The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign

Dick and Warner were in the first coach near Colonel Newcomb, ready for any commands that he might give. Both had come through the defense of the ford without injury, although a bullet had gone through Dick’s coat without touching the skin. Sergeant Whitley, too, was unharmed, but the regiment had suffered. More than twenty dead were left in the valley for the enemy to bury.

Despite all the commands and efforts of the officers there was much excited talk in the train. Boys were binding up wounds of other boys and were condoling with them. But on the whole they were exultant. Youth did not realize the loss of those who had been with them so little. Scattered exclamations came to Dick:

“We beat ‘em off that time, an’ we can do it again.”

“Lucky though we had that little river before us. Guess they’d have rode us right down with their horses if it hadn’t been for the stream an’ its banks.”

“Ouch, don’t draw that bandage so tight on my arm. It ain’t nothin’ but a flesh wound.”

“I hate a battle in the dark. Give me the good sunshine, where you can see what’s goin’ on. My God, that you Bill! I’m tremendous glad to see you! I thought you was lyin’ still, back there in the grass!”

Dick said nothing. He was in a seat next to the window, and his face was pressed against the rain-marked pane. The rifle that he had picked up and used so well was still clutched, grimed with smoke, in his hands. The train had not yet got up speed. He caught glimpses of the river behind which they had fought, and which had served them so well as a barrier. In fact, he knew that it had saved them. But they had beaten off the enemy! The pulses in his temples still throbbed from exertion and excitement, but his heart beat exultantly. The bitterness of Bull Run was deep and it had lasted long, but here they were the victors.

The speed of the train increased and Dick knew that they were safe from further attack. They were still running among mountains, clad heavily in forest, but a meeting with a second Southern force was beyond probability. The first had made a quick raid on information supplied by spies in Washington, but it had failed and the way was now clear.

Ample food was served somewhat late to the whole regiment, the last wounds were bound up, and Dick, having put aside the rifle, fell asleep at last. His head lay against the window and he slept heavily all through the night. Warner in the next seat slept in the same way. But the wise old sergeant just across the aisle remained awake much longer. He was summing up and he concluded that the seven hundred lads had done well. They were raw, but they were being whipped into shape.

He smiled a little grimly as the unspoken words, “whipped into shape,” rose to his lips. The veteran of many an Indian battle foresaw something vastly greater than anything that had occurred on the plains. “Whipped into shape!” Why, in the mighty war that was gathering along a front of two thousand miles no soldier could escape being whipped into shape, or being whipped out of it.

But the sergeant’s own eyes closed after a while, and he, too, slept the sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion. The train rumbled on, the faithful Canby in the first engine aware of his great responsibility and equal to it. Not a wink of sleep for him that night. The darkness had lightened somewhat more. The black of the skies had turned to a dusky blue, and the bolder stars were out. He could always see the shining rails three or four hundred yards ahead, and he sent his train steadily forward at full speed, winding among the gorges and rattling over the trestles. The silent mountains gave back every sound in dying echoes, but Canby paid no heed to them. His eyes were always on the track ahead, and he, too, was exultant. He had brought the regiment through, and while it was on the train his responsibility was not inferior to that of Colonel Newcomb.

When Dick awoke, bright light was pouring in at the car windows, but the car was cold and his body was stiff and sore. His military overcoat had been thrown over him in the night and Warner had been covered in the same way. They did not know that Sergeant Whitley had done that thoughtful act.

Dick stretched himself and drew deep breaths. Warm youth soon sent the blood flowing in a full tide through his veins, and the stiffness and soreness departed. He saw through the window that they were still running among the mountains, but they did not seem to be so high here as they were at the river by which they had fought in the night. He knew from his geography and his calculation of time that they must be far into that part of Virginia which is now West Virginia.

There was no rain now, at least where the train was running, but the sun had risen on a cold world. Far up on the higher peaks he saw a fine white mist which he believed to be falling snow. Obviously it was winter here and putting on the big military coat he drew it tightly about him. Others in the coach were waking up and some of them, grown feverish with their wounds, were moving restlessly on their seats, where they lay protected by the blankets of their fellows.

Dick now and then saw a cabin nestling in the lee of a hill, with the blue smoke rising from its chimney into the clear, wintry air, and small and poor as they were they gave him a singular sense of peace and comfort. His mind felt for a few moments a strong reaction from war and its terrors, but the impulse and the strong purpose that bore him on soon came back.

The train rushed through a pass and entered a sheltered valley a mile or two wide and eight or ten miles long. A large creek ran through it, and the train stopped at a village on its banks. The whole population of the village and all the farmers of the valley were there to meet them. It was a Union valley and by some system of mountain telegraphy, although there were no telegraph wires, news of the battle at the ford had preceded the train.

“Come, lads,” said Colonel Newcomb to his staff. “Out with you! We’re among friends here!”

Dick and Warner were glad enough to leave the train. The air, cold as it was, was like the breath of heaven on their faces, and the cheers of the people were like the trump of fame in their ears. Pretty girls with their faces in red hoods or red comforters were there with food and smoking coffee. Medicines for the wounded, as much as the village could supply, had been brought to the train, and places were already made for those hurt too badly to go on with the expedition.

The whole cheerful scene, with its life and movement, the sight of new faces and the sound of many voices, had a wonderful effect upon young Dick Mason. He had a marvellously sensitive temperament, a direct inheritance from his famous border ancestor, Paul Cotter. Things were always vivid to him. Either they glowed with color, or they were hueless and dead. This morning the long strain of the night and its battle was relaxed completely. The grass in the valley was brown with frost, and the trees were shorn of their leaves by the winter winds, but to Dick it was the finest village that he had ever seen, and these were the friendliest people in the world.

He drank a cup of hot coffee handed to him by the stalwart wife of a farmer, and then, when she insisted, drank another.

“You’re young to be fightin’,” she said sympathetically.

“We all are,” said Dick with a glance at the regiment, “but however we may fight you’ll never find anybody attacking a breakfast with more valor and spirit than we do.”

She looked at the long line of lads, drinking coffee and eating ham, bacon, eggs, and hot biscuits, and smiled.

“I reckon you tell the truth, young feller,” she said, “but it’s good to see ‘em go at it.”

She passed on to help others, and Dick, summoned by Colonel Newcomb, went into a little railroad and telegraph station. The telegraph wires had been cut behind them, but ten miles across the mountains the spur of another railroad touched a valley. The second railroad looped toward the north, and it was absolutely sure that it was beyond the reach of Southern raiders. Colonel Newcomb wished to send a message to the Secretary of War and the President, telling of the night’s events and his triumphant passage through the ordeal. These circumstances might make them wish to change his orders, and at any rate the commander of the regiment wished to be sure of what he was doing.

“You’re a Kentuckian and a good horseman,” said Colonel Newcomb to Dick. “The villagers have sent me a trusty man, one Bill Petty, as a guide. Take Sergeant Whitley and you three go to the station. I’ve already written my dispatches, and I put them in your care. Have them sent at once, and if necessary wait four hours for an answer. If it comes, ride back as fast as you can. The horses are ready and I rely upon you.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll do my best,” said Dick, who deeply appreciated the colonel’s confidence. He wasted no time in words, but went at once to Sergeant Whitley, who was ready in five minutes. Warner, who heard of the mission, was disappointed because he was not going too. But he was philosophical.

“I’ve made a close calculation,” he said, “and I have demonstrated to my own satisfaction that our opportunities are sixty per cent energy and ability, twenty per cent manners, and twenty per cent chance. In this case chance, which made the Colonel better acquainted with you than with me, was in your favor. We won’t discuss the other eighty per cent, because this twenty is enough. Besides it looks pretty cold on the mountains, and its fine here in the village. But luck with you, Dick.”

He gave his comrade’s hand a strong grasp and walked away toward the little square of the village, where the troops were encamped for the present. Dick sprang upon a horse which Bill Petty was holding for him. Whitley was already up, and the three rode swiftly toward a blue line which marked a cleft between two ridges. Dick first observed their guide. Bill Petty was a short but very stout man, clad in a suit of home-made blue jeans, the trousers of which were thrust into high boots with red tops. A heavy shawl of dark red was wrapped around his shoulders, and beneath his broad-brimmed hat a red woolen comforter covered his ears, cheeks, and chin. His thick hair and a thick beard clothing his entire face were a flaming red. The whole effect of the man was somewhat startling, but when he saw Dick looking at him in curiosity his mouth opened wide in a grin of extreme good nature.

“I guess you think I’m right red,” he said. “Well, I am, an’ as you see I always dress to suit my complexion. Guess I’ll warm up the road some on a winter day like this.”

“Would you mind my callin’ you Red Blaze?” asked Sergeant Whitley gravely.

“Not-a-tall! Not-a-tall! I’d like it. I guess it’s sorter pictorial an’ ‘maginative like them knights of old who had fancy names ‘cordin’ to their qualities. People ‘round here are pretty plain, an’ they’ve never called me nothin’ but Bill. Red Blaze she is.”

“An’ Blaze for short. Well, then, Blaze, what kind of a road is that we’re goin’ to ride on?”

“Depends on the kind of weather in which you ask the question. As it’s the fust edge of winter here in the mountains, though it ain’t quite come in the lowlands, an’ as it’s rained a lot in the last week, I reckon you’ll find it bad. Mebbe our hosses will go down in the road to thar knees, but I guess they won’t sink up to thar bodies. They may stumble an’ throw us, but as we’ll hit in soft mud it ain’t likely to hurt us. It may rain hard, ‘cause I see clouds heapin’ up thar in the west. An’ if it rains the cold may then freeze a skim of ice over the road, on which we could slip an’ break our necks, hosses an’ all. Then thar are some cliffs close to the road. If we was to slip on that thar skim of ice which we’ve reckoned might come, then mebbe we’d go over one of them cliffs and drop down a hundred feet or so right swift. If it was soft mud down below we might not get hurt mortal. But it ain’t soft mud. We’d hit right in the middle of sharp, hard rocks. An’ if a gang of rebel sharpshooters has wandered up here they may see us an’ chase us ‘way off into the mountains, where we’d break our necks fallin’ off the ridges or freeze to death or starve to death.”

Whitley stared at him.

“Blaze,” he exclaimed, “what kind of a man are you anyway?”

“Me? I’m the happiest man in the valley. When people are low down they come an’ talk to me to get cheered up. I always lay the worst before you first an’ then shove it out of the way. None of them things that I was conjurin’ up is goin’ to happen. I was just tellin’ you of the things you was goin’ to escape, and now you’ll feel good, knowin’ what dangers you have passed before they happened.”

Dick laughed. He liked this intensely red man with his round face and twinkling eyes. He saw, too, that the mountaineer was a fine horseman, and as he carried a long slender-barreled rifle over his shoulder, while a double-barreled pistol was thrust in his belt, it was likely that he would prove a formidable enemy to any who sought to stop him.

“Perhaps your way is wise,” said the boy. “You begin with the bad and end with the good. What is the name of this place to which we are going?”

“Hubbard. There was a pioneer who fit the Injuns in here in early times. I never heard that he got much, ‘cept a town named after him. But Hubbard is a right peart little place, with a bank, two stores, three churches, an’ nigh on to two hundred people. Are you wrapped up well, Mr. Mason, ‘cause it’s goin’ to be cold on the mountains?”

Dick wore heavy boots, and a long, heavy military coat which fell below his knees and which also had a high collar protecting his ears. He was provided also with heavy buckskin gloves. The sergeant was clad similarly.

“I think I’m clothed against any amount of cold,” he replied.

“Well, you need to be,” said Petty, “‘cause the pass through which we’re goin’ is at least fifteen hundred feet above Townsville—that’s our village—an’ I reckon it’s just ‘bout as high over Hubbard. Them fifteen hundred feet make a pow’ful difference in climate, as you’ll soon find out. It’s not only colder thar, but the winds are always blowin’ hard through the pass. Jest look back at Townsville. Ain’t she fine an’ neat down thar in the valley, beside that clear creek which higher up in the mountains is full of the juiciest an’ sweetest trout that man ever stuck a tooth into.”

Dick saw that Petty was talkative, but he did not mind. In fact, both he and Whitley liked the man’s joyous and unbroken run of chatter. He turned in his saddle and looked back, following the stout man’s pointing finger. Townsville, though but a little mountain town built mainly of logs, was indeed a jewel, softened and with a silver sheen thrown over it by the mountain air which was misty that morning. He dimly saw the long black line of the train standing on the track, and here and there warm rings of smoke rose from the chimneys and floated up into the heavens, where they were lost.

He thought he could detect little figures moving beside the train and he knew that they must be those of his comrades. He felt for a moment a sense of loneliness. He had not known these lads long, but the battle had bound them firmly together. They had been comrades in danger and that made them comrades as long as they lived.

“Greatest town in the world,” said Petty, waving toward it a huge hand, encased in a thick yarn glove. “I’ve traveled from it as much as fifty miles in every direction, north, south, east, an’ west, an’ I ain’t never seed its match. I reckon I’m somethin’ of a traveler, but every time I come back to Townsville, I think all the more of it, seein’ how much better it is than anything else.”

Dick glanced at the mountaineer, and saw that there could be no doubt of his sincerity.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Petty,” he said, “to live in the finest place in the world.”

“Yes, if I don’t get drug off to the war. I’m not hankerin’ for fightin’ an’ I don’t know much what the war’s about though I’m for the Union, fust to last, an’ that’s the way most of the people ‘bout here feel. Turn your heads ag’in, friends, an’ take another look at Townsville.”

Dick and Whitley glanced back and saw only the blank gray wall of the mountain. Petty laughed. He was the finest laugher that Dick had ever heard. The laugh did not merely come from the mouth, it was also exuded, pouring out through every pore. It was rolling, unctuous, and so strong that Petty not only shook with it, but his horse seemed to shake also. It was mellow, too, with an organ note that comes of a mighty lung and throat, and of pure air breathed all the year around.

“Thought I’d git the joke on you,” he said, when he stopped laughing. “The road’s been slantin’ into the mountains, without you knowin’ it, and Townsville is cut off by the cliffs. You’ll find it gettin’ wilder now ‘till we start down the slope on the other side. Lucky our hosses are strong, ‘cause the mud is deeper than I thought it would be.”

It was not really a road that they were following, merely a path, and the going was painful. Under Petty’s instructions they stopped their mounts now and then for a rest, and a mile further on they began to feel a rising wind.

“It’s the wind that I told you of,” said Petty. “It’s sucked through six or seven miles of pass, an’ it will blow straight in our faces all the way. As we’ll be goin’ up for a long distance you’ll find it growin’ colder, too. But you’ve got to remember that after you pass them cold winds an’ go down the slope you’ll strike another warm little valley, the one in which Hubbard is layin’ so neat an’ so snug.”

Dick had already noticed the increasing coldness and so had the sergeant. Whitley, from his long experience on the plains, had the keenest kind of an eye for climatic changes. He noticed with some apprehension that the higher peaks were clothed in thick, cold fog, but he said nothing to the brave boy whom he had grown to love like a son. But both he and Dick drew their heavy coats closer and were thankful for the buckskin gloves, without which their hands would have stiffened on the reins.

Now they rode in silence with their heads bent well forward, because the wind was becoming fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaks the fogs were growing thicker and darker and after a while the sharp edge of the wind was wet with rain. It stung their faces, and they drew their hat brims lower and their coat collars higher to protect themselves from such a cutting blast.

“Told you we might have trouble,” called Petty, cheerfully, “but if you ride right on through trouble you’ll leave trouble behind. Nor this ain’t nothin’ either to what we kin expect before we git to the top of the pass. Cur’us what a pow’ful lot human bein’s kin stand when they make up their minds to it.”

“Are the horses well shod?” asked Whitley.

“Best shod in the world, ‘cause I done it myself. That’s my trade, blacksmith, an’ I’m a good one if I do say it. I heard before we started that you had been a soldier in the west. I s’pose that you had to look mighty close to your hosses then. A man couldn’t afford to be ridin’ a hoss made lame by bad shoein’ when ten thousand yellin’ Sioux or Blackfeet was after him.”

“No, you couldn’t,” replied the sergeant. “Out there you had to watch every detail. That’s one of the things that fightin’ Indians taught. You had to be watchin’ all the time an’ I reckon the trainin’ will be of value in this war. Are we mighty near to the top of the pass, Mr. Petty?”

“Got two or three miles yet. The slope is steeper on the other side. We rise a lot more before we hit the top.”

The wind grew stronger with every rod they ascended, and the horses began to pant with their severe exertions. At Petty’s suggestion the three riders dismounted and walked for a while, leading their horses. The rain turned to a fine hail and stung their faces. Had it not been for his two good comrades Dick would have found his situation inexpressibly lonely and dreary. The heavy fog now enveloped all the peaks and ridges and filled every valley and chasm. He could see only fifteen or twenty yards ahead along the muddy path, and the fine hail which gave every promise of becoming a storm of sleet stung continually. The wind confined in the narrow gorge also uttered a hideous shrieking and moaning.

“Tests your nerve!” shouted Petty to Dick. “There are hard things besides battles to stand, an’ this is goin’ to be one of the hard ones, but if you go through it all right you kin go through any number of the same kind all right, too. Likely the sleet will be so thick that it will make a sheet of slippery ice for us comin’ back. Now, hosses that ain’t got calks on thar shoes are pretty shore to slip an’ fall, breakin’ a leg or two, an’ mebbe breakin’ the necks of thar riders.”

Dick looked at him with some amazement. Despite his announcement of dire disaster the man’s eyes twinkled merrily and the round, red outline of his bushy head in the scarlet comforter made a cheerful blaze.

“It’s jest as I told you,” said Petty, meeting the boy’s look. “Without calks on thar shoes our hosses are pretty shore to slip on the ice and break theirselves up, or fall down a cliff an’ break themselves up more.”

“Then why in thunder, Blaze,” exclaimed Whitley, “did we start without calks on the shoes of our horses?”

Red Blaze broke into a deep mellow laugh, starting from the bottom of his diaphragm, swelling as it passed through his chest, swelling again as it passed through throat and mouth, and bursting upon the open air in a mighty diapason that rose cheerfully above the shrieking and moaning of the wind.

“We didn’t start without em,” he replied. “The twelve feet of these three hosses have on ‘em the finest calked shoes in all these mountains. I put ‘em on myself, beginnin’ the job this mornin’ before you was awake, your colonel, on the advice of the people of Townsville who know me as one of its leadin’ an’ trusted citizens, havin’ selected me as the guide of this trip. I was jest tellin’ you what would happen to you if I didn’t justify the confidence of the people of Townsville.”

“I allow, Red Blaze,” said the sergeant with confidence, “that you ain’t no fool, an’ that you’re lookin’ out for our best interests. Lead on.”

Red Blaze’s mellow and pleased laugh rose once more above the whistling of the wind.

“You kin ride ag’in now, boys,” he said. “The hosses are pretty well rested.”

They resumed the saddle gladly and now mounted toward the crest of the pass. The sleet turned to snow, which was a relief to their faces, and Dick, with the constant beating of wind and snow, began to feel a certain physical exhilaration. He realized the truth of Red Blaze’s assertion that if you stiffen your back and push your way through troubles you leave troubles behind.

They rode now in silence for quite a while, and then Red Blaze suddenly announced:

“We’re at the top, boys.”

CHAPTER IV. THE FIGHT IN THE PASS

The three halted their horses and stood for a minute or two on the very crest of the pass. The fierce wind out of the northwest blew directly in their faces and both riders and horses alike were covered with snow. But Dick felt a wonderful thrill as he gazed upon the vast white wilderness. East and west, north and south he saw the driving snow and the lofty peaks and ridges showing through it, white themselves. The towns below and the cabins that snuggled in the coves were completely hidden. They could see no sign of human life on slope or in valley.

“Looks as wild as the Rockies,” said the sergeant tersely.

“But you won’t find any Injuns here to ambush you,” said Red Blaze, “though I don’t make any guarantee against bushwhackers and guerillas, who’ll change sides as often as two or three times a day, if it will suit their convenience. They could hide in the woods along the road an’ pick us off as easy as I’d shoot a squirrel out of a tree. They’d like to have our arms an’ our big coats. I tell you what, friends, a mighty civil war like ours gives a tremenjeous opportunity to bad men. They’re all comin’ to the top. Every rascal in the mountains an’ in the lowlands, too, I guess, is out lookin’ for plunder an’ wuss.”

“You’re right, Red Blaze,” said the sergeant with emphasis, “an’ it won’t be stopped until the generals on both sides begin to hang an’ shoot the plunderers an’ murderers.”

“But they can’t ketch ‘em all,” said Red Blaze. “A Yankee general with a hundred thousand men will be out lookin’ for what? Not for a gang of robbers, not by a jugful. He’ll be lookin’ for a rebel general with another hundred thousand men, an’ the rebel general with a hundred thousand men will be lookin’ for that Yankee general with his hundred thousand. So there you are, an’ while they’re lookin’ for each other an’ then fightin’ each other to a standstill, the robbers will be plunderin’ an’ murderin’. But don’t you worry about bein’ ambushed. I was jest tellin’ you what might happen, but wouldn’t happen. We kin go down hill fast now, and we’ll soon be in Hubbard, which is the other side of all that fallin’ snow.”