FOREWORD

“The Rock of Chickamauga,” presenting a critical phase of the great struggle in the west, is the sixth volume in the series, dealing with the Civil War, of which its predecessors have been “The Guns of Bull Run,” “The Guns of Shiloh,” “The Scouts of Stonewall,” “The Sword of Antietam” and “The Star of Gettysburg.” Dick Mason who fights on the Northern side, is the hero of this romance, and his friends reappear also.

THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.

THE GUNS OF SHILOH.

THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.

THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.

THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.

THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.

THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.

THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.

DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.

COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.

MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.

JULIANA, Mrs. Mason’s Devoted Colored Servant.

COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason’s Regimental Commander.

COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles, a Southern Regiment.

LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the Invincibles.

ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.

PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.

WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.

DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.

GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.

FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.

ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.

TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.

GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.

BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.

TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.

SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.

IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis’ Nephew.

AUNT “SUSE,” A Centenarian and Prophetess.

BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.

JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.

JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.

DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.

ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.

JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.

JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.

JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.

JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.

WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.

MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.

HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.

DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.

VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.

JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.

CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.

COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.

CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.

JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.

JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.

MR. CULVER, A State Senator.

MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.

ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.

HISTORICAL CHARACTERS

ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.

JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.

JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.

U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.

ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.

STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.

PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.

GEORGE H. THOMAS, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”

ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.

A. P. HILL, Southern General.

W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.

GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.

AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.

TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.

J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.

JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.

RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.

JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.

WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.

SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.

LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.

BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.

NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.

JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.

GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.

DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.

W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.

JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.

P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.

WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.

JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of the United States.

And many others

IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

BULL RUN

KERNSTOWN

CROSS KEYS

WINCHESTER

PORT REPUBLIC

THE SEVEN DAYS

MILL SPRING

FORT DONELSON

SHILOH

PERRYVILLE

STONE RIVER

THE SECOND MANASSAS

ANTIETAM

FREDERICKSBURG

CHANCELLORSVILLE

GETTYSBURG

CHAMPION HILL

VICKSBURG

CHICKAMAUGA

MISSIONARY RIDGE

THE WILDERNESS

SPOTTSYLVANIA

COLD HARBOR

FISHER’S HILL

CEDAR CREEK

APPOMATTOX

CHAPTER I. AT BELLEVUE

“You have the keenest eyes in the troop. Can you see anything ahead?” asked Colonel Winchester.

“Nothing living, sir,” replied Dick Mason, as he swept his powerful glasses in a half-curve. “There are hills on the right and in the center, covered with thick, green forest, and on the left, where the land lies low, the forest is thick and green too, although I think I catch a flash of water in it.”

“That should be the little river of which our map tells. And you, Warner, what do your eyes tell you?”

“The same tale they tell to Dick, sir. It looks to me like a wilderness.”

“And so it is. It’s a low-lying region of vast forests and thickets, of slow deep rivers and creeks, and of lagoons and bayous. If Northern troops want to be ambushed they couldn’t come to a finer place for it. Forrest and five thousand of his wild riders might hide within rifle shot of us in this endless mass of vegetation. And so, my lads, it behooves us to be cautious with a very great caution. You will recall how we got cut up by Forrest in the Shiloh time.”

“I do, sir,” said Dick and he shuddered as he recalled those terrible moments. “This is Mississippi, isn’t it?”

Colonel Winchester took a small map from his pocket, and, unfolding it, examined it with minute care.

“If this is right, and I’m sure it is,” he replied, “we’re far down in Mississippi in the sunken regions that border the sluggish tributaries of the Father of Waters. The vegetation is magnificent, but for a home give me higher ground, Dick.”

“Me too, sir,” said Warner. “The finest state in this Union is Vermont. I like to live on firm soil, even if it isn’t so fertile, and I like to see the clear, pure water running everywhere, brooks and rivers.”

“I’ll admit that Vermont is a good state for two months in the year,” said Dick.

“Why not the other ten?”

“Because then it’s frozen up, solid and hard, so I’ve heard.”

The other boys laughed and kept up their chaff, but Colonel Winchester rode soberly ahead. Behind him trailed the Winchester regiment, now reorganized and mounted. Fresh troops had come from Kentucky, and fragments of old regiments practically destroyed at Perryville and Stone River had been joined to it.

It was a splendid body of men, but of those who had gone to Shiloh only about two hundred remained. The great conflicts of the West, and the minor battles had accounted for the others. But it was perhaps one of the reliefs of the Civil War that it gave the lads who fought it little time to think of those who fell. Four years crowded with battles, great and small, sieges and marches absorbed their whole attention.

Now two men, the dreaded Forrest and fierce little Joe Wheeler, occupied the minds of Winchester and his officers. It was impossible to keep track of these wild horsemen here in their own section. They had a habit of appearing two or three hundred miles from the place at which they were expected.

But the young lieutenants while they watched too for their redoubtable foes had an eye also for the country. It was a new kind of region for all of them. The feet of their horses sank deep in the soft black soil, and there was often a sound of many splashings as the regiment rode across a wide, muddy brook.

Dick noted with interest the magnolias and the live oaks, and the great stalks of the sunflower. Here in this Southern state, which bathed its feet in the warm waters of the Gulf, spring was already far along, although snows still lingered in the North.

The vegetation was extravagant in its luxuriance and splendor. The enormous forest was broken by openings like prairies, and in every one of them the grass grew thick and tall, interspersed with sunflowers and blossoming wild plants. Through the woods ran vast networks of vines, and birds of brilliant plumage chattered in the trees. Twice, deer sprang up before them and raced away in the forest. It was the wilderness almost as De Soto had traversed it nearly four centuries before, and it had a majesty which in its wildness was not without its sinister note.

They approached a creek, deeper and wider than usual, flowing in slow, yellow coils, and, as they descended into the marsh that enclosed its waters, there was a sharp crackling sound, followed quickly by another and then by many others. The reports did not cease, and, although blood was shed freely, no man fell from his horse, nor was any wounded mortally. But the assault was vicious and it was pushed home with the utmost courage and tenacity, although many of the assailants fell never to rise again. Cries of pain and anger, and imprecations arose from the stricken regiment.

“Slap! Slap!”

“Bang! Bang!”

“Ouch! He’s got his bayonet in my cheek!”

“Heavens, that struck me like a minie ball! And it came, whistling and shrieking, too, just like one!”

“Phew, how they sting! and my neck is bleeding in three places!”

“By thunder, Bill, I hit that fellow, fair and square! He’ll never trouble an honest Yankee soldier again!”

The fierce buzzing increased all around them and Colonel Winchester shouted to his trumpeter:

“Blow the charge at once!”

The man, full willing, put the trumpet to his lips and blew loud and long. The whole regiment went across the creek at a gallop—the water flying in yellow showers—and did not stop until, emerging from the marsh, they reached the crest of a low hill a mile beyond. Here, stung, bleeding and completely defeated by the enemy they stopped for repairs. An occasional angry buzz showed that they were not yet safe from the skirmishers, but their attack seemed a light matter after the full assault of the determined foe.

“I suppose we’re all wounded,” said Dick as he wiped a bleeding cheek. “At least as far as I can see they’re hurt. The last fellow who got his bayonet in my face turned his weapon around and around and sang merrily at every revolution.”

“We were afraid of being ambushed by Forrest,” said Warner, speaking from a swollen countenance. “Instead we struck something worse; we rode straight into an ambush of ten billion high-powered mosquitoes, every one tipped with fire. Have we got enemies like these to fight all the way down here?”

“They sting the rebels, too,” said Pennington.

“Yes, but they like newcomers best, the unacclimated. When we rode down into that swamp I could hear them shouting, to one another: ‘That fat fellow is mine, I saw him first! I’ve marked the rosy-cheeked boy for mine. Keep away the rest of you fellows!’ I feel as if I’d been through a battle. No more marshes for me.”

Some of the provident produced bottles of oil of pennyroyal. Sergeant Daniel Whitley, who rode a giant bay horse, was one of the most foreseeing in this respect, and, after the boys had used his soothing liniment freely, the fiery torment left by the mosquito’s sting passed away.

The sergeant seemed to have grown bigger and broader than ever. His shoulders were about to swell through his faded blue coat, and the hand resting easily on the rein had the grip and power of a bear’s paw. His rugged face had been tanned by the sun of the far south to the color of an Indian’s. He was formidable to a foe, and yet no gentler heart beat than that under his old blue uniform. Secretly he regarded the young lieutenants, his superiors in military rank and education, as brave children, and often he cared for them where his knowledge and skill were greater than theirs or even than that of colonels and generals.

“God bless you, Sergeant,” said Dick, “you don’t look like an angel, but you are one—that is, of the double-fisted, fighting type.”

The sergeant merely smiled and replaced the bottle carefully in his pocket, knowing that they would have good use for it again.

The regiment after salving its wounds resumed its watchful march.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Pennington asked Dick.

“I think we’re likely if we live long enough to land in the end before Vicksburg, the great Southern fortress, but as I gather it we mean to curve and curl and twist about a lot before then. Grant, they say, intends to close in on Vicksburg, while Rosecrans farther north is watching Bragg at Chattanooga. We’re a flying column, gathering up information, and ready for anything.”

“It’s funny,” said Warner thoughtfully, “that we’ve already got so far south in the western field. We can’t be more than two or three hundred miles from the Gulf. Besides, we’ve already taken New Orleans, the biggest city of the South, and our fleet is coming up the river to meet us. Yet in the East we don’t seem to make any progress at all. We lose great battles there and Fredericksburg they say was just a slaughter of our men. How do you make it out, Dick?”

“I’ve thought of several reasons for it. Our generals 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.”