CHAPTER XIII
In these days the picket lines were seldom stationary; one or the other faction continually drew in close these outlying guards, as if by presentiment,—an unexplained monition of caution, or perhaps because of some vague rumor of danger. Now and again, by a sudden belligerent impulse, they were impetuously attacked and driven in; but apparently in pursuance of no definite plan of aggression emanating from the main body. A few days of surly silence and stillness would ensue, and then the opposing force would return the warlike compliment with interest, holding the enemy's ground and kindling bivouac fires from the embers they had left. It seemed a sort of game of tag—a grim game; for the loss of life in these futile manœuvres amounted to far more in the long run than the few casualties in each skirmish might indicate. Sometimes these feints were entirely relinquished, and intervals of absolute inaction continued so long that it might seem a matter of doubt why the two lines were there at all, with so vague a similitude of war. Occasionally they lay so near that the individual soldiers, forgetful of sectional enmity, gave rein to mere human interest in the opportunities afforded by a common tongue and an apprehended and familiar range of feeling. A lot of tobacco, thrown into a group about a bivouac fire by an unseen hand one night, brought the next night a package of "hard tack" from over the way. Now and again long-range conversations were held, full of kindly curiosity, or humorously abusive, the questionable wit of which mightily rejoiced the heart of the lonely sentinel, and upon his relief all the jokes were duly rehearsed when once more in camp, he himself, of course, represented as coming off winner in the wordy war, being able to appropriate all the good things said by the enemy. The loud, cheerful, "Say, air you the galoot ez wuz swapping lies with Ben Smith day 'fore yestiddy?" and the response, "Smith, Smith, you say. I dis-remember the name. I guess I never heard it afore!" all were much more commendable from a merely humanitarian point of view than the singing of the minié ball or the hissing shriek of a shell that had been wont to intrude on the bland quietude of the sweet spring air.
Thus it was that Miss Mildred Fisher, accompanied by Lieutenant Seymour and one of her father's ancient friends, Colonel Monette, himself attended by a very smart orderly, riding out of Roanoke City down the long turnpike road, saw naught that might indicate active hostilities. The picturesque tents in the distance about the town, the outline of the forts against the blue sky, and afar off a gunboat in the river, were all still, all silent, all as suave as the painted incident of a picture on the wall. The turnpike itself bore heavy tokens of the war in the deeply worn holes and wheel tracks of the great wagon and artillery trains, wrought during the wet weather of the winter. It was hard going on the horses, and precluded that brisk pace and easy motion which are essential to the pleasure of the equestrian. Mildred Fisher, indeed, delighted in a breakneck speed, and it may be doubted whether it was altogether a happy animal which had the honor of bearing her light weight. As they reached a "cut off," where a "dirt road" had been recently repaired and put into fine condition to obviate the obstacles of the main travelled way, Miss Fisher proposed that they should "let the horses out" along this detour for a bit. Then she challenged the two officers for a race.
They could but accede, and indeed it would have been difficult to deny her aught. The elder looked at her with an almost paternal pride, the other with a sort of surly adoration, tempered by many a grievance and many a realized imperfection in his idol, and a spirit of revolt against the sunny whims and again the cold caprice which he and others sustained at her hands. Seymour had little to complain of just now; yet, if she smiled on him and his heart warmed to the sunshine of her eyes, the next moment he was saying to himself that it meant nothing, it was not for his sake; for she was smiling with the same degree of brightness on that whiskerando, the elderly colonel. Her face was exquisitely fair, and in horseback exercise—the luxury she loved—she tolerated no veil to protect the perfection of her complexion. Her fluffy red hair had a sheen rather like gold, because of the contrast with her damson-tinted cloth riding-habit. The hat was of the low-crowned style then worn with a feather, and this was a long ostrich plume of the same damson tint, curling down over her hair, and shading to a lighter purple. Her hazel eyes were full of joy like a child's. Her mouth was not closed for a moment,—its red lips emitting disconnected exclamations, laughter, gay banter, and sometimes just held apart, silently taking the swift rush of the air, showing the rows of even white teeth and a glimpse of the deeper red of the interior, like the heart of a crimson flower.
She tore along like the wind itself. "Madcap," who had raced before, and, sooth to say, with more numerous spectators, had thrust his head forward, striking out a long stride, and the soft, elastic, dirt road fairly flew beneath his compact hoofs. The skirt of the riding-habit—much longer than in the later fashions—floated out in the breeze of the flight, and Colonel Monette, who did not really approve outdoor sports for women, expected momently to see it catch in a thorn tree of the thickets that lined the road, or on some stake of the fragments of a ridered rail fence, and tear her from the saddle. Then, her foot being held by the stirrup perhaps, she might be dragged by Madcap or brained by one blow of the ironshod hoofs. Thus his heart was in his mouth, and he was eminently appreciative of the folly of the elderly wight who seeks to share the pleasures of the young.
The lieutenant, being young himself, was not so cautiously and altruistically apprehensive. He admired Miss Fisher's dash and courage and buoyant spirit of enjoyment, and, having a good horse, he pressed Madcap to his best devoir. Colonel Monette, to keep them in sight at all, was compelled to make very good speed, and went galloping and plunging down the road in a wild and reckless manner.
It was the elder officer who was first visited by compunctions in behalf of the horses.
"Halt!" he cried. "Halt! Miss Fisher is the winner—as she always is! Halt! Lieutenant Seymour!" Then in a lower voice when he could be heard to speak, "We shall have the horses badly blown," he said with an admonitory cadence, which reminded Seymour that a military man's whole duty does not consist in scampering after a harum-scarum girl in a race with two wild young horses.