The Long Roll
but the bay had reached a copse that gave a moment's shelter. Horse and
rider emerged unhurt from the friendly walls of cedar and locust.
"Forward, sharpshooters!" cried the infantry captain. A lieutenant and
half a dozen men made all haste across the fence, down the low bluff,
and over the field. As they ran one fired, then another, but the fleeing
horse kept on, the rider close to the neck, in their sight, beyond the
water, the Virginia shore. The bay moved as though he knew not fatigue,
but only a friend's dire need. The stock told; many a race had been won
by his forefathers. What his rider's hand and voice conveyed cannot be
precisely known, but that which was effected was an access of love,
courage, and understanding of the end desired. He moved with every power
drawn to the point in hand. Marchmont, only a few lengths behind, fired
again. The ball went through Cleave's sleeve, grazing his arm and
Dundee's shoulder. The two shot on, Marchmont behind, then the two
mounted men, then the sharpshooters, running afoot. From the road the
remainder of the company watched with immemorial, white-heat interest
the immemorial incident. "He's wounded--the bay's wounded, too! They'll
get him at the canal!--Thar's a bridge around the bend, but he don't
know it!--Climb atop the fence; ye can see better--"
The canal, deep between willowy banks, a moat to be overpassed without
drawbridge, lay ahead of the foremost horse and rider. A moment and the
two burst through the screen of willows, another, and from the high,
bare bank they had leaped into the narrow, deep, and sluggish stream.
"That horse's wounded--he's sinking! No, by God, he ain't! Whar's the
captain from Frederick! Thar he is--thar he is!" Marchmont vanished into
the belt of willows. The two troopers had swerved; they knew of the
bridge beyond the turn. Dundee swam the canal. The bank before him, up
to the towpath, was of loose earth and stone, steep and difficult. He
climbed it like a cat-o'-mountain. As he reached the towpath Marchmont
appeared before the willows. His horse, a powerful sorrel, took the
water unhesitatingly, but the opposite bank made trouble. It was but a
short delay; while the soldiers on the road held their breath he was up
and away, across the wide field between canal and river. The troopers,
too, had thundered across the bridge. The sharpshooters were behind
them, blue moving points between the shocked corn. The field was wide,
rough, and furrowed, bordered on its southern side by a line of
sycamores, leafless and tall, a lacework of white branches against the
now brilliant sky. Beyond the sycamores lay the wide river, beyond the
river lay Virginia. Dundee, red of eye and nostril, foam streaked and
quivering, raced on, his rider talking to him as to a lover. But the bay
was sore tired, and the sorrel gained. Marchmont sent his voice before
him. "Surrender! You'll never reach the other side!"
"I'll try mighty hard," answered Cleave between his teeth. He caressed
his horse, he made their two hearts one, he talked to him, he crooned an
air the stallion knew,--
Then fling ope your gates, and let me go free,
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!
Superbly the bay answered. But the sorrel, too, was a thoroughbred,
fresh when he left Frederick. Stride by stride he gained. Cleave crashed
into the belt of sycamores. Before him was the Potomac, cold, wide,
mist-veiled. He heard Marchmont break into the wood and turned. The
aide's arm was raised, and a shaft of red sunlight struck the barrel of
his pistol. Before his finger could move Cleave fired.
The sorrel, pierced through the shoulder, swerved violently, reared, and
plunged, all but unseating his rider. Marchmont's ball passed harmlessly
between the branches of trees. The bay and his master sprang from the
low bank into the flood. So veiled was it by the heavy mist that, six
strokes from shore, all outlines grew indistinct.
The two troopers reached the shore. "Where is he, sir?--Out there?" They
emptied their pistols--it was firing into a cloud. The sharpshooters
arrived. Skilful and grim, they raised their rifles, scanned the expanse
of woolly white before them, and fired at what, now here, now there,
they conceived might be a moving object. The mist lay close to the
river, like a pall. They fired and fired again. Other infantrymen,
arriving, talked excitedly. "Thar!--No, thar! That's him, downs-tream!
Fire!--Darn it! 'T was a piece of drift." Across the river, tall against
the south, wreathed and linked by lianas of grape, showed, far withdrawn
and shadowy, the trees of the Virginia shore. The rifles continued to
blaze, but the mist held, and there came no answering scream of horse or
cry of man. Marchmont spoke at last, curtly. "That's enough! He's either
hit and drowned, or he has reached home. I wish we were on the same
side."
One of the troopers uttered an exclamation. "Hear that, sir! He's
across! Damned if he isn't halloaing to tell us so!"
Faintly, from the southern shore, came a voice. It was raised in a line
of song,--
"As Joseph was a-walking,
He heard the angels sing"--
CHAPTER XII
"THE BATH AND ROMNEY TRIP"
Richard Cleave and his horse, two tired wights, turned a corner in the
wood and came with suddenness upon a vedette, posted beneath a beech
tree. The vedette brought his short rifle to bear upon the apparition.
"Halt! Halt, you in blue! Halt, I say, or I'll blow your head off."
Down an aisle of the woods, deep in russet leaves, appeared a grey
figure. "Hello, Company F! It's all right! It's all right! It's Captain
Cleave, 65th Virginia. Special service." Musket in hand, Allan came at a
run through the slanting sunshine of the forest. "It's all right,
Cuninghame--Colonel Ashby will understand."
"Here," said the vedette, "is Colonel Ashby now."
From another direction, out of the filmy and amethyst haze that closed
each forest vista, came a milk-white horse, stepping high over the
fallen leaves. The rider, not tall, black-bearded, with a pale, handsome
face, sat like a study for some great sculptor's equestrian masterpiece.
In a land where all rode well, his was superb horsemanship. The cape of
his grey coat was lined with scarlet, his soft wide hat had a black
plume; he wore long boots and white gauntlets. The three beneath the
beech saluted. He spoke in a pensive and musical voice. "A prisoner,
Cuninghame? Where did you get him?--Ah, it's Richard Cleave!"
The bright December day wore on, sunny and cold in the woods, sunny and
cold above the river. The water, clear now of mist, sparkled, a stream
of diamonds, from shore to shore, except where rose Dam No. 5. Here the
diamonds fell in cataracts. A space of crib-work, then falling gems,
another bit of dry logs in the sun, then again brilliancy and thunder of
water over the dam; this in sequence to the Maryland side. That side
reached, there came a mere ribbon of brown earth, and beyond this ran
the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. To-day boats from Cumberland were going
down the canal with coal and forage, and boats from Harper's Ferry were
coming up with a reinforcing regiment of soldiers for Lander at Hancock.
It was bright and lively weather, and the negroes talked to the mules on
the towpath, and the conductors of coal and forage hailed the soldiers,
and the soldiers shouted back. The banks rang to laughter and voices.
"Where're you fellows going?"--"Going to Hancock,--no, don't know where
it is!"--"Purty day! Seen any rebels crost the river?"--"At Williamsport
they told us there was a rebel spy got away this morning--galloped down
a cliff like Israel Putnam and took to the river, and if he was drowned
or not they don't know--" "No, he wasn't drowned; he got away, but he
was shot. Anyhow, they say he hadn't been there long enough to find out
anything."--"Wish _I_ could find out something--wish I could find out
when we're going to fight!"--"Low braidge!"--"That's a pretty big dam.
What's the troops over there in the field? Indiana? That's a right nice
picnic-ground--
'Kiss me good-bye, my dear,' he said;
'When I come back, we will be wed.'
Crying, she kissed him, 'Good-bye, Ned!'
And the soldier followed the drum,
The drum,
The echoing, echoing drum!"
Over on the Virginia side, behind the friendly woods paced through by
Ashby's men, the height of the afternoon saw the arrival of the advance
guard of that portion of the Army of the Valley which was to cover
operations against Dam No. 5. Later in the day came Garnett with the
remainder of the Stonewall Brigade and a two-gun detachment of the
Rockbridge Artillery, and by sunset the militia regiments were up. Camp
was pitched behind a line of hills, within the peninsula made by the
curve of the river. This rising ground masked the movement; moreover,
with Ashby between any body of infantry and an enemy not in unreasonable
force, that body worked and ate and slept in peace of mind. Six miles
down the river, over on the Maryland side, was Williamsport, with an
infantry command and with artillery. Opposite Dam No. 5 in the Maryland
fields beyond the canal, troops were posted, guarding that very stretch
of river. From a little hill above the tents frowned their cannon. At
Hancock, at Hagerstown, and at Frederick were other thousands, and all,
from the general of the division to the corporal drilling an awkward
squad in the fields beside the canal, thought of the Army of the Valley
as at Winchester.
With the Confederate advance guard, riding Little Sorrel, his cadet cap
over his eyes, his uniform whole and clean, but discoloured like a
November leaf from rain and dust and dust and rain, with great boots and
heavy cavalry spurs, with his auburn beard and his deep-set grey-blue
eyes, with his forehead broad and high, and his aquiline nose, and his
mouth, wide and thin-lipped, came Jackson. The general's tent was a rude
affair. His soldiers pitched it beneath a pine, beside a small trickling
stream half choked with leaves. The staff was quartered to right and
left, and a clump of pines in the rear served for an Arcadian kitchen. A
camp-stool and a table made of a board laid upon two stumps of trees
furnished the leaf-strewn terrace before the tent. Here, Cleave, coming
to report, found his commander.
Jackson was sitting, feet planted as usual, arms at side as usual,
listening to his chief of staff. He acknowledged Cleave's salute, with a
glance, a slight nod of the head, and a motion of the hand to one side.
The young man waited, standing by a black haw upon the bank of the
little stream. The respectful murmur of the chief of staff came to an
end. "Very good, major. You will send a courier back to Falling Waters
to halt General Carson there. He is to be prepared to make a diversion
against Williamsport in the morning. I will give precise instructions
later. What of this mill by the river?"
"It is a very strong, old, stone mill, sir, with windows. It would
command any short-range attack upon the workers."
"Good! good! We will put riflemen there. As soon as General Garnett is
up, send him to me."
From the not-distant road came a heavy rumble of wheels and the sound of
horses' feet. "There are the guns, now, sir."
"Yes. They must wait until nightfall to get into position. Send Captain
McLaughlin to me in half an hour's time."
"Yes, sir. Captain Colston of the 2d is here--"
"Very good. I will see him now. That is all, major."
The chief of staff withdrew. Captain Colston of the 2d approached from
the shadows beyond the big pine and saluted. "You are from this region,
captain?"
"Yes, sir. The _Honeywood_ Colstons."