Altsheler Joseph Alexander
The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis
“Glad I know that much. He reminds me of a man I’ve seen, though I can’t recall where or when. It’s enough, though, to watch out for Slade. Come on, Sergeant, I’m feeling so fine now that with your help I’m able to fight a whole army.”
The two striding through the forest, started toward the meeting place with Hertford. Now that he had the powerful comradeship of Sergeant Whitley, the wilderness became beautiful instead of gloomy for Dick. The live oaks and magnolias were magnificent, and there was a wild luxuriance of vegetation. Birds of brilliant plumage darted among the foliage, and squirrels chattered on the boughs. He saw bear tracks again, and called the sergeant’s attention to them.
“It would be nice to be hunting them, instead of men,” said Whitley. “You can find nice, black fellows down here, good to eat, and it’s a deal safer to hunt them than it is the grizzlies and silver-tips of the Rockies.”
They saw now much cleared land, mostly cotton fields, and now and then a white man or a negro working, but there was always enough forest for cover. They waded the numerous brooks and creeks, allowing their clothing to dry in the warm sun, as they marched, and about two hours before sunrise the sergeant, wary and always suspicious, suggested that they stop a while.
“I’ve an idea,” he said, “that Slade and his men are still following us. Oh, he’s an ugly fellow, full of sin, and if they’re not far behind us we ought to know it.”
“Just as you say,” said Dick, glad enough to shift the responsibility upon such capable shoulders. “How would this clump of bushes serve for a hiding place while we wait?”
“Good enough. Indians pursued, often ambush the pursuer, and as we’ve two good men with two good rifles, Mr. Mason, we’ll just see what this Slade is about.”
“When I last saw him,” said Dick, “he had the two canoemen with him, and perhaps they’ve picked up the owner of the hounds.”
“That’s sure, and they’re likely to be four. We’re only two, but we’ve got the advantage of the ambush, and that’s a big one. If you agree with me, Mr. Mason, we’ll wait here for ‘em. We were sent out to take messages, not to fight, but since these fellows hang on our trail we may get to Colonel Hertford all the quicker because we do fight.”
“Your opinion’s mine too, Sergeant. I’m not in love with battle, but I wouldn’t mind taking a shot or two at these men. They’ve given me a lot of trouble.”
The sergeant smiled.
“That’s the way it goes,” he said. “You don’t get mad at anybody in particular in a big battle, but if two or three fellows lay around in the woods popping away at you you soon get so you lose any objections to killing, and you draw a bead on ‘em as soon as a chance comes.”
“That’s the way I feel, Sergeant. It isn’t Christian, but I suppose it has some sort of excuse.”
“Of course it has. Drop a little lower, Mr. Mason. I see the bushes out there shaking.”
“And that’s the sign that Slade and his men have come. Well, I’m not sorry.”
Both Dick and the sergeant lay almost flat with their heads raised a little, and their rifles pushed forward. The bushes ceased to shake, but Dick had no doubt their pursuers were before them. They had probably divined, too, that the quarry was at bay and was dangerous. Evidently the sergeant had been correct when he said Slade was full of craft and cunning.
While they waited the spirit of Dick’s famous ancestor descended upon him in a yet greater measure. Their pursuers were not Indians, but this was the deep wilderness and they were merely on a skirt of the great war. Many of the border conditions were reproduced, and they were to fight as borderers fought.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Dick whispered.
“Feeling around for us. Slade won’t take any more risk than he has to. Did you see those two birds fly away from that bough, sudden-like? I think one of the men has just crept under it. But the fellow who exposes himself first won’t be Slade.”
Dick’s inherited instinct was strong, and he watched not only in front, but to right and left also. He knew that cunning men would seek to flank and surprise them, and he noticed that the sergeant also watched in a wide circle. He still drew tremendous comfort from the presence of the skillful veteran, feeling that his aid would make the repulse of Slade a certainty.
A rifle cracked suddenly in the bushes to their right, and then another by his side cracked so suddenly that only a second came between. Dick heard a bullet whistle over their heads, but he believed that the one from his comrade’s rifle had struck true.
“I’ve no way of telling just now,” said the sergeant, calmly, “but I don’t believe that fellow will bother any more. If we can wing another they’re likely to let us alone and we can go on. They must know by the trail that we’re now two instead of one, and that their danger has doubled.”
Dick had felt that the danger to their pursuers had more than doubled. He had an immense admiration for the sergeant, who was surely showing himself a host. The man, trained so long in border war, was thoroughly in his element. His thick, powerful figure was drawn up in the fashion of a panther about to spring. Bulky as he was he showed ease and grace, and wary eyes, capable of reading every sign, continually scanned the thickets.
“They know just where we are, of course,” whispered the sergeant, “but if we stay close they’ll never get a good shot at us.”
Dick caught sight of a head among some bushes and fired. The head dropped back so quickly that he could not tell whether or not his bullet sped true. After a long wait the sergeant suggested that they creep away.
“I think they’ve had enough,” he said. “They’ve certainly lost one man, and maybe two. Slade won’t care to risk much more.”
Dick was glad to go and, following the sergeant’s lead, he crawled four or five hundred yards, a most painful but necessary operation. Then they stood up, and made good time through the forest. Both would have been willing to stay and fight it out with Slade and what force he had left, but their mission was calling them, and forward they went.
“Do you think they’ll follow us?” asked Dick.
“I reckon they’ve had enough. They may try to curve ahead of us and give warning, but the salute from the muzzles of our rifles has been too warm for any more direct pursuit. Besides, we’re going to have a summer storm soon, and like as not they’ll be hunting shelter.”
Dick, in the excitement of battle and flight, had not noticed the darkening skies and the rising wind. Clouds, heavy and menacing, already shrouded the whole west. Low thunder was heard far in the distance.
“It’s going to be a whopper,” said the sergeant, “something like those big storms they have out on the plains. We must find shelter somewhere, Mr. Mason, or it will leave us so bedraggled and worn out that for a long time we won’t be able to move on.”
Dick agreed with him entirely, but neither yet knew where the shelter was to be found. They hurried on, looking hopefully for a place. Meanwhile the storm, its van a continual blaze of lightning and roar of thunder, rolled up fast from the southwest. Then the lightning ceased for a while and the skies were almost dark. Dick knew that the rain would come soon, and, as he looked eagerly for shelter, he saw a clearing in which stood a small building of logs.
“A cornfield, Sergeant,” he exclaimed, “and that I take it is a crib.”
“A crib that will soon house more than corn,” said the sergeant. “Two good Union soldiers are about to stop there. It’s likely the farmer’s house itself is just beyond that line of trees, but he won’t be coming out to this crib to-night.”
“Not likely. Too much darkness and rain. Hurry, Sergeant, I can hear already the rush of the rain in the forest.”
They ran across the field, burst open the door of the crib, leaped in and banged the door shut again, just as the van of the rain beat upon it with an angry rush.
Save for a crack or two they had no light, but they stood upon a dry floor covered deep with corn shucks, and heard the rain sweep and roar upon the roof. On one side was a heap of husked corn which they quickly piled against the door in order to hold it before the assaults of the wind, and then they sought warm places among the shucks.
It was a small crib, and the rain drove in at the cracks, but it furnished abundant shelter for its two new guests. Dick had never been in a finer hotel. He lay warm and dry in a great heap of shucks, and heard the wind and rain beat vainly upon walls and roof and the thunder rumble as it moved off toward the east. He felt to the full the power of contrast.
“Fine in here, isn’t it, Sergeant?” he said.
“Fine as silk,” replied the sergeant from his own heap of shucks. “We played in big luck to find this place, ‘cause I think it’s going to rain hard all night.”
“Let it. It can’t get me. Sergeant, I’ve always known that corn is our chief staple, but I never knew before that the shucks, which so neatly enclose the grains and cob, were such articles of luxury. I’m lying upon the most magnificent bed in the United States, and it’s composed wholly of shucks.”
“It’s no finer than mine, Mr. Mason.”
“That’s so. Yours is just like mine, and, of course, it’s an exception. Now, I wish to say, Sergeant, the rain upon the roof is so soothing that I’m likely to go to sleep before I know it.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Mason, and it’s more’n likely I’ll follow. All trails will be destroyed by the storm and nobody will think of looking here for us to-night.”
Both soon slept soundly, and all through the night the rain beat upon the roof.
CHAPTER VI. A BOLD ATTACK
Dick was the first to awake. The sergeant had not slept the night before at all, and, despite his enormous endurance, he was overpowered. Having fallen once into slumber he remained there long.
It was not yet morning and the rain was yet falling steadily. Its sweep upon the roof was still so pleasant and soothing that Dick resolved to go to sleep again, after he had looked about a little. He had grown used to dusk and he could see just a little. The sergeant, buried all but his head among the corn shucks, was breathing deeply and peacefully.
He looked out at one of the cracks, but he saw only rain sweeping by in misty sheets. The road that ran by the field was invisible. He gave devout thanks that this tight little corn crib had put itself in their way. Then he returned to his slumbers, and when he awoke again the sergeant was sitting by one of the cracks smoothing his thick hair with a small comb.
“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 them both to be absolutely trustworthy, and their coming on such an errand through so many dangers carried its own proof.
“We’ve several spare horses, bearing provisions and arms,” said Colonel Hertford. “Two can be unloaded and be made ready for you and the sergeant. I fancy that you don’t care to keep on walking, Dick?”
“I’ve had enough to last me for years, Colonel.”
They were mounted in a few minutes, and rode with the colonel. The world had now changed for Dick. Astride a good horse and in a column of six hundred men he was no longer the hunted. These troopers and he were hunters now.
The column turned presently into another road and advanced with speed in the direction of Grant. Colonel Hertford asked Dick many questions about Slade.
“I’ve been hearing of him since we were on this raid,” he said. “He’s more of a guerilla than a regular soldier, but he may be able to gather a considerable force. I wish we could cut him off.”
“So do I,” said Dick, but his feeling was prompted chiefly by Slade’s determined attempts upon his life.
Colonel Hertford now pushed forward his men. He, too, was filled with ambitions. He began to have an idea of Grant’s great plans, in which all the Union leaders must cooperate, and he meant that his own little command should be there, whenever the great deed, whatever it might be, was done. He talked about it with Dick, who he knew was a trusted young staff officer, and the two, the lad and the older man, fed the enthusiasm of each other.
This attack deep into the flank of the Confederacy appealed to them with its boldness, and created a certain romantic glow that seemed to clothe the efforts of a general so far from the great line of battle in the East. They talked, too, of the navy which had run past forts on the Mississippi, and which had shown anew all its ancient skill and courage.
As they talked, twilight came, and the road led once more through the deep woods, where the shade turned the twilight into the darkness of night. Then rifles flashed suddenly in the thickets, and a half-dozen horsemen fell. The whole column was thrown for an instant or two into disorder, frightened horses rearing and stamping, and, before their riders could regain control, another volley came, emptying a half-dozen saddles.
Colonel Hertford gave rapid commands. Then, shouting and waving his saber he galloped boldly into the forest, reckless of trees and bushes, and Dick, the sergeant, and the whole troop followed. The lad was nearly swept from his horse by a bough, but he recovered himself in time to see the figures of men on foot fleeing rapidly through the dusk.
Bullets pattered on bark and leaves, and the angry horsemen, after discharging their carbines, swept forward with circling sabers. But the irregulars who had ambushed them, save a few fallen before the bullets, escaped easily in the dense woods, and under cover of the darkness which was now coming down, thick and fast.
A trumpet sounded the recall and the cavalrymen, sore and angry, drew back into the road. They had lost a dozen good men, but Colonel Hertford felt that they could not delay for vengeance. Grant’s orders were to come at once; and he intended to obey them.
“I’d wager a year’s pay against a Confederate five-dollar note,” said Sergeant Whitley to Dick, “that the man who laid that ambush was Slade. He’ll keep watch on us all the way to Grant, and he’ll tell the Southern leaders everything the general is doing. Oh, he’s a good scout and spy.”
“He’s proved it,” said Dick, “and I’d like to get a fair shot at him.”
They rode nearly all night and most of the next day, and, in the afternoon, they met other men in blue who told them that a heavy Union force was advancing. They had no doubt now that Grant’s great plan was already working and in a short time they reached McPherson, advancing with Logan’s division. Hertford reported at once to McPherson, who was glad enough to have his cavalry, and who warmly praised Dick and the sergeant for the dangerous service they had done so well. As it would have been unwise for them to attempt to reach Grant then he kept them with him in the march on Jackson.
Dick slept that night under the stars, but thousands of Union men were around him and he felt neither the weight of responsibility, nor the presence of danger. He missed Warner and Pennington, but he and the sergeant were happy. Beyond a doubt now Grant was going to strike hard, and all the men were full of anticipation and hope. His force in different divisions was advancing on Jackson, leaving Vicksburg behind him and the Southern army under Pemberton on one side.
Dick heard, too, that the redoubtable Joe Johnston was coming to take command of the Southern garrison in Jackson, and a leader less bold than Grant might have shrunk from such a circle of enemies, but Grant’s own courage increased the spirit of his men, and they were full of faith.
“I expect they’re alarmed in Washington,” said the sergeant, as they sat on their blankets. “There ain’t any telegraph station nearer than Memphis. They’ve heard in the capital that the general has begun to move toward Jackson, but they won’t know for days what will happen.”
“I don’t blame the President for being disturbed,” said Dick. “After all the army is to serve the nation and fights under the supreme civilian authority. The armies don’t govern.”
“That’s so, but there come times when the general who has to do the fighting can judge best how it ought to be done.”
Dick lay down on one blanket and put another over him. It was well into May, which meant hot weather in Mississippi, but, if he could, he always protected himself at night. He was not a vain lad, but he felt proud over his success. Hertford’s six hundred horse were a welcome addition to any army.
He lay back soon with a knapsack as a pillow under his head and listened to the noises of the camp, blended now into a rather musical note. Several cooking fires still burned here and there and figures passed before them. Dick observed them sleepily, taking no particular note, until one, small and weazened, came. The figure was about fifty yards away, and there was a Union cap instead of a great flap-brimmed hat on the head, but Dick sprang to his feet at once, snatched a pistol from his belt and rushed toward it.
The evil figure melted away like a shadow, and two astonished soldiers seized the youth, who seemed to be running amuck in the camp, pistol in hand.
“Let go!” exclaimed Dick. “I’ve seen a man whom I know to be a spy, and a most dangerous one, too.”
They could find no trace of Slade. Dick returned crestfallen to his blanket, but he recalled something now definitely and clearly. Slade was the little man whom he had seen carrying the log the morning he left General Grant’s camp, on his mission.
The sergeant, who had never stirred from his own blanket, sat up when Dick returned.
“Who was he, Mr. Mason?” he asked.
“Slade himself. He must have seen me jump up, because he vanished like a ghost. But I gained something. I know now that I saw him here in our uniform just before I started to find Colonel Hertford. That was why I was followed.”
“The cunning of an Indian. Well, we’ll be on the watch for him now, but I imagine he’s already on the way to Jackson with the news of our advance and an estimate of our numbers. We can’t do anything to head him off.”
On the second day after joining the column Dick was ahead with the cavalry, riding beside Colonel Hertford, and listening to occasional shots in their front on the Jackson road. Both believed they would soon be in touch with the enemy. Sergeant Whitley, acting now as a scout, had gone forward through a field and in a few minutes galloped back.
“The enemy is not far away,” he said. “They’re posted along a creek, with high banks and in a wood. They’ve got a strong artillery too, and I think they about equal us in numbers.”
Dick carried the report to the commander of the column, and soon the trumpets were calling the men to battle. The crackle of rifle shots ahead increased rapidly. The skirmishers were already pulling trigger, and, as Dick galloped back to Hertford he saw many puffs of white smoke down the road and in the fields and woods on either side. The Union men began to cheer. In the West they had suffered no such defeats as their brethren in the East, and every pulse beat with confidence. As the whole line moved forward the Southern cannon began to crash and their shells swept the road.
The cavalry were advancing in a field, but they were yet held back to a slow walk. Dick heard many impatient exclamations, but he knew the restraint was right. He saw the accuracy of the Southern gunners. They were driving the Northern infantry from the road. Their fire was rapid and deadly, and, for a while, the Union army was checked.
Hertford was calmly examining the Southern position through his glasses, while he restrained his eager men. The volume of Southern fire was growing fast. Shells and shrapnel rained death over a wide area, and the air was filled with whistling bullets. It was certain destruction for any force to charge down the road in face of the Southern cannon, and the Northern army began to spread out, wheeling toward either flank.
An aide arrived with an order to Hertford, and then he loosed his eager cavalry. Turning to one side they galloped toward the creek. Some of the Southern gunners, seeing them, sent shells toward them, and a swarm of riflemen in a wood showered them with bullets. But they passed so rapidly that not many saddles were emptied, and the trumpeter blew a mellow note that urged on spirits already willing enough.
The sweep of the cavalry charge exhilarated Dick. The thought of danger passed away for the moment. He saw all around him the eager faces of men, and horses that seemed just as eager. Dust and dirt flew beneath the thudding hoofs, and the dust and floating smoke together made a grimy cloud through which they galloped.
They passed around still further on the flank. They seemed, for a few minutes, to be leaving the battle, which was now at its height, the Southern artillery still holding the road and presenting an unbroken front.
Dick saw a flash of water and then the whole troop thundered into the creek, almost without slackened rein. Up the bank they went, and with a wild shout charged upon the Southern infantry. On the other flank another Northern force which also had crossed the creek attacked with fire and spirit.
But the battle still swayed back and forth. Hertford and his cavalry were thrown off, merely to return anew to the charge. A portion of the Northern force was driven back on the creek. The strong Southern batteries poured forth death. Dick felt that they might yet lose, but they suddenly heard a tremendous cheer, and a fresh force coming up at the double quick enabled them to sweep the field. Before sunset the Southern army retreated toward Jackson, leaving the field to the men in blue.
Dick dismounted and, examining himself carefully, found that he had suffered no wound. Colonel Hertford and the sergeant had also taken no hurt. But the lad and his elder comrade secured but little rest. They were bidden to ride across the country at once to General Sherman with the news of the victory. Sherman was at the head of another column, and Grant was farther away with the main body.
Dick and the sergeant, with the battle smoke still in their eyes, were eager for the service.
“When you’re with Grant you don’t stay idle, that’s certain,” said Dick as they rode across the darkening fields.
“No, you don’t,” said the sergeant, “and I’m thinking that we’ve just begun. I know from the feel of it that big things are going to happen fast. Sheer away from the woods there, Mr. Mason. We don’t want to be picked off by sharpshooters.”
They arrived after dark in Sherman’s camp and he received them himself. Dick remembered how he had seen this thin, dry man holding fast with his command at Shiloh, and he saluted him with the deepest respect. He knew that here was a bold and tenacious spirit, kin to that of Grant. Sherman had heard already of the battle, but he wished more and definite news.
“You say that our victory was complete?” he asked tersely.
“It was, sir,” replied Dick. “The entire force of the enemy retired rapidly toward Jackson, and our men are eager to advance on that city.”
“It would be a great stroke to take the capital of Mississippi,” said Sherman musingly. Then he added in his crisp manner:
“Are you tired?”
“Not if you wish me to do anything,” replied Dick quickly.
Sherman smiled.
“The right spirit,” he said. “I wish you and your comrade to ride at once with this news to General Grant. He may hear it from other sources, but I want to send a letter by you.”
In ten minutes Dick and the sergeant were riding proudly away on another mission, and, passing through all the dangers of Southern scouts and skirmishers, they reached General Grant, to whom they delivered the letter from Sherman. Grant, who had recently been in doubt owing to the threat of Pemberton on his flank, hesitated no longer when he heard of the victory, and resolved at once upon the capture of Jackson.
Dick, after his battle and two rides, went to sleep in a wagon, while an orderly took his horse. When he awoke unknown hours afterward he found that he was moving. He knew at once that the army was advancing. Before him and behind him he heard all the noises of the march, the beat of horses’ hoofs, the grinding of wheels, the clanking of cannon, the cracking of whips and the sounds of many voices.
