The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis by Joseph A. Altsheler (best ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

“Nobody else,” replied Dick gladly, stepping forward and offering his hand, which young Woodville shook warmly. “I was hoping that I might meet you, and I see, too, that you can't be hurt much, if at all.”

“I haven't been touched. It's my lucky day, I suppose.”

“Where's your uncle? I hope he's in some safe place, recovering from his wound.”

Victor Woodville laughed softly.

“Uncle Charles is recovering from his wound perhaps faster than you hope,” he said, “but he's not in a safe place. Far from it.”

“I don't understand.”

“His wound is so much better that he can walk, though with a hop, and he's right here in the thick of this battle, leading his own Mississippi regiment. His horse was killed under him early this morning, and he's fought all day on foot, swearing in the strange and melodious fashion that you know. It's hop! swear! hop! swear! in beautiful alternation!”

“Good old colonel!”

“That's what he is, and he's also one of the bravest men that ever lived, if he is my uncle. His regiment did prodigies to-day and they'll do greater prodigies to-morrow. The Woodvilles are well represented here. My father is present, leading his regiment, and there are a dozen Woodville cousins of mine whom you've never met.”

“And I hope I won't meet 'em on this field. What about your aunt?”

“She's well, and in a safe place.”

“I'm glad of that. Now, tell me, Victor, how did you happen to be with Slade on that raid? Of course it's no business of mine, but I was surprised.”

“I don't mind answering. I suppose it was a taste for adventure, and a desire to serve our cause. After I got up the bank and climbed into the bushes, I looked back, and I think, Mason, that you may have saved me from a bullet. I don't know, but I think so.”

Dick said nothing, but despite the dusk Woodville read the truth in his eyes.

“I shan't forget,” said the young Mississippian as he moved away.

Dick turned back to his own group. They had noticed him talking to the lad in gray, but they paid no attention, nor thought it anything unusual. It was common enough in the great battles of the American civil war, most of which lasted more than one day, for the opposing soldiers to become friendly in the nights between.

“I think, sir,” said Sergeant Whitley, “that we won't be able to get any more of our wounded to-night. Now, pardon me for saying it, Lieutenant, but we ought to have some rest, because when day comes there's going to be the most awful attack you ever saw. Some of our spies say that Longstreet and the last of the Virginians did not come until night or nearly night and that Longstreet himself will lead the attack on us.”

“Do you think, Sergeant, that it will be made first on our own corps?”

“I don't know, Mr. Mason. We've stood firmest, and them rebel generals are no fools. They'll crash in where we've shown the most weakness.”

The sergeant walked on, carrying the corner of a litter. Warner, who had stood by, whispered to Dick:

“There goes a general, but he'll never have the title. He's got a general's head on his shoulders, and he thinks and talks like a general, but he hasn't any education, and men with much poorer brains go past him. Let it be a lesson to you, Dick, my son. After this war, go to school, and learn something.”

“Good advice, George, and I'll take it,” laughed Dick. “But he isn't so badly off. I wonder if those fires in the pine forest are going to burn all night?”

“Several of 'em will. The big one on our left will be blazing when day comes, and I'm glad of it since no wounded are now in its way. The night's cold. That's a sharp and searching wind, and the sight of flames makes one feel warm even if they are far away.”

It would not be long until day now, and the axes ceased to ring in the forest. A long and formidable line of abattis had been made, but the men were compelled to seek some rest. Despite the cold they suffered from a burning thirst, and they could reach no water, not even the red stream of the Chickamauga. Dick suffered like the rest, but he was philosophical.

“I fancy that after sunrise we won't have time to think about water,” he said.

But Dick was not destined to sleep. He lay down for a while, and he saw hundreds of others around him lying motionless as if dead. Warner and Pennington were among them, but he could not close his own eyes. His brain was still hot and excited, and to calm himself if possible he walked along the slope until he saw a faint light in the valley behind it. A tall figure, which he recognized as that of Colonel Winchester, was going toward the light.

Dick, being on such good terms with his colonel, would have followed him, but when he came to the edge of the glade he drew back. General Thomas was sitting on the huge, upthrust root of an oak, and he was writing dispatches by the light of a flickering candle held by an aide. Officers of high rank, one of whom Dick recognized as the young general, Garfield, stood around him. Colonel Winchester joined the group, and stood waiting in silence to receive orders, too, Dick supposed.

The lad withdrew hastily, but driven by an overmastering curiosity, and knowing that he was doing no harm, he turned back and watched for a little space beside a bush.

The flame of the candle wavered under the wind, and sometimes the light shone full upon the face of Thomas. It was the same face that Dick had first beheld when he carried the dispatches to him in Kentucky. He was calm, inscrutable at this, the most desperate crisis the Union cause ever knew in the west. Dick could not see that his hand trembled a particle as he wrote, although lieutenant and general alike knew that they would soon be attacked by a superior force, flushed with all the high enthusiasm of victory. And lieutenant and general alike also knew that their supreme commander, Rosecrans, was no genius like Lee or Jackson, who could set numbers at naught, and choose time and place to suit themselves. Only stubborn courage to fight and die could avail.

But Dick drew courage from the strong, thick figure sitting there so impassively and apparently impervious to alarm. When he quit writing and began to give verbal orders, he spoke in even tones, in which no one could detect a trace of excitement. When the name, “The Rock of Chickamauga,” became general, Dick remembered that night and knew how well it was deserved.

Thomas gave his last order and his generals went to their commands. Dick slipped back to his regiment, and lay down, but again could not sleep.

He waited in