CHAPTER XVI
"Into the valley of death."
– Tennyson.
It was arranged that the command with which Griffith moved should, so far as was possible, avoid collision with the enemy; move silently, swiftly or slowly as occasion demanded, but at all times do everything possible to give to the topographical engineers a clear, distinct and minute knowledge of the country, so that in future intelligent action could be sustained.
It was thought wise to take as few troops as safety would permit, and, wherever knowledge of the proximity of the Southern forces was obtained in time, take some other road or retire temporarily to the seclusion of the mountains. All fighting was, if possible, to be avoided. This was the plan of operations. At times they were far inside the enemy's lines, but at distant points from the opposing force.
At other times they were again camped for a night with some advance division of the federal troops farther northward. To those to whom their object was unknown, their movements would have seemed unaccountable, indeed.
In road or pass or village, many a familiar face did Griffith see, and his relief was intense, if no look of recognition came into it. His fatigue coat, from which the brass buttons had been taken, and broad-brimmed, cord-decorated military hat, served as something of a disguise with those who had never seen him in other than clerical garb. Often a sharp pain shot through his heart as he rode through some one of his old circuits, and a one time friendly face looked up at him, at first with simply the curiosity and dislike bestowed upon the staff officers of a hostile force, and then with a sudden flash of recognition, there would come, also, a look of bitter personal resentment, not meant for the staff, but for that son of the South, who, as they felt, was betraying his friends. What his position or rank was they did not know. His uniform was that of a civilian, excepting only the hat; but that he was in and with and of the invading army was enough. The information spread like wildfire.
"Griffith Davenport is with a brigade of Yankees! He knows every inch of this country!" What this meant to both sides, was quickly understood. Bitterness increased. That he should be shot at the first opportunity was universally conceded. Griffith saw and felt it keenly. It made his heart too heavy for words. At first he spoke to the General: "I knew that man, General. He recognized me. Did you see how he turned suddenly to look again? Did you see – ?"
"Yes, I noticed, and I saw the look of hate, damn him; but you needn't be afraid. The first time any assassination business is tried they will find who they have got to deal with. I'll burn every God-damned house I come to, and shoot several citizens in retaliation! Oh, I'm not half so mild as I look! Don't you be afraid! They'll all think hell has broke loose on earth, if they fire from ambush at you! They'll have to get you in open battle, if they want to be treated with soldierly consideration, and we don't intend you to be in any battle; so don't you be – "
"It is not that! It is not that, General," Griffith would say. He tried to explain.
"Well, heavens and earth! What did you expect? You didn't expect 'em to like it, did you?"
Griffith sighed and gave it up. No, he did not expect them to like it. He did not even hope that they could understand it fairly, and yet – The home-coming was indeed bitter, and Griffith ceased to sing. He saw maps made of the places he loved, and he saw in the distance the peaceful old haunts filled with contending armies. He looked at the trees that were still old and warm and loyal friends, in spite of difference of creed or politics, and he dreamed of them when they should be lopped of their branches and tom with shot and shell as they tried vainly to shield with their own sturdy limbs those who knew no better than to fight the battles of this life with sword and gun. One day, as he rode slowly in advance of the rest, he suddenly looked up toward the gnarled branch of a great tree, where he recalled that an old friend of his had lived. The heads of three tiny squirrels peeped out, and the mother frisked hard by. "Ah," he said, aloud, "how do you do, Bunnie? Still living at the old home-place. See! Is it you or your great-grandchildren? There's such a strong family likeness I can't tell." The little animal whisked nearer, and looked with curious eyes that were not afraid. "You do not blame me, and you do not hate me, and you do not fear me, Bunnie. You understand me better than men do, after all." He sighed and tossed a bit of cracker toward the nest. It fell far short, but the mother-squirrel whisked about here and there, and flipped her tail and posed; but at last snatched up the proffered gift and scampered up the tree. Griffith smiled.
"I've broken bread with one of my old friends at last," he said aloud.
"What did you say?" asked the General, halting suddenly. He had lowered his voice to the danger pitch, as he had mistaken Griffith's low tone for one of caution. He lifted his hand, and each of his officers down the line did the same. There was an instant halt.
"What was it?" he asked again, under his breath.
"A nest of squirrels right where they were fifteen or twenty years ago. I was renewing the acquaintance. They were the first old friends that have not been afraid of – who trusted me still. I was – "
A volley of oaths burst forth. "Attention! March!" he commanded, and as the line officers repeated the command, the General's wrath waxed furious. He did not dare to wreak it directly upon Griffith. He dashed back down the line, swearing with that lurid facility and abandon for which he was famous, at the astonished, but case-hardened and amused men.
"Halted an army to talk to a God-damned squirrel!" he ground out between his wrathful teeth, as he rejoined his staff. He whipped out a revolver and fired at the nest. The bullet flew wide of the mark, but the little heads disappeared in affright. The staff-officers looked at each other and smiled. The contrast between the two at their head was a source of constant, mild fun.
"Broken faith with even you, haven't I, Bunnie?" said Griffith, softly, as he rode on. "Do you think I threw you the cracker so that I could the better shoot you? I didn't, Bannie – but you will never know."
A half-mile further on Griffith halted. "General," he said, "this is the only place for some distance now that we can halt for the night under cover of a dense wood and still have water near. There is a creek just below that rise. It is good water. It curves around this way, and the horses can be picketed near it and still be hid. After this it will be open country for ten miles or more. If – "
"Halt! Throw out pickets! Dismount! Break ranks!"
The orders were given and repeated. The appearance of a camp grew up like magic. No fires were to be lighted until scout and picket reports came in, but the men went about feeding their horses and making ready for the fires and for "grub," as they called it. They were glad to stretch themselves. It had been a long day's ride.
"We will signal from the rise over there, General," Griffith said. "If from there we can see no camp-fires, there will be none near enough to detect ours. Shall I return here, General, or – "
"Return here. Pick your escort."
Griffith rode away with his three sharpshooters. The tired men watched eagerly for the signal, as they lay about on the ground. A shout went up when they saw it, and fires were lighted and rations brought forth. A young fellow with corporal's straps was humming as he lay on his back with both feet far up on the body of a tree. He had carried with him all day an empty tin can, and now he was making coffee in it. He turned from time to time to peer into the can or readjust the sticks as they burned.
"We're tenting to-night on the old camp-ground."
His soft tenor rang out on the cool evening air as clear as the note of a bird, despite his recumbent position. He lifted himself on one elbow and peered again into the coffee, but the song ran on —
"Give us a song to cheer."
A group near him was deep in a game of cards. "Here! It's Towsy's deal! Damned if I don't believe Jim would deal every hand if he wasn't watched. He – "
"Our weary heart, a song of home – "
"Oh, dry up! Give us a rest!"
"Ouch! Stop that! If I don't – "
"Clubs again, by gad! Every time Stumpy deals, its clubs. I believe – "
"And friends we love so dear.
Many are the hearts that are weary to-night,
Wishing – "
The clear tenor had risen into steady continuity as the young corporal sat half up to shake the tin can again. The card dealer joined in with a mocking bass, then suddenly, voice after voice took up the refrain and the very air seemed to come laden with it, from far and near. The volume of sound died with the last note of the refrain, and once more the clear tenor, lying on his back now, with both hands under his head, ran softly on alone:
"We've been tenting to-night on the old camp-ground.
Thinking of days gone by – "
He drew a letter from his breast-pocket, and, as he unfolded it, stooped over and took one swallow of the coffee, and replaced the can on the fire. Some hard tack lay beside him, and one biscuit reposed on his stomach where he replaced it when he lay back again, and finished the verse slowly. When the refrain began again, the cards were held down, men in other groups straightened up from rekindling fires, others stopped short in a game of quoits played with horseshoes picked up on the banks of the creek. Water carriers set down their loads, or halted, with pails still in hand, and added their voices to the melody. The effect amongst the trees was indescribable. The picket in the distance half halted in his tramp, and turned to listen. The moon was beginning to swing up over the hill, from which the signal had come, and between the trees it touched the face of the delicate-featured young corporal of the sweet voice, and he turned the letter to catch the light from it, and add to the glow of the firelight, that he might the better re-read the treasured words. He was still humming softly, inarticulately, now. A stick burned in two, and the can of precious coffee was slowly emptying its overturned contents on the ground.
There was but one bite gone from the biscuit which lay on the blue coat. Music and sentiment had triumphed over appetite and the young corporal dozed off, asleep now with the letter still in his hand and the noisy players about him. In the distance Griffith and his escort were returning. Suddenly a shot rang out in the clear air! Then another and another! The men were on their feet in an instant. The General was hastily adjusting his field-glass, but in the moonlight it was but slight help. He could see, as the smoke cleared away, six men instead of four. So much he could make out, but no more. One was being lifted on to a horse. All were dismounted. There was activity in the camp. Hasty preparations were made to send a relief party. Who was shot? What did it mean? Was there an ambush? Was the Guide deceived as to the safety of this position? Would they have to fight or retreat? Had the Guide been killed? Had some angry native seen and assassinated Griffith? The officers consulted together hastily and orders were given, but the little procession was slowly approaching.
They were not pursued. At least there was not to be a battle – and there had been a capture, but who was killed? The Government Guide? Two were walking – were they the assassin and his companion? When the little procession reached the picket line it halted and there was some readjustment of the body they were carrying, stretched between two horses, where it lay motionless except as others lifted it. Beside it walked another figure not in the federal uniform. Tall, lank, grim, and limping painfully, with a blood-stain on the shoulder and a bullet hole in the hat. The sharpshooters had done their work – but who was it —what was it that lay across those two horses that they were leading? The whole camp was watching and alert. Cards, quoits, letters had disappeared. At last they could see that the Body was not Griffith. He still sat astride his splendid chestnut horse and the relief party were talking to him. The procession moved to the General's tent. Griffith looked pale and troubled. The sharpshooters were radiant. The Body was lifted down, and its long pendant beard was matted and massed with blood.
The pride, the joy, the ambition of Whiskers Biggs was brought low at last! He was breathing still, but the feeble hand essayed in vain to stroke the voluminous ornament and ambition of his life. The hand hung limp and mangled by his side. The General questioned the other prisoner in vain. He pointed to Griffith and preserved an unbroken silence. Griffith spoke to him aside. The prisoner turned slowly to the commander:
"I'll tell him. Few words comprehend the whole." Then he lapsed into silence again and nothing could induce him to speak. The General threatened, coaxed and commanded in vain. The imperturbable mountaineer stood like one who heard not. All that the sharpshooters could tell was soon told. Some one had fired from ambush, apparently at Griffith. They had returned the fire instantly. Then they had found this man who was dying and the other one beside him. "I know this man, General," said Griffith. "He says that he will talk to me alone. May I – shall I – "
"He'll talk to me, God damn him! or he'll get a dose of – Did you fire at our men?" he demanded of the mountaineer. Lengthy Patterson shifted his position to relieve his wounded leg. He gazed stolidly, steadily, expressionlessly before him, and uttered not a sound. His gun had been taken from him, and his hands seemed worse than useless without this his one and only companion from whom he never separated. The hands moved about in aimless action like the claws of some great lobster.
"It will go a good deal easier with you, you infernal idiot, if you'll out with your story, tell your side of it How'd this thing happen?"
Lengthy glanced sidewise at the Body as it lay on the ground. "Friend of mine," he said, and lapsed into silence again.
"Will you tell me, Lengthy?" asked Griffith. "Will you tell me in the presence of the General? It would be better for us both if you will. I wish – "
"'Twill?" asked Lengthy giving Griffith a long, slow look. "Better fer yoh?"
"Yes," said Griffith, half choking up. He thought he had solved the problem of why, with these two mountaineer marksmen as their antagonists none of their party had been shot in the encounter. "Yes, better for me. Do you care for that, Lengthy?" The woodsman gave another long look at Griffith, and then pointed with his thumb at the figure on the ground.
"I done hit. Whis aimed t' kill yoh. Few words comp – " Griffith grasped the great rough, helplessly groping hands in his. "I thought so, I thought so," he said brokenly.
"And you stood by me even – He was your friend, and – " Griffith's voice broke.
In the pause that followed Lengthy was staring at the form on the ground.
"Yes. Whis wus a frien' er mine; but Whis tuck aim at yoh. Few-words-comprehends-th'-whole!" The last sentence seemed to be all one Word. Griffith was still holding the great hands.
"Did you know I was with Northern troops, Lengthy? Did you know – ?"
"Knowed hit wus you. Didn't keer who t'other fellers wus. He tuck aim. Seed whar he wus pintin' – Few words – "
"Are you a Union man, Lengthy?"
"Naw."
"Rebel, are you?" asked the General, sharply. There was a profound silence. The mountaineer did not even turn his head.
"I asked you if you were a rebel, God damn you! Can't you hear?" shouted the General thoroughly angry. "I'll let you know – "
"Are you on the Confederate side, Lengthy?" began Griffith. The mountaineer had not indicated in any way whatever that he had heard any previous question. "Naw," he said slowly and as if with a mental reservation. The General shot forth a perfect volley of oaths and questions and threats, but the immobility of the mountaineer remained wholly undisturbed. There was not even the shadow of a change of expression on the bronzed face.
"What the General wants to know – what I want to know is, Lengthy, which side are you on? Are you – "
"On youm."
"On Davenport's side against the world!" remarked a staff officer aside, smiling. The mountaineer heard. He turned slowly until the angle of his vision took in the speaker.
"On his side agin the worl'. Few words – "
The rest was drowned in a shout of laughter, in which the irascible Commander joined. Griffith's eyes filled. Lengthy saw – and misinterpreted. He forgot the wound in his leg, and that his trusty gun was his no more. He sprang to Griffith's side.
"On his side agin the hull o' yuh!" he said, like a tiger at bay. The sorely tried leg gave way and he fell in a heap at Griffith's feet.
"Here! Quick! Get the surgeon. We forgot his wounds. He is shot in the leg and here – " Griffith was easing the poor fellow down as he talked, trying to get him into a better position. Some one offered him a canteen. The surgeon came and began cutting the boot from the swollen leg.
"Do everything for him, Doctor – everything you would for me," said Griffith hoarsely. "He killed his friend and risked his own life to save me. He – "
His voice broke and he walked away into the darkness. Presently Lengthy opened his eyes and asked feebly, "Whar's the Parson?"
"Who?"
"The Parson."
"Oh," said the surgeon kindly, "you want the Chaplain. Oh, you're not going to die! You're all right! You've lost a lot of blood and stood on that leg too long, but – "
"Whah's Parson Dav'npoht?"
A light dawned upon the surgeon. He had never thought of Griffith as a clergyman only as he had heard it laughed over that the General swore so continuously in his presence. He sent for Griffith. When he came Lengthy saw that his eyes were red. He motioned the others to go away. Then he whispered, "Th' other fellers – our soldiers – th – "
"You mean the Confederate troops, the Southern men?" asked Griffith, and Lengthy nodded; "Jest over yander. Layin' fer ye."
"I looked everywhere for smoke, Lengthy. I didn't see any signs of camp fires. I – "
"Jest what me an' Whis was doin' fer t'other side when we seed ye. Hain't got no fires. Hain't goin't' make none."
"Do you mean that you were doing a sort of scout or advance duty for the reb – the Confederates, when you met us, Lengthy?"
He nodded. "Jest thet."
"You were to go back and tell them about – "
"We wus. Saw you. Didn't go. Him 'n me qua'l'd 'bout – "
"About shooting me?"
Lengthy nodded again. "He aimed at ye. I got him fust." There was a long pause.
"Do you want to go back to your camp, Lengthy, if – "
"Naw."
Presently he said: "They's mo' o' them then they is o' you alls."
Griffith grasped his idea. "You think we better leave here? You think they will attack?"
"Kin leave me layin' here. They'll git me – 'n' him;" he pointed with his thumb again toward the friend of his life – the body that lay awaiting burial on the morrow.
"Would you rather go with us?" began Griffith, and the swarthy face lightened up.
"Kin you alls take me?"
"Certainly, certainly, if you want to go. We won't leave you. The General – "
"Hain't goin' with him. Goin' 'th you."
"All right, all right, Lengthy. You shall go with me and you shall stay with me."
The mountaineer turned his head slowly. The narcotic the surgeon had given was overcoming him. He did not understand it, and he was vainly struggling against a sleep which he did not comprehend.
"You – alls – better – light – out. They is mo' o' them and – they – is mad – plum – through. Few – words – com – com – "
The unaccustomed effort at linguistic elaboration exhausted him, and, together with the sleeping potion, Lengthy was rendered unconscious of all pain, and an hour later he was borne on a stretcher between two horses as the engineer's party silently retraced its steps and left the camp deserted and desolate with its one silent occupant lying stark in the moonlight, with its great mass of matted beard upon its lifeless breast.