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The whole campaign in the valley had become to him an interminable maze. Stonewall Jackson might know what he intended to do, but he was not telling. Meanwhile they marched back and forth. There was incessant skirmishing between cavalry and pickets, but it did not seem to signify anything. Banks, sure of his overwhelming numbers, pressed forward, but always cautiously and slowly.
The picture of the man in the heart of that red glare among the showers of bullets had been burned so deeply into Harry's memory that he could call it up, almost as vivid as life itself at any time. Surely that was a leader to follow, and he, at least, would wish to ride where Stonewall led. But action did not come as soon as he had expected. Jackson was held by commands from Richmond.
"They would try to, anyhow," Vincent said, smiling, "and if it were possible they would assuredly do it. I was in Ashley's horse with the Stonewall division through the first campaign in the Shenandoah Valley and up to Bull Run, and after that under Stuart. But is not your brother here? Your servant called to him." "There is no one here but ourselves," the girl replied.
"Taliaferro's Brigade getting watered! All I ask is you'll just let me and my willows alone." He might ask, but Taliaferro's seemed hardly likely to grant. Taliaferro's had a harder time even than the Stonewall finding water. There was less there to find and it was muddier. The men, swearing at their luck, ranged up and down the stream.
Stonewall Jackson came to the door of his tent and stood, looking out. All Rude's Hill throbbed to "Dixie." On went the programme. "Marco Bozzaris" was well spoken. A blacksmith and a mule driver wrestled for a prize. "Marmion Quitting the Douglas's Hall" was followed by "Lula, Lula, Lula is Gone," and "Lula" by "Lorena," and "Lorena" by a fencing match.
A brilliant soldier, he was severely wounded at Cerro Gordo and again at Chapultepec. He served as United States Senator after the war and again took the field in the Civil War, his forces defeating Stonewall Jackson at the first battle of Winchester in 1862. The glamour of chivalry lights the name of Phil Kearney. Here was a born soldier. He was a volunteer with the French in Algiers in 1839-40.
And then there was the story of the charge late in the night, which had recovered the lost ground, and kept Stonewall Jackson busy up to the very hour of his tragic death. And there was the story of Andersonville, and the escape from prison. Montague could have walked the streets all night, exchanging these war-time reminiscences with the Major.
Well, Henkel's a cobbler been one since '65 and let me tell you he's a blamed good one, and if you're ever in Petersburg and want any half-soling done, let me tell you Yea-a-a! See that trim-looking one with the little mustache saluting now? He tried to save Stonewall Jackson's life on the 2d of May, 1863, threw himself in front of him and got badly potted. He's a D.D. now. Yea-a-a-a!"
He snatched a pistol from his belt and, riding directly at them, cried: "Forward and into the ranks at once, or I shoot!" "But we are lame, sir!" cried one of the men. "See my foot is bleeding!" He held up one foot and red drops were falling from the ragged shoe. "It makes no difference," cried Harry. "Barefooted men should be glad to march for Stonewall Jackson! One, two, three!
Do you still need reinforcements? Lee. The signal officer on the knoll behind the Stonewall wigwagged back. No. The enemy are giving way. Jackson. They gave way, indeed. The forty guns upon the ridge, the eight that Lee had sent, strewed the green field beyond the Groveton wood with shot and shrapnel. Morell fell back, Hatch fell back; the guns became deadly, mowing down the blue lines.
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