Chapter V. The Singer of the Hills

The Guns of Shiloh

by Joseph A. Altsheler

As the engine whistled for the last time Dick sprang upon a
car-step, one hand holding to the rail while with the other he
returned the powerful grip of Red Blaze, who with his own unconfined
hand grasped the bridles of the three horses, which had served them
so well. Petty had received a reward thrust upon him by Colonel
Newcomb, but Dick knew that the mountaineer's chief recompense was
the success achieved in the perilous task chosen for him.

"Good-bye, Mr. Mason," said Red Blaze, "I'm proud to have
knowed you an' the sergeant, an' to have been your comrade in a work
for the Union."

"Without you we should have failed."

"It jest happened that I knowed the way. It seems to me that
there's a heap, a tremenjeous heap, in knowin' the way. It gives
you an awful advantage. Now you an' your regiment are goin' down
thar in them Kentucky mountains. They're mighty wild, winter's here
an' the marchin' will be about as bad as it could be. Them's mostly
Pennsylvania men with you, an' they don't know a thing 'bout that
thar region. Like as not you'll be walkin' right straight into an
ambush, an' that'll be the end of you an' them Pennsylvanians."

"You're a cheerful prophet, Red Blaze."

"I meant if you didn't take care of yourselves an' keep a good
lookout, which I know, of course, that you're goin' to do. I was
jest statin' the other side of the proposition, tellin' what would
happen to keerless people, but Colonel Newcomb an' Major Hertford
ain't keerless people. Good-bye, Mr. Mason. Mebbe I'll see you
ag'in before this war is over."

"Good-bye, Red Blaze. I truly hope so."

The train was moving now and with a last powerful grasp of a
friendly hand Dick went into the coach. It was the first in the
train. Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford sat near the head of it,
and Warner was just sitting down not far behind them. Dick took the
other half of the seat with the young Vermonter, who said, speaking
in a whimsical tone:

"You fill me with envy, Dick. Why wasn't it my luck to go
with you, Sergeant Whitley, and the man they call Red Blaze on that
errand and help bring back with you the message of President
Lincoln? But I heard what our red friend said to you at the
car-step. There's a powerful lot in knowing the way, knowing where
you're going, and what's along every inch of the road. My
arithmetic tells me that it is often fifty per cent of marching and
fighting."

"I think you are right," said Dick.

A little later he was sound asleep in his seat, and at the
command of Colonel Newcomb he was not disturbed. His had been a
task, taxing to the utmost both body and mind, and, despite his
youth and strength, it would take nature some time to replace what
had been worn away.

He slept on while the boys in the train talked and laughed.
Stern discipline was not yet enforced in either army, nor did
Colonel Newcomb consider it necessary here. These lads, so lately
from the schools and farms, had won a victory and they had received
the thanks of the President. They had a right to talk about it
among themselves and a little vocal enthusiasm now might build up
courage and spirit for a greater crisis later.

The colonel, moreover, gave glances of approval and sympathy
to his gallant young aide, who in the seat next to the window with
his head against the wall slept so soundly. All the afternoon Dick
slept on, his breathing regular and steady. The train rattled and
rumbled through the high mountains, and on the upper levels the snow
was falling fast.

Darkness came, and supper was served to the troops, but at the
colonel's command Dick was not awakened. Nature had not yet
finished her task of repairing. There was worn tissue still to be
replaced, and the nerves had not yet recovered their full
steadiness.

So Dick slept on, while the night deepened and the snow
continued to drive against the window panes. Nor did he awake until
morning, when the train stopped at a tiny station in the hills.
There was no snow here, but the sun, just rising, threw no heat, and
icicles were hanging from every cliff. Dispatches were waiting for
Colonel Newcomb, and after breakfast he announced to his staff:

"I have orders from Washington to divide my regiment. The
Southern forces are operating at three points in Kentucky. They are
gathering at Columbus on the Mississippi, at Bowling Green in the
south, and here in the mountains there is a strong division under an
officer named Zollicoffer. Scattered forces of our men, the
principal one led by a Virginian named Thomas, are endeavoring to
deal with Zollicoffer. The Secretary of War regrets the division of
the regiment, but he thinks it necessary, as all our detached forces
must be strengthened. I go on with the main body of the regiment to
join Grant, near the mouth of the Ohio. You, Major Hertford, will
take three companies and march south in search of Thomas, but be
careful that you are not snapped up by the rebels on the way. And
if you can get volunteers and join Thomas with your force increased
threefold, so much the better."

"I shall try my best, sir," said Major Hertford, "and thank
you for this honor."

Dick and Warner stood by without a word, but Dick cast an
appealing look at Colonel Newcomb.

"Yes, I know," said the Colonel, who caught the glance. "This
is your state, and you wish to go with Major Hertford. You are to
do so. So is your friend, Lieutenant Warner, and, Major Hertford, I
also lend to you Sergeant Whitley, who is a man of much experience
and who has already proved himself to be of great value."

The three saluted and were grateful. They longed for action,
which they believed would come more quickly with Major Hertford's
column. A little later, when military form permitted it, the two
boys thanked Colonel Newcomb in words.

"Maybe you won't thank me a few days from now," said the
colonel a little grimly, "but I am hopeful that our plans here in
Eastern Kentucky will prove successful, and that before long you
will be able to join the great forces in the western part of the
state. You are both good boys and now, good-bye."

The preparations for the mountain column, as Dick and Warner
soon called it, had been completed. They were on foot, but they
were well armed, well clothed, and they had supplies loaded in
several wagons, purchased hastily in the village. A dozen of the
strong mountaineers volunteered to be drivers and guides, and the
major was glad to have them. Later, several horses were secured for
the officers, but, meanwhile, the train was ready to depart.

Colonel Newcomb waved them farewell, the faithful and valiant
Canby opened the throttle, and the train steamed away. The men in
the little column, although eager for their new task, watched its
departure with a certain sadness at parting with their comrades.
The train became smaller and smaller, then it was only a spiral of
smoke, and that, too, soon died on the clear western horizon.

"And now to find Thomas!" said Major Hertford, who retained
Dick and Warner on his staff, practically its only members, in fact.
"It looks odd to hunt through the mountains for a general and his
army, but we've got it to do, and we'll do it."

The horses for the officers were obtained at the suggestion of
Sergeant Whitley, and the little column turned southward through the
wintry forest. Dick and Warner were riding strong mountain ponies,
but at times, and in order to show that they considered themselves
no better than the others, they dismounted and walked over the
frozen ground. The greatest tasks were with the wagons containing
the ammunition and supplies. The mountain roads were little more
than trails, sometimes half blocked with ice or snow and then again
deep in mud. The winter was severe. Storms of rain, hail, sleet
and snow poured upon them, but, fortunately, they were marching
through continuous forests, and the skilled mountaineers, under any
circumstances, knew how to build fires, by the side of which they
could dry themselves, and sleep warmly at night.

They also heard much gossip as they advanced to meet General
Thomas, who had been sent from Louisville to command the Northern
troops in the Kentucky mountains. Thomas was a Virginian, a member
of the old regular army, a valiant, able, and cautious man, who
chose to abide by the Union. Many other Virginians, some destined
to be as famous as he, and a few more so, wondered why he had not
gone with his seceding state, and criticised him much, but Thomas,
chary of speech, hung to his belief, and proved it by action.

Dick learned, too, that the Southern force operating against
Thomas, while actively led by Zollicoffer, was under the nominal
command of one of his own Kentucky Crittendens. Here he saw again
how terribly his beloved state was divided, like other border
states. General Crittenden's father was a member of the Federal
Congress at Washington, and one of his brothers was a general also,
but on the other side. But he was to see such cases over and over
again, and he was to see them to a still greater and a wholesale
degree, when the First Maryland regiment of the North and the First
Maryland regiment of the South, recruited from the same district,
should meet face to face upon the terrible field of Antietam.

But Antietam was far in the future, and Dick's mind turned
from the cases of brother against brother to the problems of the icy
wilderness through which they were moving, in a more or less
uncertain manner. Sometimes they were sent on false trails, but
their loyal mountaineers brought them back again. They also found
volunteers, and Major Hertford's little force swelled from three
hundred to six hundred. In the main, the mountaineers were
sympathetic, partly through devotion to the Union, and partly
through jealousy of the more prosperous lowlanders.

One day Major Hertford sent Dick, Warner, and Sergeant
Whitley, ahead to scout. He had recognized the ability of the two
lads, and also their great friendship for Sergeant Whitley. It
seemed fitting to him that the three should be nearly always
together, and he watched them with confidence, as they rode ahead on
the icy mountain trail and then disappeared from sight.

Dick and his friends had learned, at mountain cabins which
they had passed, that the country opened out further on into a fine
little valley, and when they reached the crest of a hill somewhat
higher than the others, they verified the truth of the statement.
Before them lay the coziest nook they had yet seen in the mountains,
and in the center of it rose a warm curl of smoke from the chimney
of a house, much superior to that of the average mountaineer. The
meadows and corn lands on either side of a noble creek were enclosed
in good fences. Everything was trim and neat.

The three rode down the slope toward the house, but halfway to
the bottom they reined in their ponies and listened. Some one was
singing. On the thin wintry air a deep mellow voice rose and they
distinctly heard the words:

Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the southern moon,
Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon. In thy dark
eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell, Weary looks
yet tender, speak their fond farewell. 'Nita, Juanita! Ask thy
soul if we should part, 'Nita, Juanita! Lean thou on my heart.
It was a wonderful voice that they heard, deep, full, and mellow,
all the more wonderful because they heard it there in those lone
mountains. The ridges took up the echo, and gave it back in tones
softened but exquisitely haunting.

The three paused and looked at one another. They could not
see the singer. He was hidden from them by the dips and swells of
the valley, but they felt that here was no common man. No common
mind, or at least no common heart, could infuse such feeling into
music. As they listened the remainder of the pathetic old air rose
and swelled through the ridges:

When in thy dreaming, moons like these shall shine again,
And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain, Wilt thou not,
relenting, for thy absent lover sigh? In thy heart consenting to a
prayer gone by! 'Nita, Juanita! Let me linger by thy side!
'Nita, Juanita! Be thou my own fair bride. "I'm curious to see
that singer," said Warner. "I heard grand opera once in Boston,
just before I started to the war, but I never heard anything that
sounds finer than this. Maybe time and place help to the extent of
fifty per cent, but, at any rate, the effect is just the same."

"Come on," said Dick, "and we'll soon find our singer, whoever
he is."

The three rode at a rapid pace until they reached the valley.
There they drew rein, as they saw near them a tall man, apparently
about forty years of age, mending a fence, helped by a boy of heavy
build and powerful arms. The man glanced up, saw the blue uniforms
worn by the three horsemen, and went peacefully on with his
fence-mending. He also continued to sing, throwing his soul into
the song, and both work and song proceeded as if no one was near.

He lifted the rails into place with mighty arms, but never
ceased to sing. The boy who helped him seemed almost his equal in
strength, but he neither sang nor spoke. Yet he smiled most of the
time, showing rows of exceedingly strong, white teeth.

"They seem to me to be of rather superior type," said Dick.
"Maybe we can get useful information from them."

"I judge that the singer will talk about almost everything
except what we want to know," said the shrewd and experienced
sergeant, "but we can certainly do no harm by speaking to him. Of
course they have seen us. No doubt they saw us before we saw
them."

The three rode forward, saluted politely and the
fence-menders, stopping their work, saluted in the same polite
fashion. Then they stood expectant.

"We belong to a detachment which is marching southward to join
the Union army under General Thomas," said Dick. "Perhaps you could
tell us the best road."

"I might an' ag'in I mightn't, stranger. If you don't talk
much you never have much to take back. If I knew where that army is
it would be easy for me to tell you, but if I didn't know I
couldn't. Now, the question is, do I know or don't I know? Do you
think you can decide it for me stranger?"

It was impossible for Dick or the sergeant to take offense.
The man's gaze was perfectly frank and open and his eyes twinkled as
he spoke. The boy with him smiled widely, showing both rows of his
powerful white teeth.

"We can't decide it until we know you better," said Dick in a
light tone.

"I'm willin' to tell you who I am. My name is Sam Jarvis, an'
this lunkhead here is my nephew, Ike Simmons, the son of my sister,
who keeps my house. Now I want to tell you, young stranger, that
since this war began and the Yankees and the Johnnies have taken a
notion to shoot up one another, people who would never have thought
of doin' it before, have come wanderin' into these mountains. But
you can get a hint about 'em sometimes. Young man, do you want me
to tell you your name?"

"Tell me my name!" responded Dick in astonishment. "Of course
you can't do it! You never saw or heard of me before."

"Mebbe no," replied Jarvis, with calm confidence, "but all the
same your name is Dick Mason, and you come from a town in Kentucky
called Pendleton. You've been serving with the Yanks in the East,
an' you've a cousin, named Harry Kenton, who's been servin' there
also, but with the Johnnies. Now, am I a good guesser or am I just
a plum' ignorant fool?"

Dick stared at him in deepening amazement.

"You do more than guess," he replied. "You know. Everything
that you said is true."

"Tell me this," said Jarvis. "Was that cousin of yours, Harry
Kenton, killed in the big battle at Bull Run? I've been
tremenjeously anxious about him ever since I heard of that terrible
fight."

"He was not. I have not seen him since, but I have definite
news now that he passed safely through the battle."

Sam Jarvis and his nephew Ike breathed deep sighs of
relief.

"I'm mighty glad to hear it," said Jarvis, "I shorely liked
that boy, Harry, an' I think I'll like you about as well. It don't
matter to me that you're on different sides, bein' as I ain't on any
side at all myself, nor is this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew."

"How on earth did you know me?"

"'Light, an' come into the house an' I'll tell you. You an'
your pardners look cold an' hungry. There ain't danger of anybody
taking your hosses, 'cause you can hitch 'em right at the front
door. Besides, I've got an old grandmother in the house, who'd like
mighty well to see you, Mr. Mason."

Dick concluded that it was useless to ask any more questions
just yet, and he, Warner and the sergeant, dismounting and leading
their horses, walked toward the house with Jarvis and Ike. Jarvis,
who seemed singularly cheerful, lifted up his voice and sang:

Thou wilt come no more, gentle Annie, Like a flower,
thy spirit did depart, Thou art gone, alas! like the many That
have bloomed in the summer of my heart. Shall we never more behold
thee? Never hear thy winning voice again? When the spring time
comes, gentle Annie? When the wild flowers are scattered o'er the
plain? It seemed to Dick that the man sang spontaneously, and the
deep, mellow voice always came back in faint and dying echoes that
moved him in a singular manner. All at once the war with its
passions and carnage floated away. Here was a little valley fenced
in from the battle-world in which he had been living. He breathed
deeply and as the eyes of Jarvis caught his a sympathetic glance
passed between them.

"Yes," said Jarvis, as if he understood completely, "the war
goes around us. There is nothing to fight about here. But come
into the house. This is my sister, the mother of that lunkhead, Ike,
and here is my grandmother."

He paused before the bent figure of an old, old woman, sitting
in a rocking chair beside the chimney, beside which a fire glowed
and blazed. Her chin rested on one hand, and she was staring into
the coals.

"Grandmother," said Jarvis very gently, "the great-grandson of
the great Henry Ware that you used to know was here last spring, and
now the great-grandson of his friend, Paul Cotter, has come,
too."

The withered form straightened and she stood up. Fire came
into the old, old eyes that regarded Dick so intently.

"Aye," she said, "you speak the truth, grandson. It is Paul
Cotter's own face. A gentle man he was, but brave, and the greatest
scholar. I should have known that when Henry Ware's great-grandson
came Paul Cotter's, too, would come soon. I am proud for this house
to have sheltered you both."

She put both her hands on his shoulders, and stood up very
straight, her face close to his. She was a tall woman, above the
average height of man, and her eyes were on a level with Dick's.

"It is true," she said, "it is he over again. The eyes are
his, and the mouth and the nose are the same. This house is yours
while you choose to remain, and my grandchildren and my
great-grandson will do for you whatever you wish."

Dick noticed that her grammar and intonation were perfect.
Many of the Virginians and Marylanders who emigrated to Kentucky in
that far-off border time were people of cultivation and
refinement.

After these words of welcome she turned from him, sat down in
her chair and gazed steadily into the coals. Everything about her
seemed to float away. Doubtless her thoughts ran on those dim early
days, when the Indians lurked in the canebrake and only the great
borderers stood between the settlers and sure death.

Dick began to gather from the old woman's words a dim idea of
what had occurred. Harry Kenton must have passed there, and as they
went into the next room where food and coffee were placed before
them, Jarvis explained.

"Your cousin, Harry Kenton, came through here last spring on
his way to Virginia," he said. "He came with me an' this lunkhead,
Ike, all the way from Frankfort and mostly up the Kentucky River.
Grandmother was dreaming and she took him at first for Henry Ware,
his very self. She saluted him and called him the great governor.
It was a wonderful thing to see, and it made me feel just a little
bit creepy for a second or two. Mebbe you an' your cousin, Harry
Kenton, are Henry Ware an' Paul Cotter, their very selves come back
to earth. It looks curious that both of you should wander to this
little place hid deep in the mountains. But it's happened all the
same. I s'pose you've just been moved 'round that way by the
Supreme Power that's bigger than all of us, an' that shifts us about
to suit plans made long ago. But how I'm runnin' on! Fall to,
friends--I can't call you strangers, an' eat an' drink. The winter
air on the mountains is powerful nippin' an' your blood needs
warmin' often."

The boys and the sergeant obeyed him literally and with
energy. Jarvis sat by approvingly, taking an occasional bite or
drink with them. Meanwhile they gathered valuable information from
him. A Northern commander named Garfield had defeated the Southern
forces under Humphrey Marshall in a smart little battle at a place
called Middle Creek. Dick knew this Humphrey Marshall well. He
lived at Louisville and was a great friend of his uncle, Colonel
Kenton. He had been a brilliant and daring cavalry officer in the
Mexican War, doing great deeds at Buena Vista, but now he was
elderly and so enormously stout that he lacked efficiency.

Jarvis added that after their defeat at Middle Creek the
Southerners had gathered their forces on or near the Cumberland
River about Mill Spring and that they had ten thousand men. Thomas
with a strong Northern force, coming all the way from the central
part of the state, was already deep in the mountains, preparing to
meet him.

"Remember," said Jarvis, "that I ain't takin' no sides in this
war myself. If people come along an' ask me to tell what I know I
tell it to 'em, be they Yank or Reb. Now, I wish good luck to you,
Mr. Mason, an' I wish the same to your cousin, Mr. Kenton."

Dick, Warner and the sergeant finished the refreshments and
rose for the return journey. They thanked Jarvis, and when they saw
that he would take no pay, they did not insist, knowing that it
would offend him. Dick said good-bye to the ancient woman and once
again she rose, put her hands on his shoulders and looked into his
eyes.

"Paul Cotter was a good man," she said, "and you who have his
blood in your veins are good, too. I can see it in something that
lies back in your eyes."

She said not another word, but sat down in the chair and
stared once more into the coals, dreaming of the far day when the
great borderers saved her and others like her from the savages, and
thinking little of the mighty war that raged at the base of her
hills.

The boys and the sergeant rode fast on the return trail. They
knew that Major Hertford would push forward at all speed to join
Thomas, whom they could now locate without much difficulty. Jarvis
and Ike had resumed their fence-mending, but when the trees hid the
valley from them a mighty, rolling song came to the ears of Dick,
Warner and the sergeant:

They bore him away when the day had fled, And the storm
was rolling high, And they laid him down in his lonely bed By
the light of an angry sky. The lightning flashed, and the wild sea
lashed The shore with its foaming wave, And the thunder passed
on the rushing blast As it howled o'er the rover's grave. "That
man's no fool," said Dick.

"No, he ain't," said the sergeant, with decision, "nor is that
nephew Ike of his that he calls a lunkhead. Did you notice, Mr.
Mason, that the boy never spoke a word while we was there? Them
that don't say anything never have anything to take back."

They rode hard now, and soon reached Major Hertford with their
news. On the third day thereafter they entered a strong Union camp,
commanded by a man named Garfield, the young officer who had won the
victory at Middle Creek.