The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis by Joseph A. Altsheler (best 7 inch ereader txt) 📖

“I always try to keep as neat as I can, Mr. Mason,” he said, apologizing for such weakness. “It gives you more courage, and if I get killed I want to make a decent body. Here's your breakfast, sir. There's enough left for the two of us, and I've divided it equally.”

Cold ham, bacon and crackers were laid out on clean shucks, and they ate until nothing was left. It was now full daylight, and the rain was dying away to a sprinkle. The farmer might come out at any time to his crib, and they felt that they must be up and away.

They bade farewell to their pleasant shelter of a night, and, after pulling through the deep mud of the field, entered again the forest, which was now soaking wet.

“If Colonel Hertford is near where we reckon he is we ought to meet him by nightfall,” said Sergeant Whitley.

“We're sure to reach him before then,” said Dick joyously.

“Colonel Hertford is a mighty good man, and if he says he's going to be at a certain place at a certain time I reckon he'll be there, Mr. Mason.”

“And then we'll bring him back and join General Grant. What do you think of our General, Sergeant?”

Dick spoke with all the freedom then so prevalent in the American armies, where officer and man were often on nearly a common footing, and the sergeant replied with equal freedom.

“General Grant hits and hammers, and I guess that's what war is,” he said. “On the plains we had a colonel who didn't know much about tactics. He said the only way to put down hostile Indians was to find 'em, and beat 'em, and I guess that plan will work in any war, big or little.”

“I heard before I left the army that Washington was getting scared, afraid that he was taking too big a risk here in the heart of the Confederacy, and that his operations might be checked by orders from the capital.”

Sergeant Whitley smiled a wise smile.

“We sergeants learn to know the officers,” he said, “and I've had the chance to look at General Grant a lot. He doesn't say much, but I guess he's doing a powerful lot of thinking, while he's chawing on the end of his cigar. You notice, Mr. Mason, that he takes risks.”

“He took a big one at Shiloh, and came mighty near being nipped.”

“But he wasn't nipped after all, and now, if I can judge by the signs, he's going to take another chance here. I wouldn't be surprised if he turned and marched away from the Mississippi, say toward Jackson.”

“But that wouldn't be taking Vicksburg.”

“No, but he might whip an army of the Johnnies coming to relieve Vicksburg, and I've a sneaking idea that the General has another daring thought in mind.”

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“When he turns eastward he'll be away from the telegraph. Maybe he doesn't want to receive any orders from the capital just now.”

“I believe you've hit it, Sergeant. At least I hope so, and anyway we want to reach Colonel Hertford right away.”

Still following the map and also consulting their own judgment, they advanced now at a good rate. But as they came into a more thickly populated country they were compelled to be exceedingly wary. Once a farmer insisted on questioning them, but they threatened him with their rifles and then plunged into a wood, lest he bring a force in pursuit.

In the afternoon, lying among some bushes, they saw a large Confederate force, with four cannon, pass on the road toward Jackson.

“Colonel Hertford might do them a lot of damage if he could fall on them with his cavalry,” said the sergeant thoughtfully.

“So he could,” said Dick, “but I imagine that General Grant wants the colonel to come at once.”

They turned northward now and an hour later found numerous hoofprints in a narrow road.

“All these were made by well-shod horses,” said the sergeant, after examining the tracks critically. “Now, we've plenty of horseshoes and the Johnnies haven't. That's one sign.”

“What's the other?”

“I calculate that about six hundred men have passed here, and that's pretty close to the number Colonel Hertford has, unless he's been in a hot fight.”

“Good reasoning, Sergeant, and I'll add a third. Those men are riding directly toward the place where, according to our maps and information, we ought to meet Colonel Hertford.”

“All these things make me sure our men have passed here, Mr. Mason. Suppose we follow on as hard as we can?”

Cheered by the belief that they were approaching the end of their quest they advanced at such a rate that the great trail rapidly grew fresher.

“Their horses are tired now,” said the sergeant, “and likely we're going as fast as they are. They're our men sure. Look at this old canteen that one of 'em has thrown away. It's the kind they make in the North. He ought to have been punished for leaving such a sign.”

“I judge, Sergeant, from the looks of this road, that they can't now be more than a mile away.”

“Less than that, Mr. Mason. When we reach the top of the hill yonder I think we'll see 'em.”

The sergeant's judgment was vindicated again. From the crest they saw a numerous body of muddy horsemen riding slowly ahead. Only the brilliant sunlight made their uniforms distinguishable, but they were, beyond a doubt, the troops of the Union. Dick uttered a little cry of joy and the sergeant's face glowed.

“We've found 'em,” said the sergeant.

“And soon we ride,” said Dick.

They hurried forward, shouted and waved their rifles.

The column stopped, and two men, one of whom was Colonel Hertford himself, rode back, looking curiously at the haggard and stained faces of the two who walked forward, still swinging their rifles.

“Colonel Hertford,” said Dick joyfully, “we've come with a message for you from General Grant.”

“And who may you be?” asked Hertford in surprise.

“Why, Colonel, don't you know me? I'm Lieutenant Richard Mason of Colonel Winchester's regiment, and this is Sergeant Daniel Whitley of the same regiment.”

The colonel broke into a hearty laugh, and then extended his hand to Dick.

“I should have known your voice, my boy,” he said, “but it's certainly impossible to recognize any one who is as thickly covered with dry Mississippi mud as you are. What's your news, Dick?”

Dick told him and the sergeant repeated the same tale. He knew