Love under Fire Part 16

In this emergency the need of every soldier was felt, and I was returned to my regiment for duty. We were the first to trot over the recaptured bridge, and through the deserted streets of the village. Impelled by a curiosity which could not be resisted I wheeled my horse and rode up the gravelled driveway to Judge Moran's door, but to my vigorous knocking there was no response. The shades were drawn at the windows, the house silent, and yet I felt convinced the old partisan was within, watching from some point of vantage. Yet if I believed this, the same silence and refusal to respond also served to convince me that Miss Hardy was no longer there. She was a vastly different type, and would exhibit interest even in the coming of the enemy. Ay! and she would have seen me, and not for one moment could I be made to believe that she would treat me with contempt.

I rode back slowly to rejoin the column of hors.e.m.e.n, glancing over my shoulder at the house, my mind busily occupied with the stirring events which had transpired there. She had gone with the Confederate troops, and had probably already been safely returned to her own home. Moran might have departed also, but more likely he remained to look after his property. I wondered who was her escort for the long ride--would it be Captain Le Gaire, sufficiently recovered from his injuries for this service, yet scarcely capable of active military duty? If so, he was with her still, a guest at "The Gables," sufficiently an invalid to be interesting, and to require attention, but with tongue in good repair. I was glad I had told my story first; the gentleman would experience some difficulty in changing Miss Willifred's opinion of the affair.

The gray dust cloud hung about us, almost obscuring the files of plodding troopers; to right and left the flankers showed dark against the green of the fields, and far in front an occasional carbine barked as some suspicious scout fired at a skulking figure. Once this would have been full of interest, but now it was mere routine, the st.u.r.dy veterans of the Ninth riding soberly forward, choked with dust, their hats drawn low over their eyes, wearied by a long night in the saddle. I glanced proudly down those ranks of fighting men, glad to be with them once again, but my thought drifted back to Billie, for this was the road we had travelled together. It seemed a long while ago, and much might happen before we should meet again, if ever we did. I might be killed in battle, or Le Gaire might insist upon an immediate marriage. This last was what I most feared, for I believed that if this could only be sufficiently delayed, she would learn to know the man better, and refuse to be sacrificed. The engagement rather mystified me, for it was clear enough no blind love on her part was responsible for its existence; at least she had begun to perceive his shallowness, and resented his attempt at bullying. I even began to believe that some one else had now come into her life, whose memory would serve to increase the feeling of dissatisfaction. Le Gaire was not the kind that wears well--he could not improve upon acquaintance; and, while I was no connoisseur of women, yet I could not persuade myself that her nature was patient enough not to revolt against his pretensions. I was no egotist, no lady-killer, but I recognized now that I loved this girl, and had read in her eyes the message of hope. Mine was, at least, a fighting chance, and fighting was my trade. I liked it better so, finding the lady more alluring because of the barrier between us, the zest of combat quickening my desire. Already I began to plan meeting her again, now that the campaign had turned our faces southward. Back beyond those wooded hills some freak of fate must lead me right, some swirl of fortune afford me opportunity. I was of the school of Hope, and Love yielded courage.

I looked back down the long hill, so silent and deserted that gray morning when we were driving together, but now dark with the solid ma.s.ses of marching troops. It was a stirring scene to soldier eyes, knowing these men were pressing sternly on to battle. They seemed like a confused, disorganized mob, filling the narrow road, and streaming out through the fields; yet I could read the meaning of each detached movement, as cavalry, artillery, infantry, staff and wagon trains, met and separated, swinging into a.s.signed positions, or making swift detour.

Hoa.r.s.e voices shouted; bugles pealed; there was the rumble of wheels, the pounding of hoofs, the tramp of feet, and over all the cloud of dust, through which the sun shone redly. The intense vividness of the picture gave me a new memory of war. Suddenly a battery of artillery, out of sight on the distant crest, opened fire, the shrieking sh.e.l.ls plunging down into the ploughed field at our left, and casting the soft dirt high in air. Our advance spread wide into skirmish line, the black dots representing men flitting up the steep side of the hill, white spirals of smoke evidencing their musket fire. Behind them was a grim ma.s.s of infantry, silent and ominous, swinging forward like a huge snake. The men of the Ninth straightened up, their eyes glowing, but it was soon over with--the snake uncoiled, flinging a tail gleaming with steel over the ridge, and the troopers sank back wearily into their saddles.

As I turned again to glance over my shoulder I noticed a man riding at the right of the second file. His face was new to me, and so peculiar was it that I continued to stare, unable to determine whether the fellow was white or colored. He was in private's uniform, but carried no arms, and for head covering, instead of the hat worn by the Ninth, had an infantry cap perched jauntily on his curly black hair. But his face was clear, and his cheeks rosy, and he sat straight as an arrow in the saddle. I drew back my horse and ranged up beside him, inspired by curiosity. The eyes turned toward me undoubtedly betrayed negro blood.

"I do not remember seeing you before," I said, wiping the dust from my lips. "Are you a new recruit?"

"I'se Col'nel Cochran's man," he answered, without salute, but with the accent of education oddly mixed with dialect.

"Oh, I see--what has become of Sam?"

"He done took sick, an' de col'nel wanted a man right away, so he picked me."

"Did you belong around here?"

"Well, no, not exactly belong round yere, but I'se travelled dese parts some considerable. I was born down in Louisiana, sah."

"Not so very long ago either," I ventured, feeling a peculiar interest in the fellow. "Were you a slave?"

His rather thin lips closed over his white teeth, and his fingers gripped the saddle pommel.

"Yes,"--the word snapped out. "I'se nineteen, sah, an' my mother was a slave. I reckon my father was white 'nough, but that don't count fo'

much--I'se a n.i.g.g.e.r just de same. Dat's bad 'nough, let me tell yo', but it's worse to be yo' own father's n.i.g.g.e.r."

I had nothing to say to this outburst, feeling that back of it were facts into which I had no right to probe, and we rode along quietly.

Then he spoke, glancing aside at me:

"Dey won't be no 'portant fightin' long yere, sah, not fo' 'bout ten miles."

"How do you figure that out?"

"'Cause de lay ob de groun' ain't right, fo' one thing, an' 'cause all de Confed intrenchments was back yander."

"Yonder--where?"

"In behind de log church at de Three Corners--done know dat country mighty well."

I turned and faced him, instantly suspicious.

"Now see here; you do know that country, and a bit too well for a man riding in the ranks. Where did you come from? Were you in the Confederate service? Let's have this straight."

"Suah," with frankness. "I done tol' de col'nel all how it was. I was wid my Ma.s.sa from Louisiana, an' he was a captain, sah! 'Bout two weeks ago he lef' me down yander on de pike wid orders fo' to stay dere till he done come back. But it wa'n't no job fo' me, sah, an' so I skipped out de first night, an' joined up wid de Yanks. I reckon I knows 'bout whar I belongs in dis yere fightin', an' I ain't n.o.body's slave no mor'."

The lad's earnestness impressed me, and beneath his words was evident a deep smouldering resentment, not so much against slavery as against the individual who had owned him.

"What is your name, my boy?"

"Charles Le Gaire, sah."

CHAPTER XVI

A CALL TO DUTY

The family name was an uncommon one, and, coupled as it was with "Louisiana," and the t.i.tle "Captain," could refer only to Gerald Le Gaire. I wanted to question, the lad, but refrained, spurring my horse ahead so as to remove the temptation. Even the little already said plainly revealed that he resented bitterly his position in life, and determined to remain no longer in slavery to his own father. His father!

That would be Le Gaire! The thought added fuel to the flame of dislike which I already cherished against the man. Of course legally this former relationship between master and slave meant nothing; it would be considered no bar to legitimate marriage; perhaps to one brought up in the environment of slavery it would possess no moral turpitude even, yet to me it seemed a foul, disgraceful thing. Whether it would so appear to Miss Willifred I could not even conjecture; she was of the South, with, all the prejudice and peculiarity of thought characteristic of her section. Pure-hearted, womanly, as I believed her to be, this earlier alliance still might not seem to her particularly reprehensible.

Certainly it was not my part to bring it to her attention, or to utilize my knowledge of the situation to advance my cause, or injure Le Gaire.

Nor would I question the ex-slave further; I already knew enough, too much possibly, although curiosity was not dormant, and I wondered what had become of the mother, and from what special cause had arisen the intense hatred in the heart of the son.

We rode steadily forward all day, under fire twice, and once charging a battery. All that opposed our advance however was a thin fringe of troops, intent merely upon causing delay, and making a brief stand, only to fall back promptly as soon as we flung forward any considerable body of men. By night-fall we had attained a position well within the bend of the river, the centre and left wing had achieved a crossing, and our entire line had closed up so as to display a solid front. The Ninth bivouacked in the hills, our rest undisturbed, except for the occasional firing of the pickets. With dawn we were under arms, feeling our way forward, and, an hour later, the two armies were face to face. Nearly evenly mated, fighting across a rough country, neither side could claim victory at the end of the day. While we on the right forced our line forward for nearly five miles, leaving behind us a carpet of dead, the left and centre met with such desperate resistance as to barely retain their earlier position. It required an hour of night fighting to close up the gap, and we slept on our arms, expecting an early morning a.s.sault. Instead of attempting this the enemy fell back to their second line of intrenchments, and, after waiting a day to determine their movements and strengthen our own line, we again advanced, feeling our way slowly in, but finally meeting with a resistance which compelled a halt.

The details of this battle belong to history, not to these pages. The Ninth bore no conspicuous part, hovering on the extreme right flank, engaged in continuous skirmishing, and scouting along miles of front.

The morning of the third day found the armies fronting each other, defiant yet equally afraid to join battle, both commanders seeking for some point of strategy which would yield advantage--we of the North fearful of advancing against intrenchments, and those of the South not daring to come forth into the open. For the moment it was a truce between us--the truce of two exhausted bull-dogs, lying face to face with gleaming teeth, ready to spring at the first opening.

We of the Ninth were at the edge of an opening in the woods, with low hills on either hand, our pickets within easy musket-shot of the gray-clad videttes beyond the fringe of trees. Knowing our own success we could not comprehend this inaction, or the desperate fighting which held back the troops to the east, and we were impatient to go in. I was lying on my back in the shelter of a slight hollow, wondering at the surrounding stillness, wishing for anything to occur which would give action, when the major rode up, accompanied by another officer in an artillery uniform. I was on my feet in an instant saluting.

"Lieutenant Galesworth, this is Captain Kent, an aide on General Sheridan's staff. He desires you to accompany him to headquarters."

My heart bounding with antic.i.p.ation, within five minutes I was riding beside him, back to the river road, and along the rear of our extended line. He was a pleasant, genial fellow, but knew nothing of why I had been summoned, his orders being simply to bring me at once. Two hours of hard riding, and we came to a double log cabin, with a squad of hors.e.m.e.n in front, and a considerable infantry guard near by. A sentry paced back and forth in front of the steps, and several officers were sitting on the porch. Dismounting, my companion handed the reins of both horses to a trooper, and led the way in. A word to the sentinel, and we faced the group above. One, a sharp-featured man, with very dark complexion, rose to his feet.

"What is it, Kent?"

"This is Lieutenant Galesworth, of the Ninth Illinois Cavalry. The general will wish to see him at once."

The dark-featured man glanced at me, and turned back into the house, and Kent introduced me to the others, none of whom I recognized. This was not Sheridan's staff, but before I could question any of them, the messenger returned, and motioned for me to follow. It was a large room, low-ceilinged, with three windows, the walls of bare logs whitewashed, the floor freshly swept, the only furniture a table and a few chairs.

But two men were present, although a sentinel stood motionless at the door,--a broad-shouldered colonel of engineers, with gray moustache and wearing gla.s.ses, sitting at a table littered with papers, and a short stocky man, attired in a simple blue blouse, with no insignia of rank visible, his back toward me, gazing out of a window. I took a single step within, and halted. The short man wheeled about at the slight sound, his eyes on my face; I recognized instantly the closely trimmed beard, the inevitable cigar between the lips, and, with a leap of the heart, my hand rose to the salute.

"Lieutenant Galesworth?"

"Yes, General."

"Very well; you may retire, Colonel Trout, and, sentry, close the door."

His keen gray eyes scrutinized my face, betraying no emotion, but he advanced closer, one hand upon the table.

"General Sheridan informs me he has found you a valuable scout, always ready for any service, however dangerous."

"I have endeavored to carry out my orders, General," I answered quietly.

"So I am told," in the same even voice. "The army is full of good men, brave men, but not all possess sufficient intelligence and willingness to carry out an independent enterprise. Just now I require such a man, and Sheridan recommends you. How old are you?"

I answered, and barely waiting the sound of my voice, he went on: