The Scouts of Stonewall: The Story of the Great Valley Campaign. Altsheler Joseph Alexander
Читать онлайн книгу.
the great pulses leaped, but with a different emotion.
Scorning every risk, he reined his horse back into the road and rode straight forward. The heads of men were just topping the rise, and a few moments later they and the horses they bestrode came into full view. It was a thankful thrill that shot through him now. The sun, almost sunk, sent a last golden shower across them and disclosed the dingy gray of their uniforms and the lean, tanned faces.
Uttering a shout of joy and holding up a hand to show that he was a friend, Harry galloped forward. A young man at the head of the troop, a captain by his uniform, and evidently the leader, gave the signal to his men to stop, and received the boy who came alone.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Harry Kenton, a lieutenant in the army of Stonewall Jackson, and an aide on the staff of Colonel Leonidas Talbot, colonel of the regiment known as the Invincibles.”
“I’ve heard of that regiment. South Carolinians at first, but now mostly Virginians.”
“The Virginians filled up the gaps that were made on the battlefield.”
Harry spoke proudly, and the young captain smiled. The boy regarded him with increasing interest. Somehow he was reminded of Jeb Stuart, although this man was younger, not having passed his boyhood long.
It was evident that he was tall. Thick, yellow curls showed from under the edge of his cap. His face, like Harry’s, had turned red before wind and rain. His dress was a marvel, made of the finest gray without a spot or stain. A sash of light blue silk encircled his waist, and the costly gray cloak thrown back a little from his shoulders revealed a silk lining of the same delicate blue tint. His gauntlets were made of the finest buckskin, and a gold-hilted small sword swung from his sash.
“A dandy,” thought Harry, “but the bravest of the brave, for all that.”
“My name’s Sherburne, Captain Philip Sherburne,” said the young leader. “I’m from the Valley of Virginia, and so are my men. We belong to Stonewall Jackson’s army, too, but we’ve been away most of the time on scouting duty. That’s the reason you don’t know us. We’re going toward Winchester, after another of our fruitless rides.”
“But it won’t be fruitless this time!” exclaimed Harry, eagerly. “A Union force of nearly a thousand men is on its way to destroy the stores at the village, the stores that were to be moved to a safer place to-morrow!”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen ‘em. I was behind ‘em at first and followed ‘em for a long time before I guessed their purpose. Then I curved about ‘em, galloped through the woods, and rode on here, hoping for the lucky chance that has come with you.”
Harry, as he spoke, saw the eyes of the young captain leap and flame, and he knew he was in the presence of one of those knightly souls, thrown up so often in the war, most often by the border States. They were youths who rode forth to battle in the spirit of high romance.
“You ask us to go back to the village and help defend the stores?” said Philip Sherburne.
“That’s just what I do ask—and expect.”
“Of course. We’d have done it without the asking, and glad of it. What a chance for us, as well as for you!”
He turned and faced his men. The golden glow of the sun was gone now, but a silver tint from the twilight touched his face. Harry saw there the blaze of the knightly spirit that craved adventure.
“Men,” he said in clear, happy tones, “we’ve ridden for days and days in quests that brought nothing. Now the enemy is at hand, nearly a thousand strong, and means to destroy our stores. There are two hundred of you and there are two hundred more guarding the stores. If there’s a single one among you who says he must ride on to Winchester, let him hold up his hand.”
Not a hand was raised, and the bold young captain laughed.
“I don’t need to put the other side of the question,” he said to Harry. “They’re as eager as I am to scorch the faces of the Yankees.”
The order was given to turn and ride. The “men,” not one of whom was over twenty-five, obeyed it eagerly, and galloped for the village, every heart throbbing with the desire for action. They were all from the rich farms in the valleys. Splendid horsemen, fine marksmen, and alive with youth and courage, no deed was too great for them. Harry was proud to ride with them, and he told more of the story to Sherburne as they covered the short distance to the village.
“Old Jack would order us to do just what we’re doing,” said Sherburne. “He wants his officers to obey orders, but he wants them to think, too.”
Harry saw his eyes flash again, and something in his own mind answered to the spirit of adventure which burned so brightly in this young man. He looked over the troop, and as far as he could see the faces of all were flushed with the same hope. He knew with sudden certainty that the Union forces would never take that warehouse and its precious contents. These were the very flower of that cavalry of the South destined to become so famous.
“You know the village?” said Sherburne to Harry.
“Yes, I passed there last night.”
“What defense has it?”
“About two hundred men. They are strangers to the region, drawn from the Tidewater country, and I don’t think they’re as good as most of General Jackson’s men.”
“Lack of discipline, you think?”
“Yes, but the material is fine.”
“All right. Then we’ll see that they acquire discipline. Nothing like the enemy’s fire to teach men what war is.”
They were riding at good speed toward the village, while they talked, and Harry had become at once the friend and lieutenant of young Captain Sherburne. His manner was so pleasant, so intimate, so full of charm, that he did not have the power or the will to resist it.
They soon saw Hertford, a village so little that it was not able to put itself on the map. It stood on the crest of a low hill, and the tobacco barn was about as large as all the other buildings combined. The twilight had now merged into night, but there was a bright sky and plenty of stars, and they saw well.
Captain Sherburne stopped his troop at a distance of three or four hundred yards, while they were still under cover of the forest.
“What’s the name of the commander there?” he asked.
“McGee,” Harry replied. “Means well, but rather obstinate.”
“That’s the way with most of these untrained men. We mustn’t risk being shot up by those whom we’ve come to help. Lasley, give them a call from the bugle. Make it low and soft though. We don’t want those behind us to hear it.”
Lasley, a boy no older than Harry, rode forward a dozen yards in front of the troop, put his bugle to his lips and blew a soft, warning call. Harry had been stirred by the first sound of a hostile trumpet hours before, and now this, the note of a friend, thrilled him again. He gazed intently at the village, knowing that the pickets would be on watch, and presently he saw men appear at the edge of the hill just in front of the great warehouse. They were the pickets, beyond a doubt, because the silver starshine glinted along the blades of their bayonets.
The bugler gave one more call. It was a soft and pleasing sound. It said very plainly that the one who blew and those with him were friends. Two men in uniform joined the pickets beside the warehouse, and looked toward the point whence the note of the bugle came.
“Forward!” said Captain Philip Sherburne, himself leading the way, Harry by his side. The troops, wheeling back into the road and marching by fours in perfect order, rode straight toward the village.
“Who comes?” was the stern hail.
“A troop of Stonewall Jackson’s cavalry to help you,” replied Sherburne. “You are about to be attacked by a Northern division eight hundred strong.”
“Who says so?” came the question in a tone