The raid of the guerilla, and other storiesCraddock, Charles Egbert
General
The raid of the guerilla, and other stories
Craddock, Charles Egbert
Cumberland Mountains -- Fiction; Mountain life -- Fiction; Tennessee -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
Down the highway, at a slow pace, rode a cavalryman wearing a gray
uniform, with a sergeant's chevrons, and mounted on a steed good in his
day, but whose day was gone. A great clot of blood had gathered on his
broad white chest, where a bayonet had thrust him deep. Despite his
exhaustion, he moved forward at the urgency of his rider's heel and
hand. The soldier held a long, heavy staff planted on one stirrup, from
the top of which drooped in the dull air the once gay guidon,
battle-rent and sodden with rain, and as he went he shouted at
intervals, "Dovinger's Rangers! Rally on the guidon!" Now and again his
strident boyish voice varied the appeal, "Hyar's yer Dovinger's Rangers!
Rally, boys! Rally on the reserve!"
Indeed, despite his stalwart, tall, broad-shouldered frame, he was
scarcely more than a boy. His bare head had flaxen curls like a child's;
his pallid, though sunburned face was broad and soft and beardless; his
large blue eyes were languid and spiritless, though now and then as he
turned an intent gaze over the field they flared anew with hope, as if
he expected to see rise up from that desolate expanse, from among the
stiffening carcasses of horses and the stark corpses of the troopers,
that gallant squadron wont to follow, so dashing and debonair, wherever
the guidons might mark the way. But there was naught astir save the
darkness slipping down by slow degrees--and perchance under its cloak,
already stealthily afoot, the ghoulish robbers of the dead that haunt
the track of battle. They were the human forerunners of the vulture
breed, with even a keener scent for prey, for as yet the feathered
carrion-seekers held aloof; two or three only were descried from the
field hospital, perched on the boughs of a dead tree near the river,
presently joined by another, its splendid sustained flight impeded
somewhat by the rain, battling with its big, strong wings against the
downpour of the torrents and the heavy air.
And still through all echoed the cry, "Rally on the guidon! Dovinger's
Rangers! Rally on the reserve!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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