CHAPTER XI. — "I'SE GWINE BACK TO DIXIE."—THE FORTUNES OF WAR.—VAL VERDE.
The last weeks of Maxime Valois' stay at Lagunitas drift away. Old "Kaintuck" has plead in vain to go. He yields to Valois' orders not to dream of going with him. His martial heart is fired, but some one must watch the home. Padre Fran‡ois Ribaut has all the documents of the family, the marriage, and birth of the infant heir. He is custodian also of the will of Donna Dolores. She leaves her family inheritance to her child, and failing her, to her husband. The two representatives of the departing master know that Philip Hardin will safely guide the legal management of the estate while its chieftain is at the wars.
Donna Dolores and the priest accompany Valois to San Francisco. He must leave quietly. He is liable to arrest. He takes the Mexican steamer, as if for a temporary absence.
It costs Maxime Valois a keen pang of regret, as he rides the last time over his superb domain. He looks around the plaza, and walks alone through the well-remembered rooms. He takes his seat, with a sigh, by his wife's side, as the carriage whirls him down the avenues. The orange-trees are in bloom. The gardens show the rare beauties of midland California. As far as the eye can reach, the sparkle of lovely Lagunitas mirrors the clouds flaking the sapphire sky. Valois fixes his eyes once more upon his happy home. Peace, prosperity, progress, mining exploration, social development, all smile through this great interior valley of the Golden State. No war cloud has yet rolled past the "Rockies." It is the golden youth of the commonwealth. The throbbing engine, clattering stamp, whirling saw, and busy factory, show that the homemakers are moving on apace, with giant strides. No fairer land to leave could tempt a departing warrior. But even with a loved wife and his only child beside him, the Southerner's heart "turns back to Dixie."
Passing rapidly through Stockton, where his old friends vainly tempt him to say, publicly, good-by, he refrains. No one must know his destination. No parting cup is drained.
In San Francisco, Philip Hardin, in presence of Valois' wife and the padre, receives his powers of attorney and final directions. Letters, remittances, and all communications are to be sent through a house in Havana. The old New Orleans family of Valois is well known there. Maxime will be able, by blockade-runners and travelling messengers, to obtain his communications.
The only stranger in San Francisco who knows of Maxime's departure is the old mining partner, Joe Woods. He is now a middle-aged man of property and vigor. He comes from the interior to say adieu to his friend. "Old times" cloud their eyes. But the parting is secret. Federal spies throng the streets.
At the mail wharf the Mexican steamer, steam up, is ready for departure. The last private news from the Texan border tells of General Sibley's gathering forces. Provided with private despatches, and bundles of contraband letters for the cut-off friends in the South, Maxime Valois repairs to the steamer. Several returning Texans and recruits for the Confederacy have arrived singly. They will make an overland party from Guaymas, headed by Valois. Valois, under the orders of the Golden Circle, has been charged with important communications. Unknown to him, secret agents of the government watch his departure. He has committed no overt act. He goes to a neutral land.
The calm, passionless face of Padre Fran‡ois Ribaut shows a tear trembling in his eye. He leads the weeping wife ashore from the cabin. The last good-by was sacred by its silent sorrow. Valois' father's heart was strangely thrilled when he kissed his baby girl farewell, on leaving the little party. Even rebels have warm hearts.
Philip Hardin's stern features relax into some show of feeling as Valois places his wife's hands in his. That mute adieu to lovely Dolores moves him. "May God deal with you, Hardin, as you deal with my wife and child," solemnly says Valois. The lips of Fran‡ois Ribaut piously add "Amen. Amen."
Padre Francisco comes back to the boat. With French impulsiveness, he throws himself in Valois' arms. He whispers a friend's blessing, a priest's benediction.
The ORIZABA glides out past two or three watchful cruisers flying the Stars and Stripes. The self-devoted Louisianian loses from sight the little knot of dear ones on the wharf. He sees the flutter of Dolores' handkerchief for the last time. On to Dixie! Going home!
Out on the bay, thronged with the ships of all nations, the steamer glides. Its shores are covered with smiling villages. Happy homes and growing cities crown the heights. Past grim Alcatraz, where the star flag proudly floats on the Sumter-like citadel, the boat slowly moves. It leaves the great metropolis of the West, spreading over its sandy hills and creeping up now the far green valleys. It slips safely through the sea-gates of the West, and past the grim fort at the South Heads. There, casemate and barbette shelter the shotted guns which speak only for the Union.
Valois' heart rises in his throat as the sentinel's bayonet glitters in the sunlight. Loyal men are on the walls of the fort. Far away on the Presidio grounds, he can see the blue regiments of Carleton's troops, at exercise, wheel at drill. The sweeping line of a cavalry battalion moves, their sabres flash as the lines dash on. These men are now his foes. The tossing breakers of the bar throw their spray high over bulwarks and guard. In grim determination he watches the last American flag he ever will see in friendship, till it fades away from sight. He has now taken the irrevocable step. When he steps on Mexican soil, he will be "a man without a country." Prudential reasons keep him aloof from his companions until Guaymas is reached. Once ashore, the comrades openly unite. Without delay the party plunges into the interior. Well armed, splendidly mounted, they assume a semi-military discipline. The Mexicans are none too friendly. Valois has abundant gold, as well as forty thousand dollars in drafts on Havana, the proceeds of Lagunitas' future returns advanced by Hardin.
Twenty days' march up the Yaqui Valley, through Arispe, where the filibusters died with Spartan bravery, is a weary jaunt. But high hopes buoy them up. Over mesa and gorge, past hacienda and Indian settlement, they climb passes until the great mountains break away. Crossing the muddy Rio Grande, Valois is greeted by old friends. He sees the Confederate flag for the first time, floating over the turbulent levies of Sibley, still at Fort Bliss.
Long and weary marches; dangers from bandit, Indian, and lurking Mexican; regrets for the home circle at Lagunitas, make Maxime Valois very grave. Individual sacrifices are not appreciated in war-time. As he rides through the Confederate camp, his heart sinks. The uncouth straggling plainsmen, without order or regular equipment, recall to him his old enemies, the nomadic Mexican vaqueros.
There seems to be no supply train, artillery, or regular stores. These are not the men who can overawe the compact California community. Far gray rocky sandhills stretch along the Texan border. Over the Rio Grande, rich mountain scenery delights the eye. It instantly recalls to Valois the old Southern dream of taking the "Zona Libre." Tamaulipas, Coahuila, and Nueva Leon were coveted as a crowning trophy of the Mexican war. Dreams of olden days.
Received kindly by General Sibley, the Louisianian delivers his letters, despatches, and messages. After rest and refreshment, he is asked to join a council of war. There are fleet couriers, lately arrived, who speak of Carleton's column being nearly ready to cross the Colorado. When the General explains his plan of attacking the Federal forces in New Mexico, and occupying Arizona, Valois hastens to urge a forced march down to the fertile Gila. He trusts to Canby timidly holding on to Fort Union and Fort Craig. Alas, Sibley's place of recruiting and assembly has been ill chosen! The animals, crowded on the bare plains, suffer for lack of forage. Recruits are discouraged by the dreary surroundings. The effective strength has not visibly increased in three months. The Texans are wayward. A strong column, well organized, in the rich interior of Texas, full of the early ardor of secession might have pushed on and reached the Gila. But here is only a chafing body of undisciplined men. They are united merely by political sentiment.
General Sibley urges Valois to accompany him in his forward march. He offers him a staff position, promising to release him, then to move to the eastward. Valois' knowledge of the frontier is invaluable, and he cannot pass an enemy in arms. Maxime Valois, with fiery energy, aids in urging the motley command forward. On February 7, 1862, the wild brigade of invasion reaches the mesa near Fort Craig. The "gray" and "blue" meet here in conflict, to decide the fate of New Mexico and Arizona. Feeble skirmishing begins. On the 2lst of February, the bitter conflict of Val Verde shows Valois for the first time—alas, not the last!—the blood of brothers mingled on a doubtful field. It is a horrid fight. A drawn battle.
Instead of pushing on to Arizona, deluded by reports of local aid, Sibley straggles off to Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Canby refits his broken forces under the walls of strong Fort Union. Long before the trifling affairs of Glorietta and Peralta, Valois, disgusted with Sibley, is on his way east. He will join the Army of the West. His heart sickens at the foolish incapacity of the border commander. The Texan column melts away under Canby's resolute advance. The few raiders, who have ridden down into Arizona and hoisted the westernmost Confederate flag at Antelope Peak, are chased back by Carleton's strong column. The boasted "military advance on California" is at an end. Carleton's California column is well over the Colorado. The barren fruits of Val Verde are only a few buried guns of McRea's hard-fought battery. The gallantry of Colonel Thos. P. Ochiltree, C.S.A., at Val Verde, under the modest rank of "Captain," is the only remembered historic incident of that now forgotten field. The First Regiment and one battalion of the Second California Volunteer Cavalry, the Fifth California Infantry, and a good battery hold Arizona firmly. The Second Battalion, Second California Cavalry, the Fifth California Cavalry, and Third California Infantry, under gallant General Pat Connor, keep Utah protected. They lash the wild Indians into submission, and prevent any rising.
General Canby and Kit Carson's victorious troops keep New Mexico. They cut the line of any possible Confederate advance. Only Sibley's pompous report remains now to tell of the fate of his troops, who literally disbanded or deserted. An inglorious failure attends the dreaded Texan attack.
The news, travelling east and west, by fugitives, soon announce the failure of this abortive attempt. The golden opportunity of the fall of 1861 never returns.
The Confederate operations west of the Rio Grande were only a miserable and ridiculous farce. Valois, leaving failure behind him, learns on nearing the Louisiana line, that the proud Pelican flag floats no longer over the Crescent City. It lies now helpless under the guns of fearless Farragut's fleet. So he cannot even revisit the home of his youth. Maxime Valois smuggles himself across the Mississippi. He joins the Confederates under Van Dorn. He is a soldier at last.
Here in the circling camps of the great Army of the West, Maxime Valois joins the first Louisiana regiment he meets. He realizes that the beloved Southern Confederacy has yet an unbeaten army. A grand array. The tramp of solid legions makes him feel a soldier, not a sneaking conspirator. He is no more a guerilla of the plains, or a fugitive deserter of his adopted State.
The capture of New Orleans seals the Mississippi. The Confederacy is cut in twain. It is positive now, the only help from the golden West will be the arrival of parties of self-devoted men like himself. They come in squads, bolting through Mexico or slipping through Arizona. Some reach Panama and Havana, gaining the South by blockade runners. He opens mail communication with Judge Hardin, via Havana. He succeeds in exchanging views with the venerable head of his house at New Orleans. It is all gloomy now. Old and despondent, the New Orleans patriarch has sent his youthful son away to Paris. Armand is too young to bear arms. He can only come home and do a soldier's duty later. By family influence, Maxime Valois finds himself soon a major in a Louisiana regiment. He wears his gray uniform at the head of men already veterans. Shiloh's disputed laurels are theirs. They are tigers who have tasted blood. In the rapidly changing scenes of service, trusting to chance for news of his family, Maxime Valois' whole nature is centred upon the grave duties of his station. Southern victories are hailed from the East. The victorious arms of the Confederacy roll back McClellan's great force. Bruised, bleeding, and shattered from the hard-fought fields of the Peninsula, the Unionists recoil. The stars of the Southern Cross are high in hope's bright field. Though Richmond is saved for the time, it is at a fearful cost. Malvern Hill shakes to its base under the flaming cannon, ploughing the ranks of the dauntless Confederates, as the Army of the Potomac hurls back the confident legions of Lee, Johnston, and Jackson. The Army of the Potomac is decimated. The bloody attrition of the field begins to wear off these splendid lines which the South can never replace. Losses like those of Pryor's Brigade, nine hundred out of fifteen hundred in a single campaign, would appall any but the grim Virginian soldiers. They are veterans now. They learn the art of war in fields like Seven Pines and Fair Oaks. Even Pryor, as chivalric in action as truculent in debate, now admits that the Yankees will fight. Fredericksburg's butchery is a victory of note. All the year the noise of battle rolls, while the Eastern war is undecided, for the second Manassas and awful Antietam balance each other. Maxime Valois feels the issue is lost. When the shock of battle has been tried at Corinth, where lion-like Rosecrans conquers, when the glow of the onset fades away, his heart sinks. He knows that the iron-jointed men of the West are the peers of any race in the field.
Ay! In the West it is fighting from the first. Donelson, Shiloh, and Corinth lead up to the awful death shambles of Stone River, Vicksburg, and Chickamauga. These are scenes to shake the nerve of the very bravest.
Heading his troops on the march, watching the thousand baleful fires of the enemy at night, when friend and foe go down in the thundering crash of battle, Valois, amazed, asks himself, "Are these sturdy foes the Northern mudsills?"
For, proud and dashing as the Louisiana Tigers and Texan Rangers prove, steady and vindictive the rugged Mississippians, dogged and undaunted the Georgians, fierce the Alabamans—the honest candor of Valois tells him no human valor can excel the never-yielding Western troops. Their iron courage honors the blue-clad men of Iowa, Michigan, and the Lake States. No hired foreigners there; no helot immigrants these men, whose glittering bayonets shine in the lines of Corinth, as steadily as the spears of the old Tenth Roman Legion—Caesar's pets.
With unproclaimed chivalry and a readiness to meet the foe which tells its own story, the Western men come on. Led by Grant, Sherman, Rosecrans, Sheridan, Thomas, McPherson, and Logan, they press steadily toward the heart of the Confederacy. The rosy dreams of empire in the great West fade away. Farragut, Porter, and the giant captain, Grant, cut off the Trans-Mississippi from active military concert with the rest of the severed Confederacy.
To and fro rolls the red tide of war. Valois' soldierly face, bronzed with service, shows only the steady devotion of the soldier. He loves the cause—once dear in its promise—now sacred in its hours of gloomy peril and incipient decadence. Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and Port Hudson are terrible omens of a final day of gloom. Letters from his wife, reports from Judge Hardin, and news from the Western shores give him only vague hints of the future straggling efforts on the Pacific. The only comforting tidings are that his wife and child are well, by the peaceful shores of Lagunitas. The absence of foreign aid, the lack of substantial support from the Northern sympathizers, and the slight hold on the ocean of the new government, dishearten him. The grim pressure everywhere of the Northern lines tells Valois that the splendid chivalry of the Southern arms is being forced surely backward. Sword in hand, his resolute mind unshaken, the Louisianian follows the Stars and Bars, devoted and never despairing. "Quand meme."
In the long silent days at Lagunitas, the patient wife learns much from the cautious disclosures of Padre Francisco. Her soldier husband's letters tell her the absent master of Lagunitas is winning fame and honor in a dreadful conflict. It is only vaguely understood by the simple Californian lady.
Her merry child is rapidly forgetting the self-exiled father. Under the bowers of Lagunitas she romps in leafy alley and shady bower.
Judge Hardin, grave-faced, cautious, frugal of speech, visits the domain several times. In conference with Padre Francisco and the vigilant "Kaintuck," he adjusts the accumulating business affairs.
Riding over the billowing fields, mounting the grassy hills, threading the matchless forests of uncut timber, he sees all. He sits plotting and dreaming on the porch by the lake side. Thousands of horses and cattle, now crossed and improved, are wealth wandering at will on every side. Hardin's dark eyes grow eager and envious. He gazes excitedly on this lordly domain. Suppose Valois should never come back. This would be a royal heritage. He puts the maddening thought away. Within a few miles, mill and flume tell of the tracing down of golden quartz lodes. The pick breaks into the hitherto undisturbed quartz ledges of Mariposa gold. Is there gold to be found here, too? Perhaps.
Only an old prating priest, a simple woman, and an infant, between him and these thousands of rich acres, should Valois be killed.
Philip Hardin becomes convinced of final defeat, as 1863 draws to a close. The days of Gettysburg and Vicksburg ring the knell of the Confederacy. Even the prestige of Chancellorsville, with its sacred victory sealed with Stonewall Jackson's precious blood, was lost in the vital blow delivered when the columns of Longstreet and Pickett failed to carry the heights of Gettysburg.
The troops slain on that field could never be replaced. Boyhood and old age, alone, were left to fill the vacant ranks. Settling slowly down, the gloomy days of collapse approach.
While Lee skilfully faced the Army of the Potomac, and the Confederacy was drained of men to hold the "sacred soil," the Western fields were lit up by the fierce light of Grant and Sherman's genius. Like destroying angels, seconded by Rosecrans, Thomas, and McPherson, these great captains drew out of the smoke of battle, gigantic figures towering above all their rivals.
Maxime Valois bitterly deplored the uselessness of the war in the trans-Mississippi section of the Confederacy. It is too late for any Western divisions to affect the downward course of the sacred cause for which countless thousands have already died.
The Potomac armies of the Union, torn with the dissensions of warring generals, wait for the days of the inscrutable Grant and fiery Philip Sheridan. In the West, the eagle eye of Rosecrans has caught the weakness of the unguarded roads to the heart of the Confederacy.
Stone River and Murfreesboro' tell of the wintry struggle to the death for the open doors of Chattanooga. Though another shall wear the laurels of victory, it is the proud boast of Rosecrans alone to have divined the open joint in the enemy's harness. He points the way to the sea for the irresistible Sherman. While the fearless gray ranks thin day by day, in march and camp, Valois thinks often of his distant home. Straggling letters from Philip Hardin tell him of the vain efforts of the cowed secessionists of the Pacific Coast. Loyal General George Wright holds the golden coast. Governor and Legislature, Senators and Congressmen, are united. The press and public sentiment are now a unit against disunion or separation.
Colonel Valois looked for some effective action of the Knights of the Golden Circle on the Pacific. Alas, for the gallant exile! Impending defeat renders the secret conspirators cautious. In the cheering news that wife and child are well, still guarded by the sagacious Padre Fran‡ois, Valois frets only over the consecutive failures of Western conspiracy. Folly and fear make the Knights of the Golden Circle a timid band. The "Stars and Stripes" wave now, unchallenged, over Arizona and New Mexico. The Texans at Antelope Peak never returned to carry the "Stars and Bars" across the Colorado. Vain boasters!
While Bragg toils and plots to hurl himself on Rosecrans in the awful day of Chickamauga, where thirty-five thousand dying and wounded are offered up to the Moloch of Disunion, Valois bitterly reads Hardin's account of the puerile efforts on the Pacific. It is only boys' play.
All energy, every spark of daring seems to have left the men who, secure in ease and fortune, live rich and unharassed in California. Their Southern brethren in the ranks reel blindly in the bloody mazes of battle, fighting in the field. A poor Confederate lieutenant attempts a partisan expedition in the mountains of California. He is promptly captured. The boyish plan is easily frustrated. Bands of resolute marauders gather at Panama to attack the Californian steamers, gold-laden. The vigilance of government agents baffles them. The mail steamers are protected by rifle guns and bodies of soldiers. Loyal officers protect passengers from any dash of desperate men smuggled on board. Secret-service spies are scattered over all the Western shores. Mails, telegraphs, express, and the growing railway facilities, are in the hands of the government. It is Southern defeat everywhere.
Valois sadly realizes the only help from the once enthusiastic West is a few smuggled remittances. Here and there, some quixotic volunteer makes his way in. An inspiring yell for Jeff Davis, from a tipsy ranchero, or incautious pothouse orator, is all that the Pacific Coast can offer.
The Confederate flag never sweeps westward to the blue Pacific, and the stars and bars sink lower day by day. As the weakness of American commerce is manifest on the sea, Colonel Valois forwards despairing letters to California. He urges attacks from Mexico, Japan, Panama, or the Sandwich Islands, on the defenceless ships loaded with American gold and goods. Unheeded, alas! these last appeals. Unfortunately, munitions of war are not to be obtained in the Pacific. The American fleets, though poor and scattered, are skilfully handled. Consuls and diplomats everywhere aid in detecting the weakly laid plans of the would-be pirates.
Still Valois fumes, sword in hand, at the pusillanimity of the Western sympathizers. They are rich and should be arming. Why do they not strike one effective blow for the cause? One gun would sink a lightly built Pacific liner, or bring its flag down. Millions of gold are being exported to the East from the treasure fields of the West. Though proud of the dauntless, ragged gray ranks he loves, Valois feels that the West should organize a serious attack on some unprotected Federal interest, to save the issue. But the miserable failure of Sibley has discouraged Confederate Western effort. The Confederate Californian grinds his teeth to think that one resolute dash of the scattered tens of thousands lying in camp, uselessly, in Arkansas and Texas, would even now secure California. Even now, as the Confederate line of battle wastes away, desperate Southern men dream of throwing themselves into Mexico as an unwelcome, armed immigration. This blood is precious at home.
Stung by the taunts of Eastern friends, at last Philip Hardin and his co-workers stir to some show of action.
Peacefully loading in San Francisco harbor for Mexico, a heavy schooner is filled with the best attainable fittings for a piratical cruise.
The J.W. Chapman rises and falls at the wharves at half gun-shot from the old U.S. frigate CYANE. Her battery could blow the schooner into splinters, with one broadside. Tackle and gear load the peaceful-looking cases of "alleged" heavy merchandise. Ammunition and store of arms are smuggled on board. Mingling unsuspectedly with the provost guard on the wharves, a determined crew succeed in fitting out the boat. Her outward "Mexican voyage" is really an intended descent on the treasure steamers.
Disguised as "heavy machinery," the rifled cannons are loaded. When ready to slip out of the harbor, past the guard-boats, the would-be pirate is suddenly seized. The vigilant Federal officials have fathomed the design. Some one has babbled. Too much talk, or too much whiskey.
Neatly conceived, well-planned, and all but executed, it was a bold idea. To capture a heavy Panama steamer, gold-laden; to transfer her passengers to the schooner, and land them in Mexico; and, forcing the crew to direct the vessel, to lie in wait for the second outgoing steamer, was a wise plan. They would then capture the incoming steamer from Panama, and ravage the coast of California.
With several millions of treasure and three steamers, two of them could be kept as cruisers of the Confederacy. They could rove over the Pacific, unchallenged. Their speed would be their safety.
Mexican and South American ports would furnish coal and supplies. The captured millions would make friends everywhere. The swift steamers could baffle the antiquated U.S. war vessels on the Pacific. A glorious raid over the Pacific would end in triumph in India or China.
These were the efforts and measures urged by Valois and the anxious Confederates of the East.
It was perfectly logical. It was absolutely easy to make an effective diversion by sea. But some fool's tongue or spy's keen eye ruins all.
When, months after the seizure of the CHAPMAN, Valois learns of this pitiful attempt, he curses the stupid conspirators. They had not the brains to use a Mexican or Central American port for the dark purposes of the piratical expedition. Ample funds, resolute men, and an unprotected enemy would have been positive factors of success. Money, they had in abundance. Madness and folly seem to have ruled the half-hearted conspirators of California. An ALABAMA or two on the Pacific would have been most destructive scourges of the sea. The last days of opportunity glide by. The prosaic records of the Federal Court in California tell of the evanescent fame of Harpending, Greathouse, Rubery, Mason, Kent, and the other would-be buccaneers. The "Golden Circle" is badly shattered.
Every inlet of the Pacific is watched, after the fiasco of the Chapman. She lies at anchor, an ignoble prize to the sturdy old Cyane. It is kismet.
Maxime Valois mourns over the failure of these last plans to save the "cause." Heart-sick, he only wonders when a Yankee bullet will end the throbbings of his unconquerable heart. All is dark.
He fears not for his wife and child. Their wealth is secured. He loses, from day to day, the feelings which tied him once to California.
The infant heiress he hardly knows. His patient, soft-eyed Western wife is now only a placid memory. Her gentle nature never roused the inner fires of his passionate soul. Alien to the Pacific Coast, a soldier of fortune, the ties into which he drifted were the weavings of Fate. His warrior soul pours out its devotion in the military oath to guard to the last the now ragged silken folds of his regimental banner, the dear banner of Louisiana. The eyes of the graceful Creole beauties who gave it are now wet with bitter tears. Beloved men are dying vainly, day by day, under its sacred folds. Even Beauty's spell is vain.
The wild oats are golden once more on the hills of Lagunitas; the early summer breezes waft stray leaf and blossom over the glittering lake in the Mariposa Mountains. Heading the tireless riflemen of his command, Valois throws himself in desperation on the Union lines at Chickamauga. Crashing volley, ringing "Napoleons," the wild yell of the onset, the answering cheers of defiance, sound faintly distant as Maxime Valois drops from his charger. He lies seriously wounded in the wild rush of Bragg's devoted battalions. He has got his "billet."
For months, tossing on a bed of pain, the Louisianian is a sacred charge to his admiring comrades. Far in the hills of Georgia, the wasted soldier chafes under his absence from the field. The beloved silken heralds of victory are fluttering far away on the heights of Missionary Ridge. His faded eye brightens, his hollow cheek flushes when the glad tidings reach him of the environment of Rosecrans. His own regiment is at the front. He prays that he may lead it, when it heads the Confederate advance into Ohio. For now, after Chickamauga's terrific shock, the tide of victory bears northward the flag of his adoration. Months have passed since he received any news of his Western domain. No letters from Donna Dolores gladden him. Far away from the red hills of Georgia, in tenderness his thoughts, chastened with illness, turn to the dark-eyed woman who waits for him. She prays before the benignant face of the Blessed Virgin for her warrior husband. Alas, in vain!
Silent is Hardin. No news comes from Padre Francisco. Nothing from his wife. Valois trusts to the future. The increasing difficulty of contraband mails, hunted blockade-runners, and Federal espionage, cut off his home tidings.
His martial soul thrilled at the glories of Chickamauga, Valois learns that California has shown its mettle on the fiercest field of the West. Cheatham, Brooks, and fearless Terry have led to the front the wild masses of Bragg's devoted soldiery. These sons of California, like himself, were no mere carpet knights. On scattered Eastern fields, old friends of the Pacific have drawn the sword or gallantly died for Dixie. Garnett laid his life down at Rich Mountain. Calhoun Benham was a hero of Shiloh. Wild Philip Herbert manfully dies under the Stars and Bars on the Red River.
The stain of cold indifference is lifted by these and other self-devoted soldiers who battle for the South.
With heavy sighs, the wounded colonel still mourns for the failure to raise the Southern Cross in the West. Every day proves how useless have been all efforts on the Pacific Coast. Virginia is now the "man eater" of the Confederacy. Valois is haunted with the knowledge that some one will retrace the path of Rosecrans. Some genius will break through the open mountain-gates and cut the Confederacy in twain. It is an awful suspense.
While waiting to join his command, he hungers for home news. Grant, the indomitable champion of the North, hurls Bragg from Missionary Ridge. Leaping on the trail of the great army, which for the first time deserts its guns and flags, the blue-clad pursuers press on toward Chattanooga. They grasp the iron gate of the South with mailed hand.
The "Silent Man of Destiny" is called East to measure swords with stately Lee. He trains his Eastern legions for the last death-grapple. On the path toward the sea, swinging out like huntsmen, the columns of Sherman wind toward Atlanta. Bluff, impetuous, worldly wise, genius inspired, Sherman rears day by day the pyramid of his deathless fame. Confident and steady, bold and untiring, fierce as a Hannibal, cunning as a panther, old Tecumseh bears down upon the indefatigable Joe Johnston. Now comes a game worthy of the immortal gods. It is played on bloody fields. The crafty antagonists grapple in every cunning of the art of war. Rivers of human blood make easy the way. The serpent of the Western army writhes itself into the vitals of the torn and bleeding South. Everywhere the resounding crash of arms. Alas, steadfast as Maxime Valois' nature may be, tried his courage as his own battle blade, the roar of battle from east to west tells him of the day of wrath! The yells and groans of the trampled thousands of the Wilderness, are echoed by the despairing chorus of the dying myriads of Kenesaw and Dalton. A black pall hangs over a land given up to the butchery of brothers. Mountain chains, misted in the blue smoke of battle, rise unpityingly over heaps of unburied dead from the Potomac to the Mississippi. Maxime Valois knows at last the penalty of the fatal conspiracy. A sacrificed generation, ruined homes, and the grim ploughshare of war rives the fairest fields of the Land of the Cypress.
Fearless and fate-defying, under ringing guns, crashing volley, and sweeping charge, the Southern veterans only close up the devoted gray ranks. They are thinning with every conflict, where Lee and Johnston build the slim gray wall against the resistless blue sea sweeping down.
There is no pity in the pale moon. The cold, steady stars shine down on the upturned faces of the South's best and bravest. No craven blenching when the tattered Stars and Bars bear up in battle blast. And yet the starry flag crowns mountain and rock. It sweeps through blood-stained gorges and past battle-scarred defile. Onward, ever southward. The two giant swordsmen reel in this duel of desperation. Sherman and Johnston may not be withheld. The hour of fate is beginning to knell the doom of the cause. Southern mothers and wives have given up their unreturning brave as a costly sacrifice on the altar of Baal. Valois, once more in command, a colonel now, riding pale and desperate, before his men, sees their upturned glances. The dauntless ranks, filing by, touch his heroic heart. He fears, when Atlanta's refuge receives the beaten host, that the end is nigh.
Bereft of news from his home, foreseeing the final collapse in Virginia, assured that the sea is lost to the South, the colonel's mood is daily sadder. His hungry eyes are wolfish in their steady glare. Only a soldier now. His flag is his altar of daily sacrifice.
Port after port falls, foreign flatterers stand coldly aloof, empty magazines and idle fields are significant signs of the end. Useless cotton cannot be sent out or made available, priceless though it be. The rich western Mississippi is now closed as a supply line for the armies. The paper funds of the new nation are mere tokens of unpaid promises, never to be redeemed.
Never to falter, not to shun the driving attacks of the pursuing horse or grappling foot, to watch his battle-flag glittering in the van, to lead, cheer, hope, inspire, and madly head his men, is the second nature of Valois. He has sworn not to see his flag dishonored.
It never occurs to him to ask WHERE his creed came from. His blood thrills with the passionate devotion which blots out any sense of mere right and wrong. His motto is "For Dixie's Land to Death."