Dick was the first to awake. The sergeant had not slept the night before at all, and, despite his enormous endurance, he was overpowered. Having fallen once into slumber he remained there long.
It was not yet morning and the rain was yet falling steadily. Its sweep upon the roof was still so pleasant and soothing that Dick resolved to go to sleep again, after he had looked about a little. He had grown used to dusk and he could see just a little. The sergeant, buried all but his head among the corn shucks, was breathing deeply and peacefully.
He looked out at one of the cracks, but he saw only rain sweeping by in misty sheets. The road that ran by the field was invisible. He gave devout thanks that this tight little corn crib had put itself in their way. Then he returned to his slumbers, and when he awoke again the sergeant was sitting by one of the cracks smoothing his thick hair with a small comb.
“I always try to keep as neat as I can, Mr. Mason,” he said, apologizing for such weakness. “It gives you more courage, and if I get killed I want to make a decent body. Here's your breakfast, sir. There's enough left for the two of us, and I've divided it equally.”
Cold ham, bacon and crackers were laid out on clean shucks, and they ate until nothing was left. It was now full daylight, and the rain was dying away to a sprinkle. The farmer might come out at any time to his crib, and they felt that they must be up and away.
They bade farewell to their pleasant shelter of a night, and, after pulling through the deep mud of the field, entered again the forest, which was now soaking wet.
“If Colonel Hertford is near where we reckon he is we ought to meet him by nightfall,” said Sergeant Whitley.
“We're sure to reach him before then,” said Dick joyously.
“Colonel Hertford is a mighty good man, and if he says he's going to be at a certain place at a certain time I reckon he'll be there, Mr. Mason.”
“And then we'll bring him back and join General Grant. What do you think of our General, Sergeant?”
Dick spoke with all the freedom then so prevalent in the American armies, where officer and man were often on nearly a common footing, and the sergeant replied with equal freedom.
“General Grant hits and hammers, and I guess that's what war is,” he said. “On the plains we had a colonel who didn't know much about tactics. He said the only way to put down hostile Indians was to find 'em, and beat 'em, and I guess that plan will work in any war, big or little.”
“I heard before I left the army that Washington was getting scared, afraid that he was taking too big a risk here in the heart of the Confederacy, and that his operations might be checked by orders from the capital.”
Sergeant Whitley smiled a wise smile.
“We sergeants learn to know the officers,” he said, “and I've had the chance to look at General Grant a lot. He doesn't say much, but I guess he's doing a powerful lot of thinking, while he's chawing on the end of his cigar. You notice, Mr. Mason, that he takes risks.”
“He took a big one at Shiloh, and came mighty near being nipped.”
“But he wasn't nipped after all, and now, if I can judge by the signs, he's going to take another chance here. I wouldn't be surprised if he turned and marched away from the Mississippi, say toward Jackson.”
“But that wouldn't be taking Vicksburg.”
“No, but he might whip an army of the Johnnies coming to relieve Vicksburg, and I've a sneaking idea that the General has another daring thought in mind.”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“When he turns eastward he'll be away from the telegraph. Maybe he doesn't want to receive any orders from the capital just now.”
“I believe you've hit it, Sergeant. At least I hope so, and anyway we want to reach Colonel Hertford right away.”
Still following the map and also consulting their own judgment, they advanced now at a good rate. But as they came into a more thickly populated country they were compelled to be exceedingly wary. Once a farmer insisted on questioning them, but they threatened him with their rifles and then plunged into a wood, lest he bring a force in pursuit.
In the afternoon, lying among some bushes, they saw a large Confederate force, with four cannon, pass on the road toward Jackson.
“Colonel Hertford might do them a lot of damage if he could fall on them with his cavalry,” said the sergeant thoughtfully.
“So he could,” said Dick, “but I imagine that General Grant wants the colonel to come at once.”
They turned northward now and an hour later found numerous hoofprints in a narrow road.
“All these were made by well-shod horses,” said the sergeant, after examining the tracks critically. “Now, we've plenty of horseshoes and the Johnnies haven't. That's one sign.”
“What's the other?”
“I calculate that about six hundred men have passed here, and that's pretty close to the number Colonel Hertford has, unless he's been in a hot fight.”
“Good reasoning, Sergeant, and I'll add a third. Those men are riding directly toward the place where, according to our maps and information, we ought to meet Colonel Hertford.”
“All these things make me sure our men have passed here, Mr. Mason. Suppose we follow on as hard as we can?”
Cheered by the belief that they were approaching the end of their quest they advanced at such a rate that the great trail rapidly grew fresher.
“Their horses are tired now,” said the sergeant, “and likely we're going as fast as they are. They're our men sure. Look at this old canteen that one of 'em has thrown away. It's the kind they make in the North. He ought to have been punished for leaving such a sign.”
“I judge, Sergeant, from the looks of this road, that they can't now be more than a mile away.”
“Less than that, Mr. Mason. When we reach the top of the hill yonder I think we'll see 'em.”
The sergeant's judgment was vindicated again. From the crest they saw a numerous body of muddy horsemen riding slowly ahead. Only the brilliant sunlight made their uniforms distinguishable, but they were, beyond a doubt, the troops of the Union. Dick uttered a little cry of joy and the sergeant's face glowed.
“We've found 'em,” said the sergeant.
“And soon we ride,” said Dick.
They hurried forward, shouted and waved their rifles.
The column stopped, and two men, one of whom was Colonel Hertford himself, rode back, looking curiously at the haggard and stained faces of the two who walked forward, still swinging their rifles.
“Colonel Hertford,” said Dick joyfully, “we've come with a message for you from General Grant.”
“And who may you be?” asked Hertford in surprise.
“Why, Colonel, don't you know me? I'm Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester's regiment, and this is Sergeant Daniel Whitley of the same regiment.”
The colonel broke into a hearty laugh, and then extended his hand to Dick.
“I should have known your voice, my boy,” he said, “but it's certainly impossible to recognize any one who is as thickly covered with dry Mississippi mud as you are. What's your news, Dick?”
Dick told him and the sergeant repeated the same tale. He knew them both to be absolutely trustworthy, and their coming on such an errand through so many dangers carried its own proof.
“We've several spare horses, bearing provisions and arms,” said Colonel Hertford. “Two can be unloaded and be made ready for you and the sergeant. I fancy that you don't care to keep on walking, Dick?”
“I've had enough to last me for years, Colonel.”
They were mounted in a few minutes, and rode with the colonel. The world had now changed for Dick. Astride a good horse and in a column of six hundred men he was no longer the hunted. These troopers and he were hunters now.
The column turned presently into another road and advanced with speed in the direction of Grant. Colonel Hertford asked Dick many questions about Slade.
“I've been hearing of him since we were on this raid,” he said. “He's more of a guerilla than a regular soldier, but he may be able to gather a considerable force. I wish we could cut him off.”
“So do I,” said Dick, but his feeling was prompted chiefly by Slade's determined attempts upon his life.
Colonel Hertford now pushed forward his men. He, too, was filled with ambitions. He began to have an idea of Grant's great plans, in which all the Union leaders must cooperate, and he meant that his own little command should be there, whenever the great deed, whatever it might be, was done. He talked about it with Dick, who he knew was a trusted young staff officer, and the two, the lad and the older man, fed the enthusiasm of each other.
This attack deep into the flank of the Confederacy appealed to them with its boldness, and created a certain romantic glow that seemed to clothe the efforts of a general so far from the great line of battle in the East. They talked, too, of the navy which had run past forts on the Mississippi, and which had shown anew all its ancient skill and courage.
As they talked, twilight came, and the road led once more through the deep woods, where the shade turned the twilight into the darkness of night. Then rifles flashed suddenly in the thickets, and a half-dozen horsemen fell. The whole column was thrown for an instant or two into disorder, frightened horses rearing and stamping, and, before their riders could regain control, another volley came, emptying a half-dozen saddles.
Colonel Hertford gave rapid commands. Then, shouting and waving his saber he galloped boldly into the forest, reckless of trees and bushes, and Dick, the sergeant, and the whole troop followed. The lad was nearly swept from his horse by a bough, but he recovered himself in time to see the figures of men on foot fleeing rapidly through the dusk.
Bullets pattered on bark and leaves, and the angry horsemen, after discharging their carbines, swept forward with circling sabers. But the irregulars who had ambushed them, save a few fallen before the bullets, escaped easily in the dense woods, and under cover of the darkness which was now coming down, thick and fast.
A trumpet sounded the recall and the cavalrymen, sore and angry, drew back into the road. They had lost a dozen good men, but Colonel Hertford felt that they could not delay for vengeance. Grant's orders were to come at once; and he intended to obey them.
“I'd wager a year's pay against a Confederate five-dollar note,” said Sergeant Whitley to Dick, “that the man who laid that ambush was Slade. He'll keep watch on us all the way to Grant, and he'll tell the Southern leaders everything the general is doing. Oh, he's a good scout and spy.”
“He's proved it,” said Dick, “and I'd like to get a fair shot at him.”
They rode nearly all night and most of the next day, and, in the afternoon, they met other men in blue who told them that a heavy Union force was advancing. They had no doubt now that Grant's great plan was already working and in a short time they reached McPherson, advancing with Logan's division. Hertford reported at once to McPherson, who was glad enough to have his cavalry, and who warmly praised Dick and the sergeant for the dangerous service they had done so well. As it would have been unwise for them to attempt to reach Grant then he kept them with him in the march on Jackson.
Dick slept that night under the stars, but thousands of Union men were around him and he felt neither the weight of responsibility, nor the presence of danger. He missed Warner and Pennington, but he and the sergeant were happy. Beyond a doubt now Grant was going to strike hard, and all the men were full of anticipation and hope. His force in different divisions was advancing on Jackson, leaving Vicksburg behind him and the Southern army under Pemberton on one side.
Dick heard, too, that the redoubtable Joe Johnston was coming to take command of the Southern garrison in Jackson, and a leader less bold than Grant might have shrunk from such a circle of enemies, but Grant's own courage increased the spirit of his men, and they were full of faith.
“I expect they're alarmed in Washington,” said the sergeant, as they sat on their blankets. “There ain't any telegraph station nearer than Memphis. They've heard in the capital that the general has begun to move toward Jackson, but they won't know for days what will happen.”
“I don't blame the President for being disturbed,” said Dick. “After all the army is to serve the nation and fights under the supreme civilian authority. The armies don't govern.”
“That's so, but there come times when the general who has to do the fighting can judge best how it ought to be done.”
Dick lay down on one blanket and put another over him. It was well into May, which meant hot weather in Mississippi, but, if he could, he always protected himself at night. He was not a vain lad, but he felt proud over his success. Hertford's six hundred horse were a welcome addition to any army.
He lay back soon with a knapsack as a pillow under his head and listened to the noises of the camp, blended now into a rather musical note. Several cooking fires still burned here and there and figures passed before them. Dick observed them sleepily, taking no particular note, until one, small and weazened, came. The figure was about fifty yards away, and there was a Union cap instead of a great flap-brimmed hat on the head, but Dick sprang to his feet at once, snatched a pistol from his belt and rushed toward it.
The evil figure melted away like a shadow, and two astonished soldiers seized the youth, who seemed to be running amuck in the camp, pistol in hand.
“Let go!” exclaimed Dick. “I've seen a man whom I know to be a spy, and a most dangerous one, too.”
They could find no trace of Slade. Dick returned crestfallen to his blanket, but he recalled something now definitely and clearly. Slade was the little man whom he had seen carrying the log the morning he left General Grant's camp, on his mission.
The sergeant, who had never stirred from his own blanket, sat up when Dick returned.
“Who was he, Mr. Mason?” he asked.
“Slade himself. He must have seen me jump up, because he vanished like a ghost. But I gained something. I know now that I saw him here in our uniform just before I started to find Colonel Hertford. That was why I was followed.”
“The cunning of an Indian. Well, we'll be on the watch for him now, but I imagine he's already on the way to Jackson with the news of our advance and an estimate of our numbers. We can't do anything to head him off.”
On the second day after joining the column Dick was ahead with the cavalry, riding beside Colonel Hertford, and listening to occasional shots in their front on the Jackson road. Both believed they would soon be in touch with the enemy. Sergeant Whitley, acting now as a scout, had gone forward through a field and in a few minutes galloped back.
“The enemy is not far away,” he said. “They're posted along a creek, with high banks and in a wood. They've got a strong artillery too, and I think they about equal us in numbers.”
Dick carried the report to the commander of the column, and soon the trumpets were calling the men to battle. The crackle of rifle shots ahead increased rapidly. The skirmishers were already pulling trigger, and, as Dick galloped back to Hertford he saw many puffs of white smoke down the road and in the fields and woods on either side. The Union men began to cheer. In the West they had suffered no such defeats as their brethren in the East, and every pulse beat with confidence. As the whole line moved forward the Southern cannon began to crash and their shells swept the road.
The cavalry were advancing in a field, but they were yet held back to a slow walk. Dick heard many impatient exclamations, but he knew the restraint was right. He saw the accuracy of the Southern gunners. They were driving the Northern infantry from the road. Their fire was rapid and deadly, and, for a while, the Union army was checked.
Hertford was calmly examining the Southern position through his glasses, while he restrained his eager men. The volume of Southern fire was growing fast. Shells and shrapnel rained death over a wide area, and the air was filled with whistling bullets. It was certain destruction for any force to charge down the road in face of the Southern cannon, and the Northern army began to spread out, wheeling toward either flank.
An aide arrived with an order to Hertford, and then he loosed his eager cavalry. Turning to one side they galloped toward the creek. Some of the Southern gunners, seeing them, sent shells toward them, and a swarm of riflemen in a wood showered them with bullets. But they passed so rapidly that not many saddles were emptied, and the trumpeter blew a mellow note that urged on spirits already willing enough.
The sweep of the cavalry charge exhilarated Dick. The thought of danger passed away for the moment. He saw all around him the eager faces of men, and horses that seemed just as eager. Dust and dirt flew beneath the thudding hoofs, and the dust and floating smoke together made a grimy cloud through which they galloped.
They passed around still further on the flank. They seemed, for a few minutes, to be leaving the battle, which was now at its height, the Southern artillery still holding the road and presenting an unbroken front.
Dick saw a flash of water and then the whole troop thundered into the creek, almost without slackened rein. Up the bank they went, and with a wild shout charged upon the Southern infantry. On the other flank another Northern force which also had crossed the creek attacked with fire and spirit.
But the battle still swayed back and forth. Hertford and his cavalry were thrown off, merely to return anew to the charge. A portion of the Northern force was driven back on the creek. The strong Southern batteries poured forth death. Dick felt that they might yet lose, but they suddenly heard a tremendous cheer, and a fresh force coming up at the double quick enabled them to sweep the field. Before sunset the Southern army retreated toward Jackson, leaving the field to the men in blue.
Dick dismounted and, examining himself carefully, found that he had suffered no wound. Colonel Hertford and the sergeant had also taken no hurt. But the lad and his elder comrade secured but little rest. They were bidden to ride across the country at once to General Sherman with the news of the victory. Sherman was at the head of another column, and Grant was farther away with the main body.
Dick and the sergeant, with the battle smoke still in their eyes, were eager for the service.
“When you're with Grant you don't stay idle, that's certain,” said Dick as they rode across the darkening fields.
“No, you don't,” said the sergeant, “and I'm thinking that we've just begun. I know from the feel of it that big things are going to happen fast. Sheer away from the woods there, Mr. Mason. We don't want to be picked off by sharpshooters.”
They arrived after dark in Sherman's camp and he received them himself. Dick remembered how he had seen this thin, dry man holding fast with his command at Shiloh, and he saluted him with the deepest respect. He knew that here was a bold and tenacious spirit, kin to that of Grant. Sherman had heard already of the battle, but he wished more and definite news.
“You say that our victory was complete?” he asked tersely.
“It was, sir,” replied Dick. “The entire force of the enemy retired rapidly toward Jackson, and our men are eager to advance on that city.”
“It would be a great stroke to take the capital of Mississippi,” said Sherman musingly. Then he added in his crisp manner:
“Are you tired?”
“Not if you wish me to do anything,” replied Dick quickly.
Sherman smiled.
“The right spirit,” he said. “I wish you and your comrade to ride at once with this news to General Grant. He may hear it from other sources, but I want to send a letter by you.”
In ten minutes Dick and the sergeant were riding proudly away on another mission, and, passing through all the dangers of Southern scouts and skirmishers, they reached General Grant, to whom they delivered the letter from Sherman. Grant, who had recently been in doubt owing to the threat of Pemberton on his flank, hesitated no longer when he heard of the victory, and resolved at once upon the capture of Jackson.
Dick, after his battle and two rides, went to sleep in a wagon, while an orderly took his horse. When he awoke unknown hours afterward he found that he was moving. He knew at once that the army was advancing. Before him and behind him he heard all the noises of the march, the beat of horses' hoofs, the grinding of wheels, the clanking of cannon, the cracking of whips and the sounds of many voices.
He was wonderfully comfortable where he lay and he had the satisfaction and pride of much duty done. He felt that he was entitled to rest, and, turning on his side, he went to sleep again. After another unknown time his second awakening came and he remained awake.
He quietly slipped out at the tail of the wagon, and stood for a few moments, dazzled by the blazing sunlight. Then a loud, cheery voice called out:
“Well, if it isn't our own Lucky Dick come back again, safe and well to the people to whom he belongs!”
“If z equals Dick and y equals his presence then we have z plus y, as Dick is certainly present,” called out another voice not quite so loud, but equally cheery. “Luck, Frank, is only a minor factor in life. What we usually call luck is the result of foresight, skill and courage. There are facts that I wouldn't have you to forget, even if it is a hot day far down in Mississippi.”
Warner and Pennington sprang from their horses and greeted Dick warmly. They had returned a day or two before from their own less perilous errands, but they were in great anxiety about their comrade. They were glad too, when they heard that the sergeant had joined him and that he had come back safe.
“I suppose it means a battle at Jackson,” said Warner. “We're surely on the move, and we're going to keep the Johnnies busy for quite a spell.”
“Looks like it,” said Dick.
Colonel Winchester came soon, and his face showed great relief when he shook hands with Dick.
“It was a dangerous errand, Dick, my lad,” he said, “but I felt that you would succeed and you have. It was highly important that we gather all our forces for a great stroke.”
Dick resumed at once his old place in the Winchester regiment, with Warner, Pennington and his other comrades around him. Refreshed by abundant sleep and good food he was in the highest of spirits. They were embarked upon a great adventure and he believed that it would be successful. His confidence was shared by all those about him. Meanwhile the army advanced in diverging columns upon the Mississippi capital.
Jackson, on Pearl River, had suddenly assumed a vast importance in Dick's mind, and yet it was but a tiny place, not more than three or four thousand inhabitants. The South was almost wholly agricultural, and cities, great in a political and military sense, were in reality but towns. Richmond, itself the capital of the Confederacy, around which so much centered, had only forty thousand people.
The Winchester regiment was detached that afternoon and sent to join the column under McPherson, which was expected to reach Jackson first. Dick was mounted again, and he rode with Warner and Pennington on either side of him. They speculated much on what they would find when they approached Jackson.
“If Joe Johnston is there,” said Warner, “I think we'll have a hard fight. You'll remember that he did great work against us in Virginia, until he was wounded.”
“And they'll know, of course, just when to expect us and in what force,” said Dick. “Slade will tell them that. He probably has a large body of spies and scouts working under him. But I don't think he'll come inside our camp again.”
“Not likely since he's been recognized,” said Warner, thoughtfully. “But I don't think General Grant is afraid of anything ahead. That's why he made the separation from our own world so complete, and our men are out cutting down the telegraph lines, so the Johnnies in Jackson can't communicate with their own government either. It's important to us that we take Jackson before Pemberton with his army can come up.”
Warner had estimated the plan correctly. Grant, besides cutting himself off from his own superiors at Washington, was also destroying communication between the garrison of Jackson and Pemberton's army of Vicksburg, which was not far away. The two united might beat him, but he meant to defeat them separately, and then besiege Vicksburg. It was a complicated plan, depending upon quickness, courage and continued success. Yet the mind of Grant, though operating afterward on fields of greater numbers, was never clearer or more vigorous.
They went into camp again after dark, knowing that Jackson was but a short distance away, and they expected to attack early in the morning. Dick carried another dispatch to Sherman, who was only a little more than two miles from them, and on his way back he joined Colonel Winchester, who, with Warner, Pennington and a hundred infantry, had come out for a scout. The dismounted men were chosen because they wished to beat up a difficult piece of wooded country.
They went directly toward Jackson, advancing very cautiously through the forest, the mounted officers riding slowly. The night was hot and dark, moon and stars obscured by drifting clouds. Pennington, who was an expert on weather, announced that another storm was coming.
“I can feel a dampness in the air,” he said. “I'm willing to risk my reputation as a prophet and say that the dawn will come with rain.”
“I hope it won't be a big rain,” said Colonel Winchester, “because if it is it will surely delay our attack. Our supply of cartridges is small, and we can't risk wetting them.”
Pennington persisted that a storm was at hand. His father had taught him, he said, always to observe the weather signs on the great Nebraska plains. They were nearly always hoping for rain there, and he had learned to smell it before it came. He could smell it now in the same way here in Mississippi.
His opinion did not waver, when the clouds floated away for a while, disclosing a faint moon and a few stars. They were now on the banks of a brook, flowing through the wood, and Colonel Winchester thought he saw a movement in the forest beyond it. It was altogether likely that so skillful a leader as Joe Johnston would have out bodies of scouts, and he stopped, bidding his men to take cover.
Dick sat on his horse by the colonel's side under the thick boughs of a great tree, and studied the thickets before them. He, too, had noticed a movement, and he was confident that the Southern sharpshooters were there. At the command of the colonel all of the officers dismounted, and orderlies took the horses to the rear. On foot they continued their examination of the thickets, and the colonel sent for Sergeant Whitley, who confirmed his opinion that the enemy was before them. At his suggestion the Union force was spread out, lest it be flanked and annihilated in the thickets.
Just as the movement was completed rifles began to crack in front and on both flanks, and the piercing yell of the South arose.
It was impossible to tell the size of the force that assailed them, but the Winchester men were veterans now, and they were not afraid. Standing among the bushes or sheltered by the trees they held their fire until they saw dusky figures in the thickets.
It had all the aspects of an old Indian battle in the depths of the great forest. Darkness, the ambush and the caution of sharpshooters were there. Dick carried a rifle, but he did not use it. He merely watched the pink beads of flame among the bushes, while he stayed by the side of his colonel and observed the combat.
It soon became apparent to him that it would have no definite result. Each side was merely feeling out its foe that night, and would not force the issue. Yet the Southern line approached and some bullets whistled near him. He moved a little to one side, and watched for an enemy. It was annoying to have bullets come so close, and since they were shooting at him he might as well shoot at them.
While he was absorbed in watching, the colonel moved in the other direction, and Dick stood alone behind a bush. The fire in front had increased somewhat, although at no time was it violent. Occasional shots from his own side replied. The clouds that had drifted away were now drifting back, and he believed that darkness alone would soon end the combat.
Then he saw a bush only a dozen yards in his front move a little, and a face peered through its branches. There was yet enough light for him to see that the face was youthful, eager and handsome. It was familiar, too, and then with a shock he remembered. Woodville, the lad with whom he had fought such a good fight, nature's weapons used, was before him.
Dick raised his rifle. Young Woodville was an easy target. But the motion was only a physical impulse. He knew in his heart that he had no intention of shooting the young Southerner, and he did not feel the slightest tinge of remorse because he evaded this part of a soldier's work.
Yet Woodville, seeing nobody and hearing nothing, would come on. Dick, holding his rifle in the crook of his left arm, drew a pistol and fired it over the lad's head. At the same moment he dropped almost flat upon the ground. The bullet cut the leaves above Woodville and he sprang back, startled. A half-dozen Southern skirmishers fired at the flash of Dick's pistol, but he, too, lying on the ground, heard them cutting leaves over his head.
Dick saw the face of Woodville disappear from the bush, and then he crept away, rejoining Colonel Winchester and his comrades. Five minutes later the skirmish ceased by mutual consent, and each band fell back on its own army, convinced that both were on the watch.
They were to advance at four o'clock in the morning, but Pennington's prediction came true. After midnight, flashes of lightning cut the sky and the thunder rolled heavily. Then the rain came, not any fugitive shower, but hard, cold and steady, promising to last many hours.
It was still pouring when the advance began before dawn, but Grant's plans were complete. He had drawn up his forces on the chessboard, and they were converging closely upon Jackson. They must keep their cartridges dry and advance at all costs.
The Winchesters were in the van in a muddy road. Dick, Warner and Pennington were in the saddle, and they were wet through and through. The rain and dusk were so heavy that they could not see fifty feet, and they shivered with cold. But their souls were eager and high, and they were glad when the army toiled slowly forward to battle.
Dick was bent down in his saddle, trying to protect himself a little from the driving rain which beat in his eyes and soaked through his clothing. Warner and Pennington beside him were in the same condition, and he saw just before him the bent back of Colonel Winchester, with his left arm raised as a shield for his face. Hoofs and wheels made a heavy, sticky sound as they sank in the mud, and were then pulled out again.
“Do you see any signs of daylight, Dick?” asked Pennington.
“Not a sign. I see only a part of our regiment, trees on either side of us bending before the wind, and rain, and mud, mud everywhere. I'll be glad when it's over.”
“So will I,” said Warner. “I wonder what kind of hotels they have in Jackson. I'd like to have a bath, good room and a big breakfast.”
“The Johnnies are holding breakfast for you,” said Pennington. “Their first course is gunpowder, their second bullets, their third shells and shrapnel, and their fourth bayonets.”
“They'll have to serve a lot at every course,” said Dick, “because General Grant is advancing with fifty thousand men, and so many need a lot of satisfying.”
The storm increased in violence. The rain, falling in a deluge, was driven by a wind like a hurricane. The horses strove to turn their heads from it, and confusion arose among the cavalry. The infantry mixed in the mud swore heavily. Staff officers had the utmost difficulty in keeping the regiments together. It was time for the sun, but it did not appear. Everything was veiled in clouds and driving rain.
Dick looked at his watch, and saw that it was seven o'clock. They had intended to attack at this hour, but further advance was impossible for the time, and, bending their heads, they sought to protect their ammunition. Presently they started again and toiled along slowly and painfully for more than two hours. Then, just as they saw the enemy ahead of them, the storm seemed to reach the very zenith of its fury.
Dick, in the vanguard, beheld earthworks, cannon and troops before Jackson, but the storm still drove so hard that the Union forces could not advance to the assault.
“This is certainly a most unusual situation,” said Colonel Winchester, with an effort at cheerfulness. “Here we are, ready to attack, and the Southerners are ready to defend, but a storm holds us both fast in our tracks. Our duty to protect our cartridges is even greater than our duty to attack the enemy.”
“The biggest rain must come to an end,” said Dick.
But it was nearly noon before they could advance. Then, as the storm decreased rapidly the trumpets sounded the charge, and horse, foot and artillery, they pressed forward eagerly through the mud.
The sun broke through the clouds, and Dick saw before them a wood, a ravine full of thickets, and the road commanded by strong artillery. The Northern skirmishers were already stealing forward through the wet bushes and grass, and soon their rifles were crackling. But the Southern sharpshooters in the thickets were in stronger force, and their rapid and accurate fire drove back the Northern men. Then their artillery opened and swept the road, while the Northern batteries were making frantic efforts to get up through the deep, sticky mud.
But the trumpets were still calling. The Winchester regiment and others, eager for battle and victory, swept forward. Dick felt once more the fierce thrill of combat, and, waving his revolver high above his head, he shouted with the others as they rushed on. The stream of bullets from the ravine thickened, and the cannon were crashing fast. But the Union masses did not check their rush for an instant. Although many fell they charged into the ravine, driving out the enemy, and pursued him on the other side.
But the Southern cannon, manned by daring gunners, still held the field and, aided by the thick mud which held back charging feet, they repulsed every attack. The Winchester regiment was forced to cover, and then Dick heard the booming of cannon in another direction. He knew that Grant and Sherman were coming up there, and he expected they would rush at once into Jackson, but it was a long time before the distant thunder came any nearer.
Johnston, whose astuteness they feared, was proving himself worthy of their opinion. Knowing that his forces were far too small to defend Jackson, he had sent away the archives of the state and most of the army. Only a small force and seventeen cannon were left to fight and cover his retreat. But so bold and skillful were they that it was far beyond noon before Grant and Sherman found that practically nothing was in front of them.
But where Dick and his comrades rode the fighting was severe for a while. Then everything seemed to melt away before them. The fire of the Southern cannon ceased suddenly, and Colonel Winchester exclaimed that their works had been abandoned. They charged forward, seized the cannon, and now rode without resistance into the capital of the state, from which the President of the Confederacy hailed, though by birth a Kentuckian.
Dick and his comrades were among the first to enter the town, and not until then did they know that Johnston and all but a few hundreds of his army were gone.
“We've got the shell only,” Dick said.
“Still we've struck a blow by taking the capital of the state,” said Colonel Winchester.
Dick looked with much curiosity at the little city into which they were riding as conquerors. It was too small and new to be imposing. Yet there were some handsome houses, standing back on large lawns, and surrounded by foliage. The doors and shutters of all of them were closed tightly. Dick knew that their owners had gone away or were sitting, hearts full of bitterness, in their sealed houses.
The streets were deep in mud, and at the corners little knots of negroes gathered and looked at them curiously.
“They don't seem to welcome us as deliverers,” said Warner.
“They don't yet know what to think of us,” said Dick. “There's the Capitol ahead of us, and some of our troops are going into it.”
“Others have gone into it already,” said Pennington. “Look!”
They saw the flag of the Union break out above its dome, the beautiful stars and stripes, waving gently in the light breeze. A spontaneous cheer burst from the Union soldiers, and the bitter hearts in the sealed houses grew more bitter.
The army was now pouring in by every road and Colonel Winchester and his staff sought quarters. They were on the verge of exhaustion. All their clothing was wet and they were discolored with mud. They felt that they were bound to have rest and cleanliness.
The victorious troops were making their camp, wherever they could find dry ground, and soon they were building the fires for cooking. But many of the officers were assigned to the residences, and Colonel Winchester and his staff were directed by the general to take quarters in a large colonial house, standing on a broad lawn, amid the finest magnolias and live oaks that Dick had ever seen.
Remembering an earlier experience during the Shiloh campaign Colonel Winchester and his young officers approached the house with some reluctance. In ordinary times it must have been brilliant with life. Two little fountains were playing on either side of the graveled walk that led to the front door. After the old fashion, three or four marble statues stood in the shrubbery. Everything indicated wealth. Probably the town house of a great planter, reflected Dick. In Mississippi a man sometimes owned as many as a thousand slaves, and lived like a prince.
The house offered them no welcome. Its doors and windows were closed, but Dick had seen thin smoke rising from a chimney in the rear. He expected that they would have to force the door, but at the first knock it was thrown open by a tall, thin woman of middle years. The look she gave them was full of bitter hatred—Dick sometimes thought that women could hate better than men—but her manner and bearing showed distinction. He, as well as his comrades, took her to be the lady of the house.
“We ask your pardon, madame, for this intrusion,” said Colonel Winchester, “but we are compelled to occupy your house a while. We promise you as little trouble as possible.”
“We ask no consideration of any kind from men who have come to despoil our country and ruin its people,” she said icily.
Colonel Winchester flushed.
“But madame,” he protested, “we do not come to destroy.”
“I do not care to argue with you about it,” she said in the same lofty tone, “and also you need not address me as madame. I am Miss Woodville.”
Dick started.
“Does this house belong to Colonel John Woodville?” he asked.
“It does not,” she replied crisply, “but it belongs to his elder brother, Charles Woodville, who is also a colonel, and who is my father. What do you know of Colonel John Woodville?”
“I met his son once,” replied Dick briefly.
She glanced at him sharply. Dick thought for a moment that he saw alarm in her look, but he concluded that it was only anger.
They stood confronting each other, the little group of officers and the woman, and Colonel Winchester, embarrassed, but knowing that he must do something, went forward and pushed back a door opening into the hall. Dick automatically followed him, and then stepped back, startled.
A roar like that of a lion met them. An old man, with a high, bald and extremely red forehead lay in a huge bed by a window. It was a great head, and eyes, set deep, blazed under thick, white lashes. His body was covered to the chin.
Dick saw that the man's anger was that of the caged wild beast, and there was something splendid and terrible about it.
“You infernal Yankees!” he cried, and his voice again rumbled like that of a lion.
“Colonel Charles Woodville, I presume?” said Colonel Winchester politely.
“Yes, Colonel Charles Woodville,” thundered the man, “fastened here in bed by a bullet from one of your cursed vessels in the Mississippi, while you rob and destroy!”
And then he began to curse. He drew one hand from under the cover and shook his clenched fist at them in a kind of rhythmic beat while the oaths poured forth. To Dick it was not common swearing. There was nothing coarse and vulgar about it. It was denunciation, malediction, fulmination, anathema. It had a certain majesty and dignity. Its richness and variety were unequaled, and it was hurled forth by a voice deep, powerful and enduring.
Dick listened with amazement and then admiration. He had never heard its like, nor did he feel any offense. The daughter, too, stood by, pursing her prim lips, and evidently approving. Colonel Winchester was motionless like a statue, while the infuriated man shook his fist at him and launched imprecations. But his face had turned white and Dick saw that he was fiercely angry.
When the old man ceased at last from exhaustion Colonel Winchester said quietly:
“If you had spoken to me in the proper manner we might have gone away and found quarters elsewhere. But we intend to stay here and we will repay your abuse with good manners.”
Dick saw the daughter flush, but the old man said:
“Then it will be the first time that good manners were ever brought from the country north of the Mason and Dixon line.”
Colonel Winchester flushed in his turn, but made no direct reply.
“If you will assign us rooms, Miss Woodville,” he said, “we will go to them, otherwise we'll find them for ourselves, which may be less convenient for you. I repeat that we desire to give you as little trouble as possible.”
“Do so, Margaret,” interrupted Colonel Woodville, “because then I may get rid of them all the sooner.”
Colonel Winchester bowed and turned toward the door. Miss Woodville, obedient to the command of her father, led the way. Dick was the last to go out, and he said to the old lion who lay wounded in the bed:
“Colonel Woodville, I've met your nephew, Victor.”
He did not notice that the old man whitened and that the hand now lying upon the cover clenched suddenly.
“You have?” growled Colonel Woodville, “and how does it happen that you and my nephew have anything in common?”
“I could scarcely put it that way,” replied Dick, refusing to be angered, “unless you call an encounter with fists something in common. He and I had a great fight at his father's plantation of Bellevue.”
“He might have been in a better business, taking part in a common brawl with a common Yankee.”
“But, sir, while I may be common, I'm not a Yankee. I was born and grew up south of the Ohio River in Kentucky.”
“Then you're a traitor. All you Kentuckians ought to be fighting with us.”
“Difference of opinion, but I hope your nephew is well.”
The deep eyes under the thick white thatch glared in a manner that Dick considered wholly unnecessary. But Colonel Woodville made no reply, merely turning his face to the wall as if he were weary.
Dick hurried into the hall, closing the door gently behind him. The others, not missing him, were already some yards away, and he quickly rejoined Pennington and Warner. The younger men would have been glad to leave the house, but Colonel Winchester's blood was up, and he was resolved to stay. The little party was eight in number, and they were soon quartered in four rooms on the lower floor. Miss Woodville promptly disappeared, and one of the camp cooks arrived with supplies, which he took to the kitchen.
Dick and Warner were in one of the rooms, and, removing their belts and coats, they made themselves easy. It was a large bedroom with high ceilings and wicker furniture. There were several good paintings on the walls and a bookcase contained Walter Scott's novels and many of the eighteenth century classics.
“I think this must have been a guest chamber,” said Dick, “but for us coming from the rain and mud it's a real palace.”
“Then it's fulfilling its true function,” said Warner, “because it has guests now. What a strange household! Did you ever see such a peppery pair as that swearing old colonel and his acid daughter?”
“I don't know that I blame them. I think, sometimes, George, that you New Englanders are the most selfish of people. You're too truly righteous. You're always denouncing the faults of others, but you never see any of your own. Away back in the Revolution when Boston called, the Southern provinces came to her help, but Boston and New England have spent a large part of their time since then denouncing the South.”
“What's struck you, Dick? Are you weakening in the good cause?”
“Not for a moment. But suppose Mississippi troops walked into your own father's house in Vermont, and, as conquerors, demanded food and shelter! Would you rejoice over them, and ask them why they hadn't come sooner?”
“I suppose not, Dick. But, stop it, and come back to your normal temperature. I won't quarrel with you.”
“I won't give you a chance, George. I'm through. But remember that while I'm red hot for the Union, I was born south of the Ohio River myself, and I have lots of sympathy for the people against whom I'm fighting.”
“For the matter of that, so've I, Dick, and I was born north of the Ohio River. But I'm getting tremendously hungry. I hope that cook will hurry.”
They were called soon, and eight officers sat at the table. The cook himself served them. Miss Woodville had vanished, and not a servant was visible about the great house. Despite their hunger and the good quality of the food the group felt constraint. The feeling that they were intruders, in a sense brigands, was forced upon them. Dick was sure that the old man with the great bald head was swearing fiercely and incessantly under his breath.
The dining-room was a large and splendid apartment, and the silver still lay upon the great mahogany sideboard. The little city, now the camp of an overwhelming army, had settled into silence, and the twilight was coming.
With the chill of unwelcome still upon them the officers said little. As the twilight deepened Warner lighted several candles. The silver glittered under the flame. Colonel Winchester presently ordered the cook to take a plate of the most delicate food to Colonel Woodville.
As the cook withdrew on his mission he left open the door of the dining-room and they heard the sound of a voice, uplifted in a thunderous roar. The cook hurried back, the untouched plate in his hand and his face a little pale.
“He cursed me, sir,” he said to Colonel Winchester. “I was never cursed so before by anybody. He said he would not touch the food. He was sure that it had been poisoned by the Yankees, and even if it were not he'd rather die than accept anything from their hands.”
Colonel Winchester laughed rather awkwardly.
“At any rate, we've tendered our good offices,” he said. “I suppose his daughter will attend to his wants, and we'll not expose ourselves to further insults.”
But the refusal had affected the spirits of them all, and as soon as their hunger was satisfied they withdrew. The soldier who had acted as cook was directed to put the dining-room back in order and then he might sleep in a room near the kitchen.
Dick and Warner returned to their own apartment. Neither had much to say, and Warner, lying down on the bed, was soon fast asleep. Dick sat by the window. The town was now almost lost in the obscurity. The exhausted army slept, and the occasional glitter from the bayonet of a sentinel was almost the only thing that told of its presence.
Dick was troubled. In spite of will and reason, his conscience hurt him. Theory was beautiful, but it was often shivered by practice. His sympathies were strongly with the old colonel who had cursed him so violently and the grim old maid who had given them only harsh words. Besides, he had pleasant memories of Victor Woodville, and these were his uncle and cousin.
He sat for a long time at the window. The house was absolutely quiet, and he was sure that everybody was asleep. There could be no doubt about Warner, because he slumbered audibly. But Dick was still wide awake. There was some tension of mind or muscle that kept sleep far from him. So he remained at the window, casting up the events of the day and those that might come.
The evening was well advanced when he was quite sure that he heard a light step in the hall. He would have paid little attention to it at an ordinary time, but, in all that silence and desolation, it called him like a drum-beat. Only a light step, and yet it filled him with suspicion and alarm. He was in the heart of a great and victorious Union army, but at the moment he felt that anything could happen in this strange house.
Slipping his pistol from his belt, he opened the door on noiseless hinges and stepped into the hall. A figure was disappearing in its dim space, but, as he saw clearly, it was that of a woman. He was sure that it was Miss Woodville and he stepped forward. He had no intention of following her, but his foot creaked on the floor, and, stopping instantly, she faced about. Then he saw that she carried a tray of food.
“Are we to have our house occupied and to be spied upon also?” she asked.
Dick flushed. Few people had ever spoken to him in such a manner, and it was hard to remember that she was a woman.
“I heard a footstep in the hall, and it was my duty to see who was passing,” he said.
“I have prepared food and I am taking it to my father. He would not accept it from Yankee hands.”
“Colonel Woodville sups late. I should think a wounded man would be asleep at this hour, if he could.”
She gave him a glance full of venom.
“What does it matter?” she said.
Dick refused to be insulted.
“Let me take the tray for you,” he said, “at least to the door. Your father need not know that my hands have touched it.”
She shrank back and her eyes blazed.
“Let us alone!” she exclaimed. “Go back to your room! Isn't it sufficient that this house shelters you?”
She seemed to Dick to show a heat and hate out of all proportion to the occasion, but he did not repeat the offer.
“I meant well,” he said, “but, since you do not care for my help, I'll return to my room and go to sleep. Believe me, I'm sincere when I say I hope your father will recover quickly from his wound.”
“He will,” she replied briefly.
Dick bowed with politeness and turned toward his own room. Nevertheless his curiosity did not keep him from standing a moment or two in the dark against the wall and looking back at the woman who bore the tray. He drew a long breath of astonishment when he saw her pass Colonel Woodville's door, and hurry forward now with footsteps that made no sound.
The suspicion which had lain deep in his mind sprang at once into life. Keeping close to the wall, he followed swiftly and saw her disappear up a stairway. There he let the pursuit end and returned thoughtfully to his room.
Dick was much troubled. An ethical question had presented itself to him. He believed that he had divined everything. The solution had come to him with such suddenness and force that he was as fully convinced as if he had seen with his own eyes. Military duty demanded that he invade the second floor of the Woodville house. But there were feelings of humanity and mercy, moral issues not less powerful than military duty, and maybe more so.
He was pulled back and forth with great mental violence. He was sorry that he had seen Miss Woodville with the tray. And then he wasn't. Nevertheless, he stayed in his own room, and Warner, waking for a moment, regarded him with wonder as he sat outlined against the window which they had left unshuttered and opened to admit air.
“What's the matter, Dick? Have you got a fever?” he asked. “Why haven't you gone to bed?”
“I'm going to do so right away. Don't bother yourself about me, George. My nerves have been strained pretty hard, and I had to wait until they were quiet until I could go to sleep.”
“Don't have nerves,” said Warner, as he turned back on his side and returned to slumber.
Dick undressed and got into bed. It was the first time in many nights that he had not slept in his clothes, and beds had been unknown for many weeks. It was a luxury so penetrating and powerful that it affected him like an opiate. Such questions as military and moral duty floated swiftly away, and he slept the sleep of youth and a good heart.
Breakfast was almost a repetition of supper. The army cook prepared and served it, and the Woodvilles remained invisible. Colonel Winchester informed the young officers that they would remain in Jackson two or three days, and then great events might be expected. All felt sure that he was predicting aright. Pemberton must be approaching with the Vicksburg army. The wary and skillful Johnston had another army, and he could not be far away. Moreover, this was the heart of the Confederacy and other unknown forces might be gathering.
They felt the greatness of the hour, Grant's daring stroke, and the possibility that he might yet be surrounded and overwhelmed. Their minds were attuned, too, to other and yet mightier deeds, but they were glad, nevertheless, of a little rest. The Woodville house was a splendid place, and in the morning they did not feel so much the chill of embarrassment that had been created for them the night before.
Dick went straight to the room of Colonel Woodville, opened the door without knocking, and closed it behind him quickly but noiselessly.
The colonel was propped up in his bed and a tray bearing light and delicate food lay on a chair. His daughter stood beside the bed, speechless with anger at this intrusion. Dick lifted his hand, and the look upon his face checked one of the mightiest oaths that had ever welled up from the throat of Colonel Charles Woodville, king of swearers.
“Stop!” said Dick in a voice not loud, but sharp with command.
“Can't we at least have privacy in the room of an old and wounded man?” asked Miss Woodville.
“You can hereafter,” replied Dick quietly. “I shall not come again, but I tell you now to get him out of the house to-night, unless he's too badly hurt to be moved.”
“Why should my father be taken away?” demanded Miss Woodville.
“I'm not speaking of your father.”
“Of whom, then?”
Dick did not answer, but he met her gaze steadily, and her face fell. Then he turned, walked out of the room without a word, and again closed the door behind him. When he went out on the piazza he saw excitement among his comrades. The moment for great action was coming even sooner than Colonel Winchester had expected.
“Johnston is communicating with Pemberton,” said Warner, “and he has ordered Pemberton to unite with him. Then they will attack us. He sent the same order by three messengers, but one of them was in reality a spy of ours, and he came straight to General Grant with it. We're forewarned, and the trap can't shut down on us, because General Grant means to go at once for Pemberton.”
Dick understood the situation, which was both critical and thrilling. Grant was still in the heart of the Confederacy, and its forces were converging fast upon him. But the grim and silent man, instead of merely trying to escape, intended to strike a blow that would make escape unnecessary. All the young officers saw the plan and their hearts leaped.
Dick, in the excitement of the day, forgot about the Woodville house and its inmates. Troops were already marching out of Jackson to meet the enemy, but the Winchester regiment would not leave until early the next morning. They were to spend a second night, or at least a part of it, in Colonel Woodville's house.
It was the same group that ate supper there and the same army cook served them. They did not go to the bedrooms afterward, but strolled about, belted, expecting to receive the marching call at any moment.
Dick went into the library, where a single candle burned, and while he was there Miss Woodville appeared at the door and beckoned to him. She had abated her severity of manner so much that he was astonished, but he followed without a word.
She saw that the hall was clear and then she led quickly into her father's room. Colonel Woodville was propped up against the pillows, and there was color in his face.
“Young man,” he said, “come here. You can afford to obey me, although I'm a prisoner, because I'm so much older than you are. You have a heart and breeding, young sir, and I wish to shake your hand.”
He thrust a large hand from the cover, and Dick shook it warmly.
“I wouldn't have shaken it if you had been born north of the Ohio River,” said Colonel Woodville.
Dick laughed.
“My chief purpose in having you brought here,” said Colonel Woodville, “was to relate to you an incident, of which I heard once. Did I read about it, or was it told to me, Margaret?”
“I think, sir, that some one told you of it.”
“Ah, well, it doesn't matter. A few words will tell it. In an old, forgotten war a young soldier quartered in the house of his defeated enemy—but defeated only for the time, remember—saw something which made him believe that a wounded nephew of the house was hid in an upper room. But he was generous and he did not search further. The second night, while the young officer and his comrades were at supper, the nephew, who was not hurt badly, was slipped out of the house and escaped from the city in the darkness. It's not apropos of anything, and I don't know why I'm relating it to you, but I suppose this terrible war we are fighting is responsible for an old man's whim.”
“I've found it very interesting, sir,” said Dick, “and I think it's relevant, because it shows that even in war men may remain Christian human beings.”
“Perhaps you're right, and I trust, young sir, that you will not be killed in this defeat to which you are surely marching.”
Dick bowed to both, and left them to their fears and hopes. The glow was still about his heart when he rode forth with the Winchester regiment after midnight. But, owing to the need of horses for the regular cavalry, it had become an infantry regiment once more. Only the officers rode.
At dawn they were with Grant approaching a ridge called Champion Hill.