CHAPTER XXIV.
Far back along the wooded shores of the Potomac, where the mist is slowly creeping from the silent stream, the sentries are pacing the beaten path bounding each regimental camp. An odd custom, originating among the volunteers, has been the rule in several commands. Each sentry marched just fifty paces along his post in common time, then the cry "About!" would go ringing from post to post in every conceivable key and pitch, girdling one battalion with a chain of petulant yelps, another with a series of mournful groans. Fun for the sentries, and, for a time, for the camps, but a foe to soldier repose. The object was to cause the sentries to march in the same direction, and thereby prevent their turning their backs to each other, in which event there would be left unwatched a long stretch of sentry-post through which marauder might creep or roisterer escape. The custom lasted but a little while, proving more of a nuisance than a benefit. But there were three new regiments in which it obtained this lovely night, and they are brigaded with a veteran command that lords it over them because it has smelled powder and shed blood, which they have not. It is a ragged regiment, a rusty regiment, for it is still clad in the relics of the gray uniform in which its proud State sent it to the field three months before. It is saucy, and slouchy and independent, individually, as rag wearers are apt to be the world over. But it is wonderful to see that regiment brace up when it gets in line, and that is what it has done this night, without a sound beyond the low-voiced "Turn out here" of the sergeants, as they sped from tent to tent,—without confusion or even question. Ten minutes from the time the general's aide has "routed out" the colonel, he has routed out his captains and the sergeants are routing out the men. Twenty minutes, and these silent companies are elbow to elbow on the color line in front of camp. The colonel rides out on his sure-footed old charger. His field-officers join their wings. Such commands as are given are in low voice and passed down the line. "Right face! Right shoulder shift arms! Forward, march! Route step and keep your mouths shut!" Out along the winding road they go, aide and colonel riding in front, over six hundred stalwart ragamuffins swinging behind. Men murmur or whisper to each other "What's up?" Here and there a canteen clinks, and there is a dull sound of swift-moving feet. Out they go past the lines of their own sentries, some of whom shout for the corporal and want to be "relieved off post" and allowed to go with their companies. All around the wooded heights south of Chain Bridge a dozen other regiments are placidly sleeping. Maine, Vermont, New York, Indiana, and Wisconsin there are represented, but only one State or regiment appears in the stealthily marching column. On it goes down a winding slope, file-closers edging in between the sets of fours as the roadway narrows. Up the rise beyond where stand or squat wondering groups of the picket reserves. On—another quarter of a mile where they find the supports. On past outposts and pickets, and at last, after a sharp sprint of a mile, the word "Halt!" is muttered, and the rifle-butts are lowered to the foot, and the regiment stands among the whispering trees and waits. The leading company has not long to wonder. They hear and know the low voice of their general, giving brief directions to the little colonel. They hear the words "Open field—thin woods beyond.—Rebel pickets lining opposite skirt.—Supports, etc., along the road. Deploy your skirmish line. Drive in pickets. Capture all you can, but utter not a sound. Do not fire unless you have to. Push straight ahead along this wood road, swift as you can. We go with you."
A trembling negro boy crouches by the general's stirrup. Colonel Connor's horse almost treads on him in the dark. The colonel speaks a quiet word to the captain of the foremost company, and in low tone that officer orders, "'Tention, Company 'A!' Load at will! Load!" There is a sound of fumbling at heavy cartridge-boxes, of tearing paper, the whee-ep of the rammers springing from the pipes, a phosphorescent gleam of steel as they whirl in air, a muttered malediction as some fellow's cap is knocked off by an awkward neighbor. There is a dull pounding, as the heavy bullets are driven home, a clicking of gun-locks, as the little copper caps are thrust upon the cones; then the low thud of the iron-shod butts upon the ground and all is still. The lieutenant-colonel rides back along the column until he reaches the colors, each company in succession loading as silently. The left wing is bidden to remain where it is as a reserve, and to await orders. The leading company, with arms trailed, forms line at the edge of the wood. The second platoon steps back three paces as reserve. The first receives the low-toned command, "As skirmishers, by the right and left flanks take intervals," a thing at which these Bull Run veterans have been drilling since early in May, and can do in even thicker darkness. In a minute the long line of dispersed shadows is formed, facing southwest, and in two minutes, with officers close up to the line, the general and his aides only a few yards behind, and five companies following noiselessly along the roadway, out they go across the starlight open. Everybody seems to know the enemy's sentinels will be found along that opposite skirt of woods. Everybody listens with straining ears and thumping heart for the first challenge. Those young Southrons are no fools on picket, and even in the dark a cat-footed skirmish line cannot hope to crawl upon them unobserved. Half-way across goes the long jagged line,—two-thirds of the two hundred yards that interpose between the groves,—and now the centremost, those along the pathway, backed by half a dozen fellows from the reserve, make ready for a rush. Ten yards more, then some luckless skirmisher trips on some unseen root, stumbles forward, and swears under his breath. Instantly from the clump of trees nearest the road there comes the sharp order "Halt!" and the click of a lock, but before the challenge can follow, there is a swift rush of stooping foes along the roadway, a heavy blow, a struggle, a sharp report, a stifled cry, then "Forward! Forward! double quick!" everywhere along the column, and with the skirmishers leaping and crashing ahead through the timber, tumbling over the startled sentinels and pickets, with occasional crackling of rifle and shouting of warning and command, with officers darting along among the men, with the general and his aides and Colonel Connor spurring close after, with a dozen men swarming ahead along the dim pathway, and with the sturdy column still swiftly following at the double, the little command sweeps over the scattered outposts and reserves in front of it, the Southerners standing their ground like men, but being utterly overmatched, and finally, as the aroused and startled reserves, farther to the rear, fall slowly back toward their main body in the direction of Falls Church, the negro guide, bounding along with the foremost officers, leads the column farther to the southwest, past all infantry outposts and reserves until finally they go scrambling over a snake-fence on the edge of an open field, while away to the southeast guns are firing, bugles sounding the alarm, drums hoarsely rattling, and here as they stop to breathe and close up on the head of column, they are greeted by the stirring peal of a cavalry trumpet certainly not a half a mile away. It is the signal "To horse!" "Look out for those fellows, and give 'em a volley if they approach!" orders the colonel to his panting men. "Form a skirmish line fronting south, captain." And then, behind that living curtain, the rearmost companies come running up and forming battle line, while the general, with a dozen followers, rides into a little grove at the heels of their darky guide. There is a moment of gleeful shouting and out they come again, slowly, a dark cluster of forms, some apparently supporting an enfeebled man, others grouping about some shadowy companions. Around these a whole company is rallied as escort and bidden to retrace its steps, and then the general rides back, beaming, under cover of the little battle line, and he and Connor shake hands and listen for a moment to the distant uproar of the alarm. And now the Union lines have taken it up, and far back toward the Potomac some new arrivals, as yet untried, have turned loose their bugles and drums, and the general says, quietly, "Let the command fall back slowly, but keep an eye open for the cavalry." Three minutes more and Connor has four companies back on the narrow road, with the skirmishers still out toward the south, and then, with sudden storm and thunder of hoofs, with trumpets sounding a spirited charge, without so much as deigning to see what force might be in front of them, there comes dashing up the turfy woodroad, in slender column, following, fearless, the lead of a daring young Virginian captain, a troop of yelling horsemen, the very fellows, doubtless, who for two days past have been scouring the woods for our fugitives. "It is a mad-brained trick." What possible object is to be gained? All they know is that somewhere along that road is a body of Yankee troops, and they have been burning for a chance to get at them ever since Bull Run. They do not even seem to see—they do not heed—the thin skirmish line through which they bear resistless. The few scattering shots fired are answered by the wild crackle of revolvers. On they come, straight down the road, invisible as yet, but unmistakable. "Halt! Spread out there, men!" are Connor's orders. At least forty or fifty blue-coats line up quickly and solidly from fence to fence, every rifle at ready or aim, and none too soon. Five seconds more and out from the fire-spitting blackness at the south looms the charging column, and a blinding glare lights up the wood, a crashing volley wakes the echoes. Half a dozen horses come plunging, kicking and struggling, to the very feet of the stern array. Half a dozen gallant fellows are hurled to earth. The whole column is brought up standing, and then, realizing the peril of its position, breaks and turns and tears away, leaving two dead at the front and two or three more wounded, tumbling out of saddle as they rush back for the rear.
Foremost, half stunned and sorely wounded, but a fighter to the last, the Virginia captain struggles to his feet. Bayonets are levelled at his dauntless heart, but a sharp order restrains them. Strong hands seize and disarm him. Strong arms bear him, struggling faintly, within the ranks of his captors. The dead are left to their friends, the wounded tenderly raised and borne as gently as possible to the rear. Then once again the column resumes its homeward march, and in half an hour is safe within the Union lines.
Meantime where is Shorty, whose craze it was to see what might be going on about that hamlet of Lewinsville, whose longing it was to "do something" like Snipe, and who was sleeping the sleep of healthful, hearty boyhood, when he would have given his ears to be with that raiding column? Somewhere about midnight he became conscious of excited whisperings about him. Marmion was bustling around. Horses were being saddled, and, sitting bolt upright, he heard the clamor of bugles and drums, and, rushing out in front of head-quarters, could distinguish the distant crash of musketry. Then out came two officers, buckling on revolvers and swords. Marmion came running with their horses, and to Shorty's excited question, "Where's the general?" he got the heartless answer, "Gone hours ago, youngster, while you were asleep." Never stopping to saddle, only whipping through "Badger's" rattling teeth the bit of his bridle and throwing the reins over his head, Shorty is astride in a second, and, hardly yet wide awake, is away at a sputtering gallop after the departing officers. Before they have reached the little run half a mile out he has overtaken them. The sound of skirmish firing is still lively at the distant southwest front. He knows every inch of the road, and is mad to get ahead, for the officers ride slowly and with caution.
"Let me lead, captain!" he cries, regardless of martial propriety. "I know the way." And it is a case for common sense, not ceremony, and the staff-officers say, "Go on." And now there is a race through the night, "Badger" having a big lead and easily keeping it. But the road narrows, the sounds of fight subside, and when at last the little party reaches the outposts they meet the left wing of the regiment briskly marching homeward. They see the light of a guard-fire in a hollow a little farther to the front, and there a dense throng of Connor's men in tattered gray, mingling with the blue of the picket-guards, groups about a little knot of officers and three gaunt, ragged, haggard fellows, one a bearded man of forty-five or fifty, who leans heavily on the shoulder of a supporter, while he grasps the hand of the general and looks gratefully into his eyes. Another is a wiry little specimen in the relics of a Fire Zouave jacket, the chevrons of a sergeant on his sleeve. The third is a tall, lank, long-legged youth, with hollow cheeks and big brown eyes, and a brownish fuzz just sprouting on lip and cheeks and chin,—a tall lad to whom the elder man turns suddenly, laying a thin hand upon his shoulder, a tall lad who looks up shyly and silently as the general grasps his hands and begins some words of hearty praise. But the general's remarks are brought to sudden stop by the impetuous rush of a snorting horse into the midst of the group, the precipitate leap of a half-crazed lad from his back to the ground, and the general's voice is drowned by that of his graceless orderly, half squeal, half choking cry, as the "little 'un" springs upon the tall youth, twining legs and arms, both, about him, and the only intelligible word he says is "Snipe!" The only answer is a long, straining hug and the almost bashful murmur, "Shorty!"
One would say that in that meeting there was interest sufficient for one night—and two boys,—but it was by no means all. A few minutes later two trooper prisoners, led in beside the litter of their wounded captain, were being examined by the general. Both were silent, badly shaken by the fall of their horses. One was slightly wounded; neither wished to talk. The leader had swooned, and the surgeons were doing their best for him.
"What is your captain's name?" was asked the unhurt cavalier, a dashing young sergeant who might well lay claim to being of one of the famous "first families of Virginia"—a dandy trooper.
"Grayson," was the short reply.