The Red Mist/Chapter 1
CHAPTER I
ON SPECIAL SERVICE
IT WAS already growing dusk when the Staunton Battery of Horse Artillery returned wearily to camp after hours of hard field drill, the men ever conscious that no evolution, however trivial, was being overlooked by "Stonewall" Jackson, sitting astride his sorrel on a little eminence to the left, his stern face unrelieved by even the semblance of a smile. He would criticise without mercy, but never praise, and the artillerymen insensibly stiffened to the work, as eager to do well as though they were in action.
The time was early spring, some remnants of snow still clinging to the hollows out of reach of the warming sun, and a chill wind blowing through the passes of the western mountains. The comparative idleness of the past winter months, given over to foraging and drill, together with the comforts of a permanent camp, had engendered forgetfulness of the hardships of the last campaign, and left the men eager to confront the dangers of the future. In no heart was there doubt of the final result—the Army of the Valley pinned its faith on "Old Jack." They were soldiers—veterans already—anxious for active service; their depleted ranks filled up once more with recruits, well drilled and efficient through constant training; and while many remembered with regret the old faces—the dead, the wounded, the missing—they nevertheless realized that never before were they in sterner mood or better prepared for grim fighting.
The winter quarters of the Staunton Artillery were slightly off the main road, back within the shelter of a grove of oak trees, and I remained for some time overseeing the care of the horses before approaching the hut where the non-commissioned officers had mess. We were all of us still at the table, discussing the incidents of the drill, when a lieutenant appeared suddenly in the doorway, and glanced inquiringly about the room, scarcely able to distinguish our faces in the dull light of the lantern which alone illumined the interior.
"Sergeant Wyatt?" he inquired briefly.
I arose to my feet.
"Here, sir," I answered in some surprise.
"You are requested to report to General Jackson at once."
"At Winchester, sir?"
"No; his headquarters for tonight are at Coulter's farm, on the dirt pike. You will ride your own horse."
I endeavored to circle the others, and thus reach the door in time to ask further questions, but was too late; the lieutenant, his message delivered, had already disappeared in the darkness. I stared after him in perplexity. What could Jackson possibly want of me? On whose recommendation had I been thus singled out for special service? How, indeed, had the commanding general even learned my name? I stood hesitating in the open door, listening to the hoof beats of the officer's horse, my mind filled with wonderment. But I was a soldier, thoroughly disciplined, and orders must be obeyed. The pause, the doubt, were but momentary. Five minutes later I was guiding my own horse down the same dark road, bending low in the saddle, obsessed with a feeling that this mission, whatever it might turn out to be, promised a change in my fortunes.
It was an ugly path, rutted deep by artillery wheels, and dangerous for the horse. On either side glowed the blaze of camp fires, and the sound of voices could be heard. One group was lustily singing songs of the South, and I passed a shop, the door wide open, the farrier busy shoeing cavalry horses, their riders lounging idly without.
I was an hour reaching the dirt pike, although the distance was not great, and I knew the way well. There I encountered infantry pickets, who became more vigilant, and inquisitive, as I approached closer to the Coulter house. This was a double log cabin, erected in a grove of trees, some fifty feet or more back from the road, and surrounded by a slab fence. A squadron of cavalry were encamped in the yard, their horses saddled, and tied to the palings, while the lights gleaming through the windows, together with the dying glow of a fire to the right, dimly revealed a group of men clustered on the front porch. It was with some difficulty that I made my way through the obstructing guard to the foot of the steps, where an officer, whose face was indistinguishable, took my name, and repeated it to an orderly stationed at the closed door. The latter disappeared in a sudden blaze of light, and I stood there silently in the shadows waiting.
Ten minutes must have elapsed before the door opened again, and I heard my name called. The group of waiting officers fell aside, and I passed in between them, unable to recognize a face. Once within I glanced curiously about the bare room, noting its occupants, and their rude surroundings. It was a rough appearing, commonplace interior, the log walls once whitewashed, but now streaked with dirt, the only furniture visible a few home-made chairs, and an ordinary kitchen table. A sturdy fire burned in the fireplace, and three lamps illumined the scene, revealing the presence of five men, among whom I instantly recognized Ewell, Ashby, together with Jackson, and his chief of staff. The fifth occupant of the room sat alone in one corner, his face partially concealed, revealing little other than a fringe of gray whiskers. Jackson and his aide were seated behind the table, which was littered with papers and maps, and as the former glanced up, at the announcement of the orderly, I came instantly to attention, my hand lifted in salute. The general's stern blue eyes surveyed me intently.
"Sergeant Wyatt, Staunton Artillery?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long, may I ask, have you been in the service?"
"Since May, '61, sir."
"Ah! indeed. And your age?"
"Twenty-four, sir."
He made some remark aside to the aide, who nodded back, and pointed to a map before them.
"You are a younger man in appearance than I had expected to see, Sergeant," Jackson said slowly. "Yet I have learned within the last year to have confidence in young men. War is a swift developer of manhood. Your colonel speaks of you in the highest terms, and informs me that you are a native of Green Briar County."
"Our home was at Lewisburg, sir."
"Then you are doubtless intimately acquainted with that section?"
"Very well, indeed, General."
Jackson sat motionless and in silence for what seemed a long while, his grave eyes on my face, but his mind evidently elsewhere, one hand unconsciously crumpling a folded paper. Ashby moved his chair, causing it to crunch noisily on the floor, and the commander aroused at the unusual sound.
"By any possibility are you related to Judge Joel Wyatt?" he questioned slowly.
"He was my father, sir."
"I thought it was not improbable. There is a noticeable resemblance, and I recall he lived west of the mountains. I knew your father in Mexico. Is he still living?"
"He has been dead two years."
"I regret to hear it. Your mother, unless I am mistaken, was a Farquhar, of North Carolina?"
"Yes, sir—she has returned to her old home."
"The best of southern blood, gentlemen," he said smilingly, glancing toward the others, but with watchful eyes instantly returning to scan me. "Was she driven out of Green Briar by the state of unrest in that section?"
"In a measure—yes," I replied promptly. "It was hardly safe for her to remain there alone. The county is filled with Union sympathizers, and roamed over by bands of guerrillas, claiming allegiance with both sides, but sparing no one. At present, I understand, Federal troops have been sent there from Charleston, and are in control."
"Your information is partially correct; but in order to perfect plans now contemplated I require a still more definite knowledge of existing conditions. I need to know accurately the number and distribution of the Union forces in Green Briar, and also more complete information regarding those irregulars who are in sympathy with us, as well as the character of their leaders. Judging from the recommendation given you by Colonel Maitland I felt that you were peculiarly adapted to render this service. However, Sergeant Wyatt, I propose stating plainly that this may prove an exceedingly dangerous detail, and if you decide to accept it, it must be done as a volunteer."
He paused questioningly, and I drew a quick breath, realizing suddenly the seriousness of the situation, and the importance of my decision.
"I am perfectly ready to go, sir."
"I have felt little doubt as to that, but I wish you to comprehend clearly that we can offer you no protection if your secret mission is discovered."
"I so understand, General Jackson, I know the usages of war, but this is not a question of danger, but of duty. You desire that I depart at once?"
Ewell broke in impatiently with his high pitched voice.
"May I ask if it be generally known in Green Briar that you are enlisted in the Confederate service?"
"To but very few, sir," I answered, turning to look across at my unexpected questioner. "To none I am at all likely to encounter. My mother and I left the county at the first outbreak. My father's affiliations were with the Union element."
"Most fortunate. Nothing could be better, General Jackson. The sergeant can very safely travel as a Federal officer in search of recruits. The matter of papers can, of course, be easily arranged."
Jackson turned toward his aide.
"What Federal troops are now garrisoning Charleston, Swan?"
"An Ohio brigade, with a regiment of Pennsylvania cavalry. There is also a company of heavy artillery outside the town."
The commander leaned his head on his hand.
"I would like to suggest, sir," I ventured to say respectfully, "that General Ewell's plan be adopted. I think I shall have no difficulty in assuming the role."
"You are willing then to assume the risk?" He looked at me gravely. "It may eventually mean a drum-head court-martial, and death as a spy."
"If I fail—yes, sir; but this method surely offers the greatest possibility of success."
"I can clearly perceive that, but it was not my original plan to send you into the lines of the enemy in Federal uniform. However General Ewell's judgment is probably correct. Have you a late Army List there, Colonel Swan?"
"Yes, sir, issued the fourteenth." He turned the pages slowly, leaning forward to the light. "Here is a Lieutenant Raymond, Third U. S. Cavalry, reported on recruiting detail. His regiment is stationed at Fairfax Court House."
"He will answer as well as any other. It is scarcely probable the man would be known in that remote section. What is the full name? and where is he from?"
"Charles H.; appointed from Vermont."
"Is this choice satisfactory to you, sergeant?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"You are prepared to depart immediately?"
"As soon as I can be furnished with the necessary papers and equipment."
"Colonel Swan will arrange the first, and the quartermaster can doubtless supply the other requirements. Orderly, have Major Kline step in here at once. Ah, Kline, have you among your trophies of war a Federal lieutenant's uniform which will probably fit this man?"
"I believe so, sir," and the officer addressed ran his eyes appraisingly over my figure. "Any particular regiment?"
"Third, United States Cavalry. Have it pressed and sent here at once, securely wrapped, together with saber and revolvers. Where is your horse, sergeant?"
"Tied to the palings outside."
"Do you desire a better mount?"
"No sir, the animal is fresh, and a good traveler."
"Then that will be all, Kline; except, of course, complete Federal cavalry equipment for the horse."
The officer saluted, and disappeared, the door instantly closing behind him, cutting off the hum of voices without. There was a moment of silence.
"You had better retain your present dress until after you leave the valley," counseled Jackson, slowly. "Swan will furnish you with a pass, which should be carefully destroyed after passing our pickets at Covington. It will be of no service to you beyond that point. My best wishes for your success, Sergeant Wyatt."
He stood up, and I felt the firm grasp of his hand. Then Ashby gripped my shoulder.
"Wyatt," he said kindly, "if you ever desire to change your arm of the service, you are the kind of man I want to ride with me."
I smiled in appreciation, but before I could answer, the man who had been sitting silently in the corner arose, and stood erect in the light. The gleam of the lamp instantly revealed his face still shadowed by the wide hat brim, the firm, bearded chin, the gravely smiling eyes.
"General Ashby," he said with quiet dignity, "Sergeant Wyatt, I am sure, performs this important duty without thought of reward. It is the South that has need of such men in every branch of her service." He came forward, and extended his hand cordially.
"I am General Lee, and am very glad to greet, and wish God speed to the son of Judge Wyatt. If you return in safety, you will report to me in person at Richmond. General Jackson will so arrange with your battery commander."
They were all upon their feet, standing in respectful attention. I murmured something, I scarcely knew what, bowing as I backed toward the door. And this was Lee—Robert E. Lee—this man with the kind, thoughtful face, the gentle voice, the gravely considerate manner. And he had greeted me in words of personal friendship, had spoken to me of my father. I know I straightened to soldierly erectness, every pulse thrilling with a new resolve. A moment I stood there, my eyes on the one face I saw before me, and then went out into the darkness. The orderly closed the door.