Dick was bent down in his saddle, trying to protect himself a little
from the driving rain which beat in his eyes and soaked through his
clothing. Warner and Pennington beside him were in the same condition,
and he saw just before him the bent back of Colonel Winchester, with his
left arm raised as a shield for his face. Hoofs and wheels made a heavy,
sticky sound as they sank in the mud, and were then pulled out again.
“Do you see any signs of daylight, Dick?” asked Pennington.
“Not a sign. I see only a part of our regiment, trees on either side of
us bending before the wind, and rain, and mud, mud everywhere. I'll be
glad when it's over.”
“So will I,” said Warner. “I wonder what kind of hotels they have in
Jackson. I'd like to have a bath, good room and a big breakfast.”
“The Johnnies are holding breakfast for you,” said Pennington. “Their
first course is gunpowder, their second bullets, their third shells and
shrapnel, and their fourth bayonets.”
“They'll have to serve a lot at every course,” said Dick, “because
General Grant is advancing with fifty thousand men, and so many need a
lot of satisfying.”
The storm increased in violence. The rain, falling in a deluge, was
driven by a wind like a hurricane. The horses strove to turn their heads
from it, and confusion arose among the cavalry. The infantry mixed
in the mud swore heavily. Staff officers had the utmost difficulty in
keeping the regiments together. It was time for the sun, but it did not
appear. Everything was veiled in clouds and driving rain.
Dick looked at his watch, and saw that it was seven o'clock. They had
intended to attack at this hour, but further advance was impossible
for the time, and, bending their heads, they sought to protect their
ammunition. Presently they started again and toiled along slowly and
painfully for more than two hours. Then, just as they saw the enemy
ahead of them, the storm seemed to reach the very zenith of its fury.
Dick, in the vanguard, beheld earthworks, cannon and troops before
Jackson, but the storm still drove so hard that the Union forces could
not advance to the assault.
“This is certainly a most unusual situation,” said Colonel Winchester,
with an effort at cheerfulness. “Here we are, ready to attack, and the
Southerners are ready to defend, but a storm holds us both fast in our
tracks. Our duty to protect our cartridges is even greater than our duty
to attack the enemy.”
“The biggest rain must come to an end,” said Dick.
But it was nearly noon before they could advance. Then, as the storm
decreased rapidly the trumpets sounded the charge, and horse, foot and
artillery, they pressed forward eagerly through the mud.
The sun broke through the clouds, and Dick saw before them a wood, a
ravine full of thickets, and the road commanded by strong artillery.
The Northern skirmishers were already stealing forward through the wet
bushes and grass, and soon their rifles were crackling. But the Southern
sharpshooters in the thickets were in stronger force, and their rapid
and accurate fire drove back the Northern men. Then their artillery
opened and swept the road, while the Northern batteries were making
frantic efforts to get up through the deep, sticky mud.
But the trumpets were still calling. The Winchester regiment and others,
eager for battle and victory, swept forward. Dick felt once more the
fierce thrill of combat, and, waving his revolver high above his head,
he shouted with the others as they rushed on. The stream of bullets from
the ravine thickened, and the cannon were crashing fast. But the Union
masses did not check their rush for an instant. Although many fell they
charged into the ravine, driving out the enemy, and pursued him on the
other side.
But the Southern cannon, manned by daring gunners, still held the field
and, aided by the thick mud which held back charging feet, they repulsed
every attack. The Winchester regiment was forced to cover, and then Dick
heard the booming of cannon in another direction. He knew that Grant and
Sherman were coming up there, and he expected they would rush at once
into Jackson, but it was a long time before the distant thunder came any
nearer.
Johnston, whose astuteness they feared, was proving himself worthy of
their opinion. Knowing that his forces were far too small to defend
Jackson, he had sent away the archives of the state and most of the
army. Only a small force and seventeen cannon were left to fight and
cover his retreat. But so bold and skillful were they that it was far
beyond noon before Grant and Sherman found that practically nothing was
in front of them.
But where Dick and his comrades rode the fighting was severe for a
while. Then everything seemed to melt away before them. The fire of the
Southern cannon ceased suddenly, and Colonel Winchester exclaimed that
their works had been abandoned. They charged forward, seized the cannon,
and now rode without resistance into the capital of the state, from
which the President of the Confederacy hailed, though by birth a
Kentuckian.
Dick and his comrades were among the first to enter the town, and not
until then did they know that Johnston and all but a few hundreds of his
army were gone.
“We've got the shell only,” Dick said.
“Still we've struck a blow by taking the capital of the state,” said
Colonel Winchester.
Dick looked with much curiosity at the little city into which they were
riding as conquerors. It was too small and new to be imposing. Yet there
were some handsome houses, standing back on large lawns, and surrounded
by foliage. The doors and shutters of all of them were closed tightly.
Dick knew that their owners had gone away or were sitting, hearts full
of bitterness, in their sealed houses.
The streets were deep in mud, and at the corners little knots of negroes
gathered and looked at them curiously.
“They don't seem to welcome us as deliverers,” said Warner.
“They don't yet know what to think of us,” said Dick. “There's the
Capitol ahead of us, and some of our troops are going into it.”
“Others have gone into it already,” said Pennington. “Look!”
They saw the flag of the Union break out above its dome, the beautiful
stars and stripes, waving gently in the light breeze. A spontaneous
cheer burst from the Union soldiers, and the bitter hearts in the sealed
houses grew more bitter.
The army was now pouring in by every road and Colonel Winchester and his
staff sought quarters. They were on the verge of exhaustion. All their
clothing was wet and they were discolored with mud. They felt that they
were bound to have rest and cleanliness.
The victorious troops were making their camp, wherever they could find
dry ground, and soon they were building the fires for cooking. But many
of the officers were assigned to the residences, and Colonel Winchester
and his staff were directed by the general to take quarters in a large
colonial house, standing on a broad lawn, amid the finest magnolias and
live oaks that Dick had ever seen.
Remembering an earlier experience during the Shiloh campaign Colonel
Winchester and his young officers approached the house with some
reluctance. In ordinary times it must have been brilliant with life. Two
little fountains were playing on either side of the graveled walk that
led to the front door. After the old fashion, three or four marble
statues stood in the shrubbery. Everything indicated wealth. Probably
the town house of a great planter, reflected Dick. In Mississippi a man
sometimes owned as many as a thousand slaves, and lived like a prince.
The house offered them no welcome. Its doors and windows were closed,
but Dick had seen thin smoke rising from a chimney in the rear. He
expected that they would have to force the door, but at the first knock
it was thrown open by a tall, thin woman of middle years. The look she
gave them was full of bitter hatred--Dick sometimes thought that
women could hate better than men--but her manner and bearing showed
distinction. He, as well as his comrades, took her to be the lady of the
house.
“We ask your pardon, madame, for this intrusion,” said Colonel
Winchester, “but we are compelled to occupy your house a while. We
promise you as little trouble as possible.”
“We ask no consideration of any kind from men who have come to despoil
our country and ruin its people,” she said icily.
Colonel Winchester flushed.
“But madame,” he protested, “we do not come to destroy.”
“I do not care to argue with you about it,” she said in the same lofty
tone, “and also you need not address me as madame. I am Miss Woodville.”
Dick started.
“Does this house belong to Colonel John Woodville?” he asked.
“It does not,” she replied crisply, “but it belongs to his elder
brother, Charles Woodville, who is also a colonel, and who is my father.
What do you know of Colonel John Woodville?”
“I met his son once,” replied Dick briefly.
She glanced at him sharply. Dick thought for a moment that he saw alarm
in her look, but he concluded that it was only anger.
They stood confronting each other, the little group of officers and the
woman, and Colonel Winchester, embarrassed, but knowing that he must do
something, went forward and pushed back a door opening into the hall.
Dick automatically followed him, and then stepped back, startled.
A roar like that of a lion met them. An old man, with a high, bald and
extremely red forehead lay in a huge bed by a window. It was a great
head, and eyes, set deep, blazed under thick, white lashes. His body was
covered to the chin.
Dick saw that the man's anger was that of the caged wild beast, and
there was something splendid and terrible about it.
“You infernal Yankees!” he cried, and his voice again rumbled like that
of a lion.
“Colonel Charles Woodville, I presume?” said Colonel Winchester
politely.
“Yes, Colonel Charles Woodville,” thundered the man, “fastened here
in bed by a bullet from one of your cursed vessels in the Mississippi,
while you rob and destroy!”
And then he began to curse. He drew one hand from under the cover and
shook his clenched fist at them in a kind of rhythmic beat while the
oaths poured forth. To Dick it was not common swearing. There was
nothing coarse and vulgar about it. It was denunciation, malediction,
fulmination, anathema. It had a certain majesty and dignity. Its
richness and variety were unequaled, and it was hurled forth by a voice
deep, powerful and enduring.
Dick listened with amazement and then admiration. He had never heard its
like, nor did he feel any offense. The daughter, too, stood by,
pursing her prim lips, and evidently approving. Colonel Winchester was
motionless like a statue, while the infuriated man shook his fist at him
and launched imprecations. But his face had turned white and Dick saw
that he was fiercely angry.
When the old man ceased at last from exhaustion Colonel Winchester said
quietly:
“If you had spoken to me in the proper manner we might have gone away
and found quarters elsewhere. But we intend to stay here and we will
repay your abuse with good manners.”
Dick saw the daughter flush, but the old man said:
“Then it will be the first time that good manners were ever brought from
the country north of the Mason and Dixon line.”
Colonel Winchester flushed in his turn, but made no direct reply.
“If you will assign us rooms, Miss Woodville,” he said, “we will go
to them, otherwise we'll find them for ourselves, which may be less
convenient for you. I repeat that we desire to give you as little
trouble as possible.”
“Do so, Margaret,” interrupted Colonel Woodville, “because then I may
get rid of them all the sooner.”
Colonel Winchester bowed and turned toward the door. Miss Woodville,
obedient to the command of her father, led the way. Dick was the last to
go out, and he said to the old lion who lay wounded in the bed:
“Colonel Woodville, I've met your nephew, Victor.”
He did not notice that the old man whitened and that the hand now lying
upon the cover clenched suddenly.
“You have?” growled Colonel Woodville, “and how does it happen that you
and my nephew have anything in common?”
“I could scarcely put it that way,” replied Dick, refusing to be
angered, “unless you call an encounter with fists something in common.
He and I had a great fight at his father's plantation of Bellevue.”
“He might have been in a better business, taking part in a common brawl
with a common Yankee.”
“But, sir, while I may be common, I'm not a Yankee. I was born and grew
up south of the Ohio River in Kentucky.”
“Then you're a traitor. All you Kentuckians ought to be fighting with
us.”
“Difference of opinion, but I hope your nephew is well.”
The deep eyes under the thick white thatch glared in a manner that Dick
considered wholly unnecessary. But Colonel Woodville made no reply,
merely turning his face to the wall as if he were weary.
Dick hurried into the hall, closing the door gently behind him. The
others, not missing him, were already some yards away, and he quickly
rejoined Pennington and Warner. The younger men would have been glad
to leave the house, but Colonel Winchester's blood was up, and he was
resolved to stay. The little party was eight in number, and they were
soon quartered in four rooms on the lower floor. Miss Woodville promptly
disappeared, and one of the camp cooks arrived with supplies, which he
took to the kitchen.
Dick and Warner were in one of the rooms, and, removing their belts
and coats, they made themselves easy. It was a large bedroom with high
ceilings and wicker furniture. There were several good paintings on the
walls and a bookcase contained Walter Scott's novels and many of the
eighteenth century classics.
“I think this must have been a guest chamber,” said Dick, “but for us
coming from the rain and mud it's a real palace.”
“Then it's fulfilling its true function,” said Warner, “because it has
guests now. What a strange household! Did you ever see such a peppery
pair as that swearing old colonel and his acid daughter?”
“I don't know that I blame them. I think, sometimes, George, that
you New Englanders are the most selfish of people. You're too truly
righteous. You're always denouncing the faults of others, but you never
see any of your own. Away back in the Revolution when Boston called,
the Southern provinces came to her help, but Boston and New England have
spent a large part of their time since then denouncing the South.”
“What's struck you, Dick? Are you weakening in the good cause?”
“Not for a moment. But suppose Mississippi troops walked into your
own father's house in Vermont, and, as conquerors, demanded food and
shelter! Would you rejoice over them, and ask them why they hadn't come
sooner?”
“I suppose not, Dick. But, stop it, and come back to your normal
temperature. I won't quarrel with you.”
“I won't give you a chance, George. I'm through. But remember that while
I'm red hot for the Union, I was born south of the Ohio River myself,
and I have lots of sympathy for the people against whom I'm fighting.”
“For the matter of that, so've I, Dick, and I was born north of the
Ohio River. But I'm getting tremendously hungry. I hope that cook will
hurry.”
They were called soon, and eight officers sat at the table. The cook
himself served them. Miss Woodville had vanished, and not a servant was
visible about the great house. Despite their hunger and the good quality
of the food the group felt constraint. The feeling that they were
intruders, in a sense brigands, was forced upon them. Dick was sure
that the old man with the great bald head was swearing fiercely and
incessantly under his breath.
The dining-room was a large and splendid apartment, and the silver still
lay upon the great mahogany sideboard. The little city, now the camp
of an overwhelming army, had settled into silence, and the twilight was
coming.
With the chill of unwelcome still upon them the officers said little.
As the twilight deepened Warner lighted several candles. The silver
glittered under the flame. Colonel Winchester presently ordered the cook
to take a plate of the most delicate food to Colonel Woodville.
As the cook withdrew on his mission he left open the door of the
dining-room and they heard the sound of a voice, uplifted in a
thunderous roar. The cook hurried back, the untouched plate in his hand
and his face a little pale.
“He cursed me, sir,” he said to Colonel Winchester. “I was never cursed
so before by anybody. He said he would not touch the food. He was sure
that it had been poisoned by the Yankees, and even if it were not he'd
rather die than accept anything from their hands.”
Colonel Winchester laughed rather awkwardly.
“At any rate, we've tendered our good offices,” he said. “I suppose his
daughter will attend to his wants, and we'll not expose ourselves to
further insults.”
But the refusal had affected the spirits of them all, and as soon as
their hunger was satisfied they withdrew. The soldier who had acted as
cook was directed to put the dining-room back in order and then he might
sleep in a room near the kitchen.
Dick and Warner returned to their own apartment. Neither had much to
say, and Warner, lying down on the bed, was soon fast asleep. Dick
sat by the window. The town was now almost lost in the obscurity. The
exhausted army slept, and the occasional glitter from the bayonet of a
sentinel was almost the only thing that told of its presence.
Dick was troubled. In spite of will and reason, his conscience hurt
him. Theory was beautiful, but it was often shivered by practice. His
sympathies were strongly with the old colonel who had cursed him so
violently and the grim old maid who had given them only harsh words.
Besides, he had pleasant memories of Victor Woodville, and these were
his uncle and cousin.
He sat for a long time at the window. The house was absolutely quiet,
and he was sure that everybody was asleep. There could be no doubt about
Warner, because he slumbered audibly. But Dick was still wide awake.
There was some tension of mind or muscle that kept sleep far from him.
So he remained at the window, casting up the events of the day and those
that might come.
The evening was well advanced when he was quite sure that he heard a
light step in the hall. He would have paid little attention to it at an
ordinary time, but, in all that silence and desolation, it called
him like a drum-beat. Only a light step, and yet it filled him with
suspicion and alarm. He was in the heart of a great and victorious
Union army, but at the moment he felt that anything could happen in this
strange house.
Slipping his pistol from his belt, he opened the door on noiseless
hinges and stepped into the hall. A figure was disappearing in its dim
space, but, as he saw clearly, it was that of a woman. He was sure that
it was Miss Woodville and he stepped forward. He had no intention
of following her, but his foot creaked on the floor, and, stopping
instantly, she faced about. Then he saw that she carried a tray of food.
“Are we to have our house occupied and to be spied upon also?” she
asked.
Dick flushed. Few people had ever spoken to him in such a manner, and it
was hard to remember that she was a woman.
“I heard a footstep in the hall, and it was my duty to see who was
passing,” he said.
“I have prepared food and I am taking it to my father. He would not
accept it from Yankee hands.”
“Colonel Woodville sups late. I should think a wounded man would be
asleep at this hour, if he could.”
She gave him a glance full of venom.
“What does it matter?” she said.
Dick refused to be insulted.
“Let me take the tray for you,” he said, “at least to the door. Your
father need not know that my hands have touched it.”
She shrank back and her eyes blazed.
“Let us alone!” she exclaimed. “Go back to your room! Isn't it
sufficient that this house shelters you?”
She seemed to Dick to show a heat and hate out of all proportion to the
occasion, but he did not repeat the offer.
“I meant well,” he said, “but, since you do not care for my help, I'll
return to my room and go to sleep. Believe me, I'm sincere when I say I
hope your father will recover quickly from his wound.”
“He will,” she replied briefly.
Dick bowed with politeness and turned toward his own room. Nevertheless
his curiosity did not keep him from standing a moment or two in the dark
against the wall and looking back at the woman who bore the tray.
He drew a long breath of astonishment when he saw her pass Colonel
Woodville's door, and hurry forward now with footsteps that made no
sound.
The suspicion which had lain deep in his mind sprang at once into life.
Keeping close to the wall, he followed swiftly and saw her disappear up
a stairway. There he let the pursuit end and returned thoughtfully to
his room.
Dick was much troubled. An ethical question had presented itself to him.
He believed that he had divined everything. The solution had come to him
with such suddenness and force that he was as fully convinced as if he
had seen with his own eyes. Military duty demanded that he invade the
second floor of the Woodville house. But there were feelings of humanity
and mercy, moral issues not less powerful than military duty, and maybe
more so.
He was pulled back and forth with great mental violence. He was sorry
that he had seen Miss Woodville with the tray. And then he wasn't.
Nevertheless, he stayed in his own room, and Warner, waking for a
moment, regarded him with wonder as he sat outlined against the window
which they had left unshuttered and opened to admit air.
“What's the matter, Dick? Have you got a fever?” he asked. “Why haven't
you gone to bed?”
“I'm going to do so right away. Don't bother yourself about me, George.
My nerves have been strained pretty hard, and I had to wait until they
were quiet until I could go to sleep.”
“Don't have nerves,” said Warner, as he turned back on his side and
returned to slumber.
Dick undressed and got into bed. It was the first time in many nights
that he had not slept in his clothes, and beds had been unknown for many
weeks. It was a luxury so penetrating and powerful that it affected
him like an opiate. Such questions as military and moral duty floated
swiftly away, and he slept the sleep of youth and a good heart.
Breakfast was almost a repetition of supper. The army cook prepared and
served it, and the Woodvilles remained invisible. Colonel Winchester
informed the young officers that they would remain in Jackson two or
three days, and then great events might be expected. All felt sure
that he was predicting aright. Pemberton must be approaching with the
Vicksburg army. The wary and skillful Johnston had another army, and he
could not be far away. Moreover, this was the heart of the Confederacy
and other unknown forces might be gathering.
They felt the greatness of the hour, Grant's daring stroke, and the
possibility that he might yet be surrounded and overwhelmed. Their minds
were attuned, too, to other and yet mightier deeds, but they were glad,
nevertheless, of a little rest. The Woodville house was a splendid
place, and in the morning they did not feel so much the chill of
embarrassment that had been created for them the night before.
Dick went straight to the room of Colonel Woodville, opened the door
without knocking, and closed it behind him quickly but noiselessly.
The colonel was propped up in his bed and a tray bearing light and
delicate food lay on a chair. His daughter stood beside the bed,
speechless with anger at this intrusion. Dick lifted his hand, and the
look upon his face checked one of the mightiest oaths that had ever
welled up from the throat of Colonel Charles Woodville, king of
swearers.
“Stop!” said Dick in a voice not loud, but sharp with command.
“Can't we at least have privacy in the room of an old and wounded man?”
asked Miss Woodville.
“You can hereafter,” replied Dick quietly. “I shall not come again, but
I tell you now to get him out of the house to-night, unless he's too
badly hurt to be moved.”
“Why should my father be taken away?” demanded Miss Woodville.
“I'm not speaking of your father.”
“Of whom, then?”
Dick did not answer, but he met her gaze steadily, and her face fell.
Then he turned, walked out of the room without a word, and again closed
the door behind him. When he went out on the piazza he saw excitement
among his comrades. The moment for great action was coming even sooner
than Colonel Winchester had expected.
“Johnston is communicating with Pemberton,” said Warner, “and he has
ordered Pemberton to unite with him. Then they will attack us. He sent
the same order by three messengers, but one of them was in reality a
spy of ours, and he came straight to General Grant with it. We're
forewarned, and the trap can't shut down on us, because General Grant
means to go at once for Pemberton.”
Dick understood the situation, which was both critical and thrilling.
Grant was still in the heart of the Confederacy, and its forces were
converging fast upon him. But the grim and silent man, instead of merely
trying to escape, intended to strike a blow that would make escape
unnecessary. All the young officers saw the plan and their hearts
leaped.
Dick, in the excitement of the day, forgot about the Woodville house
and its inmates. Troops were already marching out of Jackson to meet the
enemy, but the Winchester regiment would not leave until early the next
morning. They were to spend a second night, or at least a part of it, in
Colonel Woodville's house.
It was the same group that ate supper there and the same army cook
served them. They did not go to the bedrooms afterward, but strolled
about, belted, expecting to receive the marching call at any moment.
Dick went into the library, where a single candle burned, and while he
was there Miss Woodville appeared at the door and beckoned to him. She
had abated her severity of manner so much that he was astonished, but he
followed without a word.
She saw that the hall was clear and then she led quickly into her
father's room. Colonel Woodville was propped up against the pillows, and
there was color in his face.
“Young man,” he said, “come here. You can afford to obey me, although
I'm a prisoner, because I'm so much older than you are. You have a heart
and breeding, young sir, and I wish to shake your hand.”
He thrust a large hand from the cover, and Dick shook it warmly.
“I wouldn't have shaken it if you had been born north of the Ohio
River,” said Colonel Woodville.
Dick laughed.
“My chief purpose in having you brought here,” said Colonel Woodville,
“was to relate to you an incident, of which I heard once. Did I read
about it, or was it told to me, Margaret?”
“I think, sir, that some one told you of it.”
“Ah, well, it doesn't matter. A few words will tell it. In an old,
forgotten war a young soldier quartered in the house of his defeated
enemy--but defeated only for the time, remember--saw something which
made him believe that a wounded nephew of the house was hid in an upper
room. But he was generous and he did not search further. The second
night, while the young officer and his comrades were at supper, the
nephew, who was not hurt badly, was slipped out of the house and escaped
from the city in the darkness. It's not apropos of anything, and I don't
know why I'm relating it to you, but I suppose this terrible war we are
fighting is responsible for an old man's whim.”
“I've found it very interesting, sir,” said Dick, “and I think it's
relevant, because it shows that even in war men may remain Christian
human beings.”
“Perhaps you're right, and I trust, young sir, that you will not be
killed in this defeat to which you are surely marching.”
Dick bowed to both, and left them to their fears and hopes. The glow was
still about his heart when he rode forth with the Winchester regiment
after midnight. But, owing to the need of horses for the regular
cavalry, it had become an infantry regiment once more. Only the officers
rode.
At dawn they were with Grant approaching a ridge called Champion Hill.