Part 12 (1/2)
But the men were very cheerful. The little band of skirmishers or sharpshooters under Slade had been brushed aside easily, and now that they were in the valley they did not foresee any further attempt to stop their march to Sheridan. The three colonels shared in the view, and when the men had finished breakfast and dried themselves at their fires they remounted and rode away gaily. High spirits rose again in youthful veins, and some lad of a mellow voice began to sing. By and by all joined and a thousand voices thundered out:
”Oh, share my cottage, gentle maid, It only waits for thee To give a sweetness to its shade And happiness to me.
”Here from the splendid, gay parade Of noise and folly free No sorrows can my peace invade If only blessed with thee.
”Then share my cottage, gentle maid, It only waits for thee To give a sweetness to its shade And happiness to me.”
Colonel Hertford made no attempt to check them as they rode across the fields, yet green here, despite the summer's heat.
”They're bravest when they sing,” he said to Colonel Winchester.
”It encourages them,” said Colonel Winchester, ”and I like to hear it myself. It's a wonderful effect, a thousand or more strong lads singing, as they sweep over the valley toward battle.”
d.i.c.k, Pennington and Warner had joined in the song, but the youth some distance ahead of them was leader. They finished ”Gentle Maid” and then, with the same lad leading them, swung into a song that made d.i.c.k start and that for a moment made other mountains and another valley stand out before him, sharp and clear.
”Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the Southern moon Far o'er the mountain, breaks the day too soon.
In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell, Weary looks, yet tender, speak their fond farewell.
Nita! Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part, Nita! Juanita! Lean thou on my heart.
”When in thy dreaming moons like these shall s.h.i.+ne again, And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain, Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
Nita! Juanita! Let me linger by thy side.
Nita! Juanita! Be my own fair bride.”
They put tremendous heart and energy into the haunting old song as they sang, and d.i.c.k still saw Sam Jarvis, the singer of the hills, and his valley, where the paths of Harry Kenton and himself had crossed, though at times far apart.
”Now!” shouted the young leader, ”The last verse again!” and with increased heart and energy they thundered out:
”When in thy dreaming moons like these shall s.h.i.+ne again, And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain, Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
Nita! Juanita! Let me linger by thy side.
Nita! Juanita! Be my own fair bride.”
The mighty chorus sank away and the hills gave it back in echoes until the last one died.
”It's sung mostly in the South,” said d.i.c.k to Warner and Pennington.
”True,” said Warner, ”but before the war songs were not confined to one section. They were the common property of both. We've as much right to sing Juanita as the Johnnies have.”
All that day they rode and sang, going north toward Halltown, where the forces of Sheridan were gathering, and the valley, although lone and desolate, continually unfolded its beauty before them. The mountains were green near by and blue in the distance, and the fertile floor that they enclosed, like walls, was cut by many streams. Here, indeed, was a region that had bloomed before the war, and that would bloom again, no matter what war might do.
They found inhabited houses now and then, but all the men of military age were gone away and the old men, the women and the children would answer nothing. The women were not afraid to tell the Yankees what they thought of them, and in this war which was never a war on women the troopers merely laughed, or, if they felt anger, they hid it.
On they went through night and day, and now they drew near to Sheridan. Scouts in blue met them and the gallant column shook their sabers and saluted. Yes, it was true, they said, that Sheridan was gathering a fine army and he and all of his men were eager to march, but Colonel Hertford's force, sent by General Grant to help, would be welcomed with shouts. The fame of its three colonels had gone on before.
It was bright noon when they approached the northern end of the valley, and d.i.c.k saw a horseman followed by a group of about twenty men galloping toward them. The leader was a short, slender man, sitting firmly in his saddle.
”General Sheridan!” exclaimed Shepard.
Colonel Hertford instantly ordered his trumpeter to sound a signal, and the troopers, stopping and drawing up in a long line, awaited the man who was to command them, and who was coming on so fast. Again d.i.c.k examined him closely through his gla.s.ses, and he saw the young, tanned face under the broad brim of his hat, and the keen, flas.h.i.+ng eyes. He noticed also how small he was. Sheridan was but five feet five inches in height and he weighed in the momentous campaign now about to begin, only one hundred and fifteen pounds! As slight as a young boy, he gave, nevertheless, an impression of the greatest vigor and endurance.