The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign

THE MOUNTAIN LIGHTS

When Dick left the balloon it was nearly night.  Hundreds of campfires lighted up the hills about him, but beyond their circle the darkness enclosed everything.  He still felt the sensations of one who had been at a great height and who had seen afar.  That rim of Southern campfires was yet in his mind, and he wondered why the Northern commander allowed them to remain week after week so near the capital.  He was fully aware, because it was common talk, that the army of the Union had now reached great numbers, with a magnificent equipment, and, with four to one, should be able to drive the Southern force away.  Yet McClellan delayed.

Dick obtained a short leave of absence, and walked to a campfire, where he knew he would find his friend, George Warner.  Sergeant Whitley was there, too, showing some young recruits how to cook without waste, and the two gave the boy a welcome that was both inquisitive and hearty.

“You’ve been up in the balloon,” said Warner.  “It was a rare chance.”

“Yes,” replied Dick with a laugh, “I left the world, and it is the only way in which I wish to leave it for the next sixty or seventy years.  It was a wonderful sight, George, and not the least wonderful thing in it was the campfires of the Southern army, burning down there towards Bull Run.”

“Burnin’ where they ought not to be,” said Whitley—­no gulf was yet established between commissioned and non-commissioned officers in either army.  “Little Mac may be a great organizer, as they say, but you can keep on organizin’ an’ organizin’, until it’s too late to do what you want to do.”

“It’s a sound principle that you lay down, Mr. Whitley,” said Warner in his precise tones.  “In fact, it may be reduced to a mathematical formula.  Delay is always a minus quantity which may be represented by y.  Achievement is represented by x, and, consequently, when you have achievement hampered by delay you have x minus y, which is an extremely doubtful quantity, often amounting to failure.”

“I travel another road in my reckonin’s,” said Whitley, “I don’t know anything about x and y, but I guess you an’ me, George, come to the same place.  It’s been a full six weeks since Bull Run, an’ we haven’t done a thing.”

Whitley, despite their difference in rank, could not yet keep from addressing the boys by their first names.  But they took it as a matter of course, in view of the fact that he was so much older than they and vastly their superior in military knowledge.

“Dick,” continued the sergeant, “what was it you was sayin’ about a cousin of yours from the same town in Kentucky bein’ out there in the Southern army?”

“He’s certainly there,” replied Dick, “if he wasn’t killed in the battle, which I feel couldn’t have happened to a fellow like Harry.  We’re from the same little town in Kentucky, Pendleton.  He’s descended straight from one of the greatest Indian fighters, borderers and heroes the country down there ever knew, Henry Ware, who afterwards became one of the early governors of the State.  And I’m descended from Henry Ware’s famous friend, Paul Cotter, who, in his time, was the greatest scholar in all the West.  Henry Ware and Paul Cotter were like the old Greek friends, Damon and Pythias.  Harry and I are proud to have their blood in our veins.  Besides being cousins, there are other things to make Harry and me think a lot of each other.  Oh, he’s a grand fellow, even if he is on the wrong side!”

Dick’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke of the cousin and comrade of his childhood.

“The chances of war bring about strange situations, or at least I have heard so,” said Warner.  “Now, Dick, if you were to meet your cousin face to face on the battlefield with a loaded gun in your hand what would you do?”

“I’d raise that gun, take deliberate aim at a square foot of air about thirty feet over his head and pull the trigger.”

“But your duty to your country tells you to do otherwise.  Before you is a foe trying to destroy the Union.  You have come out armed to save that Union, consequently you must fire straight at him and not at the air, in order to reduce the number of our enemies.”

“One enemy where there are so many would not count for anything in the total.  Your arithmetic will show you that Harry’s percentage in the Southern army is so small that it reaches the vanishing point.  If I can borrow from you, George, x equals Harry’s percentage, which is nothing, y equals the value of my hypothetical opportunity, which is nothing, then x plus y equals nothing, which represents the whole affair, which is nothing, that is, worth nothing to the Union.  Hence I have no more obligation to shoot Harry if I meet him than he has to shoot me.”

“Well spoken, Dick,” said Sergeant Whitley.  “Some people, I reckon, can take duty too hard.  If you have one duty an’ another an’ bigger one comes along right to the same place you ought to ’tend to the bigger one.  I’d never shoot anybody that was a heap to me just because he was one of three or four hundred thousand who was on the other side.  I’ve never thought much of that old Roman father—­I forget his name—­who had his son executed just because he wasn’t doin’ exactly right.  There was never a rule that oughtn’t to have exceptions under extraordinary circumstances.”

“If you can establish the principle of exceptions,” replied the young Vermonter very gravely, “I will allow Dick to shoot in the air when he meets his cousin in the height of battle, but it is a difficult task to establish it, and if it fails Dick, according to all rules of logic and duty, must shoot straight at his cousin’s heart.”

The other two looked at Warner and saw his left eyelid droop slightly.  A faint twinkle appeared in either eye and then they laughed.

“I reckon that Dick shoots high in the air,” said the sergeant.

Dick, after a pleasant hour with his friends, went back to Colonel Newcomb’s quarters, where he spent the entire evening writing despatches at dictation.  He was hopeful that all this writing portended something, but more days passed, and despite the impatience of both army and public, there was no movement.  Stories of confused and uncertain fighting still came out of the west, but between Washington and Bull Run there was perfect peace.

The summer passed.  Autumn came and deepened.  The air was crisp and sparkling.  The leaves, turned into glowing reds and yellows and browns, began to fall from the trees.  The advancing autumn contained the promise of winter soon to come.  The leaves fell faster and sharp winds blew, bringing with them chill rains.  Little Mac, or the Young Napoleon, as many of his friends loved to call him, continued his preparations, and despite all the urgings of President and Congress, would not move.  His fatal defect now showed in all its destructiveness.  To him the enemy always appeared threefold his natural size.

Reliable scouts brought back the news that the Southern troops at Manassas, a full two months after their victory there, numbered only forty thousand.  The Northern commander issued statements that the enemy was before him with one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers.  He demanded that his own forces should be raised to nearly a quarter of a million men and nearly five hundred cannon before he could move.

The veteran, Scott, full of triumphs and honors, but feeling himself out of place in his old age, went into retirement.  McClellan, now in sole command, still lingered and delayed, while the South, making good use of precious months, gathered all her forces to meet him or whomsoever came against her.

Youth chafed most against the long waiting.  It seemed to Dick and his mathematical Vermont friend that time was fairly wasting away under their feet, and the wise sergeant agreed with them.

The weather had grown so cold now that they built fires for warmth as well as cooking, and the two youths sat with Sergeant Whitley one cold evening in late October before a big blaze.  Both were tanned deeply by wind, sun and rain, and they had grown uncommonly hardy, but the wind that night came out of the northwest, and it had such a sharp edge to it that they were glad to draw their blankets over their backs and shoulders.

Dick was re-reading a letter from his mother, a widow who lived on the outskirts of Pendleton.  It had come that morning, and it was the only one that had reached him since his departure from Kentucky.  But she had received another that he had written to her directly after the Battle of Bull Run.

She wrote of her gratitude because Providence had watched over him in that dreadful conflict, all the more dreadful because it was friend against friend, brother against brother.  The state, she said, was all in confusion.  Everybody suspected everybody else.  The Southerners were full of victory, the Northerners were hopeful of victory yet to come.  Colonel Kenton was with the Southern force under General Buckner, gathered at Bowling Green in that state, but his son, her nephew Harry, was still in the east with Beauregard.  She had heard that the troops of the west and northwest were coming down the Ohio and Mississippi in great numbers, and people expected hard fighting to occur very soon in western and southern Kentucky.  It was all very dreadful, and a madness seemed to have come over the land, but she hoped that Providence would continue to watch over her dear son.

Warner and the sergeant knew that the letter was from Dick’s mother, but they had too much delicacy to ask him questions.  The boy folded the sheets carefully and returned them to their place in the inside pocket of his coat.  Then he looked for a while thoughtfully into the blaze and the great bed of coals that had formed beneath.  As far as one could see to right and left like fires burned, but the night remained dark with promise of rain, and the chill wind out of the northwest increased in vigor.  The words just read for the fifth time had sunk deep in his mind, and he was feeling the call of the west.

“My mother writes,” he said to his comrades, “that the Confederate general, Buckner, whom I know, is gathering a large force around Bowling Green in the southern part of our state, and that fighting is sure to occur soon between that town and the Mississippi.  An officer named Grant has come down from Illinois, and he is said to be pushing the Union troops forward with a lot of vigor.  Sergeant, you are up on army affairs.  Do you know this man Grant?”

Sergeant Whitley shook his head.

“Never heard of him,” he replied.  “Like as not he’s one of the officers who resigned from the army after the Mexican War.  There was so little to do then, and so little chance of promotion, that a lot of them quit to go into business.  I suppose they’ll all be coming back now.”

“I want to go out there,” said Dick.  “It’s my country, and the westerners at least are acting.  But look at our army here!  Bull Run was fought the middle of summer.  Now it’s nearly winter, and nothing has been done.  We don’t get out of sight of Washington.  If I can get myself sent west I’m going.”

“And I’m going with you,” said Warner.

“Me, too,” said the sergeant.

“I know that Colonel Newcomb’s eyes are turning in that direction,” continued Dick.  “He’s a war-horse, he is, and he’d like to get into the thick of it.”

“You’re his favorite aide,” said the calculating young Vermonter.  “Can’t you sow those western seeds in his mind and keep on sowing them?  The fact that you are from this western battle ground will give more weight to what you say.  You do this, and I’ll wager that within a week the Colonel will induce the President to send the whole regiment to the Mississippi.”

“Can you reduce your prediction to a mathematical certainty?” asked Dick, a twinkle appearing in his eye.

“No, I can’t do that,” replied Warner, with an answering twinkle, “but you’re the very fellow to influence Colonel Newcomb’s mind.  I’m a mathematician and I work with facts, but you have the glowing imagination that conduces to the creation of facts.”

“Big words!  Grand words!” said the sergeant.

“Never let Colonel Newcomb forget the west,” continued Warner, not noticing the interruption.  “Keep it before him all the time.  Hint that there can be no success along the Mississippi without him and his regiment.”

“I’ll do what I can,” promised Dick faithfully, and he did much.  Colonel Newcomb had already formed a strong attachment for this zealous and valuable young aide, and he did not forget the words that Dick said on every convenient occasion about the west.  He made urgent representations that he and his regiment be sent to the relief of the struggling Northern forces there, and he contrived also that these petitions should reach the President.  One day the order came to go, but not to St. Louis, where Halleck, now in command, was.  Instead they were to enter the mountains of West Virginia and Kentucky, and help the mountaineers who were loyal to the Union.  If they accomplished that task with success, they were to proceed to the greater theatre in Western Kentucky and Tennessee.  It was not all they wished, but they thought it far better than remaining at Washington, where it seemed that the army would remain indefinitely.

Colonel Newcomb, who was sitting in his tent bending over maps with his staff, summoned Dick.

“You are a Kentuckian, my lad,” he said, “and I thought you might know something about this region into which we are going.”

“Not much, sir,” replied Dick.  “My home is much further west in a country very different both in its own character and that of its people.  But I have been in the mountains two or three times, and I may be of some help as a guide.”

“I am sure you will do your best,” said Colonel Newcomb.  “By the way, that young Vermont friend of yours, Warner, is to be on my staff also, and it is very likely that you and he will go on many errands together.”

“Can’t we take Sergeant Whitley with us sometimes?” asked Dick boldly.

“So you can,” replied the colonel, laughing a little.  “I’ve noticed that man, and I’ve a faint suspicion that he knows more about war than any of us civilian officers.”

“It’s our task to learn as much as we can from these old regulars,” said a Major Hertford, a man of much intelligence and good humor, who, previous to the war, had been a lawyer in a small town.  Alan Hertford was about twenty-five and of fine manner and appearance.

“Well spoken, Major Hertford,” said the thoughtful miner, Colonel Newcomb.  “Now, Dick, you can go, and remember that we are to start for Washington early in the morning and take a train there for the north.  It will be the duty of Lieutenant Warner and yourself, as well as others, to see that our men are ready to the last shoe for the journey.”

Dick and Warner were so much elated that they worked all that night, and they did not hesitate to go to Sergeant Whitley for advice or instruction.  At the first spear of dawn the regiment marched away in splendid order from Arlington to Washington, where the train that was to bear them to new fields and unknown fortunes was ready.

It was a long train of many coaches, as the regiment numbered seven hundred men, and it also carried with it four guns, mounted on trucks.  The coaches were all of primitive pattern.  The soldiers were to sleep on the seats, and their arms and supplies were heaped in the aisles.  It was a cold, drizzling day of closing autumn, and the capital looked sodden and gloomy.  Cameron, the Secretary of War, came to see them off and to make the customary prediction concerning their valor and victory to come.  But he was a cold man, and he was repellent to Dick, used to more warmth of temperament.

Then, with a ringing of bells, a heave of the engine, a great puffing of smoke, and a mighty rattling of wheels, the train drew out of Washington and made its noisy way toward Baltimore.  Dick and Warner were on the same seat.  It was only forty miles to Baltimore, but their slow train would be perhaps three hours in arriving.  So they had ample opportunity to see the country, which they examined with the curious eyes of youth.  But there was little to see.  The last leaves were falling from the trees under the early winter rain.  Bare boughs and brown grass went past their windows and the fields were deserted.  The landscape looked chill and sullen.

Warner was less depressed than Dick.  He had an even temperament based solidly upon mathematical calculations.  He knew that while it might be raining today, the chances were several to one against its raining tomorrow.

“I’ve good cause to remember Baltimore,” he said.  “I was with the New England troops when they had the fight there on the way down to the capital.  Although we hold it, it’s really a Southern city, Dick.  Most all the border cities are Southern in sympathy, and they’re swarming with people who will send to the Southern leaders news of every movement we make.  I state, and moreover I assert it in the face of all the world, that the knowledge of our departure from Washington is already in Southern hands.  By close mathematical calculation the chances are at least ninety-five per cent in favor of my statement.”

“Very likely,” said Dick, “and we’ll have that sort of thing to face all the time when we invade the South.  We’ve got to win this war, George, by hard fighting, and then more hard fighting, and then more and more of the same.”

“Guess you’re right.  Arithmetic shows at least one hundred per cent of probability in favor of your suggestion.”

Dick looked up and down the long coach packed with young troops.  Besides the commissioned officers and the sergeants, there was not one in the coach who was twenty-five.  Most of them were nineteen or twenty, and it was the same in the other coaches.  After the first depression their spirits rose.  The temper of youth showed strongly.  They were eager to see Baltimore, but the train stopped there only a few minutes, and they were not allowed to leave the coaches.

Then the train turned towards the west.  The drizzle of rain had now become a pour, and it drove so heavily that they could see but little outside.  Food was served at noon and afterward many slept in the cramped seats.  Dick, despite his stiff position, fell asleep too.  By the middle of the afternoon everybody in their coach was slumbering soundly except Sergeant Whitley, who sat by the door leading to the next car.

All that afternoon and into the night the train rattled and moved into the west.  The beautiful rolling country was left behind, and they were now among the mountains, whirling around precipices so sharply that often the sleeping boys were thrown from the seats of the coaches.  But they were growing used to hardships.  They merely climbed back again upon the seats, and were asleep once more in half a minute.

The rain still fell and the wind blew fiercely among the somber mountains.  A second engine had been added to the train, and the speed of the train was slackened.  The engineer in front stared at the slippery rails, but he could see only a few yards.  The pitchy darkness closed in ahead, hiding everything, even the peaks and ridges.  The heart of that engineer, and he was a brave man, as brave as any soldier on the battlefield, had sunk very low.  Railroads were little past their infancy then and this was the first to cross the mountains.  He was by no means certain of his track, and, moreover, the rocks and forest might shelter an ambush.

The Alleghanies and their outlying ridges and spurs are not lofty mountains, but to this day they are wild and almost inaccessible in many places.  Nature has made them a formidable barrier, and in the great Civil War those who trod there had to look with all their eyes and listen with all their ears.  The engineer was not alone in his anxiety this night.  Colonel Newcomb rose from an uneasy doze and he went with Major Hertford into the engineer’s cab.  They were now going at the rate of not more than five or six miles an hour, the long train winding like a snake around the edges of precipices and feeling its way gingerly over the trestles that spanned the deep valleys.  All trains made a great roar and rattle then, and the long ravines gave it back in a rumbling and menacing echo.  Gusts of rain were swept now and then into the faces of the engineer, the firemen and the officers.

“Do you see anything ahead, Canby?” said Colonel Newcomb to the engineer.

“Nothing.  That’s the trouble, sir.  If it were a clear night I shouldn’t be worried.  Then we wouldn’t be likely to steam into danger with our eyes shut.  This is a wild country.  The mountaineers in the main are for us, but we are not far north of the Southern line, and if they know we are crossing they may undertake to raid in here.”

“And they may know it,” said the colonel.  “Washington is full of Southern sympathizers.  Stop the train, Canby, when we come to the first open and level space, and we’ll do some scouting ahead.”

The engineer felt great relief.  He was devoutly glad that the colonel was going to take such a precaution.  At that moment he, more than Colonel Newcomb, was responsible for the lives of the seven hundred human beings aboard the train, and his patriotism and sense of responsibility were both strong.

The train, with much jolting and clanging, stopped fifteen minutes later.  Both Dick and Warner, awakened by the shock, sat up and rubbed their eyes.  Then they left the train at once to join Colonel Newcomb, who might want them immediately.  Wary Sergeant Whitley followed them in silence.

The boys found Colonel Newcomb and the remaining members of his staff standing near, and seeking anxiously to discover the nature of the country about them.  The colonel nodded when they arrived, and gave them an approving glance.  The two stood by, awaiting the colonel’s orders, but they did not neglect to use their eyes.

Dick saw by the engineer’s lantern that they were in a valley, and he learned from his words that this valley was about three miles long with a width of perhaps half a mile.  A little mountain river rushed down its center, and the train would cross the stream about a mile further on.  It was still raining and the cold wind whistled down from the mountains.  Dick could see the somber ridges showing dimly through the loom of darkness and rain.  He was instantly aware, too, of a tense and uneasy feeling among the officers.  All of them carried glasses, but in the darkness they could not use them.  Lights began to appear in the train and many heads were thrust out at the windows.

“Go through the coaches, Mr. Mason and Mr. Warner,” said Colonel Newcomb, “and have every light put out immediately.  Tell them, too, that my orders are for absolute silence.”

Dick and the Vermonter did their work rapidly, receiving many curious inquiries, as they went from coach to coach, all of which they were honestly unable to answer.  They knew no more than the other boys about the situation.  But when they left the last coach and returned to the officers near the engine, the train was in total darkness, and no sound came from it.  Colonel Newcomb again gave them an approving nod.  Dick noticed that the fires in the engine were now well covered, and that no sparks came from the smoke-stack.  Standing by it he could see the long shape of the train running back in the darkness, but it would have been invisible to any one a hundred yards away.

“You think we’re thoroughly hidden now, Canby?” said the colonel.

“Yes, sir.  Unless they’ve located us precisely on advance information.  I don’t see how they could find us among the mountains in all this darkness and rain.”

“But they’ve had the advance information!  Look there!” exclaimed Major Hertford, pointing toward the high ridge that lay on their right.

A beam of light had appeared on the loftiest spur, standing out at first like a red star in the darkness, then growing intensely brighter, and burning with a steady, vivid light.  The effect was weird and powerful.  The mountain beneath it was invisible, and it seemed to burn there like a real eye, wrathful and menacing.  The older men, as well as the boys, were held as if by a spell.  It was something monstrous and eastern, like the appearance of a genie out of the Arabian Nights.

The light, after remaining fixed for at least a minute, began to move slowly from side to side and then faster.

“A signal!” exclaimed Colonel Newcomb.  “Beyond a doubt it is the Southerners.  Whatever they’re saying they’re saying it to somebody.  Look toward the south!”

“Ah, there they are answering!” exclaimed Major Hertford.

All had wheeled simultaneously, and on another high spur a mile to the south a second red light as vivid and intense as the first was flashing back and forth.  It, too, the mountain below invisible, seemed to swing in the heavens.  Dick, standing there in the darkness and rain, and knowing that imminent and mortal danger was on either side, felt a frightful chill creeping slowly down his spine.  It is a terrible thing to feel through some superior sense that an invisible foe is approaching, and not be able to know by any kind of striving whence he came.

The lights flashed alternately, and presently both dropped from the sky, seeming to Dick to leave blacker spots on the darkness in their place.  Then only the heavy night and the rain encompassed them.

“What do you think it is?” asked Colonel Newcomb of Major Hertford.

“Southern troops beyond a doubt.  It is equally certain that they were warned in some manner from Washington of our departure.”

“I think so, too.  It is probable that they saw the light and have been signalling their knowledge to each other.  It seems likely to me that they will wait at the far end of the valley to cut us off.  What force do you think it is?”

“Perhaps a cavalry detachment that has ridden hurriedly to intercept us.  I would say at a guess that it is Turner Ashby and his men.  A skillful and dangerous foe, as you know.”

Already the fame of this daring Confederate horseman was spreading over Virginia and Maryland.

“If we are right in our guess,” said Major Hertford, “they will dismount, lead their horses along the mountain side, and shut down the trap upon us.  Doubtless they are in superior force, and know the country much better than we do.  If they get ahead of us and have a little time to do it in they will certainly tear up the tracks.”

“I think you are right in all respects,” said Colonel Newcomb.  “But it is obvious that we must not give them time to destroy the road ahead of us.  As for the rest, I wonder.”

He pulled uneasily at his short beard, and then he caught sight of Sergeant Whitley standing silently, arms folded, by the side of the engine.  Newcomb, the miner colonel, was a man of big and open mind.  A successful business man, he had the qualities which made him a good general by the time the war was in its third year.  He knew Whitley and he knew, too, that he was an old army regular, bristling with experience and shrewdness.

“Sergeant Whitley,” he said, “in this emergency what would you do, if you were in my place?”

The sergeant saluted respectfully.

“If I were in your place, sir, which I never will be,” he replied, “I would have all the troops leave the train.  Then I would have the engineers take the train forward slowly, while the troops marched on either side of it, but at a sufficient distance to be hidden in the darkness.  Then, sir, our men could not be caught in a wreck, but with their feet on solid earth they would be ready, if need be, for a fight, which is our business.”

“Well spoken, Sergeant Whitley,” said Colonel Newcomb, while the other officers also nodded approval.  “Your plan is excellent and we will adopt it.  Get the troops out of the train quickly but in silence and do you, Canby, be ready with the engine.”

Dick and Warner with the older officers turned to the task.  The young soldiers were out of the train in two minutes and were forming in lines on either side, arms ready.  There were many whisperings among these boys, but none loud enough to be heard twenty yards away.  All felt intense relief when they left the train and stood upon the solid, though decidedly damp earth.

But the cold rain sweeping upon their faces was a tonic, both mental and physical, after the close heat of the train.  They did not know why they had disembarked, but they surmised with good reason that an attack was threatened and they were eager to meet it.

Dick and Warner were near the head of the line on the right of the tracks, and Sergeant Whitley was with them.  The train began to puff heavily, and in spite of every precaution some sparks flew from the smoke-stack.  Dick knew that it was bound to rumble and rattle when it started, but he was surprised at the enormous amount of noise it made, when the wheels really began to turn.  It seemed to him that in the silence of the night it could be heard three or four miles.  Then he realized that it was merely his own excitement and extreme tension of both mind and body.  Canby was taking the train forward so gently that its sounds were drowned two hundred yards away in the swirl of wind and rain.

The men marched, each line keeping abreast of the train, but fifty yards or more to one side.  The young troops were forbidden to speak and their footsteps made no noise in the wet grass and low bushes.  Dick and Warner kept their eyes on the mountains, turning them alternately from north to south.  Nothing appeared on either ridge, and no sound came to tell of an enemy near.

Dick began to believe that they would pass through the valley and out of the trap without a combat.  But while a train may go two or three miles in a few minutes it takes troops marching in the darkness over uncertain ground a long time to cover the same distance.  They marched a full half hour and then Dick suppressed a cry.  The light, burning as intensely red as before, appeared again on the mountain to the right, but further toward the west, seeming to have moved parallel to the Northern troops.  As Dick looked it began to flash swiftly from side to side and that chill and weird feeling again ran down his spine.  He looked toward the south and there was the second signal, red and intense, replying to the first.

Dick heard a deep “Ah!” run along the line of young troops, and he knew now that they understood as much as he or any of the officers did.  He now knew, too, that they would not pass out of the valley without a combat.  The Southern forces, beyond a doubt, would try to shut them in at the western mouth of the valley, and a battle in the night and rain was sure to follow.

The train continued to move slowly forward.  Had Colonel Newcomb dared he would have ordered Canby to increase his speed in order that he might reach the western mouth of the valley before the Southern force had a chance to tear up the rails, but there was no use for the train without the troops and they were already marching as fast as they could.

The gorge was now not more than a quarter of a mile away.  Dick was able to discern it, because the darkness there was not quite so dark as that which lay against the mountains on either side.  He was hopeful that they might yet reach it before the Southern force could close down upon them, but before they went many yards further he heard the beat of horses’ feet both to right and left and knew that the enemy was at hand.

“Take the train on through the pass, Canby!” shouted Colonel Newcomb.  “We’ll cover its retreat, and join you later—­if we can.”

The train began to rattle and roar, and its speed increased.  Showers of sparks shot from the funnels of the two engines, and gleamed for an instant in the darkness.  The beat of horses’ feet grew to thunder.  Colonel Newcomb with great presence of mind drew the two parallel lines of his men close together, and ordered them to lie down on either side of the railroad track and face outward with cocked rifles.  Dick, the Vermonter, and Sergeant Whitley lay close together, and the three faced the north.

“See the torches!” said Whitley.

Dick saw eight or ten torches wavering and flickering at a height of seven or eight feet above the ground, and he knew that they were carried by horsemen, but he could not see either men or horses beneath.  Then the rapid beat of hoofs ceased abruptly at a distance that Dick thought must be about two hundred yards.

“Lie flat!” cried Whitley.  “They’re about to fire!”