The Scouts of Stonewall: The Story of the Great Valley Campaign. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

was everywhere, riding back and forth on his sorrel horse, directing the removal just as he had directed the march and the brief combat. His words were brief but always dynamic. He seemed insensible to weariness.

      It was now full morning, wintry and clear. The small population of the village and people from the surrounding country, intensely Southern and surcharged with enthusiasm, were bringing hot coffee and hot breakfast for the troops. Jackson permitted them to eat and drink in relays. As many as could get at the task helped to load the wagons. Little compulsion was needed. Officers themselves toiled at boxes and casks. The spirit of Jackson had flowed into them all.

      “I’ve gone into training,” said Langdon to Harry.

      “Training? What kind of training, Tom?”

      “I see that my days of play are over forever, and I’m practicing hard, so I can learn how to do without food, sleep or rest for months at a time.”

      “It’s well you’re training,” interrupted St. Clair. “I foresee that you’re going to need all the practice you can get. Everything’s loaded in the wagons now, and I wager you my chances of promotion against one of our new Confederate dollar bills that we start inside of a minute.”

      The word “minute” was scarcely out of his mouth, when Jackson gave the sharp order to march. Sherburne’s troop sprang to saddle and led the way, their bugler blowing a mellow salute to the morning and victory. Many whips cracked, and the wagons bearing the precious stores swung into line. Behind came the brigade, the foot cavalry. The breakfast and the loading of the wagons had not occupied more than half an hour. It was yet early morning when the whole force left the village and marched at a swift pace toward Winchester.

      General Jackson beckoned to Harry.

      “Ride with me,” he said. “I’ve notified Colonel Talbot that you are detached from his staff and will serve on mine.”

      Although loath to leave his comrades Harry appreciated the favor and flushed with pleasure.

      “Thank you, sir,” he said briefly.

      Jackson nodded. He seemed to like the lack of effusive words. Harry knew that his general had not tasted food. Neither had he. He had actually forgotten it in his keenness for his work, and now he was proud of the fact. He was proud, too, of the comradeship of abstention that it gave him with Stonewall Jackson. As he rode in silence by the side of the great commander he made for himself an ideal. He would strive in his own youthful way to show the zeal, the courage and the untiring devotion that marked the general.

      The sun, wintry but golden, rose higher and made fields and forest luminous. But few among Jackson’s men had time to notice the glory of the morning. It seemed to Harry that they were marching back almost as swiftly as they had come. Langdon was right and more. They were getting continuous practice not only in the art of living without food, sleep or rest, but also of going everywhere on a run instead of a walk. Those who survived it would be incomparable soldiers.

      Winchester appeared and the people came forth rejoicing. Jackson gave orders for the disposition of the stores and then rode at once to a tent. He signalled to Harry also to dismount and enter. An orderly took the horses of both.

      “Sit down at the table there,” said Jackson. “I want to dictate to you some orders.”

      Harry sat down. He had forgotten to take off his cap and gloves, but he removed one gauntlet now, and picked up a pen which lay beside a little inkstand, a pad of coarse paper on the other side.

      Jackson himself had not removed hat or gauntlets either, and the heavy cavalry cloak that he had worn on the ride remained flung over his shoulders. He dictated a brief order to his brigadiers, Loring, Edward Johnson, Garnett, the commander of the Stonewall Brigade, and Ashby, who led the cavalry, to prepare for a campaign and to see that everything was ready for a march in the morning.

      Harry made copies of all the orders and sealed them.

      “Deliver every one to the man to whom it is addressed,” said Jackson, “and then report to me. But be sure that you say nothing of their contents to anybody.”

      The boy, still burning with zeal, hurried forth with the orders, delivered them all, and came back to the tent, where he found the general dictating to another aide. Jackson glanced at him and Harry, saluting, said:

      “I have given all the orders, sir, to those for whom they were intended.”

      “Very well,” said Jackson. “Wait and I shall have more messages for you to carry.”

      He turned to the second aide, but seeming to remember something, looked at his watch.

      “Have you had any breakfast, Mr. Kenton?” he said.

      “No, sir.”

      “Any sleep?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “When?”

      “I slept well, sir, night before last.”

      Harry’s reply was given in all seriousness. Jackson smiled. The boy’s reply and his grave manner pleased him.

      “I won’t give you any more orders just now,” he said. “Go out and get something to eat, but do not be gone longer than half an hour. You need sleep, too—but that can wait.”

      “I shall be glad to carry your orders, sir, now. The food can wait, too. I am not hungry.”

      Harry spoke respectfully. There was in truth an appealing note in his voice. Jackson gave him another and most searching glance.

      “I think I chose well when I chose you,” he said. “But go, get your breakfast. It is not necessary to starve to death now. We may have a chance at that later.”

      The faintest twinkle of grim humor appeared in his eyes and Harry, withdrawing, hastened at once to the Invincibles, where he knew he would have food and welcome in plenty.

      St. Clair and Langdon greeted him with warmth and tried to learn from him what was on foot.

      “There’s a great bustle,” said Langdon, “and I know something big is ahead. This is the last day of the Old Year, and I know that the New Year is going to open badly. I’ll bet you anything that before to-morrow morning is an hour old this whole army will be running hot-foot over the country, more afraid of Stonewall Jackson than of fifty thousand of the enemy.”

      “But you’ve been in training for it,” said Harry with a laugh.

      “So I have, but I don’t want to train too hard.”

      Harry ate and drank and was back at General Jackson’s tent in twenty minutes. He had received a half hour but he was learning already to do better than was expected of him.

      CHAPTER III. STONEWALL JACKSON’S MARCH

      Harry took some orders to brigadiers and colonels. He saw that concentration was going on rapidly and he shared the belief of his comrades that the army would march in the morning. He felt a new impulse of ambition and energy. It continually occurred to him that while he was doing much he might do more. He saw how his leader worked, with rapidity and precision, and without excitement, and he strove to imitate him.

      The influence of Jackson was rapidly growing stronger upon the mind of the brilliant, sensitive boy, so susceptible to splendor of both thought and action. The general, not yet great to the world, but great already to those around him, dominated the mind of the boy. Harry was proud to serve him.

      He saw that Jackson had taken no sleep, and he would take none either. Soon the question was forgotten, and he toiled all through the afternoon, glad to be at the heart of affairs so important.

      Winchester was a sprightly little city, one of the best in the great valley, inhabited by cultivated people of old families, and Southern to the core. Harry and his young comrades had found a good welcome there. They had been in many houses and they had made many friends. The Virginians liked his bright face and manners. Now they could not fail to see that some great movement was afoot, and more than once his new friends asked him its nature, but he replied truthfully that he did not know. In the throb of great action Winchester