by Charles King
CHAPTER XXIV.
Far back along the wooded shores of the Potomac, where the mist isslowly creeping from the silent stream, the sentries are pacing thebeaten path bounding each regimental camp. An odd custom, originatingamong the volunteers, has been the rule in several commands. Each sentrymarched just fifty paces along his post in common time, then the cry"About!" would go ringing from post to post in every conceivable key andpitch, girdling one battalion with a chain of petulant yelps, anotherwith a series of mournful groans. Fun for the sentries, and, for a time,for the camps, but a foe to soldier repose. The object was to cause thesentries to march in the same direction, and thereby prevent theirturning their backs to each other, in which event there would be leftunwatched a long stretch of sentry-post through which marauder mightcreep or roisterer escape. The custom lasted but a little while, provingmore of a nuisance than a benefit. But there were three new regimentsin which it obtained this lovely night, and they are brigaded with aveteran command that lords it over them because it has smelled powderand shed blood, which they have not. It is a ragged regiment, a rustyregiment, for it is still clad in the relics of the gray uniform inwhich its proud State sent it to the field three months before. It issaucy, and slouchy and independent, individually, as rag wearers are aptto be the world over. But it is wonderful to see that regiment brace upwhen it gets in line, and that is what it has done this night, without asound beyond the low-voiced "Turn out here" of the sergeants, as theysped from tent to tent,--without confusion or even question. Ten minutesfrom the time the general's aide has "routed out" the colonel, he hasrouted out his captains and the sergeants are routing out the men.Twenty minutes, and these silent companies are elbow to elbow on thecolor line in front of camp. The colonel rides out on his sure-footedold charger. His field-officers join their wings. Such commands as aregiven are in low voice and passed down the line. "Right face! Rightshoulder shift arms! Forward, march! Route step and keep your mouthsshut!" Out along the winding road they go, aide and colonel riding infront, over six hundred stalwart ragamuffins swinging behind. Men murmuror whisper to each other "What's up?" Here and there a canteen clinks,and there is a dull sound of swift-moving feet. Out they go past thelines of their own sentries, some of whom shout for the corporal andwant to be "relieved off post" and allowed to go with their companies.All around the wooded heights south of Chain Bridge a dozen otherregiments are placidly sleeping. Maine, Vermont, New York, Indiana, andWisconsin there are represented, but only one State or regiment appearsin the stealthily marching column. On it goes down a winding slope,file-closers edging in between the sets of fours as the roadway narrows.Up the rise beyond where stand or squat wondering groups of the picketreserves. On--another quarter of a mile where they find the supports. Onpast outposts and pickets, and at last, after a sharp sprint of a mile,the word "Halt!" is muttered, and the rifle-butts are lowered to thefoot, and the regiment stands among the whispering trees and waits. Theleading company has not long to wonder. They hear and know the low voiceof their general, giving brief directions to the little colonel. Theyhear the words "Open field--thin woods beyond.--Rebel pickets liningopposite skirt.--Supports, etc., along the road. Deploy your skirmishline. Drive in pickets. Capture all you can, but utter not a sound. Donot fire unless you have to. Push straight ahead along this wood road,swift as you can. We go with you."
A trembling negro boy crouches by the general's stirrup. ColonelConnor's horse almost treads on him in the dark. The colonel speaks aquiet word to the captain of the foremost company, and in low tone thatofficer orders, "'Tention, Company 'A!' Load at will! Load!" There is asound of fumbling at heavy cartridge-boxes, of tearing paper, thewhee-ep of the rammers springing from the pipes, a phosphorescent gleamof steel as they whirl in air, a muttered malediction as some fellow'scap is knocked off by an awkward neighbor. There is a dull pounding, asthe heavy bullets are driven home, a clicking of gun-locks, as thelittle copper caps are thrust upon the cones; then the low thud of theiron-shod butts upon the ground and all is still. The lieutenant-colonelrides back along the column until he reaches the colors, each company insuccession loading as silently. The left wing is bidden to remain whereit is as a reserve, and to await orders. The leading company, with armstrailed, forms line at the edge of the wood. The second platoon stepsback three paces as reserve. The first receives the low-toned command,"As skirmishers, by the right and left flanks take intervals," a thingat which these Bull Run veterans have been drilling since early in May,and can do in even thicker darkness. In a minute the long line ofdispersed shadows is formed, facing southwest, and in two minutes, withofficers close up to the line, the general and his aides only a fewyards behind, and five companies following noiselessly along theroadway, out they go across the starlight open. Everybody seems to knowthe enemy's sentinels will be found along that opposite skirt of woods.Everybody listens with straining ears and thumping heart for the firstchallenge. Those young Southrons are no fools on picket, and even in thedark a cat-footed skirmish line cannot hope to crawl upon themunobserved. Half-way across goes the long jagged line,--two-thirds ofthe two hundred yards that interpose between the groves,--and now thecentremost, those along the pathway, backed by half a dozen fellows fromthe reserve, make ready for a rush. Ten yards more, then some lucklessskirmisher trips on some unseen root, stumbles forward, and swears underhis breath. Instantly from the clump of trees nearest the road therecomes the sharp order "Halt!" and the click of a lock, but before thechallenge can follow, there is a swift rush of stooping foes along theroadway, a heavy blow, a struggle, a sharp report, a stifled cry, then"Forward! Forward! double quick!" everywhere along the column, and withthe skirmishers leaping and crashing ahead through the timber, tumblingover the startled sentinels and pickets, with occasional crackling ofrifle and shouting of warning and command, with officers darting alongamong the men, with the general and his aides and Colonel Connorspurring close after, with a dozen men swarming ahead along the dimpathway, and with the sturdy column still swiftly following at thedouble, the little command sweeps over the scattered outposts andreserves in front of it, the Southerners standing their ground like men,but being utterly overmatched, and finally, as the aroused and startledreserves, farther to the rear, fall slowly back toward their main bodyin the direction of Falls Church, the negro guide, bounding along withthe foremost officers, leads the column farther to the southwest, pastall infantry outposts and reserves until finally they go scrambling overa snake-fence on the edge of an open field, while away to the southeastguns are firing, bugles sounding the alarm, drums hoarsely rattling, andhere as they stop to breathe and close up on the head of column, theyare greeted by the stirring peal of a cavalry trumpet certainly not ahalf a mile away. It is the signal "To horse!" "Look out for thosefellows, and give 'em a volley if they approach!" orders the colonel tohis panting men. "Form a skirmish line fronting south, captain." Andthen, behind that living curtain, the rearmost companies come running upand forming battle line, while the general, with a dozen followers,rides into a little grove at the heels of their darky guide. There is amoment of gleeful shouting and out they come again, slowly, a darkcluster of forms, some apparently supporting an enfeebled man, othersgrouping about some shadowy companions. Around these a whole company israllied as escort and bidden to retrace its steps, and then the generalrides back, beaming, under cover of the little battle line, and he andConnor shake hands and listen for a moment to the distant uproar of thealarm. And now the Union lines have taken it up, and far back towardthe Potomac some new arrivals, as yet untried, have turned loose theirbugles and drums, and the general says, quietly, "Let the command fallback slowly, but keep an eye open for the cavalry." Three minutes moreand Connor has four companies back on the narrow road, with theskirmishers still out toward the south, and then, with sudden storm andthunder of hoofs, with trumpets sounding a spirited charge, without somuch as deigning to see what force might be in front of them, therecomes dashing up the turfy woodroad, in slender column, following,fearless, the lead of
a daring young Virginian captain, a troop ofyelling horsemen, the very fellows, doubtless, who for two days pasthave been scouring the woods for our fugitives. "It is a mad-brainedtrick." What possible object is to be gained? All they know is thatsomewhere along that road is a body of Yankee troops, and they have beenburning for a chance to get at them ever since Bull Run. They do noteven seem to see--they do not heed--the thin skirmish line through whichthey bear resistless. The few scattering shots fired are answered by thewild crackle of revolvers. On they come, straight down the road,invisible as yet, but unmistakable. "Halt! Spread out there, men!" areConnor's orders. At least forty or fifty blue-coats line up quickly andsolidly from fence to fence, every rifle at ready or aim, and none toosoon. Five seconds more and out from the fire-spitting blackness at thesouth looms the charging column, and a blinding glare lights up thewood, a crashing volley wakes the echoes. Half a dozen horses comeplunging, kicking and struggling, to the very feet of the stern array.Half a dozen gallant fellows are hurled to earth. The whole column isbrought up standing, and then, realizing the peril of its position,breaks and turns and tears away, leaving two dead at the front and twoor three more wounded, tumbling out of saddle as they rush back for therear.
Foremost, half stunned and sorely wounded, but a fighter to the last,the Virginia captain struggles to his feet. Bayonets are levelled at hisdauntless heart, but a sharp order restrains them. Strong hands seizeand disarm him. Strong arms bear him, struggling faintly, within theranks of his captors. The dead are left to their friends, the woundedtenderly raised and borne as gently as possible to the rear. Then onceagain the column resumes its homeward march, and in half an hour is safewithin the Union lines.
Meantime where is Shorty, whose craze it was to see what might be goingon about that hamlet of Lewinsville, whose longing it was to "dosomething" like Snipe, and who was sleeping the sleep of healthful,hearty boyhood, when he would have given his ears to be with thatraiding column? Somewhere about midnight he became conscious of excitedwhisperings about him. Marmion was bustling around. Horses were beingsaddled, and, sitting bolt upright, he heard the clamor of bugles anddrums, and, rushing out in front of head-quarters, could distinguish thedistant crash of musketry. Then out came two officers, buckling onrevolvers and swords. Marmion came running with their horses, and toShorty's excited question, "Where's the general?" he got the heartlessanswer, "Gone hours ago, youngster, while you were asleep." Neverstopping to saddle, only whipping through "Badger's" rattling teeth thebit of his bridle and throwing the reins over his head, Shorty isastride in a second, and, hardly yet wide awake, is away at a sputteringgallop after the departing officers. Before they have reached the littlerun half a mile out he has overtaken them. The sound of skirmish firingis still lively at the distant southwest front. He knows every inch ofthe road, and is mad to get ahead, for the officers ride slowly and withcaution.
"Let me lead, captain!" he cries, regardless of martial propriety. "Iknow the way." And it is a case for common sense, not ceremony, and thestaff-officers say, "Go on." And now there is a race through the night,"Badger" having a big lead and easily keeping it. But the road narrows,the sounds of fight subside, and when at last the little party reachesthe outposts they meet the left wing of the regiment briskly marchinghomeward. They see the light of a guard-fire in a hollow a littlefarther to the front, and there a dense throng of Connor's men intattered gray, mingling with the blue of the picket-guards, groupsabout a little knot of officers and three gaunt, ragged, haggardfellows, one a bearded man of forty-five or fifty, who leans heavily onthe shoulder of a supporter, while he grasps the hand of the general andlooks gratefully into his eyes. Another is a wiry little specimen in therelics of a Fire Zouave jacket, the chevrons of a sergeant on hissleeve. The third is a tall, lank, long-legged youth, with hollow cheeksand big brown eyes, and a brownish fuzz just sprouting on lip and cheeksand chin,--a tall lad to whom the elder man turns suddenly, laying athin hand upon his shoulder, a tall lad who looks up shyly and silentlyas the general grasps his hands and begins some words of hearty praise.But the general's remarks are brought to sudden stop by the impetuousrush of a snorting horse into the midst of the group, the precipitateleap of a half-crazed lad from his back to the ground, and the general'svoice is drowned by that of his graceless orderly, half squeal, halfchoking cry, as the "little 'un" springs upon the tall youth, twininglegs and arms, both, about him, and the only intelligible word he saysis "Snipe!" The only answer is a long, straining hug and the almostbashful murmur, "Shorty!"
One would say that in that meeting there was interest sufficient for onenight--and two boys,--but it was by no means all. A few minutes latertwo trooper prisoners, led in beside the litter of their woundedcaptain, were being examined by the general. Both were silent, badlyshaken by the fall of their horses. One was slightly wounded; neitherwished to talk. The leader had swooned, and the surgeons were doingtheir best for him.
"What is your captain's name?" was asked the unhurt cavalier, a dashingyoung sergeant who might well lay claim to being of one of the famous"first families of Virginia"--a dandy trooper.
"Grayson," was the short reply.
Major Stark and Snipe glanced quickly at each other, and then the formerspoke. "Pardon me, general; that was the name of the cavalry lieutenantcaptured by Corporal Lawton, here, just before Bull Run. Is this anotherGrayson?" he asked of the prisoner.
"No. You asked our captain's name. He was wounded and has not rejoinedyet. That's our first lieutenant." And then, as though to emphasize hisdisgust at being bored by "mudsill" questions, the young gallantlanguidly yawned; then, thrusting his hand into the breast of his jauntytrooper jacket, with admirable assumption of supreme indifference to hissurroundings, he drew forth a fine watch, coolly stepped to the fire,held it so that the light would shine upon its face, and then was aboutreturning it, when the irrepressible Shorty sprang forward into thefire-lit circle.
"Where'd you get that watch?" he cried. "Look, Snipe! General! It wasstolen at school last fall! It's Joy's!"
"Where'd you get that watch?"]
