The Scouts of Stonewall: The Story of the Great Valley Campaign. Altsheler Joseph Alexander
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is besieging Hertford, and four hundred of our men are defending it. There is no time to waste! They must have help there before dawn, or everything is lost! Which way is General Jackson’s tent?”
“In that field on the hillock!” replied one of the men, pointing two or three hundred yards away.
Harry raced toward the tent, which rose in modest size out of the darkness, and sprang to the ground, when his horse reached it. A single sentinel, rifle across his arms, was standing before it, but the flap was thrown back and a light was burning inside.
“I’m a messenger for General Jackson!” cried Harry. “I’ve news that can’t wait!”
The sentinel hesitated a moment, but a figure within stepped to the door of the tent and Harry for the first time was face to face with Stonewall Jackson. He had seen him often near or far, but now he stood before him, and was to speak with him.
Jackson was dressed fully and the fine wrinkles of thought showed on his brow, as if he had intended to study and plan the night through. He was a tallish man, with good features cut clearly, high brow, short brown beard and ruddy complexion. His uniform was quite plain and his appearance was not imposing, but his eyes of deep blue regarded the boy keenly.
“I’m Lieutenant Kenton, sir, of Colonel Talbot’s Invincibles,” replied Harry to the question which was not spoken, but which nevertheless was asked. “Our arsenal at Hertford is besieged by a strong force of the enemy, a force that is likely to be increased heavily by dawn. Luckily Captain Sherburne and his troop of valley Virginians came up in time to help, and I have slipped through the besieging lines to bring more aid.”
Harry had touched his cap as he spoke and now he stood in silence while the blue eyes looked him through.
“I know you. I’ve observed you,” said Jackson in calm, even tones, showing not a trace of excitement. “I did not think that the Federal troops would make a movement so soon, but we will meet it. A brigade will march in half an hour.”
“Don’t I go with it?” exclaimed Harry pleadingly. “You know, I brought the news, sir!”
“You do. Your regiment will form part of the brigade. Rejoin Colonel Talbot at once. The Invincibles, with you as guide, shall lead the way. You have done well, Lieutenant Kenton.”
Harry flushed with pride at the brief words of praise, which meant so much coming from Stonewall Jackson, and saluting again hurried to his immediate command. Already the messengers were flying to the different regiments, bidding them to be up and march at once.
The Invincibles were upon their feet in fifteen minutes, fully clothed and armed, and ready for the road. The cavalry were not available that night, and the brigade would march on foot save for the officers. Harry was back on his horse, and St. Clair and Langdon were beside him. The colonels, Talbot and St. Hilaire, sat on their horses at the head of the Invincibles, the first regiment.
“What is it?” said Langdon to Harry. “Have you brought this night march upon us?”
“I have, and we’re going to strike the Yankees before dawn at Hertford,” replied Harry to both questions.
“I like the nights for rest,” said Langdon, “but it could be worse; I’ve had four hours’ sleep anyway.”
“You’ll have no more this night, that’s certain,” said St. Clair. “Look, General Jackson, himself, is going with us. See him climbing upon Little Sorrel! Lord pity the foot cavalry!”
General Jackson, mounted upon the sorrel horse destined to become so famous, rode to the head of the brigade, which was now in ranks, and beckoned to Harry.
“I’ve decided to attend to this affair myself, Lieutenant Kenton,” he said. “Keep by my side. You know the way. Be sure that you lead us right.”
His voice was not raised, but his words had an edge of steel. The cold blue eyes swept him with a single chilly glance and Harry felt the fear of God in his soul. Lead them right? His faculties could not fail with Stonewall Jackson by his side.
The general himself gave the word, the brigade swung into the broad road and it marched. It did not dawdle along. It marched, and it marched fast. It actually seemed to Harry after the first mile that it was running, running toward the enemy.
Not in vain had the infantry of Stonewall Jackson been called foot cavalry. Harry now for the first time saw men really march. The road spun behind them and the forest swept by. They were nearly all open-air Virginians, long of limb, deep of chest and great of muscle. There was no time for whispering among them, and the exchange of guesses about their destination. They needed every particle of air in their lungs for the terrible man who made them march as men had seldom marched before.
Jackson cast a grim eye on the long files that sank away in the darkness behind him.
“They march very well,” he said, “but they will do better with more practice. Ride to the rear, Lieutenant Kenton, and see if there are any stragglers. If you find any order them back into line and if they refuse to obey, shoot.”
Again his voice was not raised, but an electric current of fiery energy seemed to leap from this grave, somber man and to infuse itself through the veins of the lad to whom he gave the orders.
Harry saluted and, wheeling his horse, rode swiftly along the edge of the forest toward the rear. Now, the spirit of indomitable youth broke forth. Many in the columns were as young as he and some younger. In the earlier years of the war, and indeed, to the very close, there was little outward respect for rank among the citizen soldiers of either army. Harry was saluted with a running fire of chaff.
“Turn your horse’s head, young feller, the enemy ain’t that way. He’s in front.”
“He’s forgot his toothbrush, Bill, and he’s going back in a hurry to get it.”
“If I had a horse like that I’d ride him in the right direction.”
“Tell ‘em in Winchester that the foot cavalry are marchin’ a hundred miles an hour.”
Harry did not resent these comments. He merely flung back an occasional comment of his own and hurried on until he reached the rear. Then in the dusk of the road he found four or five men limping along, and ready when convenient to drop away in the darkness. Harry wasted no time. The fire in his blood that had come from Jackson was still burning. He snatched a pistol from his belt and, riding directly at them, cried:
“Forward and into the ranks at once, or I shoot!”
“But we are lame, sir!” cried one of the men. “See my foot is bleeding!”
He held up one foot and red drops were falling from the ragged shoe.
“It makes no difference,” cried Harry. “Barefooted men should be glad to march for Stonewall Jackson! One, two, three! Hurry, all of you, or I shoot!”
The men took one look at the flaming face, and broke into a run for the rear guard. Harry saw them in the ranks and then beat up the woods on either side of the road, but saw no more stragglers or deserters. Then he galloped through the edge of the forest and rejoined the general at the head of the command.
“Were they all marching?” asked Jackson.
“All but four, sir.”
“And the four?”
“They’re marching now, too.”
“Good. How far are we from the arsenal?”
“About eight miles, sir.”
“Isn’t it nearer nine?”
“I should say nearer eight, sir.”
“You should know, and at any rate we’ll soon see.”
Jackson did not speak to him again directly, evidently keeping him at his side now for sure guidance, but he continually sent other aides along the long lines to urge more speed. The men were panting, and, despite the cold of the winter night, beads of perspiration stood on every face. But Jackson was pitiless. He continually spurred them on, and now Harry knew with the certainty