The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis

The attack was not long in coming. The Southern sharpshooters, creeping from tree to tree, began to fire. Scores of rifles cracked and Dick, from a convenient place behind a tree, saw the spouts of flame appearing along a line of four or five hundred yards. Bullets whizzed about him, and, knowing that he would not be needed at present for any message, he hugged the friendly bark more tightly.

“It’s lucky we have plenty of trees,” said a voice from the shelter of the tree next to him. “We have at least one for every officer and man.”

It was Warner who spoke and he was quite cheerful. Like Colonel Winchester, he seemed to look forward to the combat with a certain joy, and he added:

“You’ll take notice, Dick, old man, that we’ve not been surprised. Forrest hasn’t galloped over us as he did before. He’s taking the trouble to make the approach with protected riflemen. Now what is the sergeant up to?”

Sergeant Whitley, after whispering a little with Colonel Winchester, had stolen off toward the right with fifty picked riflemen. When they reached the verge of the open space that lay between the two sides they threw themselves down in the thick, tall grass. Neither Dick nor Warner could see them now. They beheld only the stems of the grass waving as if under a gentle wind. But Dick knew that the rippling movement marked the passage of the riflemen.

Meanwhile the attack in their front was growing hotter. At least six or seven hundred sharpshooters were sending a fire which would have annihilated them if it had not been for the trees. As it was, fragments of bark, twigs, and leaves showered about them. The whistling of the bullets and their chugging as they struck the trees made a continuous sinister note.

The Union men were not silent under this fire. Their own rifles were replying fast, but Colonel Winchester continually urged them to take aim, and, while death and wounds were inflicted on the Union ranks, the Southern were suffering in the same manner.

Dick turned his eyes toward the right flank, where the fifty picked riflemen, Sergeant Whitley at their head, were crawling through the tall grass. He knew that they were making toward a little corner of the forest, thrust farther forward than the rest, and presently when the rippling in the grass ceased he was sure that they had reached it. Then the fifty rifles cracked together and the Southern flank was swept by fifty well-aimed bullets. Lying in their covert, Whitley’s men reloaded their breech-loading rifles and again sent in a deadly fire.

The main Northern force redoubled its efforts at the same time. The men in blue sent in swarms of whistling bullets and Dick saw the front line of the South retreating.

“We’re rousing the wolves from their lairs,” explained Pennington exultantly as he sprang from his tree, just in time for a bullet to send his hat flying from his head. Fortunately, it clipped only a lock of hair, but he received in a good spirit Warner’s admonishing words:

“Don’t go wild, Frank. We’ve merely repelled the present attack. You don’t think that Forrest with superior forces is going to let us alone, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” replied Pennington, “and don’t you get behind that tree. It’s mine, and I’m coming back to it. I’ve earned it. I held it against all kinds of bullets. Look at the scars made on each side of it by rebel lead.”

The firing now died. Whitley’s flank movement had proved wholly successful, and Colonel Winchester reinforced him in the little forest peninsula with fifty more picked men, where they lay well hidden, a formidable force for any assailant.

The silence now became complete, save for the stamping of the impatient horses and the drone of insects in the woods and grass. Dick, lying on his stomach and using his glasses, could see nothing in the forest before them. It was to him in all its aspects an Indian battle, and he believed in spite of what Warner had said that the enemy had retired permanently.

Colonel Winchester and all the officers rose to their feet presently and walked among the trees. No bullets came to tell them that they were rash and then the senior officers held a conference, while all the men remounted, save a dozen or so who would ride no more. But the colonel did not abate one whit of his craft or caution.

They resumed the march toward Grant, but they avoided every field or open space. They would make curves and lose time in order to keep in the dense wood, but, as Dick knew, Colonel Winchester still suspected that Forrest was hovering somewhere on his flank, covered by the great forest and awaiting a favorable opportunity to attack.

They approached one of the deep and narrow streams that ultimately find their way to the Mississippi. It had only one ford, and the scouts galloping back informed them that the farther shore was held by a powerful force of cavalry.

“It’s Forrest,” said Colonel Winchester with quiet conviction. “Knowing every path of the woods, they’ve gone ahead of us, and they mean to cut us off from Grant. Nevertheless we’ll make a way.”

He spoke firmly, but the junior officers of the staff did not exactly see how they were going to force a ford defended by a larger number of cavalry under the redoubtable Forrest.

“I didn’t think Forrest would let us alone, and he hasn’t,” said Pennington.

“No, he hasn’t,” said Warner, “and it seems that he’s checkmated us, too. Why, that river is swollen by the rains so much that it’s a hard job to cross it if no enemy were on the other side. But you’ll note, also, that the enemy, having got to the other side, can’t come back again in our face to attack us.”

“But we want to go on and they don’t,” said Dick. “They’re satisfied with the enforced status quo, and we’re not. Am I right, Professor?”

“You certainly are,” replied Warner. “Now, our colonel is puzzled, as you can tell by his looks, and so would I be, despite my great natural military talents.”

The Winchester regiment fell back into the woods, leaving the two forces out of rifle shot of each other. Sentinels were posted by both commanders not far from the river and the rest, dismounting, took their ease, save the officers, who again went into close conference.

Afterward they sat among the trees and waited. It was low ground, with the earth yet soaked from the heavy rain of the night before, and the heat grew heavy and intense. The insects began to drone again, and once more mosquitoes made life miserable. But the soldiers did not complain. It was noon now, and they ate food from their knapsacks. Two springs of clear water were found a little distance from the river and all drank there. Then they went back to their weary waiting.

On the other side of the river they could see the dismounted troopers, playing cards, sleeping or currying their horses. They seemed to be in no hurry at all. Colonel Winchester sent divisions of scouts up and down the stream, and, both returning after a while, reported that the river was not fordable anywhere.

Colonel Winchester sat down under a tree and smoked his pipe. The longer he smoked the more corrugated his brow became. He looked angrily at the ford, but it would be folly to attempt a passage there, and, containing himself as best he could, he waited while the long afternoon waned. His men at least would get a good rest.

Dick and his comrades, selecting the dryest place they could find, spread their blankets and lay down. Protecting their faces from the mosquitoes with green leaves, they sank into a deep quiet. Dick even drowsed for a while. He could not think of a way out of the trap, and he was glad it was the duty of older men like Colonel Winchester and the majors and captains to save them.

The heat of the day increased with the coming of afternoon, and Dick’s eyelids grew heavier. He had become so thoroughly hardened to march and battle that the presence of the enemy on the other side of a river did not disturb him. What was the use of bothering about the rebels as long as they did not wish to fire upon one?

His eyes closed for a few minutes, and then his dreaming mind traversed space with incredible rapidity. He was back in Pendleton, sitting on the portico with his mother, watching the flowers on the lawn nod in the gentle wind. His cousin Harry Kenton saluted him with a halloo and came bounding toward the porch, and the halloo caused Dick to awake and sit up. He rubbed his eyes violently and looked around a little bit ashamed. But two captains older than himself were sound asleep with their backs against trees.

Dick stood up and shook himself violently. Whatever others might do he must not allow himself to relax so much. He saw that the sun was slowly descending and that the full heat of the afternoon was passing. Colonel Winchester had withdrawn somewhat among the trees and he beckoned to him. Sergeant Whitley was standing beside the colonel.

“Dick,” said Colonel Winchester, “colored men have brought us news that Colonel Grierson of our army, with a strong raiding force of nearly two thousand cavalry is less than a day’s march away and on the same side of this river that we are. We have received the news from three separate sources and it must be true. Probably Forrest’s men know it, too, but expect Grierson to pass on, wholly ignorant that we’re here. I have chosen you and Sergeant Whitley to bring Grierson to our relief. The horses are ready. Now go, and God speed you. The sergeant will tell you what we know as you ride.”

Dick sprang at once into the saddle, and with a brief good-bye he and the sergeant were soon in the forest riding toward the southeast. Dick was alive and energetic again. All that laziness of mind and body was gone. He rode on a great ride and every sense was alert.

“Tell me,” he said, “just about what the news is.”

“Three men,” replied the sergeant, “came in at different times with tales, but the three tales agree. Grierson has made a great raid, even further down than we have gone. He has more than double our numbers, and if we can unite with him it’s likely that we can turn Forrest into the pursued instead of the pursuer. They say we can hit his trail about twenty-five miles from here, and if that’s so we’ll bring him up to the ford by noon to-morrow. Doesn’t it look promising to you, Lieutenant Mason?”

“It does look promising, Sergeant Whitley, if we don’t happen to be taken by the Johnnies who infest this region. Besides, you’ll have to guide through the dark to-night. You’re trained to that sort of thing.”

“You can see pretty well in the dark yourself, sir; and since our way lies almost wholly through forest I see no reason why we should be captured.”

“That’s so, sergeant. I’m just as much of an optimist as you are. You keep the course, and I’m with you to the finish.”

They rode rather fast at first as the sun had not yet set, picking their way through the woods, and soon left their comrades out of sight. The twilight now came fast, adding a mournful and somber red to the vast expanse of wilderness. The simile of an Indian fight returned to Dick with increased force. This was not like any battle with white men in the open fields. It was a combat of raiders who advanced secretly under cover of the vast wilderness.

The twilight died with the rapidity of the South, and the darkness, thick at the early hours, passed over the curve of the earth. For a time Dick and the sergeant could not see many yards in front and they rode very slowly. After a while, as the sky lightened somewhat and their eyes also grew keen, they made better speed. Then they struck a path through the woods leading in the right direction, and they broke into a trot.

The earth was so soft that their horses’ feet gave back but little sound, and both were confident they would not meet any enemy in the night at least.

“Straight southeast,” said the sergeant, “and we’re bound to strike Grierson’s tracks. After that we’d be blind if we couldn’t follow the trail made by nearly two thousand horsemen.”

The path still led in the direction they wished and they rode on silently for hours. Once they saw a farmhouse set back in the woods, and they were in fear lest dogs come out and bark alarm, but there was no sound and they soon left it far behind.

They passed many streams, some of which were up to their saddle girths, and then they entered a road which was often so deep in mud that they were compelled to turn into the woods on the side. But no human being had interfered with their journey, and their hopes rose to the zenith.

They came, finally, into an open region of cotton fields, and the sergeant now began to watch closely for the great trail they hoped to find. A force as large as Grierson’s would not attempt a passage through the woods, but would seek some broad road and Sergeant Whitley expected to find it long before morning.

It was now an hour after midnight and they reckoned that they had come about the right distance. There was a good moon and plenty of stars and the sergeant gave himself only a half-hour to find the trail.

“There’s bound to be a wide road somewhere among these fields, the kind we call a county road.”

“It’s over there beyond that rail fence,” said Dick. They urged their horses into a trot, and soon found that Dick was right. A road of red clay soft from the rains stretched before them.

“A man doesn’t have to look twice here for a trail. See,” said the sergeant.

The road from side to side was plowed deep with the hoofs of horses, every footprint pointing northward.