Part 40 (1/2)
The cartoon showed a sickly-looking Southerner carrying his musket under an umbrella accompanied by a negro with a tray full of mint juleps.
”That's a joke, isn't it!” d.i.c.k roared. ”Will you give me this paper?”
”Certainly, Monsieur!”
d.i.c.k folded the sheet, still laughing. ”I'll have some fun with this in camp to-night. Come on--I want to show you just one more bunch of these sickly-looking mint-julipers--”
Again the Southerner roared.
They quickened their pace and in a few minutes were pa.s.sing through the camps of the Red River men from Arkansas and Northern Louisiana.
”Aren't you sorry for these poor fellows?” d.i.c.k laughed.
”I have never seen anything like them,” Socola admitted, looking on their stalwart forms with undisguised admiration. Scarcely a man was under six feet in height, with broad, ma.s.sive shoulders and chests and not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Their resemblance to each other was remarkable. Nature had cast each one in the same heroic mold. The spread of giant unbroken forests spoke in their brawny arms and legs. The look of an eagle soaring over great rivers and fertile plains flashed in their fearless eyes.
”What do you think of them?” d.i.c.k asked with boyish pride.
”I'd like to send their photographs to _Harper's_--”
”For G.o.d's sake, don't do that!” d.i.c.k protested. ”If you do, we'll never get a chance to see a Yankee. I want to get in sight of 'em anyhow before they run. All I ask of the Lord is to give me one whack at those little, hump-backed, bow-legged shoemakers from Boston!”
Socola smiled dryly.
”In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to use.”
The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet when he spoke.
”Your faith is strong, M'sieur!”
”It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any day.”
”But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a dozen?”
”Don't you think these fellows could do it?”
Socola hesitated. It was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove mountains. He shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole over his face. He seemed to be talking to himself.
”Your President tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can accomplish. And yet his view is not sanguine. A sad undertone I caught in his voice. He says your war will be long and b.l.o.o.d.y--”
”Yes--I know,” d.i.c.k broke in, ”but n.o.body agrees with him. We'll show old Jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all we ask--just _one_ chance. Read that editorial in the Richmond _Examiner_--”
He thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the South into Socola's hand and pointed to a marked paragraph:
”From mountain top and valleys to the sh.o.r.es of the seas there is one wild shout of fierce resolve to capture Was.h.i.+ngton City at all and every human hazard!”
The North was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to end in triumph their holiday excursion on July 4. The South was marching to meet them with eager pride, each man afraid the fight would be over before he could reach the front to fire a single shot. And behind each gay regiment of scornful men marched the white silent figure of Death.
CHAPTER XV