Woodville, ironically.
“You do,” replied Dick firmly.
He looked his enemy steadily in the eye again, and he felt a great sense
of triumph. After such severe punishment he was stronger than ever and
he knew it.
Therefore he must win. He struck heavily, straight for the angle of
Woodville's chin. The Mississippian evaded the blow and flashed in with
his left. But Dick, who was learning to be very wary, dodged it and came
back so swiftly that Woodville was caught and beaten to his knees.
But the son of the house of Bellevue was still so agile that he was
able to recover his feet and spring away. Dick saw, however, that he was
panting heavily. The blow had taken a considerable part of his remaining
strength. He also saw that his antagonist was regarding him with a
curious eye.
“You fight well, Yank,” said Woodville, “although I ought not to call
you Yank, but rather a traitor, as you're a Kentuckian. Still, I've
put my marks on you. You're bleeding a lot and you'd be a sight if it
weren't for this cleansing rain.”
“I've been putting the map of Kentucky on your own face. You don't look
as much like Mississippi as you did. You'll take notice too that you
didn't burn the house. If you'll glance up the side of this ravine
you'll see just a little dying smoke. Eight hundred soldiers put it out
in short order.”
Woodville's face flushed, and his eyes for the first time since the
beginning of the encounter shone with an angry gleam. But the wrathful
fire quickly died.
“On the whole, I'm not sorry,” he said. “It was an impulse that made me
do it. Our army will come and drive you away, and our house will be our
own again.”
“That's putting it fairly. What's the use of burning such a fine place
as Bellevue? Still, we want you. Our colonel has many questions to ask
you.”
“You can't take me.”
Dick judged that the crucial moment had now come. Woodville was
breathing much more heavily than he was, and seemed to be near
exhaustion. Dick darted boldly in, received a swinging right and left on
either jaw that cut his cheeks and made the blood flow. But he sent his
right to Woodville's chin and the young Mississippian without a sound
dropped to the ground, lying relaxed and flat upon his back, his white
face, streaked with red, upturned to the rain.
He was so still that Dick was seized with fear lest he had killed him.
He liked this boy who had fought him so well and, grasping him by both
shoulders, he shook him hard. But when he loosed him Woodville fell back
flat and inert.
Dick heard the waters of a brook trickling down the ravine, and,
snatching off his cap, he ran to it. He filled the cap and returned just
in time to see Woodville leap lightly to his feet and disappear with the
speed of a deer among the bushes.