The Tree of Appomattox Part 6
"But it is so. The bullets were not aimed well enough." d.i.c.k felt an emotion that he did not wholly understand.
"Madame," he said, "I shall take the rifle, and again say good-by.
As before, I wish you well."
She resumed her seat in the chair and took up the knitting. But she did not repeat her wish that d.i.c.k and all his men be shot before night. He went out in silence, and gently closed the door behind him. In the hall he met Sergeant Whitley and said:
"We needn't look any farther. I know now that the man has gone and we shall not be fired upon again from this house."
The sergeant glanced at the rifle d.i.c.k carried and made no comment.
But when they were riding away, he said: "And so that was it?"
"Yes, that was it."
CHAPTER III
OVER THE HILLS
d.i.c.k and his little troop rode on through the silent country, and they were so watchful and thorough that they protected fully the right flank of the marching column. One or two shots were fired, but the reports came from such distant points that he knew the bullets had fallen short.
But while he beat up the forests and fields for sharpshooters he was very thoughtful. He had a mind that looked far ahead, even in youth, and the incident at the house weighed upon him. He foresaw the coming triumph of the North and of the Union, a triumph won after many great disasters, but he remembered what an old man at a blacksmith shop in Tennessee had told him and his comrades before the Battle of Stone River. Whatever happened, however badly the South might be defeated, the Southern soil would still be held by Southern people, and their bitterness would be intense for many a year to come. The victor forgives easily, the vanquished cannot forget. His imagination was active and vivid, often attaining truths that logic and reason do not reach, and he could understand what had happened at the house, where the ordinary mind would have been left wondering.
It is likely also that the sergeant had a perception of it, though not as sharp and clear as d.i.c.k's.
"When the war is over and the soldiers all go back, that is them that's livin'," he said, "it won't be them that fought that'll keep the grudge. It's the women who've lost their own that'll hate longest."
"I think what you say is true, Whitley," said d.i.c.k, "but let's not talk about it any more. It hurts."
"Me too," said the sergeant. "But don't you like this country that we're ridin' through, Mr. Mason?"
"Yes, it's fine, but most of it has been cropped too hard. I remember reading somewhere that George Washington himself said, away back in the last century, that slave labor, so careless and reckless, was ruining the soil of Virginia."
"Likely that's true, sir, but it won't have much chance to keep on ruinin' it. Wouldn't you say, sir, that was a Johnny on his horse up there?"
"I can soon tell you," said d.i.c.k, unslinging his gla.s.ses.
On their right was a hill towering above the rest. The slopes were wooded densely, but the crest was quite bare. Upon it sat a solitary figure on horseback, evidently watching the marching column.
d.i.c.k put his gla.s.ses to his eyes. The hill and the lone sentinel enlarged suddenly and came nearer. The pulses in his temples beat hard. Although he could not see the watcher's face clearly, because he too was using gla.s.ses, he knew him instantly. He would have known that heroic figure and the set of the shoulders and head anywhere. He felt astonishment at first, but it pa.s.sed quickly. It was likely that they should meet again some time or other, since the field of battle had narrowed so much.
Sergeant Whitley, who invariably saw everything, had seen d.i.c.k's slight start.
"Someone you know, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, sergeant. It's my cousin, Harry Kenton. You've heard me talk of him often. A finer and braver and stronger fellow never lived. He's using gla.s.ses too and I've no doubt he's recognized me."
d.i.c.k suddenly waved his gla.s.ses aloft, and Harry Kenton replied in like manner.
"He sees and knows me!" cried d.i.c.k.
But the sergeant was very sober. He foresaw that these youths, bound by such ties of blood and affection, might come into battle against each other. The same thought was in d.i.c.k's mind, despite his pleasure at the distant view of Harry.
"We exchanged shots in the Mana.s.sas campaign," said d.i.c.k. "We were sheltered and we didn't know each other until several bullets had pa.s.sed."
"Three more hors.e.m.e.n have joined him," said the sergeant.
"Those are his friends," said d.i.c.k, who had put the gla.s.ses back to his eyes. "Look how they stand out against the sun!"
The four hors.e.m.e.n in a row, at equal distances from one another, were enlarged against a brilliant background of red and gold. Their att.i.tude was impressive, as they sat there, unmoving, like statues cut in stone. They were in truth Harry and Dalton, St. Clair and Happy Tom, and farther on the Invincibles were marching, the two colonels at their head, to the Valley of Virginia to reinforce Early, and to make headway, if possible, against Sheridan.
Harry was deeply moved. Kinship and the long comradeship of youth count for much. Perhaps for more in the South than anywhere else. Stirred by a sudden emotion he took off his cap and waved it as a signal of hail and farewell. The four removed their own caps and waved them also. Then they turned their horses in unison, rode over the hill and were gone from d.i.c.k's sight.
Sergeant Whitley was not educated, but his experience was vast, he knew men and he had the gift of sympathy. He understood d.i.c.k's feelings.
"All civil wars are cruel," he said. "The killing of one's own people is worst of all."
But as they went on, d.i.c.k's melancholy fell from him, and he had only pleasant recollections of the meeting. Besides, the continued movement and freedom were inspiriting in the highest degree to youth. Although it was August the day was cool, and the blue sky of Virginia was never brighter. A refreshing breeze blew from dim, blue mountains that they could see far ahead, and, as they entered a wide stretch of open country where ambush was impossible, the trumpets called in the flankers.
"We shall make the lower mountains about midnight, and we'd better camp then until dawn. Don't you think so, gentlemen?" asked Colonel Hertford of his a.s.sociate colonels, Winchester and Bedford.
"The plan seems sound to me," replied Bedford, the Pennsylvanian. "Of course, we want to reach Sheridan as soon as possible, but if we push the horses too hard we'll break them down."
d.i.c.k had dropped back with Warner and Pennington, but he heard the colonels talking.
"We all saw General Sheridan at the great battles in the West," he said.
"I particularly remember how he planted himself and the batteries at Perryville and saved us from defeat, but he seems to be looming up so much more now in the East."
"He's become the Stuart of our side," said Warner. "I've heard some of the people at Washington don't believe in him, but he has General Grant's confidence and that's enough for me. Not that I put military authority over civil rule, but war has to be fought by soldiers. I look for lively times in the Valley of Virginia."
"Anyway, the Lord has delivered me from the trenches at Petersburg," said Pennington. "Think of me, used to roaming over a thousand miles of plains, shut up between mud walls only four or five feet apart."
"I believe that, with Sheridan, you're going to have all the roaming you want," said d.i.c.k.
They pa.s.sed silent farm houses, but took nothing from them. Ample provision was carried on extra horses or their own, and the three colonels were anxious not to inflame the country by useless seizures. Twilight came, and the low mountains sank away in the dusk. But they had already reached a higher region where nearly all the hills were covered with forest, and Colonel Hertford once more spread out the flankers, d.i.c.k and the sergeant, as before, taking the right with their little troop.
The night was fortunately clear, almost as light as day, with a burnished moon and brilliant stars, and they did not greatly fear ambush. d.i.c.k shrewdly reckoned that Early would need all his men in the valley, and, after the first day at sharpshooting, they would withdraw to meet greater demands.
Nevertheless he took a rather wide circuit and came into a lonely portion of the hills, where the forest was unbroken, save for the narrow path on which they rode. The sergeant dismounted once and examined the ground.
"Nothing has pa.s.sed here," he said, "and the woods and thickets are so dense that men can't ride through 'em."
The path admitted of only two abreast, and the forest was so heavy that it shut out most of the moonlight. But they rode on confidently, d.i.c.k and the sergeant leading. If it had not been for the size of the trees, d.i.c.k would have thought that he was back in the Wilderness. They heard now and then the wings of night birds among the leaves, and occasionally some small animal would scuttle across the path. They forded a narrow but deep stream, its waters black from decayed vegetation, and continued to push on briskly through the unbroken forest, until the sergeant said in a low voice to d.i.c.k:
"I think I hear something ahead of us."
They pulled back on the reins so suddenly that those behind almost rode into them. Then they sat there, a solid, compact little group, while d.i.c.k and the sergeant listened intently.
"It's hoofbeats," said d.i.c.k, "very faint, because they are far away."
"I think you are right, sir," said the sergeant.
"But they're coming this way."