“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester the next morning, “I think you are the
best scout and trailer among my young officers. Mr. Pennington, you are
probably the best on the plains, and I've no doubt, Warner, that you
would do well in the mountains, but for the hills, forests and rivers
I'll have to choose Dick. I've another errand for you, my boy. You're
to go on foot, and you're to take this dispatch to Admiral Porter, who
commands the iron-clads in the river near the city. Conceal it carefully
about you, but I anticipate no great danger for you, as Vicksburg is
pretty well surrounded by our forces.”
The dispatch was written on thin, oiled paper. Dick hid it away in the
lining of his coat and departed upon another important mission, full
of pride that he should be chosen for it. He had all the passwords and
carried two good pistols in his belt. Rich in experience, he felt able
to care for himself, even should the peril be greater than Colonel
Winchester had expected.
The sun was not far above the horizon but it was warm and brilliant,
and it lighted up the earth, throwing a golden glow over the plateau of
Vicksburg, the great maze of ravines and thickets and the many waters.
He passed along the lines, walking rapidly southward, and saw more than
one officer of his acquaintance. Hertford's cavalry were in a field, and
the colonel himself sat on a portion of the rail fence that had enclosed
it. He hailed the lad pleasantly.
“Into the forest again, Dick,” he said.
“Not this time, sir,” Dick replied. “It's just a little trip, down the
river.”
“Success to the trip and a speedy return.”
Dick nodded and walked on. He was quite sure that his dispatch was an
order from Grant for Porter to come up the stream and join in a general
attack which everybody felt sure was planned for an early date.
As he passed through the regiments and brigades he received much
good-humored chaff. The great war of America differed widely from the
great wars of Europe. The officers and men were more nearly on a plane
of equality. The vast majority of them had been volunteers in the
beginning and perhaps this feeling of comradeship made them fight all
the better. North and South were alike in it.
“Which way, sonny?” called a voice from a group. “You don't find the
fighting down there. It's back toward Vicksburg.”
Dick nodded and smiled.
“Maybe he's out walking for exercise. These officers ride too much.”
Dick walked on with a steady swinging step. He regarded the sunbrowned,
careless youths with the genuine affection of a brother. Many of them
were as young as he or younger, but they were now veterans of battle
and march. Napoleon's soldiers themselves could not have boasted of more
experience than they.
He was coming to the last link in the steel chain, and the colonel of
a regiment, an old man, warned him to be careful as he approached the
river.
“Southern sharpshooters are among the ravines and thickets,” he said.
“They fired on our lads about dawn and then escaped easily in the thick
cover.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, “I'll be on my guard.” Yet he did not feel
the presence of danger. Youth perhaps becomes more easily hardened in
war than middle age, or perhaps it thinks less of consequences. The
Union cannon, many of great weight and power, had begun already to
fire upon Vicksburg. Huge shells and shot were rained upon the city.
Pemberton had two hundred guns facing the river and the army, but to
spare his ammunition they made little reply.
Dick looked back now and then. He saw flakes of fire on the northern
horizon, puffs of smoke and the curving shells. He felt that Vicksburg
was no pleasant place to be in just now, and yet it must be full of
civilians, many of them women and children. He was sorry for them. It
was Dick's nature to see both sides of a quarrel. He could never hate
the Southerners, because they saw one way and he another.
It was a passing emotion. It was too fine a morning for youth to grieve.
At the distance the plumes of smoke made by the shells became decorative
rather than deadly. From a crest he saw upon the plateau of Vicksburg
and even discerned the dim outline of houses. Looking the other way,
he saw the smoke of the iron-clads down the river, and he also caught
glimpses of the Mississippi, gold in the morning sun over its vast
breadth.
Then he entered the thickets, and, bearing in mind the kindly warning
of the old colonel, proceeded slowly and with extreme caution. The
Southerners knew every inch of the ground here and he knew none. He
came to a ravine and to his dismay found that a considerable stream was
flowing through it toward the bayou. It was yellow water, and he thought
he might find a tree, fallen across the stream, which would serve him as
a foot log, but a hunt of a few minutes disclosed none, and, hesitating
no longer, he prepared to wade.
He put his belt with the pistols in it around his neck and stepped in
boldly. His feet sank in the mud. The water rose to his knees and then
to his waist. It was, in truth, deeper than he had expected--one could
never tell about these yellow, opaque streams. He took another step and
plunged into a hole up to his shoulders.
Angry that he should be wet through and through, and with such muddy
water too, he crossed the stream.
He looked down with dismay at his uniform. The sun would soon dry it,
but until he got a chance to clean it, it would remain discolored and
yellow, like the jeans clothes which the poorer farmers of the South
often wore. And yet the accident that he bemoaned, the bath in water
thick with mud, was to prove his salvation.
Dick shook himself like a big dog, throwing off as much of the water as
he could. He had kept his pistols dry and he rebuckled his belt around
his waist. Then he returned to his errand. Among the thickets he saw but
little. Vicksburg, the Mississippi, and the Union camp disappeared. He
beheld only a soft soil, many bushes and scrub forest. After going a
little distance he was compelled to stop again and consider. It was
curious how one could lose direction in so small a space.
He paused and listened, intending to regain his course through the sense
of hearing. From the north and east came the thunder of the siege guns.
It had grown heavier and was continuous now. Once more he was sorry for
Vicksburg, because the Union gunners were unsurpassed and he was sure
that bombs and shells were raining upon the devoted town.
Now he knew that he must go west by south, and he made his way over
difficult country, crossing ravines, climbing hills, and picking his
path now and then through soft ground, the most exhausting labor of all.
The sun poured down upon him and his uniform dried fast. He had just
crossed one of the ravines and was climbing into the thicket beyond when
a voice asked:
“See any of the Yanks in front?”
Dick's heart stood still, and then all his presence of mind came
back. Not in vain had the kindly colonel warned him of the Southern
sharpshooters in the bush.
“No,” he replied. “They seem to be farther up. One of our fellows told
me he saw a whole regiment of them off there to the right.”
He plunged deeper into the bush and walked on as if he were among his
own comrades. He realized that his faded uniform with its dye of yellow
mud had caused him to be mistaken for one of Pemberton's men. His
accent, which was Kentuckian and therefore Southern, had helped him
also. He passed three or four other men, bent over, rifle in hand and
watching, and he nodded to them familiarly. In such a crisis he knew
that boldness and ease were his best cards, and he said to one of the
men, with a laugh:
“You'll have to tell us Tennesseeans about all your bayous and creeks.
I've just fallen into one that had no right to be there.”
“You Tennesseeans need a bath anyhow,” replied the man, chuckling.
“We'd never choose a Mississippi stream for it,” said Dick in the
same vein, and passed on leaving the rifleman in high good humor. How
wonderfully these Southerners were like the Northerners! He noticed
presently a half-dozen other sharpshooters in the Confederate butternut,
prowling among the bushes, and through an opening he saw his own people
to the west, but too far away to be reached by anything but artillery.
The slow, deep music of the Northern guns came steadily to his ear, but
their fire was always turned toward Vicksburg.
Dick knew that his position was extremely critical. Perhaps it was
growing more so all the while, but he was never cooler. A quiet lad, he
always rose wonderfully to an emergency. He was quite sure that he
was among Mississippi troops, and they could not possibly know all the
soldiers from the other states gathered for the defense of Vicksburg. He
did not differ from those around him in any respect, except that he did
not carry a rifle.
He paused and looked back thoughtfully at the distant Union troops.
“Can you tell me how they're posted?” he said to a tall, thin
middle-aged man who had a chew of tobacco in his cheek. “I carry
dispatches to General Pemberton, and the more information I can give him
the better.”
“Yes, I kin tell you,” replied the man, somewhat flattered. “They're
posted everywhere. What, with their army and them boats of theirs in the
river, they've got a high fence around us, all staked and ridered.”
“It doesn't take any more work to tear a fence down than it does to
build it up.”
“I reckon you're right thar, stranger. But was you at Champion Hill?”
“No, I missed that.”
“Then it was a good thing for you that you did. I didn't set much store
by the Yanks when this war began. One good Southerner could whip five of
'em any time, our rip-roarin', fire-eatin' speech-makers said. I knowed
then, too, that they was right, but I was up thar in Kentucky a while,
an' after Donelson I reckoned that four was about as many as I wanted
to tackle all to oncet. Then thar was Shiloh, an' I kinder had a thought
that if three of 'em jumped on me at one time I'd hev my hands purty
full to lick 'em. Then come Corinth, an,' reasonin' with myself, I said
I wouldn't take on more'n two Yanks at the same time. An' now, since
I've been at Champion Hill, I know that the Yank is a pow'ful good
fighter, an' I reckon one to one jest about suits me, an' even then I'd
like to have a leetle advantage in the draw.”
“I feel that way about it, too. The Yankees are going to make a heap
of trouble for us here. But I must be going. What's the best path into
Vicksburg?”
“See that little openin' in the bushes. Follow it. Jest over the hill
you'll run into a passel of our fellers, but pay no 'tention to 'em. If
they ask you who you are an' whar you're boun' tell 'em to go straight
to blazes, while you go to Vicksburg.”
“Thank you,” said Dick, “I like to meet an obliging and polite man like
you. It helps even in war.”
“Don't mention it. When I wuz a little shaver my ma told me always to
mind my manners, an' when I didn't she whaled the life out of me. An',
do you know, stranger, she's just a leetle, withered old woman, but if
she could 'pear here right now I'd be willin' to set down right in these
bushes an' say, 'Ma, take up that stick over thar an' beat me across the
shoulders an' back with it as hard as you kin.' I'd feel good all over.”
“I believe you,” said Dick, who thought of his own mother.
He followed the indicated path until he was out of sight of everybody,
and then he plunged into the bushes and marsh toward the river. When he
was well hidden he stopped and considered.
It was quite evident that he had wandered from the right road, but
it was no easy task to get back into it. There was an unconscious
Confederate cordon about him and he must pass through it somewhere. He
moved farther toward the river, but only went deeper into the swamp.
He turned to the south and soon reached firm ground, but he heard
Confederate pickets talking in front of him. Then he caught glimpses of
two or three men watching among the trees, and he lay down in a clump of
bushes. He might pass them as he had passed the others, but he thought
it wiser not to take the risk.
He was willing also to rest a little, as he had done a lot of hard
walking. His clothing was now dry, and the mud had dried upon it.
He turned aside into one of the deep ravines and then into a smaller one
leading from it. The bushes were dense there and he lay down among them,
so completely hidden that he was invisible ten feet away. Here he still
heard the mutter of the guns, which came in a long, droning sound, and
occasionally a rifle cracked at some point closer by. The Union army
was still busy and he felt a few moments of despondency. His dispatch
undoubtedly was of great importance, and yet he was not able to deliver
it. It was highly probable that for precaution's sake other messengers
bore the same dispatch, but he was anxious to arrive with his
nevertheless, and he wanted, too, to arrive first. The last now seemed
impossible and the first improbable.
The crackling fire came nearer. Owing to the lack of percussion caps,
Pemberton had ordered his men to use their rifles sparingly, but
evidently a considerable body of sharpshooters near Dick were attempting
a flanking movement of some kind, and meant to carry it out with
bullets. He was impatient to see, but prudence kept him in his covert, a
prudence that was soon justified, as presently he heard voices very near
him and then the sound of footsteps.
He rose up a little and saw several hundred Confederate soldiers passing
on the slopes not more than a hundred yards away. They went south of
him, and he recognized with growing alarm that the wall across his way
was growing higher. When they were gone and he could no longer hear
their tread among the bushes he slipped from his hiding place and went
directly toward Vicksburg. Being within an iron ring he thought that
perhaps he would be safer somewhere near the center. He might make his
way without much trouble through the vast confused crowd in Vicksburg,
and then in the night go down the river's edge and to the fleet.
It was a daring idea, so very daring that it appealed to the strain of
high adventure in the lad. He was encouraged, too, by his earlier and
easy success in passing among the Confederate soldiers. But in order not
to appear reckless and to satisfy his own conscience he tried once more
for the way to the south. But the soldiers entirely barred the path
there, and, being on some duty that required extreme vigilance, they
were likely to prove exacting.
He advanced with a clear mind toward Vicksburg, picking his way among
the forests and ravines, but, after long walking over most difficult
ground, he saw before him extensive earthworks thronged with Southern
troops. When he turned westward the result was the same, and then it
became evident that there was no flaw in the iron ring. He could not go
through to Porter, he could not go back to his own army, but Vicksburg
invited him as a guest.
He would make the trial at night. It was a long wait, but he dared not
risk it by day, and, going back into one of the ravines, he sought
a secluded and sheltered place. Threshing the bushes to drive away
possible snakes, he crawled into a clump and lay there. Resolved to be
patient in spite of everything, he did not stir, but listened to the far
throbbing of the cannon which poured an incessant storm of missiles upon
unhappy Vicksburg.
The warmth and the heavy air in the ravine were relaxing. His brain grew
so dull and heavy that he fell asleep, and when he awoke the twilight
was coming. And yet he had lost nothing. He had gained rather. The time
had passed. His body had been strengthened and his nerves steadied while
he slept.
The distant booming of the guns still came. He had expected it. That was
Grant. He had wrapped the coil of steel around Vicksburg and he would
never relax. Dick felt that there was no hope for the town, unless
Johnston outside could gather a powerful army and fight Grant on even
terms. But he considered it impossible, and there, too, was the great
artery of the river along which flowed men and supplies of every kind
for the Union.
The Southern twilight turned swiftly into night and, coming from his
lair, Dick walked boldly toward the town. He had eaten nothing since
morning, but he had not noticed it, until this moment, when he began to
feel a little faintness. He resolved that Vicksburg should supply him.
It was curious how much help he expected of Vicksburg, a hostile town.
He saw lights soon both to right and to left and he strengthened his
soul. He knew that he must be calm, but alert and quick with the right
answer. With his singular capacity for meeting a crisis he advanced into
the thick of danger with a smiling face, even as his great ancestor,
Paul Cotter, had often done.
His calm was of short duration. There was a rushing sound, something
struck violently, and a tremendous explosion followed. Fire flashed
before Dick's eyes, pieces of red hot metal whistled past his head,
earth spattered him and he was thrown to the ground.
He sprang up again, understanding all instantly. A shell from his own
army had burst near him, and he had been thrown down by the concussion.
But he had not been hurt, and in a few seconds his pulse beat steadily.
He heard a shout of laughter as he stood, brushing the fresh dirt from
his clothing. He glanced up in some anger, but he saw at once that the
arrival of the shell had been most fortunate for his plan. To come near
annihilation by a Federal gun certainly invested him with a Confederate
character.
It was a group of young soldiers who were laughing and their amusement
was entirely good-natured. They would have laughed the same way had the
harmless adventure befallen one of their own number. Dick judged that
they were from the Southwest.
“Close call,” he said, smiling that attractive smile, which was visible
even in the twilight.
“It was a friendly shell,” said one of the youths, “and it concluded
not to come too close to you. These Yankee shells are so loving that
sometimes they spray themselves in little pieces all over a fellow, like
a shower of rice over a bride at a wedding.”
“How long do you think the Yankees will keep it up?” asked Dick, putting
indignation in his tone. “Haven't they any respect for the night?”
“Not a bit. That fellow Grant is a pounder. They say he'll blow away the
whole plateau of Vicksburg if we don't drive him off.”
“Well, we'll do it. You wait till old Joe Johnston comes up. Then we'll
shut him between the jaws of a vise and squeeze the life out of him.”
“Hope so. Where've you been?”
“Down below the town. I'm coming back with messages.”
“So long. Good luck. Keep straight ahead, and you'll find all the
generals you want.”
The lights increased and he went into a small tavern, where he bought
food and a cup of coffee, paying in gold. The tavern keeper asked no
questions, but his eyes gleamed at sight of the yellow coin.
“Mighty little of this comes my way now,” he said frankly, “and our
own money is worth less and less every day. If things keep on the way
they're headed it'll take a bale of it as big as a bale of cotton to pay
for one good, square meal.”
Dick laughed.
“Not so bad as that,” he said. “You wait until we've given Grant a big
thrashing and have cleared their boats out of the river. Then you'll see
our money becoming real.”
The man shook his head.
“Seein' will be believin',” he said, “an' as I ain't seein' I ain't
believin'.”
Dick with a friendly good night went out. Grant, the persistent, was
still at work. His cannon flared on the dark horizon and the shells
crashed in Vicksburg. Scarcely any portion of the town was safe. Now and
then a house was smashed in and often the shells found victims.
The town was full of terror and confusion. Many of the rich planters had
come there with their families for refuge. Women and children hid from
the terrible fire, and the civilians already had begun to burrow. Caves
had been dug deep into the sides of the ravines and hundreds found in
them a rude but safe shelter.
Dick now found that his plans were going wrong. He could wander about
almost at will and to any one to whom he spoke he still claimed to be
a Tennesseean, but he knew that it could not last forever. Sooner or
later, some officer would question him closely, and then his tale would
be too thin for truth.
Unable to make a way toward the river, he returned to the slopes and
ravines, where they were digging the caves, and then fortune which had
been smiling upon him turned its face the other way. A small man in
butternut and an enormous felt hat passed near. He did not see Dick,
but his very presence gave the lad a shiver. He believed afterward that
before he saw him he had felt the proximity of Slade.
The man, carrying a rifle, was hurrying toward the center of the town,
and Dick, after one long look, hurried at equal speed the other way. He
knew that Slade, if he saw him, would recognize him at once. Dusk and a
muddy uniform would not protect him.
It was his idea now to go down through the ravines and make another
trial toward the South. He saw ahead of him a line of intrenchments,
which he was resolved to pass in some fashion, but the face of fortune
was still away from him. The unknown officers who at any time might ask
too many questions appeared.
A captain, a sunbrowned, alert man, stopped him at the edge of the
bushes which clothed the slopes of the ravine.
“Your regiment?” he asked sharply.
“Tennessee regiment, sir,” replied Dick, afraid to mention any number,
since this officer might be a Tennesseean himself, and would want
further identification. But the man was not to be put off--Dick judged
from his uniform that he was a colonel--and demanded sharply his
regiment's number and his business.
The lad mumbled something under his breath, hopeful that he would pass
on, but the officer stepped forward, looked at him closely and then
suddenly turned back the collar of his army jacket, disclosing a bit of
the under side yet blue.
“Thunderation, a Yankee spy!” he exclaimed.
Dick always believed that his life was due to a sudden and violent
impulse, or rather a convulsive jerk, because he had no time to think.
He threw off the officer's hand, dashed his fist into his face, and,
without waiting to see the effect, ran headlong among the bushes down
the side of the ravine. He heard a shouting behind him, the reports of
several shots, the rapid tread of feet, and he knew that the man-hunt
was on.
He had all the instincts of the hunted to seek cover, and the night was
his friend. But few lights glimmered in that portion of Vicksburg, and
in many parts of the ravine the bushes were thick. He darted down the
slope at great speed, then turned and ran along its side, still keeping
well under cover. Where the shadows were darkest and the bushes thickest
he paused panting.
He heard his pursuers calling to one another, and he also heard the
excited voices of people in the ravine. The civilians had been aroused
by the shots so close by and he thought the confusion would help him. He
stood in the deep shadow, his breath gradually growing easier, and then
he started down the ravine, coming to a little path that led along
the side of the slope. He noticed a dark opening, and as the voices of
pursuers were now coming nearer, he popped into it, trusting to blind
luck.
Dick had thought it was a mere wash-out or deep recess, but at the third
step his foot struck upon a carpet and he saw ahead a dim light. He
paused, amazed, and then he remembered that he had heard about the
civilians digging caves for shelter from the shells and bombs. Evidently
some forethoughtful man had prepared his cave early.
Uncertain what to do he did nothing, pressing his back against the earth
and listening. No sound came, and the dim light still flickering ahead
reassured him.
The opening through which he had come was large, and admitted plenty
of fresh air. As he stood four or five feet from the entrance he saw
several soldiers hurrying along the path, and he knew they were hunting
for him. He realized then his fortune in finding this improvised
cave-house. After the soldiers passed he walked gently toward the light.
Apparently the regular occupants were gone away for the time, and he
might find a hiding place there until it was safe to go out.
The passage was narrow, but the carpet was still under his feet, and
further in, the sides and roof of the earthen walls had been covered
with planks. The light grew brighter and he was quite sure that a room
of some size was just ahead. His curiosity became so great that it
smothered all apprehension, and he stepped boldly into the room, where
the lamp burned on a table.
He would have stepped back as quickly, but a pair of great burning eyes
caught his and held them. A bed was standing against the board wall of
the cave, and in this bed lay an old man with a huge bald head, immense
white eyebrows and eyes of extraordinary intensity.
Once more did Colonel Charles Woodville and Richard Mason stare into the
eyes of each other, and for a long time neither spoke.
“I managed to escape from Jackson with my little family,” said the
colonel at length, “and I thought that in this, so to say, sylvan
retreat I might drop all undesirable acquaintances that I made there.”
The whole scene was grotesque and wild to Dick. It was like a passage
out of the Arabian Nights, and an extraordinary spirit of recklessness
seized him.
“I appreciate your words, sir,” he said, “and I can understand your
feelings. I have felt myself that it was never wise to go where one
might not be welcome, and yet chance plays us such tricks that neither
your wish nor mine is granted.”
The old man then raised his head a little higher on the pillow. A spark
leaped from the burning eyes.
“A lad of spirit,” he said. “I would not withhold praise where praise
is due. I recall meeting some one who resembled you very much. Perhaps a
brother of yours, eh?”
“No, he was not my brother.”
“Well, it does not matter and we will not pursue the subject. How does
it happen that you have come into this hillside castle of mine?”
Young Mason saw a flicker of amusement in the eyes of the old man. He
was aware that in his muddy uniform he made no imposing figure, but
his spirit was as high as ever, and the touch of recklessness was still
there.
“I saw some men coming down the path,” he replied; “men with whom I do
not care to associate, and I turned aside to avoid them. I beheld
the open door and stepped within, but I did not know the chamber was
occupied, and it was far from my purpose to intrude upon you or any one.
I trust, sir, that you will believe me.”
The lad took off his cap and bowed. His face was now revealed more
clearly, and it was a fine one, splendidly molded, intellectual, and
with noble blue eyes. After all, despite the mud and stains, he made a
graceful figure as he stood there, so obviously confident of himself,
but respectful.
The spark leaped again from the eyes of Colonel Woodville, and,
remembering something, there was a slight warmth about the heart which
lately had been so cold and bitter.
“I do not blame you,” he said. “A lad, one in his formative years,
cannot be too careful about his associates. Doubtless you were justified
in taking advantage of the open door. But now that you are here may I
ask you what you purpose next to do?”
“I admit, sir, that the question is natural,” replied Dick, suiting his
tone and manner to those of the old man. “I have scarcely had time yet
to form a purpose, but, since the danger of contamination of which we
spoke still exists, it occurs to me that perhaps I might stay here a
while. Is there some nook or a cover in which I might rest? I hope I do
not trespass too much upon your hospitality.”
Colonel Woodville pondered. His great white eyebrows were drawn together
and, for a moment or two, he gazed down the beak of his nose.
“I confess,” he said, “that the appeal to hospitality moves me. I am
stirred somewhat, too, by pleasant recollections of the lad who looked
like you. But wait, my daughter is coming. We will confer with her.
Margaret is a most capable woman.”
Dick heard a light step in the passage and he wheeled quickly. Miss
Woodville was before him, a plain, elderly figure in a plain black
dress, with a basket on her arm. The basket contained a fowl and some
eggs which she had just bought at a great price. When she saw Dick her
hand flew to her throat, but when the pulse ceased to beat so hard it
came away and she looked at him fixedly. Then a slow smile like the dawn
spread over the severe, worn face.
“Come in, Margaret, and put down your basket,” said the colonel in a
genial tone. “Meanwhile bid welcome to our unexpected guest, a young man
of spirit and quality with whom I was holding converse before you came.
He does not wish to go out to-night, because there are many violent men
abroad, and he would avoid them.”
Then he turned to Dick, and asked in a tone, sharp and commanding:
“I have your word, young sir, that your unexpected visit to our city was
not of a secret nature; that is, it was not of a lawless character?”
“An accident, sir, an accident pure and simple. I answer you on my
honor. I have seen nothing and I shall not seek to see anything which I
should not see.”
“Margaret,” continued the colonel, and now his tone became deferential
as behooved a gentleman speaking to a lady, “shall we ask him to share
our simple quarters to-night?”
The lad slowly turned his gaze to the face of the woman. He felt with
all the power of intuition that his fate rested on her decision. But she
was a woman. And she was, too, a true daughter of her father. A kindred
spark leaped up in her own soul, and she met Dick's gaze. She noted
his fearless poise, and she saw the gallant spirit in his eye. Then she
turned to her father.
“I think you wish him to stay, sir,” she said, “and the wish seems right
to me. Our narrow quarters limit our hospitality in quality, but not
in intent. We can offer him nothing but the little alcove behind the
blanket.”
She inclined her head toward the blanket, which Dick had not noticed
before. It hung near the bed and, wishing to cause this household little
trouble, he said:
“Then I assume that you will shelter me for the night, and, if I may, I
will go at once to my room.”
Colonel Woodville lowered his head upon the pillow and laughed softly.
“A lad of spirit. A lad of spirit, I repeat,” he said. “No, Margaret,
you and I could not have turned him from our earthen roof.”
Dick bowed to Miss Woodville, and that little ghost of a tender smile
flitted about her thin lips. Then he lifted the blanket, stepped into
the dark, and let the curtain fall behind him.
He stood for a space until his eyes, used to the dusk, could see dimly.
It was a tiny room evidently used as a place of storage for clothing and
bedding, but there was space enough for him to lie down, if he bent his
knees a little.
The strain upon both muscle and nerve had been very great, and now came
collapse. Removing his shoes and outer clothing he dropped upon a
roll of bedding and closed his eyes. But he was grateful, deeply and
lastingly grateful. The bread that he had cast upon the waters was
returning to him fourfold.
He heard low voices beyond the blanket, and he did not doubt that they
were those of Colonel Woodville and his daughter. The woman in plain
black, with the basket on her arm, had seemed a pathetic figure to him.
He could not blame them for feeling such intense bitterness. What were
the causes of the war to people who had been driven from a luxurious
home to a hole in the side of a ravine?
He slept, and when he woke it seemed to be only a moment later, but he
knew from the slender edge of light appearing where the blanket just
failed to touch the floor that morning had come. He moved gently lest
he disturb his host in the larger room without, and then he heard the
distant thunder, which he knew was the booming of Grant's great guns.
And so the night had not stopped them! All through the hours that he
slept the cannon had rained steel and death on Vicksburg. Then came a
great explosion telling him that a shell had burst somewhere near. It
was followed by the voice of Colonel Woodville raised in high, indignant
tones:
“Can't they let a gentleman sleep? Must they wake him with one of their
infernal shells?”
He heard a slight rustling sound and he knew that it was the great bald
head moving impatiently on the pillows. Inferring that it was early, he
would have gone back to sleep himself, but slumber would not come. He
remained a while, thoughtful, for his future lay very heavy upon him,
and then he heard the sound of several voices beyond the blanket.
He listened closely, trying to number and distinguish them. There were
three and two belonged to Colonel Woodville and his daughter. The third
repelled and puzzled him. It seemed to have in it a faint quality of the
fox. It was not loud, and yet that light, snarling, sinister note was
evident.
The sensitive, attuned mind can be easily affected by a voice, and the
menace of the unknown beyond the blanket deepened. Dick felt a curious
prickling at the roots of his hair. He listened intently, but he could
not understand anything that was spoken, and then he drew himself
forward with great caution.
They must be talking about something of importance, because the voices
were earnest, and sometimes all three spoke at once. He reached a slow
hand toward the blanket. The danger would be great, but he must see.
He drew back the blanket slightly, a quarter of an inch, maybe, and
looked within the room. Then he saw the owner of the sinister voice, and
he felt that he might have known from the first.
Slade, standing before Colonel Woodville's bed, his hat in his hand, was
talking eagerly.