Chapter VIII. A Meeting at Night

The Guns of Shiloh

by Joseph A. Altsheler

Dick heard above the thundering hoofbeats only a single shout,
and then, as he glanced backward, the house was lost in the
moonlight. When he secured his own horse he had noticed that all
the empty stalls were now filled, no doubt by the horses of the
young Leffingwells and Kerins, but he was secure in his confidence
that none could overtake the one he rode.

He felt of that inside pocket of his vest. The precious
dispatch was there, tightly pinned into its hidden refuge, and as
for himself, refreshed, warm, and strong after food, rest, and
sleep, he felt equal to any emergency. He had everything with him.
The stout saddle bags were lying across the saddle. He had thrust
the holster of pistols into them, but he took it out now, and hung
it in its own place, also across the saddle.

Although he was quite sure there would be no pursuit--the
elder Leffingwells would certainly keep their sons from joining
it--he sent his great horse straight ahead at a good pace for a long
time, the road being fairly good. His excitement and rapid motion
kept him from noticing at first the great bitterness of the cold.

When he had gone five or six miles he drew his horse down to a
walk. Then, feeling the intensity of the cold as the mercury was far
below zero, he dismounted, looped the reins over his arms, and
walked a while. For further precaution he took his blanket-roll and
wrapped the two blankets about his body, especially protecting his
neck and ears.

He found that the walking, besides keeping him warmer, took
all the stiffness out of his muscles, and he continued on foot
several miles. He passed two brooks and a creek, all frozen over so
solidly that the horse passed on them without breaking the ice. It
was an extremely difficult task to make the animal try the ice, but
after much delicate coaxing and urging he always succeeded.

He saw two more cabins at the roadside, but he did not think
of asking hospitality at either. The night was now far advanced and
he wished to put many more miles between him and the Leffingwell
home before he sought rest again.

He mounted his horse once more, and increased his speed. Now
the reaction came after so much exertion and excitement. He began
to feel depressed. He was very young and he had no comrade. The
loneliness of the winter night in a country full of dangers was
appalling. It seemed to him, as his heart sank, that all things had
conspired against him. But the moment of despair was brief. He
summoned his courage anew and rode on bravely, although the sense of
loneliness in its full power remained.

The moonlight was quite bright. The sky was a deep silky
blue, in which myriads of cold stars shone and danced. By and by he
skirted for a while the banks of a small river, which he knew flowed
southward into the Cumberland, and which would not cross his path.
The rays of the moonlight on its frozen surface looked like darts of
cold steel.

He left the river presently and the road bent a little toward
the north. Then the skies darkened somewhat but lightened again as
the dawn began to come. The red but cold edge of the sun appeared
above the mountains that he had left behind, and then the morning
came, pale and cold.

Dick stopped at a little brook, broke the ice and drank,
letting his horse drink after him. Then he ate heartily of the cold
bread and meat in his knapsack. Pitying his horse he searched until
he found a little grass not yet killed by winter in the lee of the
hill, and waited until he cropped it all.

He mounted and resumed his journey through a country in which
the hills were steadily becoming lower, with larger stretches of
level land appearing between them. By night he should be beyond the
last low swell of the mountains and into the hill region proper. As
he calculated distances his heart gave a great thump. He was to
locate Buell some distance north of Green River, and his journey
would take him close to Pendleton.

The boy was torn by great and conflicting emotions. He would
carry out with his life the task that Thomas had assigned to him,
and yet he wished to stop near Pendleton, if only for an hour.

Yes an hour would do! And it could not interfere with his
duty! But Pendleton was a Southern stronghold. Everybody there knew
him, and they all knew, too, that he was in the service of the
North. How could he pass by without being seen and what might happen
then? The terrible conflict went on in his mind, and it was stilled
only when he decided to leave it to time and chance.

He rode that day almost without interruption, securing an
ample dinner, where no one chose to ask questions, accepting him at
his own statement of himself and probably believing it. He heard
that a small Southern force was to the southward, probably marching
toward Bowling Green, where a great Confederate army under Albert
Sidney Johnston was said to be concentrated. But the news gave him
no alarm. His own road was still leading west slightly by north.

When night came he was in the pleasant and fertile hill
country, dotted with double brick houses, and others of wood, all
with wide porticos, supported by white pillars. It looked smiling
and prosperous even in winter. The war had done no ravages here,
and he saw men at work about the great barns.

He slept in the house of a big farmer, who liked the frank
voice and eyes of the lad, and who cared nothing for any errand upon
which he might be riding. He slept, too, without dreams, and
without awakening until the morning, when he shared a solid
breakfast with the family.

Dick obtained at the farmhouse a fresh supply of cold food for
his saddle bags, to be held against an emergency, although it was
likely now that he could obtain all he needed at houses as he
passed. Receiving the good wishes of his hosts he rode on through
the hills. The intense cold which kept troops from marching much
really served him, as the detachments about the little towns stayed
in their camps.

The day was quite clear, with the mercury still well below
zero, but his heavy clothing kept him warm and comfortable. His
great horse showed no signs of weariness. Apparently his sinews
were made of steel.

Noon came, but Dick did not seek any farmhouse for what was
called dinner in that region. Instead he ate from his saddle bags
as he rode on. He did not wish to waste time, and, moreover, he had
taken his resolution. He would go near Pendleton. It was on his
most direct route, but he would pass in the night.

As the cold twilight descended he came into familiar regions.
Like all other young Kentuckians he was a great horseman, and with
Harry Kenton and other lads of his age he had ridden nearly
everywhere in a circuit of thirty miles around Pendleton.

It was with many a throb of the heart that he now recognized
familiar scenes. He knew the fields, the forests and the houses.
But he was glad that the night had come. Others would know him, and
he did not wish to be seen when he rode on such an errand. He had
been saving his horse in the afternoon, but now he pushed him
forward at a much faster gait. The great horse responded willingly
and Dick felt the powerful body working beneath him, smooth and
tireless like a perfect machine.

He passed nobody on the road. People hugged their fires on
such a cold night, and he rode hour after hour without interruption.
It was nearly midnight when he stopped on a high hill, free of
forest, and looked down upon Pendleton. The wonderful clearness of
the winter night helped him. All the stars known to man were out,
and helped to illuminate the world with a clear but cold
radiance.

Although a long distance away Dick could see Pendleton
clearly. There was no foliage on the trees now, and nearly every
house was visible. The great pulse in his throat throbbed hard as he
looked. He saw the steeples of the churches, the white pillars of
the court house, and off to one side the academy in which he and
Harry Kenton had gone to school together. He saw further away
Colonel Kenton's own house on another hill. It, too, had porticos,
supported by white pillars which gleamed in the moonlight.

Then his eyes traveled again around the half circle before
him. The place for which he was looking could not be seen. But he
knew that it would be so. It was a low house, and the evergreens
about it, the pines and cedars would hide it at any time. But he
knew the exact spot, and he wanted his eyes to linger there a little
before he rode straight for it.

Now the great pulse in his throat leaped, and something like a
sob came from him. But it was not a sob of unhappiness. He clucked
to his horse and turned from the main road into a narrower one that
led by the low house among the evergreens. Yet he was a boy of
powerful will, and despite his eagerness, he restrained his horse
and advanced very slowly. Sometimes he turned the animal upon the
dead turf by the side of the road in order that his footsteps might
make no sound.

He drew slowly nearer, and when he saw the roof and eaves of
the low house among the evergreens the great pulse in his throat
leaped so hard that it was almost unbearable. He reached the edge
of the lawn that came down to the road, and hidden by the clipped
cone of a pine he saw a faint light shining.

He dismounted, opened the gate softly, and led his horse upon
the lawn, hitching him between two pines that grew close together,
concealing him perfectly.

"Be quiet, old fellow," he whispered, stroking the great
intelligent head. "Nobody will find you here and I'll come back for
you."

The horse rubbed his nose against his arm but made no other
movement. Then Dick walked softly toward the house, pulses beating
hard and paused just at the edge of a portico, where he stood in the
shadow of a pillar. He saw the light clearly now. It shone from a
window of the low second story. It came from her window and her
room. Doubtless she was thinking at that very moment of him. His
throat ached and tears came into his eyes. The light, clear and
red, shone steadily from the window and made a band across the
lawn.

He picked a handful of sand from the walk that led to the
front door and threw it against the window. He knew that she was
brave and would respond, but waiting only a moment or two he threw a
second handful fully and fairly against the glass.

The lower half of the window was thrown open and a head
appeared, where the moonlight fell clearly upon it. It was the head
of a beautiful woman, framed in thick, silken yellow hair, the eyes
deep blue, and the skin of the wonderful fairness so often found in
that state. The face was that of a woman about thirty-seven or eight
years of age, and without a wrinkle or flaw.

"Mother!" called Dick in a low voice as he stepped from the
shadow of the pillar.

There was a cry and the face disappeared like a flash from the
window. But he had only a few moments to wait. Her swift feet
brought her from the room, down the stairway, and along the hall to
the door, which she threw open. The next instant Mrs. Mason had her
son in her arms.

"Oh, Dick, Dicky, boy, how did you come!" she exclaimed. "You
were here under my window, and I did not even know that you were
alive!"

Her tears of joy fell upon his face and he was moved
profoundly. Dick loved his beautiful young mother devoutly, and her
widowhood had bound them all the more closely together.

"I've come a long distance, and I've come in many ways,
mother," he replied, "by train, by horseback, and I have even
walked."

"You have come here on foot?"

"No, mother. I rode directly over your own smooth lawn on one
of the biggest horses you ever saw, and he's tied now between two of
the pine trees. Come, we must go in the house. It's too cold for
you out here. Do you know that the mercury is about ten degrees
below zero."

"What a man you have grown! Why, you must be two inches
taller than you were, when you went away, and how sunburned and
weather-beaten you are, too! Oh, Dicky, this terrible, terrible
war! Not a word from you in months has got through to me!"

"Nor a word from you to me, mother, but I have not suffered so
much so far. I was at Bull Run, where we lost, and I was at Mill
Spring, where we won, but I was unhurt."

"Perhaps you have come back to stay," she said hopefully.

"No, mother, not to stay. I took a chance in coming by here
to see you, but I couldn't go on without a few minutes. Inside now,
mother, your hands are growing cold."

They went in at the door, and closed it behind them. But
there was another faithful soul on guard that night. In the dusky
hail loomed a gigantic black figure in a blue checked dress, blue
turban on head.

"Marse Dick?" she said.

"Juliana!" he exclaimed. "How did you know that I was
here?"

"Ain't I done heard Miss Em'ly cry out, me always sleepin' so
light, an' I hears her run down the hail. An' then I dresses an'
comes an' sees you two through the crack o' the do', an' then I
waits till you come in."

Dick gave her a most affectionate greeting, knowing that she
was as true as steel. She rejoiced in her flowery name, as many
other colored women rejoiced in theirs, but her heart inhabited
exactly the right spot in her huge anatomy. She drew mother and son
into the sitting-room, where low coals still burned on the hearth.
Then she went up to Mrs. Mason's bedroom and put out the light,
after which she came back to the sitting-room, and, standing by a
window in silence, watched over the two over whom she had watched so
long.

"Why is it that you can stay such a little while?" asked Mrs.
Mason.

"Mother," replied Dick in a low tone, "General Thomas, who won
the battle at Mill Spring, has trusted me. I bear a dispatch of
great importance. It is to go to General Buell, and it has to do
with the gathering of the Union troops in the western and southern
parts of our state, and in Tennessee. I must get through with it,
and in war, mother, time counts almost as much as battles. I can
stop only a few minutes even for you."

"I suppose it is so. But oh, Dicky, won't this terrible war
be over soon?"

"I don't think so, mother. It's scarcely begun yet."

Mrs. Mason said nothing, but stared into the coals. The great
negress, Juliana, standing at the window, did not move.

"I suppose you are right, Dick," she said at last with a sigh,
"but it is awful that our people should be arrayed so against one
another. There is your cousin, Harry Kenton, a good boy, too, on the
other side."

"Yes, mother, I caught a glimpse of him at Bull Run. We came
almost face to face in the smoke. But it was only for an instant.
Then the smoke rushed in between. I don't think anything serious
has happened to him."

Mrs. Mason shuddered.

"I should mourn him next to you," she said, "and my
brother-in-law, Colonel Kenton, has been very good. He left orders
with his people to watch over us here. Pendleton is strongly
Southern as you know, but nobody would do us any harm, unless it was
the rough people from the hills."

Colonel Kenton's wife had been Mrs. Mason's elder sister, and
Dick, as he also sat staring into the coals, wondered why people who
were united so closely should yet be divided so much.

"Mother," he said, "when I came through the mountains with my
friends we stopped at a house in which lived an old, old woman. She
must have been nearly a hundred. She knew your ancestor and mine,
the famous and learned Paul Cotter, from whom you and I are
descended, and she also knew his friend and comrade, the mighty
scout and hunter, Henry Ware, who became the great governor of
Kentucky."

"How strange!"

"But the strangest is yet to be told. Harry Kenton, when he
went east to join Beauregard before Bull Run, stopped at the same
house, and when she first saw him she only looked into the far past.
She thought it was Henry Ware himself, and she saluted him as the
governor. What do you think of that, mother?"

"It's a startling coincidence."

"But may it not be an omen? I'm not superstitious, mother,
but when things come together in such a queer fashion it's bound to
make you think. When Harry's paths and mine cross in such a manner
maybe it means that we shall all come together again, and be united
as we were."

"Maybe."

"At any rate," said Dick with a little laugh, "we'll hope that
it does."

While the boy was not noticing his mother had made a sign to
Juliana, who had crept out of the room. Now she returned, bearing
food upon a tray, and Dick, although he was not hungry, ate to
please his mother.

"You will stay until morning?" she said.

"No, mother. I can't afford to be seen here. I must leave in
the dark."

"Then until it is nearly morning."

"Nor that either, mother. My time is about up already. I
could never betray the trust that General Thomas has put in me. My
dispatches not only tell of the gathering of our own troops, but
they contain invaluable information concerning the Confederate
concentration which General Thomas learned from his scouts and
spies. Mother, I think a great battle is coming here in the
west."

She shuddered, but she did not seek again to delay him in his
duty.

"I am proud," she said, "that you have won the confidence of
your general, and that you ride upon such an important errand. I
should have been glad if you had stayed at home, Dick, but since you
have chosen to be a soldier, I am rejoiced that you have risen in
the esteem of your officers. Write to me as often as you can.
Maybe none of your letters will reach me, but at least start them.
I shall start mine, too."

"Of course, mother," said Dick, "and now it's time for me to
ride hard."

"Why, you have been here only a half hour!"

"Nearer an hour, mother, and on this journey of mine time
means a lot. I must say good-bye now to you and Juliana."

The two women followed him down the lawn to the point where
his horse was hitched between the two big pines. Mrs. Mason patted
the horse's great head and murmured to him to carry her son well.

"Did you ever see a finer horse, mother?" said Dick proudly.
"He's the very pick of the army."

He threw his arms around her neck, kissed her more than once,
sprang into the saddle and rode away in the darkness.

The two women, the black and the white, sisters in grief, and
yet happy that he had come, went slowly back into the house to wait,
while the boy, a man's soul in him, strode on to war.

Dick was far from Pendleton when the dawn broke, and now he
had full need of caution. His horse was bearing him fast into
debatable ground, where every man suspected his neighbor, and it
remained for force alone to tell to which side the region belonged.
But the extreme delicacy of the tension came to Dick's aid. People
hesitated to ask questions, lest questions equally difficult be
asked of them in return. It was a great time to mind one's own
business.

He rode on, fortune with him for the present, and his course
was still west slightly by north. He slept under roofs, and he
learned that in the country into which he had now come the Union
sympathizers were more numerous than the Confederate. The majority
of the Kentuckians, whatever their personal feelings, were not
willing to shatter the republic.

He heard definitely that here in the west the North was
gathering armies greater than any that he had supposed. Besides the
troops from the three states just across the Ohio River the hardy
lumbermen and pioneers were pouring down from Michigan, Wisconsin,
and Minnesota. Hunters in deerskin suits and buffalo moccasins had
already come from the far Nebraska Territory.

The power of the west and the northwest was converging upon
his state, which gave eighty thousand of its men to the Northern
cause, while half as many more went away to the Southern armies,
particularly to the one under the brilliant and daring Albert Sidney
Johnston, which hung a sinister menace before the Northern front.
One hundred and twenty thousand troops sent to the two armies by a
state that contained but little more than a million people! It was
said at the time that as Kentucky went, so would go the fortunes of
the Union and in the end it was so.

But these facts and reckonings were not much in Dick's mind
just then. He was thinking of Buell's camp and of the message that
he bore. Again and again he felt of that little inside pocket of his
vest to see that it was there, although he knew that by no chance
could he have lost it.

When he was within fifteen miles of Buell's camp a heavy snow
began to fall. But he did not mind it. The powerful horse that had
borne him so well carried him safely on to his destination, and
before the sundown of that day the young messenger was standing
before General Don Carlos Buell, one of the most puzzling characters
whom he was to meet in the whole course of the war. He had found
Thomas a silent man, but he found Buell even more so. He received
Dick in an ordinary tent, thanked him as he saluted and handed him
the dispatch, and then read General Thomas' message.

Dick saw before him a shortish, thickset man, grim of feature,
who did not ask him a word until he had finished the dispatch.

"You know what this contains?" he said, when he came to the
end.

"Yes, General Thomas made me memorize it, that I might destroy
it if I were too hard pressed."

"He tells us that Johnston is preparing for some great blow
and he gives the numbers and present location of the hostile forces.
Valuable information for us, if it is used. You have done well,
Mr. Mason. To what force were you attached?"

"A small division of Pennsylvania troops under Major Hertford.
They were to be sent by General Thomas to General Grant at Cairo,
Illinois."

"And you would like to join them."

"If you please, sir."

"In view of your services your wish is granted. It is likely
that General Grant will need all the men whom he can get. A
detachment leaves here early in the morning for Elizabethtown, where
it takes the train for Louisville, proceeding thence by water to
Cairo. You shall go with these men. They are commanded by Colonel
Winchester. You may go now, Mr. Mason."

He turned back to his papers and Dick, thinking his manner
somewhat curt, left his tent. But he was pleased to hear that the
detail was commanded by Colonel Winchester. Arthur Winchester was a
man of forty-one or two who lived about thirty miles north of
Pendleton. He was a great landowner, of high character and pleasant
manners. Dick had met him frequently in his childhood, and the
Colonel received him with much warmth.

"I'm glad to know, Dick," he said familiarly, "that you're
going with us. I'm fond of Pendleton, and I like to have one of the
Pendleton boys in my command. If all that we hear of this man Grant
is true, we'll see action, action hot and continuous."

They rode to Elizabethtown, where Dick was compelled to leave
his great horse for Buell's men, and went by train to Louisville,
going thence by steamer down the Ohio River to Cairo, at its
junction with the Mississippi, where they stood at last in the
presence of that general whose name was beginning to be known in the
west.