by Andre Norton
11
_The Road to Nashville_
Sleet drove at the earth with an oblique, knife-edged whip. Thehalf-ice, half-rain struck under water-logged hat brims, found the neckopening where the body covering, improvised from a square ofappropriated Yankee oilcloth, lay about the shoulders.
"I'm thinkin' we sure have struck a stream lengthwise." Kirby's Tejanocrowded up beside Hannibal. "Can't otherwise be so many bog holes in anystretch of country. An' if we ever do come across those dang-blastedordnance wagons, we won't know 'em from a side of 'dobe anyway."
They had reined in on the edge of a mud hole in which men sweated--inspite of the sleet which plastered thin clothing to their gauntbodies--swore, and put dogged endurance to the test as they labored withdrag ropes and behind wheels encrusted with pendulous pounds of mud, topropel a supply wagon out of the bog into which it had sunk when thefrozen crust of the rutted road had broken apart. The Army of theTennessee, now fighting storms, winter rains, snow and hail, was alsofighting men as valiantly, engaged in General Hood's great gamble of anall-out attack on Nashville. They had a hope--and a slim chance--tosweep through the Union lines back up into Tennessee and Kentucky, andperhaps to wall off Sherman in the south and repair the loss of Atlanta.
Hannibal brayed, shifting his weary feet in the churned-up muck of thefield edge. The ground, covered with a scum of ice at night, was a trapfor animals as well as vehicles. Breaking through that glassy surface tothe glutinous stuff beneath, they suffered cuts deep enough to drawblood above hoof level.
Drew called to the men laboring at the stalled wagon.
"Ordnance? Buford's division?"
He didn't really expect any sort of a promising answer. This was worsethan trying to hunt a needle in a stack of hay, this tracing--throughthe fast darkening night--the lost ordnance wagons, caught somewhere inor behind the infantry train. But ahead, where Forrest's cavalry wasthrusting into the Union lines at Spring Hill, men were going intobattle with three rounds or less to feed their carbines and rifles.Somehow the horse soldiers had pushed into a hot, full-sized fight andthe scouts had to locate those lost wagons and get them up to the frontlines.
A living figure of mud spat out a mouthful of that viscous substance inorder to answer.
"This heah ain't no ordnance--not from Buford's neither! Put your backsinto it now, yo' wagon-dogs! Git to it an' push!"
Under that roar the excavation squad went into straining action. Oxen,their eyes bulbous in their skulls from effort, set brute energy againstyokes along with the men. The mud eventually gave grip, and the wagonmoved.
Drew rode on, the two half-seen shapes which were Boyd and Kirby in hiswake. A dripping branch flicked bits of ice into his face. The dusk wasa thickening murk, and with the coming of the November dark, theiralready pitiful chance of locating the wagons dwindled fast.
There was a distant crackle of carbine and rifle fire. The struggle muststill be in progress back there. At least the stragglers about them werestill moving up. No retreat from Spring Hill, unless the Yankees weremaking that. All Drew's party could do was to continue on down the road,asking their question at each wagon, stalled in the mud or traveling ata snail's pace.
"D'you see?" Boyd cried out. "Those men were barefoot!" Involuntarily heswung one of his own booted feet out of the stirrup as if to assurehimself that he still had adequate covering for his cold toes.
"It ain't the first time in this heah war," Kirby remarked. "They'llketch 'em a Yankee. The blue bellies, they're mighty obligin' 'boutwearin' good shoes an' such, an' lettin' themselves be roped with alltheir plunder on. Some o' 'em, who I had the pleasure of surveyin'through Sarge's glasses this mornin', have overcoats--good warm ones.Now that's what'd pleasure a poor cold Texas boy, makin' him forgit histroubles. You keep your eyes sighted for one of them theah overcoats,Boyd. I'll be right beholden to you for it."
Hannibal brayed again and switched his rope tail. His usual stolidtemperament showed signs of wear.
"Airin' th' lungs that way sounds like a critter gittin' set to make warmedicine. A hardtail don't need no hardware but his hoofs to make a manregret knowin' him familiar-like--"
Drew had reached another wagon.
"Ordnance? Buford's?" He repeated the well-worn question without hope.
"Yeah, what about it?"
For a moment the scout thought he had not heard that right. But Kirby'scrow of delight assured him that he had been answered in theaffirmative.
"What about it?" Boyd echoed indignantly. "We've been huntin' you forhours. General Buford wants...."
The man who had answered Drew was vague in the dusk, to be seen only inthe limited light of the lantern on the driver's seat. But they did notmiss the pugnacious set of knuckles on hips, nor the truculence whichoverrode the weariness in his voice.
"Th' General can want him a lotta things in this heah world, sonny. Whatthe Good Lord an' this heah mud lets him have is somethin' else again.We've been pushin' these heah dang-blasted-to-Richmond wagons along,mostly with our bare hands. Does he want 'em any faster, he can jus'send us back thirty or forty fresh teams, along with good weather--an'we'll be right up wheah he wants us in no time--"
"The boys are out of ammunition," Drew said quietly. "And they aretryin' to dig out the Yankees."
"You ain't tellin' me nothin', soldier, that I don't know or ain'talready heard." The momentary flash of anger had drained out of theother's voice; there was just pure fatigue weighting the tongue now."We're comin', jus' as fast as we can--"
"You pull on about a quarter mile and there's a turnout; that way you'llmake better time," Drew suggested. "We'll show you where."
"All right. We're comin'."
In the end they all pitched to, lending the pulling strength of theirmounts, and the power of their own shoulders when the occasion demanded.Somehow they got on through the dark and the cold and the mud. And closeto dawn they reached their goal.
But that same dark night had lost the Confederate Army their chance ofvictory. The Union command had not been safely bottled up at SpringHill. Through the night hours Schofield's army had marched along theturnpike, within gunshot of the gray troops, close enough for Hood'spickets to hear the talk of the retreating men. Now they must be pursuedtoward Franklin. The Army of the Tennessee was herding the Yankees rightenough, but with a kind of desperation which men in the ranks couldsense.
Buford's division held the Confederate right wing. Drew, acting ascourier for the Kentucky general, saw Forrest--with his tough,undefeated, and undefeatable escort--riding ahead.
They had Wilson's Cavalry drawn up to meet them. But they had handledWilson before, briskly and brutally. This was the old game they knewwell. Drew saw the glitter of sabers along the Union ranks and smiledgrimly. When were the Yankees going to learn that a saber was good forthe toasting of bacon and such but not much use in the fight? Give himtwo Colts and a carbine every time! There was a fancy dodge he had seensome of the Texans use; they strung extra revolver cylinders to thesaddle horn and snapped them in for reloading. It was risky but sure wasfast.
"They've got Springfields." He heard Kirby's satisfied comment.
"I'm goin' to get me one of those," Boyd began, but Drew rounded on himswiftly.
"No, you ain't! They may look good, but they ain't much. You can'treload 'em in the saddle with your horse movin', and all they're goodfor in a mixup is a fancy sort of club."
The Confederate infantry were moving up toward the Union breastworks,part of which was a formidable stone wall. And now came the orders fortheir own section to press in. They pushed, hard and heavy, while swirlsof blue cavalry fought, broke, re-formed to meet their advance, andbroke again. They routed out pockets of blue infantry, sending somepelting back toward the Harpeth.
A wave of retreating Yankees crossed the shallow river. Forrest's mendismounted to fight and took the stream on foot, the icy water splashinghigh. It was wild and tough, the slam of man meeting man. Drew wrested aguidon from the hold of a blue-coated troo
per as Hannibal smashed intothe other's mount with bared teeth and pawing hoofs. Waving the trophyover his head and yelling, he pounded on at a knot of determinedinfantry, aware that he was leading others from Buford's still-mountedheadquarter's company, and that they were going to ride right over theYankee soldiers. Men threw away muskets and rifles, raised empty hands,scattered in frantic leaps from that charge.
Then they were rounding up their blue-coated prisoners and Drew, thepole of the captured guidon braced in the crook of his elbow as hereloaded his revolver, realized that the shadows were thickening, thatthe day was almost gone.
"Rennie!" Still holding the guidon, Drew obeyed the beckoning hand ofone of the General's aides. He put Hannibal to a rocking gallop to comeup with the officer.
"Withdrawin'--behind the river. Pass the word to gather in!"
Drew cantered back to wave in Kirby, Boyd, and the others who had madethat charge with him. It was retreat again, but they did not know thenthat Franklin had cost them Hood's big gamble. Forty-five hundred menswept out of the gray forces--killed, wounded, missing, prisoners. Fiveirreplaceable generals were dead; six more, wounded or captured. TheArmy of the Tennessee was slashed, badly torn ... but it was not yetdestroyed.
That night the cavalry was on the march, driven by Forrest's tirelessenergy. They hit skirmishers at a garrisoned crossroads, using Morton'sfield batteries to cut them a free path. And through the bitter days ofearly December they continued to show their teeth to some purpose.
Blockhouses along the railroads and along the Cumberland were taken,with Murfreesboro their goal. Life was a constant alert, a plugging awayof weary men, worn-out horses, bogged-down wagons, relieved now and thenfrom the morass of exhaustion by sharp spurts of fighting, thesatisfaction of rounding up a Yankee patrol or blockhouse squad, thetaking of some supply train and finding in its wagons enough to givethem all mouthfuls of food.
Murfreesboro was strongly garrisoned by the enemy, too strong to bestormed. But on the morning of the seventh a Yankee detachment came outof that fort and Forrest's men deployed to entice them farther afield.Buford's command was lying in wait--let the blue bellies get far enoughfrom the town and they could cut in between, perhaps even overrun theremaining garrison and accomplish what Forrest himself had believedimpossible, the taking of Murfreesboro.
They made part of that ... fought their way into the town. Drew poundedalong in a compact squad led by Wilkins. He saw the sergeant sway in thesaddle, dropping reins, his face a clay-gray which Drew recognized ofold. Snatching at the now trailing rein, Drew jerked the other's mountout of the main push.
The sergeant's head turned slowly; his mouth looked almost square as hefought to say something. Then he slumped, tumbling from the saddle intothe embrace of an ornamental bush as his horse clattered along thesidewalk. Drew knew he was already dead.
Buford's men went into Murfreesboro right enough, well into its heart.But they could not hold the town. Only that thrust was deep and welltimed; it saved the whole command. For, though they did not know it yet,on the pike the infantry had broken. For the first time Forrest had seenmen under his orders run from the enemy in panic-stricken terror. Onlythe cavalry had saved them from a wholesale rout.
Drew trudged over the stubble of a field, leading Hannibal and Wilkins'mount. There had been no way of bringing the sergeant's body out oftown, and Drew had reported the death to Lieutenant Traggart, whoofficered the scouts. He felt numb as he headed for the spark of firewhich marked their temporary camp, numb not only with cold and hunger,but with all the days of cold, hunger, fighting, and marching which laybehind. It seemed to him that this war had gone on forever, and he foundit very hard to remember when he had slept soundly enough not to arouseto a quick call, when he had dared to ride across a field or down aroad without watching every bit of cover, every point on the landscapewhich could mask an enemy position or serve the same purpose for thecommand behind him.
As he came up to the fire he thought that even the flames lookedcold--stunted somehow--not because there had not been enough wood tofeed them, but because the fire itself was old and tired. Blinking atthe flames, he stood still, unaware of the fact that he was swaying onfeet planted a little apart. He could not move, not of his own volition.
Someone coughed in the shadow fringe beyond the light of those tiredflames. It was a short hard cough, the kind which hurt Drew's ears asmuch as its tearing must have hurt the throat which harbored it. Heturned his head a fraction to see the bundle of blankets housing thecougher. Then the reins of mule and horse were twisted from his stifffingers, and Kirby's drawl broke through the coughing.
"You, Larange, take 'em back to the picket line, will you?"
The Texan's hands closed about Drew's upper arms just below the arch ofhis shoulders, steered him on, and then pressed him down into thelimited range of the fire's heat. From somewhere a tin platematerialized, and was in Drew's hold. He regarded its contents with eyeswhich had trouble focusing.
A thick liquid curled stickily back and forth across the surface of theplate as he strove to hold it level with trembling hands. Into themiddle of that lake Kirby dropped white squares of Yankee crackers, andthe pungent smell of molasses reached Drew's nostrils, making his mouthwater.
Snatching at the crackers, he crammed his mouth with a dripping squarecoated with molasses. As he began to chew he knew that nothing beforethat moment had ever tasted so good, been so much an answer to all thedisasters of the day. The world shrank; it was now the size of abattered tin plate smeared with molasses and the crumbs of stalecrackers.
Drew downed the mass avidly. Kirby was beside him again, a steaming tincup ready.
"This ain't nothin' but hotted water. But maybe it can make you thinkyou're drinkin' somethin' more interestin'."
With the tin cup in his hands, Drew discovered he could pay betterattention to his surroundings. He glanced around the small circle of menwho messed together. There was Larange, coming back from the horselines, Webb, the Tennesseean from the mountains, Croff and Weatherby,Cherokees of the Indian Nations, and Kirby, of course. But--Drew wassearching beyond the Texan for the other who should be there.
Absently he sipped the hot water, almost afraid to ask a question. Then,just because of his inner fears, he forced out the words: "Where'sBoyd?"
When Kirby did not answer, Drew's head lifted. He put down his cup andcaught the Texan's arm.
"He made it out of town; I know that. But where _is_ he?"
"Ovah theah." Kirby nodded at the blanket-wrapped figure in the shadows."Seems like he ain't feelin' too well...."
Drew wasted no time in getting to his feet. On his hands and knees, hescrambled across the space separating him from the roll of blankets. Hisquesting hand smoothed across a ragged bullet tear in the top one,recognizing it to be Kirby's by that mark. The pale oval of Boyd's faceturned toward him.
"What's the matter, boy?"
Drew could hear the other's harsh, fast breathing just as he had whenthey had found the injured boy at Harrisburg. Drew's fingers touched aburning-hot cheek.
"Got ... me ... sniffles." Boyd's mumble ended in another bout of thosesharp coughs. "'Member--sniffles? Hot soup an' bricks in bed, an' onioncloth for the throat...." He repeated all the Oak Hill remedies for asevere cold.
Bricks to warm the bed, hot soup of Mam Gusta's expert concocting, athick onion poultice to ease the pain in throat and chest and draw outinflammation: every one of those were as far beyond reach now as OakHill itself! For a moment Drew was gripped with a panic born of utterfrustration.
"Shelly? You there, Shelly?" Boyd's hoarse voice came from the dark."I'm sure thirsty, Shelly!"
Drew turned his head. Kirby had been behind him, but now the Texan wasback to the fire, ladling more hot water out of the pot. When hereturned, Weatherby was with him. Drew slipped his arm under thatrestlessly turning head to support the boy while the Texan held the tincup to Boyd's lips. They got a few mouthfuls into him before he turnedhis head away with a ghost of some of
his old petulance.
"I'm hungry, Shelly. Tell Mam Gusta...."
Weatherby squatted down on the other side of Boyd's limp body and puthis hand to the boy's forehead.
"Fever."
"Yes." Drew knew that much.
"There's a farmhouse two miles that way." Weatherby nodded to the south."Maybe nobody there, but it will be cover--"
"You can find it?" Drew demanded.
The Cherokee scout answered quickly. "Yes. You tell the lieutenant, andwe'll go there."
Kirby's hand rested on Drew's shoulder for a moment. "I'll track downTraggart. You and Weatherby here get the kid into that cover as quick asyou can. This ain't no weather for an hombre with a cough to be outsackin' in the bush."
Kirby was back again before they had rigged a blanket stretcher betweentwo horses.
"The lieutenant says to stay with th' kid till mornin'. He'll send thedoc along as soon as he can find him. Trouble is, we may have to ride ontomorrow...."
But Drew put that worry out of his mind. No use thinking about tomorrow;the present moment was the most important. With Weatherby as theirguide, they started off at a walk, heading into the night acrossice-rimmed fields while the rising wind brought frost to bite in the airthey pulled into their lungs.
There was no light showing in the black bulk of the house to whichWeatherby steered them. It was small, hardly better than a cabin, butthe door swung open as Kirby knocked on it; and they could smell thecold, stale odor of a deserted and none-too-clean dwelling. But it wasshelter, and exploring in the dark, Kirby announced that there wasfirewood piled beside the hearth.
By the light of the blaze Weatherby brought alive they found an oldbedstead backed against the wall, a tangle of filthy quilts cascadingfrom it. One look at them assured Drew that Boyd would be far betterleft in his blankets on the floor itself.
The Cherokee scout prowled the room, looking into the rickety wallcupboards, venturing through another door into a second smaller room,really a lean-to, and then going up the ladder into a loft.
"They left in a hurry, whoever lived here," he reported. "They leftthis--" He held out a dried, shrunken piece of shriveled salt beef.
"We can boil it," Kirby suggested. "Make a kinda broth; it might helpthe kid. Any sign of a pot--?"
There was a pot, encrusted with corn-meal remains. Weatherby took itoutside and returned, having scrubbed its interior as clean as possible,and filling it with a cup or so of water. "There's a well out there."
Boyd was asleep, or at least Drew hoped it was sleep. The boy's face wasflushed, his breathing fast and uneven. But he hadn't coughed for sometime, and Drew began to hope. If he could have a quiet day or two here,he might be all right. Or else the surgeon could send him along on oneof the wagons for the sick and wounded--the wagons already on the movesouth. If the doctor would certify that Boyd was ill....
Weatherby was busily shredding the wood-hard beef into the pot of water.His busy fingers stopped; his dark eyes were now on the outer door. Drewstiffened. Kirby's fingers closed about the butt of a Colt.
"What--" Drew asked in the faintest of whispers.
The Cherokee dropped the remainder of the uncut beef into the pot. Knifein hand, he moved with a panther's fluid grace to the begrimed windowhalf-covered with a dusty rag.