The Scouts of Stonewall | Page 3

calm figure riding back and forth just beyond the
pines among which he stood, and gathering for a fresh charge the stern
ranks of his men who were to turn almost sure defeat into absolutely
sure victory. 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. The great army of the South waited,
because the great army of the North, under McClellan, also waited and
temporized while the autumn was passing fast.
But Jackson, while held in the bonds of orders, did not sleep. The most
active youth of his command rode day and night toward the northern
end of the valley, where the forces of the Union were gathering. The
movements of Banks and Kelly and the other Northern commanders
were watched continually by keen eyes trained in the southern forests.
Slim striplings passed in the night through the little towns, and the
people, intensely loyal to the South, gave them the news of everything.

Harry had seen the whole autumn pass and winter come, and the war,
save for a fitful skirmish now and then, stood at a pause in the valley.
Yet he rode incessantly, both with the others and alone, on scouting
duty. He knew every square mile of the country over a wide range, and
he had passed whole nights in the forest, when hail or snow was
whistling by. But these had been few. Mostly mild winds blew and the
hoofs of his horse fell on green turf.
Harry was intensely alert now. He was far from his command, and he
knew that he must see and hear everything or he would soon be in the
hands of the enemy. He rode on rather slowly, and amid continued
silence. He saw on his left a white house with green shutters and a
portico. But the shutters were closed tightly and no smoke rose from
the chimneys. Although house and grounds showed no touch of harm,
they seemed to bear the brand of desolation. The owners had fled,
knowing that the sinister march of war would pass here.
Harry's mood changed suddenly from gladness to depression. The
desolate house brought home to him the terrible nature of war. It meant
destruction, wounds and death, and they were all the worse because it
was a nation divided against itself, people of the same blood and the
same traditions fighting one another.
But youth cannot stay gloomy long, and his spirits presently flowed
back. There was too much tang and life in that crisp wind from the west
for his body to droop, and a lad could not be sad long, with brilliant
sunshine around him and that shining little river before him.
The thrill of high adventure shot up from his soul. He had ceased to
hate the Northern soldiers, if he had ever hated them at all. Now they
were merely brave opponents, with whom he contended, and success
demanded of either skill, daring and energy to the utmost degree. He
was resolved not to fail in any of these qualities.
He left the desolate house a mile behind, and then the river curved a
little. The woods on the farther shore came down in dense masses to the
edge of the stream, and despite the lack of foliage Harry could not see
far into them. The strong, inherited instincts leaped up. His nostrils

expanded and a warning note was sounded somewhere in the back of
his brain.
He turned his horse to the left and entered the forest on his own side of
the river. They were ancient trees that he rode among, with many
drooping and twisted boughs, and he was concealed well, although he
could yet see from his covert the river and the forest on the other shore.
The song of a trumpet suddenly came from the deep woodland across
the shining stream. It was a musical song, mellow and triumphant on
every key, and the forest and hills on either shore gave it back, soft and
beautiful on its dying echoes. It seemed to Harry that the volume of
sound, rounded and full, must come from a trumpet of pure gold. He
had read the old romances of the Round Table, and for the moment his
head was full of them. Some knight in the thicket was sending forth a
challenge to him.
But Harry gave no answering defiance. Now the medieval glow was
gone,