Part 35 (1/2)
”Drew, are things really so bad for us?”
The scout came away from the window. ”Maybe the General can hold off Wilson ... this time. But it can't last. Look at things straight, Boyd.
We're short on horses; more'n half the men are dismounted. And more of them desert every day. Men are afraid they'll be sent into the Carolinas to fight Sherman, and they don't want to be so far from home. The women write or get messages through about how hard things are at home. A man can march with an empty belly for himself and somehow stick it out, but when he hears about his children starvin' he's apt to forget all the rest. We're whittled 'way down, and there's no way under Heaven of gettin' what we need.”
”I heard some of the boys talkin' about drawin' back to Texas.”
”Sure, we've all heard that big wis.h.i.+n', but that's all it is, just wis.h.i.+n'. The Yankees wouldn't let up even if they crowded us clear back until we're knee-deep in the Rio Grande. It's close to the end now--”
”No, it ain't!” Boyd flared, more than a shade of the old stubbornness back in his voice. ”It ain't goin' to be the end as long as one of us can ride and hold a carbine! They can have horses and new boots, their supplies, and all their men. We ain't scared of any Yankee who ever rode down the pike! If you yell at 'em now, they'd beat it back the way they came.”
Drew smiled tiredly. ”Guess we're on our way now to do some of that yellin'.” The end was almost in sight; every trooper in or out of the saddle knew it. Only some, like Boyd, would not admit it. ”Remember what I say, Boyd. Take it slow and ride easy!”
Boyd picked up Drew's hat again, holding it in the sunlight coming through the window. The cord was a band of raw gold, gleaming brighter, perhaps, because of the shabbiness of the hat it now graced.
”You don't ride easy with the General,” he said softly. ”You ride tall and you ride proud!”
Drew took the hat from him. Out of the direct sunbeam, the band still seemed to hold a bit of fire.
”Maybe you do,” he agreed soberly.
Now Boyd was smiling in turn. ”You carry the General's hatband right up so those blue bellies can get the s.h.i.+ne in their eyes! We'll lam 'em straight back to the Tennessee again--see if we don't!”
But almost three weeks later the Yankees were not back at the Tennessee; they were dressing their lines before the horseshoe bend of the defending breastworks of Selma. Everything which could have gone wrong with Forrest's plans had done just that. A captured courier had given his enemies the whole framework of his strategy. Then the cavalry had tried to hold the blue flood at Bogler's Creek by a tearing frantic battle, whirling Union sabers against Confederate revolvers in the hands of veterans. It had been a battle from which Forrest himself broke free through a lane opened by the action of his own weapons and the concentrated fury of his escort.
Out of the city had steamed the last train while a stream of civilian refugees had struggled away on foot, the river patrolled by pickets of cavalry ordered to extricate every able-bodied man from the throng and press him into the struggle. Forrest's orders were plain: Every male able to fight goes into the works, or into the river!
Now Drew and Boyd were with the Kentuckians, forming with Forrest's escort a small reserve force behind the center of that horseshoe of ramparts. Veterans on either flank, and the militia, trusted by none, in the middle. Thin lines stretched to the limit, so that each dismounted trooper in that pitiful fortification was six or even ten feet from his nearest fellow. And gathering under the afternoon sun a ma.s.s of blue, a vast, endless ocean....
The enemy was dismounted, too, coming in on a charge as fearless and reckless as any the Confederates had delivered in the past. With the sharpness of one of their own sabers, they slashed out a trotting arc of men, cutting at Armstrong's veterans in the earthworks to be curled back under a withering fire, losing a general, senior officers, and men.
But the rebuff did not shake them.
A second Union attack was aimed at the center, and the militia broke.
Bugles shrilled in the small reserve, who then pushed up to meet that long tongue of blue licking out confidently toward the city. This time there was no stopping the Yankee advance. The reserve neither broke nor followed the shambling panic-striken flight of the militia, but were pushed back by sheer weight of numbers to the unfinished second line of the city's defenses.
Blue--a full tidal wave of it in front and wedges of blue overlapping the gray flanks and appearing here and there even to the rear--
Having thrown away his rifle, Drew was now firing with both Colts, never sure any of his bullets found their targets. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Boyd in a dip of half-finished earthwork when the bugle called again, and down the ragged line of gray snapped an order unheard before--
”Get out! Save yourselves!”
Boyd fired, then threw his emptied Colt into the face of a tall man whose blue coat bore a sergeant's stripes. His own emptied guns placed in their holsters, Drew caught up the carbine the Yankee had dropped. He gave Boyd a shove.
”Run!”
They dodged in and out of a swirling ma.s.s of fighting men, somehow reaching the line of horse holders. Drew found Croaker standing stolidly with dragging reins, got into the saddle, and reached down a hand to aid Boyd up behind him. In the early dusk he saw General Forrest--his own height and the proportions of his charger King Phillip distinguishable even in that melee--gathering about him a nucleus of resistance as they battled toward the city. And Drew headed Croaker in the General's direction.
Boyd pawed at his shoulder as they burst into a street at the bone-shaking gallop which was the mule's fastest gait. A blue-coated trooper sat with his back against the paling of a trim white fence, one lax hand still holding the reins of a horse. Drew pulled Croaker up so Boyd could slip down. As he pulled loose the reins the Yankee slid inertly to the ground.