The excitement was tremendous. Nerves were strung to highest tension; emotions touched the breaking point. Men leaped and danced for very joy. Women flung themselves into each other’s arms and wept for sheer happiness. And through it all the gray hosts rolled steadily on.
Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the hubbub subsided. Apprehension reigned once more, and the eager questions passed from lip to lip: ‘What are they doing here? Have they been routed? Are they only in retreat?’
No, the soldiers answered, they were not running away. They had not seen or heard of the enemy for days. What were they doing here, then? Again they did not know. Nobody knew except old Stonewall. He knew of course. It was one of his tricks. He had got something under his hat.
Then the crowd surged to the railway station to watch the debarking troops as train after train rolled in. Here the same ignorance prevailed. Nobody knew; nobody could understand. To their personal friends the officers were dumb, for they were in darkness like the men. Only the General knew; and those who knew the General knew also how hopeless it would be to question him.
The dwellers in the country, who had come into town for church, hastened away, full of their news, to tell the folk who had been left at home. They did not get far. All around the town a strong cordon of soldiers had been drawn who forced them back. What! they asked, might they not even return to their own homes? No, they might not—at least, not yet. Why? Nobody knew. Simply the General had ordered it so. Probably he did not wish the news of his arrival to be spread abroad. But to everything, the one monotonous, exasperating answer, ‘We do not know.’
Then at last the people understood. Silent as ever as to his plans, mysterious in his movements, Jackson’s flight had been but a clever feint. He had stolen back swiftly and without attracting attention; and now, while the Federals fondly supposed him east of the Blue Ridge, here he was, ready and able to deal them one of his slashing flank blows. It was ‘Stonewall Jackson’s way.’
As soon as the soldiers began to arrive, Lucius and Ephraim, who both sang in the choir of their church, hurried out and raced to the station. Long before they got there Lucius had shouted himself hoarse, while, though he took things more quietly, Ephraim’s cheeks were burning, and his eyes blazing with unwonted fire.
‘Say, Grizzly, isn’t it splendid?’ panted Lucius.
Ephraim did not answer, for just then a roar of delight rent the air. ‘Here he comes! Here’s the General! Hurrah! Stonewall Jackson! Stonewall! Cheer, boys! Hurrah! God bless you, General! Hurrah! Hurrah!’
Clad in his old gray coat, soiled and smirched with the stains of the dreadful march to Romney in December, and with his queer slouched hat cocked askew over his forehead, ‘Old Stonewall,’ then but thirty-eight years of age, rode in the midst of his staff. His shrewd, kindly face wore a smile of almost womanly sweetness, and his keen blue eyes, which, it is said, glowed when the battle rage was upon him with a terrible light that appalled both friend and foe, now beamed mildly on the shouting crowd who sought to do him honour. He bowed continually right and left, and was evidently pleased at his welcome, as well as touched by the supreme confidence of the people in him.