United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
“Yes, sir,” he answered eagerly. “I know now exactly how we missed it,
and where we are. The cut-off to the White Briar I spoke to you about
this afternoon cannot be more than a hundred yards below here.”
“Ride ahead carefully then, and see if you can locate it. Be cautious;
there may be a picket stationed there. We will halt where we are until
you return.”
He swung forward his carbine where it would be handy for instant
service and trotted ahead into the darkness. The woman's horse, being
comparatively fresh and restless, danced a little in an effort to
follow, but I restrained him with a light hand on the bit, and for a
moment we sat waiting in silence. Then her natural curiosity prompted a
question.
“Why is it you seem so anxious to discover this cutoff?”
“We merely desire to take advantage of the more direct road,” I replied
somewhat shortly. “Besides, we are much farther to the east than I had
supposed, and therefore too close to the lines of the enemy.”
“How strange it is you should not have known!” she exclaimed in a voice
of indignant wonder; but as I made no reply she did not venture to speak
again.
My thoughts at that moment, indeed, were not with her, although I kept
firm hold upon her rein. I was eager to be off, to make up by hard
riding the tedious delay of this night's work, and constantly listening
in dread for some sounds of struggle down the roadway. But all remained
silent until I could dimly distinguish the returning hoof-beats of the
Sergeant's horse; and so anxious was I to economize time that I was
already urging our mounts forward when his shadow grew black in front,
and he wheeled in at my side.
“No picket there, sir.”
“Very well, Sergeant; when we come to the turn you are to ride a few
rods in advance of us, and will set a good pace, for now we must make up
for all this lost time.”
I caught the motion of his hand as it was lifted in salute.
“Very well, sir; here is the turn--to your right.”
I could dimly distinguish the opening designated, and as we wheeled into
it he at once clapped spurs to his horse and forged ahead. In another
moment he had totally disappeared, and as I urged our reluctant mounts
to more rapid speed all sound of his progress was instantly lost in the
pounding of our own hoofs on the hard road.
It was like riding directly against a black wall, and far from
comforting to the nerves, for the path was a strange one, and not too
well made. Fortunately the horses followed the curves without mishap,
save an occasional awkward stumble amid loose stones, while the high
walls of rock on either hand made a somewhat denser shadow where they
shut off the lower stars, and thus helped me to guide our progress.
But it was no time for conversation, even had the inclination been mine,
for every nerve was now strained to intensity as I spurred on my horse
and held tightly to the bridle of the other, almost cursing, as I rode,
the unlucky chance which brought us such a burden on a night like this.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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