Dick spent a week or more in Nashville and he saw the arrival of one of
General Grant's divisions on the fleet under Commodore Foote. Once more
he appreciated the immense value of the rivers and the fleet to the
North.
He and the two lads who were now knitted to him by sympathy, and
hardships and dangers shared, enjoyed their stay in Nashville. It was
pleasant to sleep once more in houses and to be sheltered from rain and
frost and snow. It was pleasant, too, for these youths, who were devoted
to the Union, to think that their armies had made such progress in the
west. The silent and inflexible Grant had struck the first great blow
for the North. The immense Confederate line in the west was driven
far southward, and the capital of one of the most vigorous of the
secessionist states was now held by the Union.
But a little later, news not so pleasant came to them. The energy
and success of Grant had aroused jealousy. Halleck, his superior, the
general of books and maps at St. Louis, said that he had transcended
the limits of his command. He was infringing upon territory of other
Northern generals. Halleck had not found him to be the yielding
subordinate who would win successes and let others have the credit.
Grant was practically relieved of his command, and when Dick heard it he
felt a throb of rage. Boy as he was, he knew that what had been won must
be held. Johnston had stopped at Murfreesborough, thirty or forty miles
away. His troops had recovered from their panic, caused by the fall of
Donelson. Fresh regiments and brigades were joining him. His army was
rising to forty thousand men, and officers like Colonel Winchester began
to feel apprehensive.
Now came a period of waiting. The Northern leaders, as happened so
often in this war, were uncertain of their authority, and were at
cross-purposes. They seldom had the power of initiative that was
permitted to the Southern generals, and of which they made such good
use. Dick saw that the impression made by Donelson was fading. The North
was reaping no harvest, and the South was lifting up its head again.
While he was in Nashville he received a letter from his mother in reply
to one of his that he had written to her just after Donelson. She was
very thankful that her son had gone safely through the battle, and since
he must fight in war, which was terrible in any aspect, she was glad
that he had borne himself bravely. She was glad that Colonel Kenton had
escaped capture. Her brother-in-law was always good to her and was
a good man. She had also received a letter from his son, her nephew,
written from Richmond, She loved Harry Kenton, too, and sympathized with
him, but she could not see how both sides could prevail.
Dick read the letter over and over again and there was a warm glow about
his heart. What a brave woman his mother was! She said nothing about his
coming back home, or leaving the war. He wrote a long reply, and he
told her only of the lighter and more cheerful events that they had
encountered. He described Warner, Pennington, and the sergeant, and said
that he had the best comrades in the world. He told, too, of his gallant
and high-minded commander, Colonel Arthur Winchester.
He was sure that the letter would reach her promptly, as it passed all
the way through territory now controlled by the North. The next day
after sending it he heard with joy that Grant was restored to his
command, and two days later Colonel Winchester and his men were ordered
to join him at Pittsburg Landing, on the Tennessee River. They heard
also that Buell, with his whole division, was soon to march to the same
place, and they saw in it an omen of speedy and concentrated action.
“I imagine,” said Warner, “that we'll soon go down in Mississippi
hunting Johnston. We must outnumber the Johnny Rebs at least two to one.
I'm not a general, though any one can see that I ought to be, and if we
were to follow Johnston's army and crush it the war would soon be ended
in the west.”
“You've got a mighty big 'if',” said Dick. “If we march into Mississippi
we get pretty far from our base. We'll have to send a long distance
through hostile country for fresh supplies and fresh troops, while the
Southerners will be nearer to their own. Besides, it's not so certain
that we can destroy Johnston when we find him.”
“Your talk sounds logical, and that being the case, I'll leave our
future movements to General Grant. Anyway, it's a good thing not to have
so much responsibility on your shoulders.”
They came in a few days to the great camp on the Tennessee. Spring
was now breaking through the crust of winter. Touches of green were
appearing on the forests and in the fields. Now and then the wonderful
pungent odor of the wilderness came to them and life seemed to have
taken on new zest. They were but boys in years, and the terrible scenes
of Donelson could not linger with them long.
They found Colonel Newcomb and the little detachment of Pennsylvanians
with Grant, and Colonel Winchester, resuming command of his regiment,
camped by their side, delighted to be with old friends again. Colonel
Winchester had lost a portion of his regiment, but there were excuses.
It had happened in a country well known to the enemy and but little
known to him, and he had been attacked in overwhelming force by
the rough-riding Forrest, who was long to be a terror to the Union
divisions. But he had achieved the task on which he had been sent, and
he was thanked by his commander.
Dick, as he went on many errands or walked about in the course of his
leisure hours with his friends, watched with interest the growth of a
great army. There were more men here upon the banks of the Tennessee
than he had seen at Bull Run. They were gathered full forty thousand
strong, and General Buell's army also, he learned, had been put under
command of General Grant and was advancing from Nashville to join him.
Dick also observed with extreme interest the ground upon which they were
encamped and the country surrounding it. There was the deep Tennessee,
still swollen by spring rains, upon the left bank of which they lay,
with the stream protecting one flank. In the river were some of the
gunboats which had been of such value to Grant. All about them was
rough, hilly country, almost wholly covered with brushwood and tall
forest. There were three deep creeks, given significant names by the
pioneers. Lick Creek flowed to the south of them into the Tennessee,
and Owl Creek to the north sought the same destination. A third, Snake
Creek, was lined with deep and impassable swamps to its very junction
with the river.
Some roads of the usual frontier type ran through this region, and at a
point within the Northern lines stood a little primitive log church
that they called Shiloh. It was of the kind that the pioneers built
everywhere as they moved from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Shiloh
belonged to a little body of Methodists. Dick went into it more than
once. There was no pastor and no congregation now, but the little church
was not molested. He sat more than once on an uncompromising wooden
bench, and looked out through a window, from which the shutter was gone,
at the forest and the army.
Sitting here in this primitive house of worship, he would feel a certain
sadness. It seemed strange that a great army, whose purpose was to
destroy other armies, should be encamped around a building erected in
the cause of the Prince of Peace. The mighty and terrible nature of the
war was borne in upon him more fully than ever.
But optimism was supreme among the soldiers. They had achieved the great
victory of Donelson in the face of odds that had seemed impossible. They
could defeat all the Southern forces that lay between them and the Gulf.
The generals shared their confidence. They did not fortify their camp.
They had not come that far South to fight defensive battles. It was
their place to attack and that of the men in gray to defend. They had
advanced in triumph almost to the Mississippi line, and they would soon
be pursuing their disorganized foe into that Gulf State.
Several new generals came to serve under Grant. Among them was one named
Sherman, to whom Dick bore messages several times, and who impressed him
with his dry manner and curt remarks which were yet so full of sense.
It was Sherman's division, in fact, that was encamped around the little
church, and Dick soon learned his opinions. He did not believe that they
would so easily conquer the South. He did not look for any triumphal
parade to the Gulf. In the beginning of the war he had brought great
enmity and criticism upon himself by saying that 200,000 men at least
would be needed at once to crush the Confederacy in the west alone. And
yet it was to take more than ten times that number four bitter years to
achieve the task in both west and east.
But optimism continued to reign in the Union army. Buell would arrive
soon with his division and then seventy thousand strong they would
resume their march southward, crushing everything. Meanwhile it was
pleasant while they waited. They had an abundance of food. They were
well sheltered from the rains. The cold days were passing, nature was
bursting into its spring bloom, and the crisp fresh winds that blew from
the west and south were full of life and strength. It was a joy merely
to breathe.
One rainy day the three boys, who had met by chance, went into
the little church for shelter from a sudden spring rain. From the
shutterless window Dick saw Sergeant Whitley scurrying in search of a
refuge, and they called to him. He came gladly and took a seat in one of
the rough wooden pews of the little church of Shiloh. The three boys had
the greatest respect for the character and judgment of the sergeant, and
Dick asked him when he thought the army would march.
“They don't tell these things to sergeants,” said Whitley.
“But you see and you know a lot about war.”
“Well, you've noticed that the army ain't gettin' ready to march. When
General Buell gets here we'll have nigh onto seventy thousand men, and
seventy thousand men can't lift themselves up by their bootstraps an'
leave, all in a mornin'.”
“But we don't have to hurry,” said Pennington. “There's no Southern army
west of the Alleghanies that could stand before our seventy thousand men
for an hour.”
“General Buell ain't here yet.”
“But he's coming.”
“But he ain't here yet,” persisted the sergeant, “an' he can't be here
for several days, 'cause the roads are mighty deep in the spring mud.
Don't say any man is here until he is here. An' I tell you that General
Johnston, with whom we've got to deal, is a great man. I wasn't with
him when he made that great march through the blizzards an' across the
plains to Salt Lake City to make the Mormons behave, but I've served
with them that was. An' I've never yet found one of them who didn't say
General Johnston was a mighty big man. Soldiers know when the right kind
of a man is holdin' the reins an' drivin' 'em. Didn't we all feel that
we was bein' driv right when General Grant took hold?”
“We all felt it,” said the three in chorus.
“Of course you did,” said the sergeant, “an' now I've got a kind of
uneasy feelin' over General Johnston. Why don't we hear somethin' from
him? Why don't we know what he's doin'? We haven't sent out any scoutin'
parties. On the plains, no matter how strong we was, we was always
on the lookout for hostile Indians, while here we know there is a big
Confederate army somewhere within fifty miles of us, but don't take the
trouble to look it up.”
“That's so,” said Warner. “Caution represents less than five per cent of
our effectiveness. But I suppose we can whip the Johnnies anyway.”
“Of course we can,” said Pennington, who was always of a most buoyant
temperament.
Sergeant Whitley went to the shutterless window, and looked out at the
forest and the long array of tents.
“The rain is about over,” he said. “It was just a passin' shower. But
it looks as if it had already added a fresh shade of green to the leaves
and grass. Cur'us how quick a rain can do it in spring, when everything
is just waitin' a chance to grow, and bust into bloom. I've rid on the
plains when everything was brown an' looked dead. 'Long come a big rain
an' the next day everything was green as far as the eye could reach an'
you'd see little flowers bloomin' down under the shelter of the grass.”
“I didn't know you had a poetical streak in you, sergeant,” said Dick,
who marked his abrupt change from the discussion of the war to a far
different topic.
“I think some of it is in every man,” replied Sergeant Whitley gravely.
“I remember once that when we had finished a long chase after some
Northern Cheyennes through mighty rough and dry country we came to a
little valley, a kind of a pocket in the hills, fed by a fine creek,
runnin' out of the mountains on one side, into the mountains on the
other. The pocket was mebbe two miles long an' mebbe a mile across, an'
it was chock full of green trees an' green grass, an' wild flowers. We
enjoyed its comforts, but do you think that was all? Every man among us,
an' there was at least a dozen who couldn't read, admired its beauties,
an' begun to talk softer an' more gentle than they did when they was out
on the dry plains. An' you feel them things more in war than you do at
any other time.”
“I suppose you do,” said Dick. “The spring is coming out now in Kentucky
where I live, and I'd like to see the new grass rippling before the
wind, and the young leaves on the trees rustling softly together.”
“Stop sentimentalizing,” said Warner. “If you don't it won't be a minute
before Pennington will begin to talk about his Nebraska plains, and how
he'd like to see the buffalo herds ten million strong, rocking the earth
as they go galloping by.”
Pennington smiled.
“I won't see the buffalo herds,” he said, “but look at the wild fowl
going north.”
They left the window as the rain had ceased, and went outside. All this
region was still primitive and thinly settled, and now they saw flocks
of wild ducks and wild geese winging northward. The next day the heavens
themselves were darkened by an immense flight of wild pigeons. The
country cut up by so many rivers, creeks and brooks swarmed with wild
fowl, and more than once the soldiers roused up deer from the thickets.
The second day after the talk of the four in the little church Dick, who
was now regarded as a most efficient and trusty young staff officer, was
sent with a dispatch to General Buell requesting him to press forward
with as much speed as he could to the junction with General Grant.
Several other aides were sent by different routes, in order to make sure
that at least one would arrive, but Dick, through his former ride with
Colonel Winchester to Nashville, had the most knowledge of the country,
and hence was likely to reach Buell first.
As the boy rode from the camp and crossed the river into the forest he
looked back, and he could not fail to notice to what an extent it
was yet a citizen army, and not one of trained soldiers. The veteran
sergeant had already called his attention to what he deemed grave
omissions. In the three weeks that they had been lying there they had
thrown up no earthworks. Not a spade had touched the earth. Nor was
there any other defense of any kind. The high forest circled close about
them, dense now with foliage and underbrush, hiding even at a distance
of a few hundred yards anything that might lie within. The cavalry in
these three weeks had made one scouting expedition, but it was slight
and superficial, resulting in nothing. The generals of divisions posted
their own pickets separately, leaving numerous wide breaks in the line,
and the farmer lads, at the change of guard, invariably fired their
rifles in the air, to signify the joy of living, and because it was good
to hear the sound.
Now that he was riding away from them, these things impressed Dick more
than when he was among them. Sergeant Whitley's warning and pessimistic
words came back to him with new force, but, as he rode into the depths
of the forest, he shook off all depression. Those words, “Seventy
thousand strong!” continually recurred to him. Yes, they would be
seventy thousand strong when Buell came up, and the boys were right.
Certainly there was no Confederate force in the west that could resist
seventy thousand troops, splendidly armed, flushed with victory and led
by a man like Grant.
Seventy thousand strong! Dick's heart beat high at the unuttered words.
Why should Grant fortify? It was for the enemy, not for him, to do such
a thing. Nor was it possible that Johnston even behind defenses could
resist the impact of the seventy thousand who had been passing from one
victory to another, and who were now in the very heart of the enemy's
country.
His heart continued to beat high and fast as he rode through the green
forest. Its strong, sweet odors gave a fillip to his blood, and he
pressed his horse to new speed. He rode without interruption night and
day, save a few hours now and then for sleep, and reached the army of
Buell which deep in mud was toiling slowly forward.
Buell was not as near to Shiloh as Dick had supposed, but his march had
suffered great hindrances. Halleck, in an office far away in St. Louis,
had undertaken to manage the campaign. His orders to Buell and his
command to Grant had been delayed. Buell, who had moved to the town of
Columbia, therefore had started late through no fault of his.
Duck River, which Buell was compelled to cross, was swollen like all the
other streams of the region, by the great rains and was forty feet
deep. The railway bridge across it had been wrecked by the retreating
Confederates and he was compelled to wait there two weeks until his
engineers could reconstruct it.
War plays singular chances. Halleck in St. Louis, secure in his plan of
campaign, had sent an order after Dick left Shiloh, for Buell to turn
to the north, leaving Grant to himself, and occupy a town that he named.
Through some chance the order never reached Buell. Had it done so the
whole course of American history might have been changed. Grant himself,
after the departure of the earlier messengers, changed his mind and
sent messengers to Nelson, who led Buell's vanguard, telling him not to
hurry. This army was to come to Pittsburg Landing or Shiloh partly by
the Tennessee, and Grant stated that the vessels for him would not be
ready until some days later. It was the early stage of the war when
generals behaved with great independence, and Nelson, a rough, stubborn
man, after reading the order marched on faster than ever. It seemed
afterward that the very stars were for Grant, when one order was lost,
and another disobeyed.
But Dick was not to know of these things until later. He delivered in
person his dispatch to General Buell, who remembered him and gave him a
friendly nod, but who was as chary of speech as ever. He wrote a brief
reply to the dispatch and gave it sealed to Dick.
“The letter I hand you,” he said, “merely notifies General Grant that I
have received his orders and will hurry forward as much as possible.
If on your return journey you should deem yourself in danger of falling
into the hands of the enemy destroy it at once.”
Dick promised to do so, saluted, and retired. He spent only two hours
in General Buell's camp, securing some fresh provisions to carry in his
saddle bags and allowing his horse a little rest. Then he mounted
and took as straight a course as he could for General Grant's camp at
Pittsburg Landing.
The boy felt satisfied with himself. He had done his mission quickly and
exactly, and he would have a pleasant ride back. On his strong, swift
horse, and with a good knowledge of the road, he could go several times
faster than Buell's army. He anticipated a pleasant ride. The forest
seemed to him to be fairly drenched in spring. Little birds flaming
in color darted among the boughs and others more modest in garb poured
forth a full volume of song. Dick, sensitive to sights and sounds,
hummed a tune himself. It was the thundering song of the sea that he had
heard Samuel Jarvis sing in the Kentucky Mountains:
They bore him away when the day had fled,
And the storm was rolling high,
And they laid him down in his lonely bed
By the light of an angry sky.
The lightning flashed and the wild sea lashed
The shore with its foaming wave,
And the thunder passed on the rushing blast,
As it howled o'er the rover's grave.
He pressed on, hour after hour, through the deep woods, meeting no one,
but content. At noon his horse suddenly showed signs of great weariness,
and Dick, remembering how much he had ridden him over muddy roads, gave
him a long rest. Besides, there was no need to hurry. The Southern army
was at Corinth, in Mississippi, three or four days' journey away, and
there had been no scouts or skirmishers in the woods between.
After a stop of an hour he remounted and rode on again, but the horse
was still feeling his great strain, and he did not push him beyond a
walk. He calculated that nevertheless he would reach headquarters not
long after nightfall, and he went along gaily, still singing to himself.
He crossed the river at a point above the army, where the Union troops
had made a ferry, and then turned toward the camp.
About sunset he reached a hill from which he could look over the
forest and see under the horizon faint lights that were made by Grant's
campfires at Pittsburg Landing. It was a welcome sight. He would soon be
with his friends again, and he urged his horse forward a little faster.
“Halt!” cried a sharp voice from the thicket.
Dick faced about in amazement, and saw four horsemen in gray riding from
the bushes. The shock was as great as if he had been struck by a bullet,
but he leaned forward on his horse's neck, kicked him violently with
his heels and shouted to him. The horse plunged forward at a gallop. The
boy, remembering General Buell's instructions, slipped the letter from
his pocket, and in the shelter of the horse's body dropped it to the
ground, where he knew it would be lost among the bushes and in the
twilight.
“Halt!” was repeated more loudly and sharply than ever. Then a bullet
whizzed by Dick's ear, and a second pierced the heart of his good horse.
He tried to leap clear of the falling animal, and succeeded, but he fell
so hard among the bushes that he was stunned for a few moments. When he
revived and stood up he saw the four horsemen in gray looking curiously
at him.
“'Twould have been cheaper for you to have stopped when we told you to
do it,” said one in a whimsical tone.
Dick noticed that the tone was not unkind--it was not the custom to
treat prisoners ill in this great war. He rubbed his left shoulder on
which he had fallen and which still pained him a little.
“I didn't stop,” he said, “because I didn't know that you would be able
to hit either me or my horse in the dusk.”
“I s'pose from your way of lookin' at it you was right to take the
chance, but you've learned now that we Southern men are tol'able good
sharpshooters.”
“I knew it long ago, but what are you doing here, right in the jaws of
our army? They might close on you any minute with a snap. You ought to
be with your own army at Corinth.”
Dick noticed that the men looked at one another, and there was silence
for a moment or two.
“Young fellow,” resumed the spokesman, “you was comin' from the
direction of Columbia, an' your hoss, which I am sorry we had to kill,
looked as if he was cleaned tuckered out. I judge that you was bearin' a
message from Buell's army to Grant's.”
“You mustn't hold me responsible for your judgment, good or bad.”
“No, I reckon not, but say, young fellow, do you happen to have a chaw
of terbacker in your clothes?”
“If I had any I'd offer it to you, but I never chew.”
The man sighed.
“Well, mebbe it's a bad habit,” he said, “but it's powerful grippin'.
I'd give a heap for a good twist of old Kentucky. Now we're goin' to
search you an' it ain't wuth while to resist, 'cause we've got you
where we want you, as the dog said to the 'coon when he took him by the
throat. We're lookin' for letters an' dispatches, 'cause we're shore you
come from Buell, but if we should run across any terbacker we'll have to
he'p ourselves to it. We ain't no robbers, 'cause in times like these it
ain't no robbery to take terbacker.”
Dick noticed that while they talked one of the men never ceased to cover
him with a rifle. They were good-humored and kindly, but he knew they
would not relax an inch from their duty.
“All right,” he said, “go ahead. I'll give you a good legal title to
everything you may find.”
He knew that the letter was lying in the bushes within ten feet of them
and he had a strong temptation to look in that direction and see if it
were as securely hidden as he had thought, but he resisted the impulse.
Two of the men searched him rapidly and dexterously, and much to their
disappointment found no dispatch.
“You ain't got any writin' on you, that's shore,” said the spokesman.
“I'd expected to find a paper, an' I had a lingerin' hope, too, that we
might find a little terbacker on you 'spite of what you said.”
“You don't think I'd lie about the tobacco, would you?”
“Sonny, it ain't no lyin' in a big war to say you ain't got no
terbacker, when them that's achin' for it are standin' by, ready to grab
it. If you had a big diamond hid about you, an' a robber was to ask you
if you had it, you'd tell him no, of course.”
“I think,” said Dick, “that you must be from Kentucky. You've got our
accent.”
“I shorely am, an' I'm a longer way from it than I like. I noticed from
the first that you talked like me, which is powerful flatterin' to you.
Ain't you one of my brethren that the evil witches have made take up
with the Yankees?”
“I'm from the same state,” replied Dick, who saw no reason to conceal
his identity. “My name is Richard Mason, and I'm an aide on the staff of
Colonel Arthur Winchester, who commands a Kentucky regiment in General
Grant's army.”
“I've heard of Colonel Winchester. The same that got a part of his
regiment cut up so bad by Forrest.”
“Yes, we did get cut up. I was there,” confessed Dick a little
reluctantly.
“Don't feel bad about it. It's likely to happen to any of you when
Forrest is around. Now, since you've introduced yourself so nice I'll
introduce myself. I'm Sergeant Robertson, in the Orphan Brigade. It's a
Kentucky brigade, an' it gets its nickname 'cause it's made up of boys
so young that they call me gran'pa, though I'm only forty-four. These
other three are Bridge, Perkins, and Connor, just plain privates.”
The three “just plain privates” grinned.
“What are you going to do with me?” asked Dick.
“We're goin' to give you a pleasant little ride. We killed your hoss,
for which I 'pologize again, but I've got a good one of my own, and
you'll jump up behind me.”
A sudden spatter of rifle fire came from the direction of the Northern
pickets.
“Them sentinels of yours have funny habits,” said Robertson grinning.
“Just bound to hear their guns go off. They're changin' the guard now.”
“How do you know that?” asked Dick.
“Oh, I know a heap. I'm a terrible wise man, but bein' so wise I don't
tell all I know or how I happen to know it. Hop up, sonny.”
“Don't you think I'll be a lot of trouble to you,” said Dick, “riding
behind you thirty or forty miles to your camp?”
The four men exchanged glances, and no one answered. The boy felt a
sudden chill, and his hair prickled at the roots. He did not know what
had caused it, but surely it was a sign of some danger.
The night deepened steadily as they were talking. The twilight had gone
long since. The last afterglow had faded. The darkness was heavy with
warmth. The thick foliage of spring rustled gently. Dick's sensation
that something unusual was happening did not depart.
The four men, after looking at one another, looked fixedly at Dick.
“Sonny,” said Robertson, “you ain't got no call to worry 'bout our
troubles. As I said, this is a good, strong hoss of mine, an' it will
carry us just as far as we go an' no further.”
It was an enigmatical reply, and Dick saw that it was useless to ask
them questions. Robertson mounted, and Dick, without another word,
sprang up behind him. Two of the privates rode up close, one on either
side, and the other kept immediately behind. He happened to glance back
and he saw that the man held a drawn pistol on his thigh. He wondered at
such extreme precautions, and the ominous feeling increased.
“Now, lads,” said Robertson to his men, “don't make no more noise than
you can help. There ain't much chance that any Yankee scoutin' party
will be out, but if there should be one we don't want to run into it.
An' as for you, Mr. Mason, you're a nice boy. We all can see that, but
just as shore as you let go with a yell or anything like it at any time
or under any circumstances, you'll be dead the next second.”
A sudden fierce note rang in his voice, and Dick, despite all his
courage, shuddered. He felt as if a nameless terror all at once
threatened not only him, but others. His lips and mouth were dry.
Robertson spoke softly to his horse, and then rode slowly forward
through the deep forest. The others rode with him, never breaking their
compact formation, and preserving the utmost silence. Dick did not ask
another question. Talk and fellowship were over. Everything before him
now was grim and menacing.
The dense woods and the darkness hid them so securely that they could
not have been seen twenty yards away, but the men rode on at a sure
pace, as if they knew the ground well. The silence was deep and intense,
save for the footsteps of the horses and now and then a night bird in
the tall trees calling.
Before they had gone far a man stepped from a thicket and held up a
rifle.
“Four men from the Orphan Brigade with a prisoner,” said Robertson.
“Advance with the prisoner,” said the picket, and the four men rode
forward. Dick saw to both left and right other pickets, all in the gray
uniform of the South, and his heart grew cold within him. The hair on
his head prickled again at its roots, and it was a dreadful sensation.
What did it mean? Why these Southern pickets within cannon shot of the
Northern lines?
The men rode slowly on. They were in the deep forest, but the young
prisoner began to see many things under the leafy canopy. On his right
the dim, shadowy forms of hundreds of men lay sleeping on the grass. On
his left was a massed battery of great guns, eight in number.
Further and further they went, and there were soldiers and cannon
everywhere, but not a fire. There was no bed of coals, not a single
torch gleamed anywhere. Not all the soldiers were sleeping, but those
who were awake never spoke. Silence and darkness brooded over a great
army in gray. It was as if they marched among forty thousand phantoms,
row on row.
The whole appalling truth burst in an instant upon the boy. The Southern
army, which they had supposed was at Corinth, lay in the deep woods
within cannon shot of its foe, and not a soul in all Grant's thousands
knew of its presence there! And Buell was still far away! It seemed to
Dick that for a little space his heart stopped beating. He foresaw it
all, the terrible hammer-stroke at dawn, the rush of the fiery South
upon her unsuspecting foe, and the cutting down of brigades, before
sleep was gone from their eyes.
Not in vain had the South boasted that Johnston was a great general. He
had not been daunted by Donelson. While his foe rested on his victory
and took his ease, he was here with a new army, ready to strike the
unwary. Dick shivered suddenly, and, with a violent impulse, clutched
the waist of the man in front of him. It may have been some sort of
physical telepathy, but Robertson understood. He turned his head and
said in a whisper:
“You're right. The whole Southern army is here in the woods, an' we'd
rather lose a brigade tonight than let you escape.”
Dick felt a thrill of the most acute agony. If he could only escape!
There must be some way! If he could but find one! His single word would
save the lives of thousands and prevent irreparable defeat! Again he
clutched the waist of the man in front of him and again the man divined.
“It ain't no use,” he said, although his tone was gentle, and in a way
sympathetic. “After all, it's your own fault. You blundered right in our
way, an' we had to take you for fear you'd see us, an' give the alarm.
It was your unlucky chance. You'd give a million dollars if you had
it to slip out of our hands and tell Ulysses Grant that Albert Sidney
Johnston with his whole army is layin' in the woods right alongside of
him, ready to jump on his back at dawn, an' he not knowin' it.”
“I would,” said Dick fervently.
“An' so would I if I was in your place. Just think, Mr. Mason, that of
all the hundreds of thousands of men in the Northern armies, of all the
twenty or twenty-five million people on the Northern side, there's just
one, that one a boy, and that boy you, who knows that Albert Sidney
Johnston is here.”
“Held fast as I am, I'm sorry now that I do know it.”
“I can't say that I blame you. I said you'd give a million dollars to be
able to tell, but if you're to measure such things with money it would
be worth a hundred million an' more, yes, it would be cheap at three
or four hundred millions for the North to know it. But, after all, you
can't measure such things with money. Maybe you think I talk a heap, but
I'm stirred some, too.”
They rode on a little farther over the hilly ground, covered with thick
forest or dense, tall scrub. But there were troops, troops, everywhere,
and now and then the batteries. They were mostly boys, like their
antagonists of the North, and the sleep of most of them was the sleep
of exhaustion, after a forced and rapid march over heavy ground from
Corinth. But Dick knew that they would be fresh in the morning when they
rose from the forest, and rushed upon their unwarned foe.