The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis. Altsheler Joseph Alexander

in the West are better than our generals in the East, or their generals in the East are better than their generals in the West. And then there are the rivers. In the East they mostly run eastward between the two armies, and they are no help to us, but a hindrance rather. Here in the West the rivers, and they are many and great, mostly run southward, the way we want to go, and they bring our gunboats on their bosoms. Excuse my poetry, but it’s what I mean.”

      “You must be right. I think that all the reasons you give apply together. But our command of the water has surely been a tremendous help. And then we’ve got to remember, Dick, that there was never a navy like ours. It goes everywhere and it does everything. Why, if Admiral Farragut should tell one of those gunboats to steam across the Mississippi bottoms it would turn its saucy nose, steer right out of the water into the mud, and blow up with all hands aboard before it quit trying.”

      “You two fellows talk too much,” said Pennington. “You won’t let President Lincoln and Grant and Halleck manage the war, but you want to run it yourselves.”

      “I don’t want to run anything just now, Frank,” rejoined Dick. “What I’m thinking about most is rest and something to eat. I’d like to get rid, too, of about ten pounds of Mississippi mud that I’m carrying.”

      “Well, I can catch a glint of white pillars through those trees. It means the ‘big house’ of a plantation, and you’ll probably find somewhere back of it the long rows of cabins, inhabited by the dark people, whom we’ve come to raise to the level of their masters, if not above them. I can see right now the joyous welcome we’ll receive from the owners of the big house. They’ll be standing on the great piazza, waving Union flags and shouting to us that they have ready cooling drinks and luxurious food for us all.”

      “It’s hardly a joke to me. Whatever the cause of the war, it’s the bitterness of death for these people to be overrun. Besides, I remember the words of that old fellow in the blacksmith shop before we fought the battle of Stone River. He said that even if they were beaten they’d still be there holding the land and running things.”

      “That’s true,” said Warner. “I’ve been wondering how this war would end, and now I’m wondering what will happen after it does end. But here we are at the gate. What big grounds! These great planters certainly had space!”

      “And what silence!” said Dick. “It’s uncanny, George. A place like this must have had a thousand slaves, and I don’t see any of them rushing forward to welcome their liberators.”

      “Probably contraband, gone long ago to Ben Butler at New Orleans. I don’t believe there’s a soul here.”

      “Remember that lone house in Tennessee where a slip of a girl brought Forrest down on us and had us cut pretty nearly to pieces.”

      “I couldn’t forget it.”

      Nor could Colonel Winchester. The house, large and low, stood in grounds covering an area of several acres, enclosed by a paling fence, now sagging in many places. Great stone posts stood on either side of the gateway, but the gate was opened, and it, too, sagged.

      The grounds had evidently been magnificent, both with flowers and forest trees. Already many of the flowers were blooming in great luxuriance and brilliancy, but the walks and borders were untrimmed. The house was of wood, painted white with green shutters, and as they drew nearer they appreciated its great size, although it was only two stories in height. A hundred persons could have slept there, and twice as many could have found shade in the wide piazzas which stretched the full length of the four sides.

      But all the doors and shutters were closed and no smoke rose from any chimney. They caught a glimpse of the cabins for the slaves, on lower ground some distance behind the great house. The whole regiment reined up as they approached the carriage entrance, and, although they were eight hundred strong, there was plenty of room without putting a single hoof upon a flower.

      It was a great place. That leaped to the eye, but it was not marked upon Colonel Winchester’s map, nor had he heard of it.

      “It’s a grand house,” he said to his aides, “and it’s a pity that it should go to ruin after the slaves are freed, as they certainly will be.”

      “But it was built upon slave labor,” said Warner.

      “So it was, and so were many of the most famous buildings in the world. But here, I’m not going to get into an argument about such questions with young men under my command. Besides, I’m fighting to destroy slavery, not to study its history. Sergeant Whitley, you’re an experienced trailer: do you see any signs that troops have passed here?”

      “None at all, sir. Down near the gate where the drive is out of repair I noticed wheel tracks, but they were several days old. The freshest of them were light, as if made by buggies. I judge, sir, that it was the family, the last to leave.”

      “And the wagons containing their valuables had gone on ahead?”

      “It would seem so, sir.”

      Colonel Winchester sighed.

      “An invader is always feared and hated,” he said.

      “But we do come as enemies,” said Dick, “and this feeling toward us can’t be helped.”

      “That’s true. No matter what we do we’ll never make any friends here in one of the Gulf states, the very core of Southern feeling. Dick, take a squad of men and enter the house. Pennington, you and Warner go with him.”

      Dick sprang down instantly, chose Sergeant Whitley first and with the others entered the great portico. The front door was locked but it was easy enough to force it with a gun butt, and they went in, but not before Dick had noticed over the door in large letters the name, “Bellevue.” So this was Bellevue, one of the great cotton plantations of Mississippi. He now vaguely remembered that he had once heard his uncle, Colonel Kenton, speak of having stopped a week here. But he could not recall the name of the owner. Strong for the Union as he was Dick was glad that the family had gone before the Northern cavalry came.

      The house was on a splendid scale inside also, but all the rugs and curtains were gone. As they entered the great parlor Dick saw a large piece of paper, and he flushed as he read written upon it in tall letters:

      TO THE YANKEE RAIDERS:

      YOU NEED NOT LOOK FOR THE SILVER.

      IT HAS BEEN TAKEN TO VICKSBURG.

      “Look at that!” he said indignantly to Warner. “See how they taunt us!”

      But Warner laughed.

      “Maybe some of our men at New Orleans have laid us open to such a stab,” he said. Then he added whimsically:

      “We’ll go to Vicksburg with Grant, Dick, and get that silver yet.”

      “The writing’s fresh,” said Sergeant Whitley, who also looked at the notification. “The paper hasn’t begun to twist and curl yet. It’s not been posted up there many hours.”

      Colonel Winchester entered at that moment and the notice was handed to him. He, too, flushed a little when he read it, but the next instant he laughed. Dick then called his attention to the apparent fact that it had been put there recently.

      “May I speak a word, Colonel,” said Warner, who had been thinking so hard that there was a line the full length of his forehead.

      “Yes, George, a dozen if you like. Go ahead. What is it?”

      “The sergeant, who has had much experience as a trailer, told us that the tracks made by the buggy wheels were several days old. The slaves probably had been sent southward before that time. Now some one who saw our advance has come back, and, whoever it was, he was thoroughly familiar with the house. He couldn’t have been a servant. Servants don’t leave taunts of that kind. It must have been somebody who felt our coming deeply, and if it had been an elderly man he would have waited for action, he wouldn’t have used saucy words. So, sir, I think it must have been a boy. Just like Pennington there, for instance.”

      “Good, George, go on with your reasonings.”

      “As