Kitobni o'qish: «The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis»

FOREWORD

“The Rock of Chickamauga,” presenting a critical phase of the great struggle in the west, is the sixth volume in the series, dealing with the Civil War, of which its predecessors have been “The Guns of Bull Run,” “The Guns of Shiloh,” “The Scouts of Stonewall,” “The Sword of Antietam” and “The Star of Gettysburg.” Dick Mason who fights on the Northern side, is the hero of this romance, and his friends reappear also.

THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.

THE GUNS OF SHILOH.

THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.

THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.

THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.

THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.

THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.

THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.

DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.

COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.

MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.

JULIANA, Mrs. Mason’s Devoted Colored Servant.

COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason’s Regimental Commander.

COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles, a Southern Regiment.

LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the Invincibles.

ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.

PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.

WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.

DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.

GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.

FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.

ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.

TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.

GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.

BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.

TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.

SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.

IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis’ Nephew.

AUNT “SUSE,” A Centenarian and Prophetess.

BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.

JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.

JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.

DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.

ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.

JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.

JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.

JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.

JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.

WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.

MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.

HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.

DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.

VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.

JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.

CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.

COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.

CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.

JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.

JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.

MR. CULVER, A State Senator.

MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.

ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.

JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.

JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.

U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.

ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.

STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.

PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.

GEORGE H. THOMAS, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.

A. P. HILL, Southern General.

W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.

GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.

AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.

TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.

J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.

JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.

RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.

JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.

WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.

SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.

LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.

BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.

NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.

JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.

GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.

DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.

W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.

JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.

P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.

WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.

JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of the United States.

And many others

IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

BULL RUN

KERNSTOWN

CROSS KEYS

WINCHESTER

PORT REPUBLIC

THE SEVEN DAYS

MILL SPRING

FORT DONELSON

SHILOH

PERRYVILLE

STONE RIVER

THE SECOND MANASSAS

ANTIETAM

FREDERICKSBURG

CHANCELLORSVILLE

GETTYSBURG

CHAMPION HILL

VICKSBURG

CHICKAMAUGA

MISSIONARY RIDGE

THE WILDERNESS

SPOTTSYLVANIA

COLD HARBOR

FISHER’S HILL

CEDAR CREEK

APPOMATTOX

CHAPTER I. AT BELLEVUE

“You have the keenest eyes in the troop. Can you see anything ahead?” asked Colonel Winchester.

“Nothing living, sir,” replied Dick Mason, as he swept his powerful glasses in a half-curve. “There are hills on the right and in the center, covered with thick, green forest, and on the left, where the land lies low, the forest is thick and green too, although I think I catch a flash of water in it.”

“That should be the little river of which our map tells. And you, Warner, what do your eyes tell you?”

“The same tale they tell to Dick, sir. It looks to me like a wilderness.”

“And so it is. It’s a low-lying region of vast forests and thickets, of slow deep rivers and creeks, and of lagoons and bayous. If Northern troops want to be ambushed they couldn’t come to a finer place for it. Forrest and five thousand of his wild riders might hide within rifle shot of us in this endless mass of vegetation. And so, my lads, it behooves us to be cautious with a very great caution. You will recall how we got cut up by Forrest in the Shiloh time.”

“I do, sir,” said Dick and he shuddered as he recalled those terrible moments. “This is Mississippi, isn’t it?”

Colonel Winchester took a small map from his pocket, and, unfolding it, examined it with minute care.

“If this is right, and I’m sure it is,” he replied, “we’re far down in Mississippi in the sunken regions that border the sluggish tributaries of the Father of Waters. The vegetation is magnificent, but for a home give me higher ground, Dick.”

“Me too, sir,” said Warner. “The finest state in this Union is Vermont. I like to live on firm soil, even if it isn’t so fertile, and I like to see the clear, pure water running everywhere, brooks and rivers.”

“I’ll admit that Vermont is a good state for two months in the year,” said Dick.

“Why not the other ten?”

“Because then it’s frozen up, solid and hard, so I’ve heard.”

The other boys laughed and kept up their chaff, but Colonel Winchester rode soberly ahead. Behind him trailed the Winchester regiment, now reorganized and mounted. Fresh troops had come from Kentucky, and fragments of old regiments practically destroyed at Perryville and Stone River had been joined to it.

It was a splendid body of men, but of those who had gone to Shiloh only about two hundred remained. The great conflicts of the West, and the minor battles had accounted for the others. But it was perhaps one of the reliefs of the Civil War that it gave the lads who fought it little time to think of those who fell. Four years crowded with battles, great and small, sieges and marches absorbed their whole attention.

Now two men, the dreaded Forrest and fierce little Joe Wheeler, occupied the minds of Winchester and his officers. It was impossible to keep track of these wild horsemen here in their own section. They had a habit of appearing two or three hundred miles from the place at which they were expected.

But the young lieutenants while they watched too for their redoubtable foes had an eye also for the country. It was a new kind of region for all of them. The feet of their horses sank deep in the soft black soil, and there was often a sound of many splashings as the regiment rode across a wide, muddy brook.

Dick noted with interest the magnolias and the live oaks, and the great stalks of the sunflower. Here in this Southern state, which bathed its feet in the warm waters of the Gulf, spring was already far along, although snows still lingered in the North.

The vegetation was extravagant in its luxuriance and splendor. The enormous forest was broken by openings like prairies, and in every one of them the grass grew thick and tall, interspersed with sunflowers and blossoming wild plants. Through the woods ran vast networks of vines, and birds of brilliant plumage chattered in the trees. Twice, deer sprang up before them and raced away in the forest. It was the wilderness almost as De Soto had traversed it nearly four centuries before, and it had a majesty which in its wildness was not without its sinister note.

They approached a creek, deeper and wider than usual, flowing in slow, yellow coils, and, as they descended into the marsh that enclosed its waters, there was a sharp crackling sound, followed quickly by another and then by many others. The reports did not cease, and, although blood was shed freely, no man fell from his horse, nor was any wounded mortally. But the assault was vicious and it was pushed home with the utmost courage and tenacity, although many of the assailants fell never to rise again. Cries of pain and anger, and imprecations arose from the stricken regiment.

“Slap! Slap!”

“Bang! Bang!”

“Ouch! He’s got his bayonet in my cheek!”

“Heavens, that struck me like a minie ball! And it came, whistling and shrieking, too, just like one!”

“Phew, how they sting! and my neck is bleeding in three places!”

“By thunder, Bill, I hit that fellow, fair and square! He’ll never trouble an honest Yankee soldier again!”

The fierce buzzing increased all around them and Colonel Winchester shouted to his trumpeter:

“Blow the charge at once!”

The man, full willing, put the trumpet to his lips and blew loud and long. The whole regiment went across the creek at a gallop—the water flying in yellow showers—and did not stop until, emerging from the marsh, they reached the crest of a low hill a mile beyond. Here, stung, bleeding and completely defeated by the enemy they stopped for repairs. An occasional angry buzz showed that they were not yet safe from the skirmishers, but their attack seemed a light matter after the full assault of the determined foe.

“I suppose we’re all wounded,” said Dick as he wiped a bleeding cheek. “At least as far as I can see they’re hurt. The last fellow who got his bayonet in my face turned his weapon around and around and sang merrily at every revolution.”

“We were afraid of being ambushed by Forrest,” said Warner, speaking from a swollen countenance. “Instead we struck something worse; we rode straight into an ambush of ten billion high-powered mosquitoes, every one tipped with fire. Have we got enemies like these to fight all the way down here?”

“They sting the rebels, too,” said Pennington.

“Yes, but they like newcomers best, the unacclimated. When we rode down into that swamp I could hear them shouting, to one another: ‘That fat fellow is mine, I saw him first! I’ve marked the rosy-cheeked boy for mine. Keep away the rest of you fellows!’ I feel as if I’d been through a battle. No more marshes for me.”

Some of the provident produced bottles of oil of pennyroyal. Sergeant Daniel Whitley, who rode a giant bay horse, was one of the most foreseeing in this respect, and, after the boys had used his soothing liniment freely, the fiery torment left by the mosquito’s sting passed away.

The sergeant seemed to have grown bigger and broader than ever. His shoulders were about to swell through his faded blue coat, and the hand resting easily on the rein had the grip and power of a bear’s paw. His rugged face had been tanned by the sun of the far south to the color of an Indian’s. He was formidable to a foe, and yet no gentler heart beat than that under his old blue uniform. Secretly he regarded the young lieutenants, his superiors in military rank and education, as brave children, and often he cared for them where his knowledge and skill were greater than theirs or even than that of colonels and generals.

“God bless you, Sergeant,” said Dick, “you don’t look like an angel, but you are one—that is, of the double-fisted, fighting type.”

The sergeant merely smiled and replaced the bottle carefully in his pocket, knowing that they would have good use for it again.

The regiment after salving its wounds resumed its watchful march.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Pennington asked Dick.

“I think we’re likely if we live long enough to land in the end before Vicksburg, the great Southern fortress, but as I gather it we mean to curve and curl and twist about a lot before then. Grant, they say, intends to close in on Vicksburg, while Rosecrans farther north is watching Bragg at Chattanooga. We’re a flying column, gathering up information, and ready for anything.”

“It’s funny,” said Warner thoughtfully, “that we’ve already got so far south in the western field. We can’t be more than two or three hundred miles from the Gulf. Besides, we’ve already taken New Orleans, the biggest city of the South, and our fleet is coming up the river to meet us. Yet in the East we don’t seem to make any progress at all. We lose great battles there and Fredericksburg they say was just a slaughter of our men. How do you make it out, Dick?”

“I’ve thought of several reasons for it. Our generals in the West are better than our generals in the East, or their generals in the East are better than their generals in the West. And then there are the rivers. In the East they mostly run eastward between the two armies, and they are no help to us, but a hindrance rather. Here in the West the rivers, and they are many and great, mostly run southward, the way we want to go, and they bring our gunboats on their bosoms. Excuse my poetry, but it’s what I mean.”

“You must be right. I think that all the reasons you give apply together. But our command of the water has surely been a tremendous help. And then we’ve got to remember, Dick, that there was never a navy like ours. It goes everywhere and it does everything. Why, if Admiral Farragut should tell one of those gunboats to steam across the Mississippi bottoms it would turn its saucy nose, steer right out of the water into the mud, and blow up with all hands aboard before it quit trying.”

“You two fellows talk too much,” said Pennington. “You won’t let President Lincoln and Grant and Halleck manage the war, but you want to run it yourselves.”

“I don’t want to run anything just now, Frank,” rejoined Dick. “What I’m thinking about most is rest and something to eat. I’d like to get rid, too, of about ten pounds of Mississippi mud that I’m carrying.”

“Well, I can catch a glint of white pillars through those trees. It means the ‘big house’ of a plantation, and you’ll probably find somewhere back of it the long rows of cabins, inhabited by the dark people, whom we’ve come to raise to the level of their masters, if not above them. I can see right now the joyous welcome we’ll receive from the owners of the big house. They’ll be standing on the great piazza, waving Union flags and shouting to us that they have ready cooling drinks and luxurious food for us all.”

“It’s hardly a joke to me. Whatever the cause of the war, it’s the bitterness of death for these people to be overrun. Besides, I remember the words of that old fellow in the blacksmith shop before we fought the battle of Stone River. He said that even if they were beaten they’d still be there holding the land and running things.”

“That’s true,” said Warner. “I’ve been wondering how this war would end, and now I’m wondering what will happen after it does end. But here we are at the gate. What big grounds! These great planters certainly had space!”

“And what silence!” said Dick. “It’s uncanny, George. A place like this must have had a thousand slaves, and I don’t see any of them rushing forward to welcome their liberators.”

“Probably contraband, gone long ago to Ben Butler at New Orleans. I don’t believe there’s a soul here.”

“Remember that lone house in Tennessee where a slip of a girl brought Forrest down on us and had us cut pretty nearly to pieces.”

“I couldn’t forget it.”

Nor could Colonel Winchester. The house, large and low, stood in grounds covering an area of several acres, enclosed by a paling fence, now sagging in many places. Great stone posts stood on either side of the gateway, but the gate was opened, and it, too, sagged.

The grounds had evidently been magnificent, both with flowers and forest trees. Already many of the flowers were blooming in great luxuriance and brilliancy, but the walks and borders were untrimmed. The house was of wood, painted white with green shutters, and as they drew nearer they appreciated its great size, although it was only two stories in height. A hundred persons could have slept there, and twice as many could have found shade in the wide piazzas which stretched the full length of the four sides.

But all the doors and shutters were closed and no smoke rose from any chimney. They caught a glimpse of the cabins for the slaves, on lower ground some distance behind the great house. The whole regiment reined up as they approached the carriage entrance, and, although they were eight hundred strong, there was plenty of room without putting a single hoof upon a flower.

It was a great place. That leaped to the eye, but it was not marked upon Colonel Winchester’s map, nor had he heard of it.

“It’s a grand house,” he said to his aides, “and it’s a pity that it should go to ruin after the slaves are freed, as they certainly will be.”

“But it was built upon slave labor,” said Warner.

“So it was, and so were many of the most famous buildings in the world. But here, I’m not going to get into an argument about such questions with young men under my command. Besides, I’m fighting to destroy slavery, not to study its history. Sergeant Whitley, you’re an experienced trailer: do you see any signs that troops have passed here?”

“None at all, sir. Down near the gate where the drive is out of repair I noticed wheel tracks, but they were several days old. The freshest of them were light, as if made by buggies. I judge, sir, that it was the family, the last to leave.”

“And the wagons containing their valuables had gone on ahead?”

“It would seem so, sir.”

Colonel Winchester sighed.

“An invader is always feared and hated,” he said.

“But we do come as enemies,” said Dick, “and this feeling toward us can’t be helped.”

“That’s true. No matter what we do we’ll never make any friends here in one of the Gulf states, the very core of Southern feeling. Dick, take a squad of men and enter the house. Pennington, you and Warner go with him.”

Dick sprang down instantly, chose Sergeant Whitley first and with the others entered the great portico. The front door was locked but it was easy enough to force it with a gun butt, and they went in, but not before Dick had noticed over the door in large letters the name, “Bellevue.” So this was Bellevue, one of the great cotton plantations of Mississippi. He now vaguely remembered that he had once heard his uncle, Colonel Kenton, speak of having stopped a week here. But he could not recall the name of the owner. Strong for the Union as he was Dick was glad that the family had gone before the Northern cavalry came.

The house was on a splendid scale inside also, but all the rugs and curtains were gone. As they entered the great parlor Dick saw a large piece of paper, and he flushed as he read written upon it in tall letters:

TO THE YANKEE RAIDERS:

YOU NEED NOT LOOK FOR THE SILVER.

IT HAS BEEN TAKEN TO VICKSBURG.

“Look at that!” he said indignantly to Warner. “See how they taunt us!”

But Warner laughed.

“Maybe some of our men at New Orleans have laid us open to such a stab,” he said. Then he added whimsically:

“We’ll go to Vicksburg with Grant, Dick, and get that silver yet.”

“The writing’s fresh,” said Sergeant Whitley, who also looked at the notification. “The paper hasn’t begun to twist and curl yet. It’s not been posted up there many hours.”

Colonel Winchester entered at that moment and the notice was handed to him. He, too, flushed a little when he read it, but the next instant he laughed. Dick then called his attention to the apparent fact that it had been put there recently.

“May I speak a word, Colonel,” said Warner, who had been thinking so hard that there was a line the full length of his forehead.

“Yes, George, a dozen if you like. Go ahead. What is it?”

“The sergeant, who has had much experience as a trailer, told us that the tracks made by the buggy wheels were several days old. The slaves probably had been sent southward before that time. Now some one who saw our advance has come back, and, whoever it was, he was thoroughly familiar with the house. He couldn’t have been a servant. Servants don’t leave taunts of that kind. It must have been somebody who felt our coming deeply, and if it had been an elderly man he would have waited for action, he wouldn’t have used saucy words. So, sir, I think it must have been a boy. Just like Pennington there, for instance.”

“Good, George, go on with your reasonings.”

“As surely, sir, as z plus y equals the total of the two, the one who put up the placard was a son of the owner. He alone would feel deeply enough to take so great a risk. The conditions absolutely demand that the owner has such a son and that he has done it.”

“Very good, George. I think you’re right, and this youth in giving way to a natural burst of anger, although he did not mean to do so, has posted up for us a warning. A lad of his spirit would go in search of Forrest, and we cannot forget our experience with that general in Tennessee. Now, boys, we’ll make ready for the night, which is not far away.”

The house was built for a Southern climate, although Dick had learned that it could be cold enough in Central Mississippi in midwinter. But it was spring now and they opened all the doors and windows, letting the pleasant air rush through the musty house.

“It may rain,” said Colonel Winchester, “and the officers will sleep inside. The men will spread their blankets on the piazzas, and the horses will be tethered in the grounds. I hate to see the flowers and grass trodden down, but nature will restore them.”

Some of the soldiers gathered wood from heaps nearby and fires were kindled in the kitchen, and also on the hearths in the slave quarters. Colonel Winchester had been truly called the father of his regiment. He was invariably particular about its health and comfort, and, as he always led it in person in battle, there was no finer body of men in the Union service.

Now he meant for his men to have coffee, and warm food after this long and trying ride and soon savory odors arose, although the cooking was not begun until after dark, lest the smoke carry a signal to a lurking enemy. The cavalrymen cut the thick grass which grew everywhere, and fed it to their horses, eight hundred massive jaws munching in content. The beasts stirred but little after their long ride and now and then one uttered a satisfied groan.

The officers drank their coffee and ate their food on the eastern piazza, which overlooked a sharp dip toward a creek three or four hundred yards away. The night had rushed down suddenly after the fashion of the far South, and from the creek they heard faintly the hoarse frogs calling. Beyond the grounds a close ring of sentinels watched, because Colonel Winchester had no mind to be surprised again by Forrest or by Fighting Joe Wheeler or anybody else.

The night was thick and dark and moist with clouds. Dick, despite the peace that seemed to hang over everything, was oppressed. The desolate house, even more than the sight of the field after the battle was over, brought home to him the meaning of war. It was not alone the death of men but the uprooting of a country for their children and their children’s children as well. Then his mind traveled back to his uncle, Colonel Kenton, and suddenly he smote his knee.

“What is it, Dick,” asked Colonel Winchester, who sat only two or three yards away.

“Now I remember, sir. When I was only seven or eight years old I heard my uncle tell of stopping, as I told you, at a great plantation in Mississippi called Bellevue, but I couldn’t recall the name of its owner. I know him now.”

“What is the name, Dick?”

“Woodville, John Woodville. He was a member of the Mississippi Senate, and he was probably the richest man in the State.”

“I think I have heard the name. He is a Confederate colonel now, with Pemberton’s army. No doubt we’ll have to fight him later on.”

“Meanwhile, we’re using his house.”

“Fortune of war. But all war is in a sense unfair, because it’s usually a question of the greater force. At any rate, Dick, we won’t harm Colonel Woodville’s home.”

“Yet in the end, sir, a lot of these great old country places will go, and what will take their place? You and I, coming from a border state, know that the colored race is not made up of Uncle Toms.”

“Well, Dick, we haven’t won yet, and until we do we won’t bother ourselves about the aftermath of war. I’m glad we found so large a place as this. At the last moment I sent part of the men to the cabins, but at least three or four hundred must lie here on the piazzas. And most of them are already asleep. It’s lucky they have roofs. Look how the clouds are gathering!”

As much more room had been made upon the piazzas by the assignment of men to the cabins, Colonel Winchester and some of his officers also rested there. Dick, lying between the two blankets which he always carried in a roll tied to his saddle, was very comfortable now, with his head on his knapsack. The night had turned cooler, and, save when faint and far lightning quivered, it was heavy and dark with clouds. But the young lieutenants, hardened by two years of war and life in the open, felt snug and cosy on the broad, sheltered piazza. It was not often they found such good quarters, and Dick, like Colonel Winchester, was truly thankful that they had reached Bellevue before the coming storm.

It was evident now that the night was going to be wild. The lightning grew brighter and came nearer, cutting fiercely across the southern sky. The ominous rumble of thunder, which reminded Dick so much of the mutter of distant battle, came from the horizon on which the lightning was flashing.

Colonel Winchester, Pennington and Warner had gone to sleep, but Dick was wakeful. He had again that feeling of pity for the people who had been compelled to flee from such a house, and who might lose it forever. It seemed to him that all the men, save himself and the sentinels, were asleep, sleeping with the soundness and indifference to surroundings shown by men who took their sleep when they could.

The horses stamped and moved uneasily beneath the threat of the advancing storm, but the men slept heavily on.

Dick knew that the sentinels were awake and watchful. They had a wholesome dread of Forrest and Wheeler, those wild riders of the South. Some of them had been present at that terrible surprise in Tennessee, and they were not likely to be careless when they were sure that Forrest might be near, but he remained uneasy nevertheless, and, although he closed his eyes and sought a soft place for his head on the saddle, sleep did not come.

He was sure that his apprehension did not come from any fear of an attack by Forrest or Wheeler. It was deeper-seated. The inherited sense that belonged to his great grandfather, who had lived his life in the wilderness, was warning him. It was not superstition. It seemed to Dick merely the palpable result of an inheritance that had gone into the blood. His famous great-grandfather, Paul Cotter, and his famous friend, Henry Ware, had lived so much and so long among dangers that the very air indicated to them when they were at hand.

Dick looked down the long piazza, so long that the men at either end of it were hidden by darkness. The tall trees in the grounds were nodding before the wind, and the lightning flashed incessantly in the southwest. The thunder was not loud, but it kept up a continuous muttering and rumbling. The rain was coming in fitful gusts, but he knew that it would soon drive hard and for a long time.

Everybody within Dick’s area of vision was sound asleep, except himself. Colonel Winchester lay with his head on his arm and his slumber was so deep that he was like one dead. Warner had not stirred a particle in the last half-hour. Dick was angry at himself because he could not sleep. Let the storm burst! It might drive on the wide roof of the piazza and the steady beating sound would make his sleep all the sounder and sweeter. He recalled, as millions of American lads have done, the days when he lay in his bed just under the roof and heard hail and sleet drive against it, merely to make him feel all the snugger in the bed with his covers drawn around him.

The fitful gusts of rain ceased, and then it came with a steady pour and roar, driving directly down, thus leaving the men on the outer edges of the piazzas untouched and dry. Still, Dick did not sleep, and at last he arose and walked softly into the house. Here the sense of danger grew stronger. He was reminded again of his early boyhood, when some one blindfolded was told to find a given object, and the others called “hot” when he was near or “cold” when he was away. He was feeling hot now. That inherited sense, the magnetic feeling out of the past, was warning him.

Dick felt sure that some one not of their regiment was in the building. He neither saw nor heard the least sign of a presence, but he was absolutely certain that he was not alone within Bellevue. Since the lightning had ceased it was pitchy dark inside. There was a wide hall running through the building, with windows above the exits, but he saw nothing through them save the driving rain and the dim outline of the threshing trees.

He turned into one of the side rooms, and then he paused and pushed himself against the wall. He was sure now that he heard a soft footstep. The darkness was so intense that it could be felt like a mist. He waited but he did not hear it again, and then he began to make his way around the wall, stepping as lightly as he could.