Ralph looked at her wonderingly. Here was a new thought. Did those uncouth black folks care for each other as white people did? Were they capable of attachments? She was almost hideous—had she ever been young?
A tear rolled down Aunt Judah's withered cheek, and she seemed to be looking far away. She was silent so long that Ralph began to be impatient to get back to camp with his knapsack full of good things.
“Well, auntie, where is Joe now? He must be pretty old by this time.”
A solemn look stole over her features, and looking up to where the blue sky showed through the chinks in the little cabin roof, she said—
“In Heben, I b'leeve. Oh, honey, it makes my heart heaby eben now, and offen and offen de tears dey makes my old eyes burn. Many a day I'se asked my hebenly Fader whar on dis big yarth my Joe was, but it must hab been wicked fur me to ask de Great King anyting 'bout a po' cullered boy, fur I neber had any answer. But Joe was a powerful hansum boy, de best one on de plantation.”
“How did he die?”
“Die? I didn't 'spress my 'pinion dat he was dead. I has looked long for Joe, and I 'mos knows he must be gone up above, for he lubbed me and he lubbed de little missie—de little daisy, Missie Flossie. She was de only one who could bring him out of his tantarums, fer po' Joe did hab spells, when he was ugly. Massa Steve—he owned us bof—I 'members dat day well; it was a sunshiny day, de yarth was all carpeted wid de short, green grass, and de flowers filled de whole land wid deir sweetness. It was so bright my heart was singing a song, and Missus Flora wanted to be druv to town to buy some nice tings for de little missie's birfday party. Massa say 'Joe, Dicks got a sick hoss to 'tend you hitch up de big black team, and take your mistress to town.' Joe, he whispered to me—I had tuk de little lady out on de lawn—dat he cudn't dribe dem speerited critters, fur he had burnt his hands roasting corn in de ashes de night afore. 'Don't stan dar, you brack rascal,' massa said, fur he seed him talking to me. 'Massa, I'se dead anxious to go, but I hab a bery bad hand—caint Dick go dis time wid de missus?'
“Then massa, he got as white as a sheet wif temper, and his voice was like thunder—'No! go as I told you. Do you want anoder flogging?'
“I felt way down all fru me, sumfing was gwine to happen, for Joe he looked so wicked, and he kep' muttering and muttering, and I was scared, fur I knowed sumfing was about to break, when Joe 'muned wid his-self. But oh, massa, I shall neber forget de awful night dat fell, and no Joe, nor no missus, nor no carridge and hosses cumd home. Massa was wild. He tore up and down de lawn, running here and shouting dar, and sending fust one nigger, den anudder, to the neighbors' plantations to see if missie had dun gone visiting at any ob dem. Den he called fur Dick and his white hoss, and was jess jumping on his back when de hans' set up a holler ing and de carridge cum taring onto de lawn, and fust dey 'lowed Missus Flora was dead, fur she was cuddled up in a heap, as white as snow. Wen dey got her to cum to she tole Massa Steve how Joe had dun gone to town wid her and den wen she wanted to cum home he had rode 'em off, way off inter de woods, and way inter de midst of de fick trees, and gibing de hosses a terrible lashing he started dem, heads toward home; den dey runned all de way ober sticks and limbs of trees till dey foun' de open road, wen dey went so fas' Missus lost her breff and cudn't see any mo'.
“You should have seen massa den! He swore so loud it made my ears ache, and all de time he was looking right at me. He said Joe had run away and he'd hab de young black debil's hide off when he kotched him, and if he was shore any ob de slabes knew he was going it ud be wuss for dem; he'd sell 'em to de very next trader dat cumd along, and dey'd be toted down Souf, whar dey'd be showed how to work. He swore he had nuffing but a pack of lazy niggers roun' him, who didn't desarve to hab a good master. And, honey, fore de Lawd, Massa Steve was a kind master, only he wud swar and cuss at us once in awhile.”
“What became of Joe? Did they catch him?” asked Ralph, who was so deeply interested in her story that he had forgotten all about the boys in camp who were waiting for that hot corn bread.
“Yes, massa, I seen him dragged in de next day, after dey had hunted all night wid de dogs. Dey had torn his clothes in tatters, and his han's and face was all red wid de blood whar he fought wid dem. De master he was so mad he made de slaves all come outen deir cabins, to see how dey sarbed a runaway. I can see it now”—and she covered her eyes with her wrinkled black hands—“I can see it all. Oh, Joe, I neber forgits dat day. And when de cruel 'black snake' cut his back ebery time it hit him he neber said a word, but he kind o' shibered all over and set his teeth hard, but I screamed out 'Po' Joe! Will nobody pity po' Joe?' and fell down on de grass all cold as a stone. My breff was gone, and I fought de angel ob de Lord had done called me home and jess den Massa Steve say—'Go to your quarters, Joe.' My Joe, he walk off as proud as a king. Missus she was bery sorry for me, and was allus bery kind to me, but Joe neber sing in de field any mo'. He would fix his eyes on me so terrible I was almos' afraid of him, and he would mutter dat de avenger was on de white man's track. 'I'm gwine to be free. Neber no more will dey lash Joe.' I used to tink de walls would hear him and tell de massa. But dey didn't, and one night wen ebery libing soul 'cept de watch dogs were in deir beds, de hosses 'gan to stamp and kick in deir boxes, and de dogs were howling, and den we heard de white folks screaming, louder and louder, and fas' as we could, we ran outen our cabins, and dar up on de little knoll-whar de house stood, we saw de black smoke pouring out ob de windows and rolling up to de sky, and den turning redder and redder, and we could 'stinguish Massa Steve and Missus Flora out on de lawn jess as dey jumped from deir beds.
“De oberseer was fighting de flames and he tole us to get all de buckets we could, and fotch de water from de well in dem, and he jumped on a hoss and galloped to de nearest plantation for help, and dey all turned out, white people and slabes, and brought water, and soon de fire wasn't red no mo', but de house—you can see de walls now ober dar, whar dey stand to 'min' me ebery day ob de dear massa and missie and de little lamb, Flossie—was no house any more, all de insides gone, and de black outside standing up in de summer air.”
She paused to wipe away the hot tears that blinded her.
“What became of your master and his family?”
“Massa and missus were presarbed, but de little white blos-whose birfday had been so bright, dey didn't know whar to look for her, and her mudder was screeching 'My baby—my baby!' and going out o' one faint into anoder, and her pa trying to rush inter de smoking house and calling for his Flossie—oh, it was enuff to make de har turn gray!
“She muss hab been frightened so when de smoke got in her pretty blue eyes dat she didn't know how to fin' de way out, fer she was crouched down behind de front stairs, and dat's de spot whar Dick found her, wid her night-dress all on fire, but de light tole him whar to look.
“When he put de little precious chile in my-arms she put her baby fingers on my black face and she said, 'Judah, tell mamma—I am not hurt—but I caint see!' Honey, de nex' day she shut dem po' little eyes on dis world, and missie, whose heart broke den, followed her lamb to de hebenly pastures whar de good Lawd 'tends to all deir wants.”
“What became of your master?”
“Massa Steve? He went ober de sea, and he died in anoder country. De plantation and all de slabes went to his brudder, who had de big house yo' sees ober dar on de road put up. No one eber goes near de old place, fer dey say its hanted.”
“But the old home and Joe? You don't think he had anything to do with setting it on fire?”
“Massa, de good Book tells de po' creatures dat dey musn't form no 'pinion to hurt deir neighbors. It goes agin me to say dat he did, but yo' didn't know Joe, and I did.”
“Did they suspect him?”
“I neber could look dem in de face to know, but Joe neber was seen after de house was burned, and dat's many years in de past.”
Ralph drew a long breath, and bidding the old negress goodbye, he went back to camp with a sad heart. When he entered the camp he found the men gathered in knots, discussing the news they had just received of a coming engagement.
“What are we going out for?” asked a new man.
“So as to give the rebs a chance to lay us out, or be laid out themselves. What do you suppose we go to war for?”
Old Bill's gruff tones nettled the man.
“It don't hurt you to answer a civil question, does it?”
“Well, not exactly. You see General McCall has had an advance guard out reconnoitering, but he can't persuade the boys over on the Virginia side to show up on open ground. They say there's a big force of Confeds at Leesburg, five miles or so back from the river.”
“This will be my first battle,” the new recruit said, with a sigh, “but I don't expect it'll be my last.”
“That's right—never say die. The man who is a little chicken-hearted at first, often turns out to be the most courageous soldier.”
“I remember reading once,” Ralph interposed, “that at some charge on a battery in one of the battles Napoleon fought when the odds were greatly against him, his attention was called by one of his officers to the cowardice of one poor fellow who was pressing on, up to the cannon's mouth. His knees were shaking, his eyes bulged out, and he gave every evidence of being terror-stricken. But his gaze was fixed on the coveted point, his teeth were set hard, and he kept resolutely on. 'That man is not a coward,' said the great general; 'he sees that his life is in danger, and still he does not shrink from his duty, but faces death like a man. He will be shot before he yields.”
“But the soldier was not wounded. He lived to become an officer in the very regiment which one would have expected to see disgraced by his cowardice, and won great fame through his heroic bravery in after engagements.”
“Boys,” said Old Bill, who was always the spokesman for the party, “the 'Little Corporal'—that's Napoleon Bonaparte,” he continued in an aside to the new man, who made a wry face at being singled out for an explanation—“was right. It's agin human nature not to feel a little shaky when you are going into your first battle. It's how you do your duty that settles your standing. If you attend to that no one can blame you for having a leetle private fear of your own.”
HASTY breakfast, with a rigid inspection of their muskets, and a hurried packing of knapsacks, preceded the long role of the drum, the signal to be up and doing. The sight of a body of soldiers with their glittering arms and tasty uniforms is inspiriting, and dull and cold must be the bosom that does not leap quicker at the thought that he belongs to this grand whole. Ralph felt a thrill of exultation as he realized that he was a part and parcel of the men who were massed on the bank of the Potomac that bright October day. There were Ralph's regiment of Massachusetts men, the Forty-second New York, Seventy-first Pennsylvania and a Rhode Island battery, counting, in all, some 2,000 men, watching for a chance to cross at an island which lay there.
The day was beautiful—the sun poured down his warm beams, for in that region the winter is late. Many were the openly spoken murmurs of impatience, however, on the part of the men.
“We shall never get across till doomsday,” Bill Elliott said to Ralph. “Look at our men, over 2,000 of them, and we've only got two or three old boats to carry us over. With all due respect to General McClellan, I think he's made a great big mistake, as General Stone will find to his cost before we're over. The Johnnies can see all we're doing and get all ready for us. Why, it'll be dead easy for them to receive us in fine shape.”
“They are having hard work with that battery, getting it up the bluff. See how they slip at every step.”
And as Ralph watched the battery being dragged up with prodigious exertion his heart felt heavy, and he, too, began to fear there was an oversight somewhere.
At the top of the bluff lay a broad field of about ten acres, hemmed in on all sides by thick woods, so dense that neither infantry nor artillery could penetrate them in line. Colonel Baker was given entire command of all the troops. Then began a desperate and gallant attempt, which the Confederates met, dashing out from the timber, and though the Federals fired round after round from their battery, it was a hopeless conflict, for the rebel sharpshooters picked off their gunners, one after another, and the pieces were left useless.
Still on the Union forces pressed, to be met by a heavy body of infantry, whose hot fire cut them down. For two hours they stood their ground gallantly, and returned the fire with spirit. Suddenly an officer riding a splendid horse, whose snowy sides were covered with foam, dashed out of the woods, and coming toward them, waving his sword over his head, he beckoned the Union forces forward.
Colonel Baker took new courage; he thought he recognized General Johnston in the horseman, and wildly cheering to his command to follow, he pressed forward, hoping at last he should meet the enemy in an open fight. But he was met by a fierce onset of the Confederates, who came on with tremendous force. Like a solid wall they met the Federals, and as part of the latter's columns charged, Colonel Baker received the whole contents of a revolver in the hands of one of the rebels, and fell dead.
His body was rescued through the bravery of Captain Beiral and his company, who fought their way back through the thickest of the opposing force, and with desperate courage rescued the body of their dead commander, and conveyed it to the island. At once the rout began, and the Union forces were driven back, down the steep clay bluffs, one hundred feet high, falling, jumping down, pushed by the Confederates, who followed at their heels, killing and taking prisoners.
It was an awful spectacle. Men whose courage could not be doubted, were panic-stricken, and throwing away coats, muskets, and everything that could impede them, plunged into the river, whose rapid current overwhelmed them, and to their shrieks as they drowned, was added the rapid firing of the Confederates on the cliff above, the roar of the artillery, the cries of the wounded, making a scene of horror which cannot be described. The imagination alone can fill in the picture.
Among the incidents of this day may be mentioned a desertion of one of the regiments by its colonel, who swam the river on horseback, thus making his escape. Many took to a boat, which was quickly filled, and as quickly sunk with every soul. A captain in the Fifteenth Massachusetts came to the rescue of the fleeing Federals, with two companies, and charged up the hill, only to see how little help he could give, and a few moments decided him to wave his handkerchief, and surrender to the Confederates.
Dispirited and weary, the remnant of the troops moved back to camp. Their loss had been heavy. Over five hundred soldiers had been captured by the Confederates, Colonel Baker had been shot, and they had lost arms, ammunition and clothing.
Corporal Ralph Gregory had shown coolness and clearheaded courage, equal to the oldest and bravest. When the battle began, the color-sergeant had received a ball in the breast, and had fallen dead. Seizing the flag from his stiffening fingers, Ralph rushed to the front, and held it manfully, through the storm of bullets that riddled its folds, and clinging desperately to it, he carried it proudly and safely, soiled and torn, but not disgraced.
But his strength was not equal to his courage, and handing it to a stalwart comrade whose arm was more powerful, he bade him to “protect it from capture.” The colors went back to camp, and with them, went the story of the boy's bravery.
Ralph was weak, his nerves were unstrung. His ears still echoed the noise and confusion of the battle that had not yet died away. Still the Union men were fleeing, pursued closely by their enemy, who wounded them with muskets and swords, as they ran. The agonized shrieks of those who met their death in the swift-flowing stream rang in his ears with fearful distinctness, and he vaguely wondered if he would ever cease to hear them.
He was unnerved. It was not cowardice, but the reaction that so often follows times of great excitement. Exhaustion, complete and unavoidable, had taken possession of him. He reeled like a drunken man. Making a frantic effort to recover himself, he sank on the earth amid a clump of leaves and brush, that half hid him from observation. How long he lay in this stupor he could not tell, but when he became conscious of the dreadful place he was in, he slowly struggled to his feet, half-dazed and bewildered. His first thought was to wonder where Bill was. He recollected that he had fled in hot haste with the others, and the last glimpse of him which he had, was when the plucky Massachusetts captain made his stand, but was compelled to surrender. He was sure that he had been wounded, for he saw blood streaming down Bill's face, as he ran.
“Could he have escaped, or is he among the dead lying here?” he thought. “I must search for him.”
And as he threaded his way among the dead and wounded as best he could in the twilight, he stumbled over the body of a boy. Kneeling down, he turned the lad's face upward, and in the dim light he knew him.
“It is Charlie Arlington!—he is surely dead!”
The boy opened his eyes, and seeing Ralph, he assured him that he was not wounded, but he feared his ankle was sprained. “I told you,” he said, with a smile, “that we should meet again.”
“You did, but I did not think it would be so soon. Are you injured?”
“Only by my horse, who stumbled and threw me with such force against that old stump that I fainted with pain. Do you think my leg is broken?”
“Let me examine it. No, I don't think it is. How are you going to ride, however? Where is your horse?”
“Oh, he ran away after serving me that mean trick. But why are you here? Don't you know you are my prisoner now?” he continued, smiling broadly.
“How's that?” Ralph spoke sharp and loud.
“Hush!” the other cautioned. “You'll have a dozen soldiers after you. They're coming back to bury the dead. Of course you're my prisoner. You're on our field—were you not routed?”
This fact rather staggered Ralph. It had not come home to him till then; he looked anxiously toward the river's bank.
The boy divined his thought.
“It's no use to try to swim that stream here. The current's too strong.”
“It seems I'm your prisoner, then.” Ralph's sad tones spoke volumes. The horrors of captivity stared him in the face. He thought at that instant, of his mother, sisters and the dear old home, and his heart was heavy as lead.
Charlie appeared to be enjoying the advantage he had over Ralph, for he never removed his gaze.
“I've but to raise my voice and you'd be surrounded in an instant.”
“But how is it you are here now; I thought you knew nothing about the army,” said Ralph.
“I didn't when I last saw you, but I joined the Southern army the next week. I am in the cavalry service.”
Ralph's curiosity would never be silenced. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yes, and no. I have been in several engagements, but the hardest blow I had was when they carried my father home dead, and I asked for a furlough, to go home to see him once more, and was refused.”
Here the boy nearly broke down. Ralph's sympathies were aroused at once. He knew not what to say. But Charlie recovered himself soon, and continued—“You see how I'm placed now. I shall have to take you into our camp.”
“I wish Bill were here!” Ralph blurted out. “He wouldn't see me taken prisoner so easily.”
To him Bill represented the sum total of all knowledge, and he felt confident of his ability to rescue him, even in the face of the danger that now menaced him.
A low whistle startled both boys. A few feet from them, stretched lengthwise of a fallen tree, lay Bill, who raised his head, which was bleeding freely.,
“I've a good mind to take you both prisoners!” he said, jocosely. “What are you exchanging courtesies for? The boy's right. Unless we can get away in a very big hurry, he can land us both in the rebel camp, and then it'll be all over with us. You'd better be planning each other's escape, and then you'll both be likely to be court-martialed!”
“It's my luck, isn't it? I can't blame Charlie if he does take me. But I haven't got anything against him.”
“Neither has any of us got anything against any of the Johnnies. This is not a personal affair, at all. But just the same we've got to fight 'em because they're agin the government.”
Ralph looked closer at Bill. “You're wounded, and will be carried to prison, too! Oh, Bill, what will become of you?”
“It's nothing but a scratch. I lay here awhile till those fellows' guns gave out, for I felt a little dizzy, and didn't care to get up till the smoke cleared away, and I could make out my bearings.”
A groan from their companion recalled them to their position. Ralph was in a fever of anxiety. War was a brutalizing affair, he pondered. “You mustn't have any feelings at all, Bill, if you want to be a good soldier.”
“Nary a feeling. Humanity don't cut no figger in a battle. Why, boy, I've stood in the ranks and seen father on one side, and son on the other, blazing away with hate and bitterness in their eyes. And all on account of a mere difference of opinion.” Ralph shuddered. “It is dreadful; but war shall never make me so hardened and indifferent to suffering that I will not do all I can in honor to relieve it. I intend to fulfill all my duties as a soldier, but do not see why I should hesitate to show mercy to an injured foe.”
“He's the right sort,” Bill chuckled to himself.
With that thought in his mind, Ralph went nearer to Charlie, and said—“Give me your handkerchief, and I will bandage your ankle.” In a few moments he had finished binding it on, tightly and skillfully, while the boy looked his gratitude.
“It feels a little easier,” he said, “the pain was intense.” Bill watched them both narrowly. In his heart he admired “the little rebel cuss,” but he wished him a thousand miles away, for he saw that it was impossible to make their escape, as Charlie had only to raise his voice as he had suggested, and the enemy would be upon them.
It was a moment of anxiety for the man and his companion. Charlie was the most indifferent of the three. “I'd rather have been killed than have to go to their prison, for who knows how long it may be before I am exchanged?” thought Bill.
The firing had ceased, and darkness had settled o'er the earth. Suddenly Charlie seemed to recollect something, for he whispered—“Go—you must go, at once. The detail will soon be here, to bury our poor boys, and they will have you, sure. Go down the bluff as still as you can; don't loosen a pebble even, for there are sharp ears near. Keep close to the river bank, and about half a mile down you'll see an old tree standing that has been struck by lightning. Two rods north of the tree a little skiff is hid in the tall weeds. Take it and row across. Go quick, and, above all, make no noise. My life, as well as yours, is in danger. They'd shoot me in a minute, if they knew I helped you escape.”
“You're a brick—you are!” broke out Bill, admiringly. Ralph wrung his hand. “What will you do? You can't lie here all night.”
“They'll find me all right and carry me off to the hospital. I can talk, if I can't walk, and I'll soon let them know where I am. But you haven't a second to waste. Go!”
The hint, so urgently given, was acted upon, and none too speedily, for a moment after, the men appeared, and Charlie was suddenly seized with a violent fit of coughing, so loud and boisterous, it was well calculated to cover any noise which Ralph and Bill might unintentionally make. He was placed on a litter and borne away.
Bill scarce drew a breath until his feet touched the bottom of the boat. Charlie's violent cough had served them well, for though they stole noiselessly down the bluff, the night was so still that a breath almost could be detected. They were soon across the noble river, and their hearts beat tumultuously when they found themselves safe within the Union lines.
Bill's wound was not serious, so he declared. He even objected to the few days in the hospital which the surgeon prescribed. His good nature never left him.
“Sick men may go and lay up, but you cain't kill Old Bill. I'm presarved for something better than to stop a bullet. I've been through too many hard sieges to give in for a little blow like that was.”
“You've got another invite to see the Colonel,” a grizzled old soldier said to Ralph a day or two after the engagement. “He desires the pleasure of your company in his tent. Leastwise, that's what it amounts to, though that ain't the language he made use of. Wonder why I don't be asked once in awhile? He don't know what he's losing by not consulting me. But hurry up—'tain't perlite to keep him waiting.”
Ralph trembled visibly, and every drop of blood turned to ice. He knew something must be wrong. Perhaps he ought not to have helped Charlie, but what else could he do? He walked briskly toward the tent of the officer.
Colonel Hopkins was a stern, battle-scarred old soldier, who wasted no words. His keen vision could discover merit, however, and as he looked steadily at Ralph, he took his measure at once.
“Your captain tells me you saved the colors of the regiment, in the late engagement?”
“I did, Colonel.”
“And you risked your life in so doing.”
“Why should I not? I am a soldier, sir!” and the boy's “I will, with the help of Heaven!” was Ralph's fervent utterance, as he followed the orderly from the Colonel's tent.
One of the most brilliant affaire of the war was the charge of a body of cavalry under Fremont. This was a fine and choice array of cavalry, known as “Fremont's Body Guard,” whose exploits were famous. It was commanded by Major Charles Zagonyi, a Hungarian, whose military record had been made in Europe.
This dashing and fiery soldier, with a band of 160 men, charged upon a Confederate force of 2,000, who were drawn up in a hollow square. He rode across the field, unheeding the firing of the skirmishers, but charged into the midst of the Confederates, and with pistols and sabers, scattered them like dry leaves in the autumn wind. Not content with this, the daring Major chased them into the streets of Springfield, and fought them hand to hand.
After this daring and unequaled achievement, he hoisted the National flag upon the courthouse at Springfield, sent a guard to care for the wounded, and then went quietly back to Bolivar.
INTER so far had brought them much suffering and privation. To Ralph it was peculiarly dreary. With the prospect of a period of inactivity, it was strange that so little provision was made to protect them from the cold, raw winds that were so frequent. Many of the soldiers put up rude huts, made from the fine timber which grew so plentiful in that region, and those who were independent and enterprising enough to build for themselves, often fashioned a very snug, cozy little house. The rough stone fireplace, put together with Virginia mud, was never wanting. What though it was neither symmetrical nor artistic? The warmth and cheer compensated for the absence of both these features.
In some of these huts—they surely deserved a better title—the men threw themselves down at night on the ground, which was covered with blankets, rubber coats, and any material the jovial occupants could find to keep out the dampness. Some, more pretentious, constructed bunks or boxes round the sides, which were as comfortable as a spring bed would be at home. It was quite common to find home-made chairs, benches and tables, round which they gathered when off duty, and told stories or discussed the situation. The walls were papered with illustrations cut from newspapers, which added to the charms of the dwelling.
But the greater number shivered under canvas tents, feeling keenly the light snows and rains, followed by days of thaw and sunshine, which were so frequent. To add to the dreariness of their surroundings, the funeral dirge was often heard, as the dead were carried out from hospital, who had succumbed to that apparently simple disease, the measles, but which leaves its victim feeble, exhausted, and unable to rally.
To a new recruit, or to one who is full of sensibility, as Ralph was, these sights were particularly depressing.
A snowstorm during the day had been succeeded by a windy, cold night. Ralph had been writing to his mother, and while he took care to make every word as cheerful as he could, and never to mention his discomforts, vet the mother heart between the lines, and knew her boy was homesick, pining for her, as she, alas! was longing for the loving caress and the sound of his voice.
As he pushed back the stool which had answered for a writing desk, the wind gave a sudden whirl and lifted the canvas, sending a shower of sleet over him which made him shiver.
“The winter here is full as cold and disagreeable as up North!” he said. “I thought this was a land of perpetual sunshine and flowers!”
He peered out at the sentry, who hugged his great coat closer, as he paced to and fro. He fancied he saw in the gloom a man and horse, and heard the sharp challenge—
“Halt! Who goes there?”
The horseman drew up, and replied promptly—
“A messenger from General Shields, with dispatches for Colonel Hopkins. I must deliver them at once.”
The sentinel called—“Sergeant of the guard—post number five—a message from headquarters!”
The words were passed along the line of guards, until it reached the sergeant, who came instantly.
He carried the papers to his colonel, who read them hastily, and signed each one, handing them back to the orderly, who rode swiftly away.
Ralph was by this time outside his tent, unmindful of the sleet which tore his flesh like sharp-pointed arrows. He longed to know what those dispatches signified, but his curiosity had to remain unsatisfied, and he went back to his tent to try to sleep, as well as he could, for the biting wind that forced its way into every crevice.
He seated himself on the side of his bed, and tried to think. He wondered when General McClellan was going to take Richmond. The cry “All Quiet on the Potomac” was heard continually, and weary men and weeping women all over the land were longing for the dawn of peace which should bring back to them fathers, husbands and sons. But ah, that peace was far distant. The boy reasoned that he had no right to criticise the men who held trusted positions in the army. But surely the boys in camp and field were doing all they could, under orders, to hasten the end of these troublous times. Would the conflict ever cease?
Perplexed and worn out in trying to solve the problem agitating so many of the most patriotic and the most far-seeing, all over the land, Ralph at last fell asleep, to be roused by the reveille. He sprang up, sure that he must be dreaming, for he had just been sleeping but a moment—a mere “cat nap,” and this couldn't be a summons to leave his comfortable bed. He had neither time nor right to object, however; his sole duty was to obey orders, and he hastened to dress. Outside, the soldiers were hurrying about, most of those who were called on glad of any break in the monotony of their first winter in camp.
“Breakfast at two, march at half-past,” was the captain's peremptory order.
“What an unearthly hour,” was Ralph's comment. “Where, are we bound? And why march at night?”
“Can't say,” a comrade ventured, “unless it's so we won't have to march by day!”
They were not long in suspense.
A portion of their regiment was ordered to assist a force of Ohio and Indiana men under Colonel Dunning, in routing a body of Confederates who were posted near Romney, Va., at a point called Blue Gap.
The wind had died away, the stars were out, and the moon shone brilliantly. The cutting sleet had turned to snow, and the soft carpet lay white and pure, muffling the sound of their footsteps. It was a weird sight—that mass of men tramping along with steady steps, while their shadows falling on the ground danced and flickered in the moonbeams with startling vividness.
Blue Gap was a natural opening between hills, and was well defended by howitzers and rifle pits. As they approached the Gap, Ralph's keen eye detected a dozen men piling up limbs, straw, and other inflammable material, against the bridge that spanned a stream running through the Gap.
“Captain,” he said, “some of those fellows have left the lines, and are fixing things nice to burn that bridge.”
“We'll block that game, instanter. We need that bridge more than they do.”
A dash was made for the bridge, led by the captain, who opened fire upon them, and thus ended that attempt. On the hills the entrenchments were held manfully, but the Confederates had scarce time to pour forth their fire, before the two Ohio regiments dashed upon them, and captured two pieces of artillery. The surprise was so complete and the attack so overwhelming, that defense was vain.
The hills were swarming with Federals, fighting hand to hand, and forcing their opponents back. The houses on the other shore were filled with sharpshooters, whose constant firing harassed the Federals, and brought down a soldier at nearly every shot.
A score of men sprang into a large boat lying at the bank, and with a storm of bullets hissing and rattling about them, they crossed to the shore where the sharpshooters were hidden. Death menaced them, but with a huzza that would have put life into a stone, they rowed fast, and sprang out of the boat. Dashing up the hill, to the houses which the enemy had used for vantage ground, they found them vacated.
“They didn't wait to make our acquaintance,” Ralph said.
“No, but those sharpshooters introduced themselves to us in fine style. Why, a man went down at nearly every shot.”
Bill said not a word, but leaned heavily over the side of the boat. No one paid him attention, for their hearts were filled with a longing for revenge.
“Boys, we have missed the rebs ensconced in these houses, but we can prevent their using them again. We will burn them to the ground, and take good care that not a timber stands, after we have done with them. They have picked off some of our best men, and we won't leave a roof to shelter them.”
A dozen pairs of willing hands were at work in an instant gathering wood and brush, which they piled around the dwellings. With faces grimy and soiled, these resolute men touched the pile with a match, while they stood ready to shoot the first man who dared to show himself to protest, and soon the flames leaped upward, crackling, sputtering and curling round doors no and windows, licking up every object within reach, till naught but the charred and blackened timbers stood to mark the spot where the sharpshooters had dealt their deadly work.
The skirmish was brief. It was an easy victory, and no loss had been sustained by the Federals, save those who were shot in the boats. But the Confederate loss was greater. Forty soldiers were lying dead in the grass and weeds, and as many more were carried back to camp, prisoners.
Even while the houses were being consumed, Ralph went back to assist those who had received the bullets of the sharpshooters. Some had fallen overboard, and sunk in the stream. Others were lying as they had fallen, their cold hands still grasping their weapons, which they would never use again. One poor fellow was kneeling in the bottom of the boat, his finger on the trigger of his musket, and his staring eyes fixed on the shore. Ralph shuddered. Could he ever become inured to these dreadful sights?
Bill Elliott was leaning over the side of the boat, in a half-stupor. The wound in his head had opened afresh, and the red stream was running down his face, staining its ghastly whiteness crimson. His arm hung useless by his side, shattered by a bullet. Opening his eyes at the sound of Ralph's voice, he whispered faintly: “I thought you'd come arter me. They've fixed me this time, sure,” and he relapsed into unconsciousness.
A litter was soon hurried together, and Old Bill was placed in hospital.