The Rock of Chickamauga, Joseph A. Altsheler [best book club books txt] 📗

swept forward. Dick felt once more the

fierce thrill of combat, and, waving his revolver high above his head,

he shouted with the others as they rushed on. The stream of bullets from

the ravine thickened, and the cannon were crashing fast. But the Union

masses did not check their rush for an instant. Although many fell they

charged into the ravine, driving out the enemy, and pursued him on the

other side.

 

But the Southern cannon, manned by daring gunners, still held the field

and, aided by the thick mud which held back charging feet, they repulsed

every attack. The Winchester regiment was forced to cover, and then Dick

heard the booming of cannon in another direction. He knew that Grant and

Sherman were coming up there, and he expected they would rush at once

into Jackson, but it was a long time before the distant thunder came any

nearer.

 

Johnston, whose astuteness they feared, was proving himself worthy of

their opinion. Knowing that his forces were far too small to defend

Jackson, he had sent away the archives of the state and most of the

army. Only a small force and seventeen cannon were left to fight and

cover his retreat. But so bold and skillful were they that it was far

beyond noon before Grant and Sherman found that practically nothing was

in front of them.

 

But where Dick and his comrades rode the fighting was severe for a

while. Then everything seemed to melt away before them. The fire of the

Southern cannon ceased suddenly, and Colonel Winchester exclaimed that

their works had been abandoned. They charged forward, seized the cannon,

and now rode without resistance into the capital of the state, from

which the President of the Confederacy hailed, though by birth a

Kentuckian.

 

Dick and his comrades were among the first to enter the town, and not

until then did they know that Johnston and all but a few hundreds of his

army were gone.

 

"We've got the shell only," Dick said.

 

"Still we've struck a blow by taking the capital of the state," said

Colonel Winchester.

 

Dick looked with much curiosity at the little city into which they were

riding as conquerors. It was too small and new to be imposing. Yet there

were some handsome houses, standing back on large lawns, and surrounded

by foliage. The doors and shutters of all of them were closed tightly.

Dick knew that their owners had gone away or were sitting, hearts full

of bitterness, in their sealed houses.

 

The streets were deep in mud, and at the corners little knots of negroes

gathered and looked at them curiously.

 

"They don't seem to welcome us as deliverers," said Warner.

 

"They don't yet know what to think of us," said Dick. "There's the

Capitol ahead of us, and some of our troops are going into it."

 

"Others have gone into it already," said Pennington. "Look!"

 

They saw the flag of the Union break out above its dome, the beautiful

stars and stripes, waving gently in the light breeze. A spontaneous

cheer burst from the Union soldiers, and the bitter hearts in the sealed

houses grew more bitter.

 

The army was now pouring in by every road and Colonel Winchester and his

staff sought quarters. They were on the verge of exhaustion. All their

clothing was wet and they were discolored with mud. They felt that they

were bound to have rest and cleanliness.

 

The victorious troops were making their camp, wherever they could find

dry ground, and soon they were building the fires for cooking. But many

of the officers were assigned to the residences, and Colonel Winchester

and his staff were directed by the general to take quarters in a large

colonial house, standing on a broad lawn, amid the finest magnolias and

live oaks that Dick had ever seen.

 

Remembering an earlier experience during the Shiloh campaign Colonel

Winchester and his young officers approached the house with some

reluctance. In ordinary times it must have been brilliant with life. Two

little fountains were playing on either side of the graveled walk that

led to the front door. After the old fashion, three or four marble

statues stood in the shrubbery. Everything indicated wealth. Probably

the town house of a great planter, reflected Dick. In Mississippi a man

sometimes owned as many as a thousand slaves, and lived like a prince.

 

The house offered them no welcome. Its doors and windows were closed,

but Dick had seen thin smoke rising from a chimney in the rear. He

expected that they would have to force the door, but at the first knock

it was thrown open by a tall, thin woman of middle years. The look she

gave them was full of bitter hatred--Dick sometimes thought that

women could hate better than men--but her manner and bearing showed

distinction. He, as well as his comrades, took her to be the lady of the

house.

 

"We ask your pardon, madame, for this intrusion," said Colonel

Winchester, "but we are compelled to occupy your house a while. We

promise you as little trouble as possible."

 

"We ask no consideration of any kind from men who have come to despoil

our country and ruin its people," she said icily.

 

Colonel Winchester flushed.

 

"But madame," he protested, "we do not come to destroy."

 

"I do not care to argue with you about it," she said in the same lofty

tone, "and also you need not address me as madame. I am Miss Woodville."

 

Dick started.

 

"Does this house belong to Colonel John Woodville?" he asked.

 

"It does not," she replied crisply, "but it belongs to his elder

brother, Charles Woodville, who is also a colonel, and who is my father.

What do you know of Colonel John Woodville?"

 

"I met his son once," replied Dick briefly.

 

She glanced at him sharply. Dick thought for a moment that he saw alarm

in her look, but he concluded that it was only anger.

 

They stood confronting each other, the little group of officers and the

woman, and Colonel Winchester, embarrassed, but knowing that he must do

something, went forward and pushed back a door opening into the hall.

Dick automatically followed him, and then stepped back, startled.

 

A roar like that of a lion met them. An old man, with a high, bald and

extremely red forehead lay in a huge bed by a window. It was a great

head, and eyes, set deep, blazed under thick, white lashes. His body was

covered to the chin.

 

Dick saw that the man's anger was that of the caged wild beast, and

there was something splendid and terrible about it.

 

"You infernal Yankees!" he cried, and his voice again rumbled like that

of a lion.

 

"Colonel Charles Woodville, I presume?" said Colonel Winchester

politely.

 

"Yes, Colonel Charles Woodville," thundered the man, "fastened here

in bed by a bullet from one of your cursed vessels in the Mississippi,

while you rob and destroy!"

 

And then he began to curse. He drew one hand from under the cover and

shook his clenched fist at them in a kind of rhythmic beat while the

oaths poured forth. To Dick it was not common swearing. There was

nothing coarse and vulgar about it. It was denunciation, malediction,

fulmination, anathema. It had a certain majesty and dignity. Its

richness and variety were unequaled, and it was hurled forth by a voice

deep, powerful and enduring.

 

Dick listened with amazement and then admiration. He had never heard its

like, nor did he feel any offense. The daughter, too, stood by,

pursing her prim lips, and evidently approving. Colonel Winchester was

motionless like a statue, while the infuriated man shook his fist at him

and launched imprecations. But his face had turned white and Dick saw

that he was fiercely angry.

 

When the old man ceased at last from exhaustion Colonel Winchester said

quietly:

 

"If you had spoken to me in the proper manner we might have gone away

and found quarters elsewhere. But we intend to stay here and we will

repay your abuse with good manners."

 

Dick saw the daughter flush, but the old man said:

 

"Then it will be the first time that good manners were ever brought from

the country north of the Mason and Dixon line."

 

Colonel Winchester flushed in his turn, but made no direct reply.

 

"If you will assign us rooms, Miss Woodville," he said, "we will go

to them, otherwise we'll find them for ourselves, which may be less

convenient for you. I repeat that we desire to give you as little

trouble as possible."

 

"Do so, Margaret," interrupted Colonel Woodville, "because then I may

get rid of them all the sooner."

 

Colonel Winchester bowed and turned toward the door. Miss Woodville,

obedient to the command of her father, led the way. Dick was the last to

go out, and he said to the old lion who lay wounded in the bed:

 

"Colonel Woodville, I've met your nephew, Victor."

 

He did not notice that the old man whitened and that the hand now lying

upon the cover clenched suddenly.

 

"You have?" growled Colonel Woodville, "and how does it happen that you

and my nephew have anything in common?"

 

"I could scarcely put it that way," replied Dick, refusing to be

angered, "unless you call an encounter with fists something in common.

He and I had a great fight at his father's plantation of Bellevue."

 

"He might have been in a better business, taking part in a common brawl

with a common Yankee."

 

"But, sir, while I may be common, I'm not a Yankee. I was born and grew

up south of the Ohio River in Kentucky."

 

"Then you're a traitor. All you Kentuckians ought to be fighting with

us."

 

"Difference of opinion, but I hope your nephew is well."

 

The deep eyes under the thick white thatch glared in a manner that Dick

considered wholly unnecessary. But Colonel Woodville made no reply,

merely turning his face to the wall as if he were weary.

 

Dick hurried into the hall, closing the door gently behind him. The

others, not missing him, were already some yards away, and he quickly

rejoined Pennington and Warner. The younger men would have been glad

to leave the house, but Colonel Winchester's blood was up, and he was

resolved to stay. The little party was eight in number, and they were

soon quartered in four rooms on the lower floor. Miss Woodville promptly

disappeared, and one of the camp cooks arrived with supplies, which he

took to the kitchen.

 

Dick and Warner were in one of the rooms, and, removing their belts

and coats, they made themselves easy. It was a large bedroom with high

ceilings and wicker furniture. There were several good paintings on the

walls and a bookcase contained Walter Scott's novels and many of the

eighteenth century classics.

 

"I think this must have been a guest chamber," said Dick, "but for us

coming from the rain and mud it's a real palace."

 

"Then it's fulfilling its true function," said Warner, "because it has

guests now. What a strange household! Did you ever see such a peppery

pair as that swearing old colonel and his acid daughter?"

 

"I don't know that I blame them. I think, sometimes, George, that

you New Englanders are the most selfish of people. You're too truly

righteous. You're always denouncing the faults of others, but you never

see any of your own. Away back in the Revolution when Boston called,

the Southern provinces came to her help, but Boston and New England have

spent a large part of their time since then denouncing the South."

 

"What's struck you, Dick? Are you weakening in the good cause?"

 

"Not for a moment. But suppose Mississippi troops walked into your

own father's house in Vermont, and, as conquerors, demanded food and

shelter! Would you rejoice over them, and ask them why they hadn't come

sooner?"

 

"I suppose not, Dick. But, stop it, and come back to your normal

temperature. I won't quarrel with you."

 

"I won't give you a chance, George. I'm through. But remember that while

I'm red hot for the Union, I was born south of the Ohio River myself,

and I have lots of sympathy for the people against whom I'm fighting."

 

"For the matter of that, so've I, Dick, and I was born north of the

Ohio River. But I'm getting tremendously hungry. I hope that cook will

hurry."

 

They were called soon, and eight officers sat at the table. The cook

himself served them. Miss Woodville had vanished, and not a servant was

visible about the great house. Despite their hunger and the good quality

of the food the group felt constraint. The feeling that they were

intruders, in a sense brigands, was forced upon them. Dick was sure

that the old man with the great bald head was swearing fiercely and

incessantly under his breath.

 

The dining-room was a large and splendid apartment, and the silver still

lay upon the great mahogany sideboard. The little city, now the camp

of an overwhelming army, had settled into silence, and the twilight was

coming.

 

With the chill of unwelcome