United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
In a single bound I was upon the back of the black, and had flung the
severed rope's end at the flank of the next horse in line. There was a
rush of feet, a sharp snapping of cords, a wild scurrying through the
bushes, as twenty frightened horses stampeded up the bank, and then,
lying face down over the saddle pommel, I sent the startled black
crashing down into the shallows of the ford. The fellow on guard tried
his best to stop us, but we were past him like the wind. He did not
fire, and doubtless in the darkness saw merely a stray horse broken from
the picket-rope. The other fellow took one swift shot, but it went wild,
and I heard the voice of the enraged lieutenant damning in the distance.
Then with a rush we went up the steep bank on the eastern shore, and I
sat upright in the saddle and gave the black his rein.
CHAPTER XX
A DEMON ON HORSEBACK
I felt positively happy then. The thrill of successful achievement
was mine, and with the exultation of a soldier in having surmounted
obstacles and peril, I nearly forgot for the moment the heart tragedy
left behind. The swift impetus of the ride, the keen night air sweeping
past me, the fresh sense of freedom and power engendered by that
reckless dash through the darkness, all conspired to render me
neglectful of everything save the joy of present victory. The spirit of
wild adventure was in my blood.
A dozen spits of fire cleaved the intense blackness behind, and I knew
the widely scattered patrol were sending chance shots across the stream.
A clang of hoofs rang out upon the rocks, but I could distinguish
nothing indicating a large pursuing party--probably the two who were
mounted at the ford, with possibly others following when they caught
their strayed horses. I had little to fear from such half-hearted
pursuit as this was sure to be. The swift, powerful stride of the animal
I rode assured me that I was not ill mounted, and there was small chance
of contact with Federal outriders before I should reach the protecting
picket lines of our own army. I laughed grimly as I leaned slightly back
in saddle and listened; it was like a play, so swift and exciting had
been the passing events, so unexpected their ending. I wondered what
plausible story the discomfited lieutenant would concoct to account for
his predicament, and whether the others had yet missed me back at the
Mansion House.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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