The general's destination now was an earthwork in the suburbs of the city, manned by a reserve force, small but ardent and defiant. It welcomed Lee and his staff with resounding cheers, and Harry's heart sprang up again. Here, at least, was confidence, and as they rode behind them the guns replied fiercely to the advancing Northern batteries, checking them for a little while, and giving the retreating troops a chance to rest.

Now came a lull in the fighting, but Harry knew well that it was only a lull. Presently Grant and Sheridan would press harder than ever. They were fully aware of the condition of the Southern army, its smallness and exhaustion, and they would never cease to hurl upon it their columns of cavalry and infantry, and to rake it with the numerous batteries of great guns, served so well. Once more his heart sank low, as he thought of what the next night might bring forth. He knew that General Lee had sent in the morning a messenger to the capital with the statement that Petersburg could be held no longer and that he would retreat in the night.

Every effort was made to gather the remaining portion of the Southern army into one strong, cohesive body. Longstreet, at the order of Lee, left his position north of the James River, while Gordon took charge of the lines to the east of Petersburg. It was when they gathered for this last stand that Harry realized fully how many of the great Confederate officers were gone. It was here that he first heard of the death of A. P. Hill, of whom he had seen so much at Gettysburg. And he choked as he thought of Stonewall Jackson, Jeb Stuart, Turner Ashby and all the long roll of the illustrious fallen, who were heroes to him.

The Northern infantry and cavalry did not charge now, but the cannon continued their work. Battery after battery poured its fire upon the earthworks, although the men there, sheltered by the trenches, did not suffer so much for the present.

Harry found time to look up his friends, and discovered the Invincibles in a single trench, about sixty of them left, but all showing a cheerfulness, extraordinary in such a situation. It was characteristic of both Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire that they should present a bolder front, the more desperate their case. Nor were the younger officers less assured. Captain Arthur St. Clair was carefully dusting from his clothing dirt that had been thrown there by bursting shells, and Lieutenant Thomas Langdon was contemplating with satisfaction the track of a bullet that had gone through his left sleeve without touching the arm.

"The sight of you is welcome, Harry," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot in even tones. "It is pleasant to know at such a time that one's friend is alive, because the possibilities are always against it. Still, Harry, I've always felt that you bear a charmed life, and so do St. Clair and Langdon. Tell me, is it true that we evacuate Petersburg tonight?"

"It's no secret, sir. The orders have been issued and we do."

"If we must go, we must, and it's no time for repining. Well, the town has been defended long and valiantly against overwhelming numbers. If we lose it, we lose with glory. It can never be said of the South that we were not as brave and tenacious as any people that ever lived."

"The Northern armies that fight us will be the first to give us that credit, sir."

"That is true. Soldiers who have tested the mettle of one another on innumerable desperate fields do not bear malice and are always ready to acknowledge the merits of the foe. Ah, see how closely that shell burst to us! And another! And a third! And a fourth! Hector, you read the message, do you not?"

"Certainly, Leonidas, it's as plain as print to you and me. John Carrington—good old John! honest old John!—is now in command of that group of batteries on the right. He has been in charge of guns elsewhere, and has been suddenly shifted to this point. The great increase in volume and accuracy of fire proves it."

"Right, Hector! He's as surely there as we are here. The voice of those cannon is the voice of John Carrington. Well, if we're to be crushed I prefer for good old John to do it."

"But we're not crushed, Leonidas. We'll go out of Petersburg tonight, beating off every attack of the enemy, and then if we can't hold Richmond we'll march into North Carolina, gather together all the remaining forces of the Confederacy, and, directed by the incomparable genius of our great commander, we'll yet win the victory."

"Right, Hector! Right! Pardon me my moment of depression, but it was only a moment, remember, and it will not occur again. The loss of a capital—even if it should come to that—does not necessarily mean the loss of a cause. Among the hills and mountains of North Carolina we can hold out forever."

Harry was cheered by them, but he did not fully share their hopes and beliefs.

"Aren't they two of the greatest men you've ever known?" whispered St. Clair to him.

"If honesty and grandeur of soul make greatness they surely are," replied Harry feelingly.

He returned now to his general's side, and watched the great bombardment. Scores of guns in a vast half circle were raining shells upon the slender Confederate lines. The blaze was continuous on a long front, and huge clouds of smoke gathered above. Harry believed that the entire Union army would move forward and attack their works, but the charge did not come. Evidently Grant remembered Cold Harbor, and, feeling that his enemy was in his grasp, he refrained from useless sacrifices.

Another terrible night, lighted up by the flash of cannon and thundering with the crash of the batteries came, and Lee, collecting his army of less than twenty thousand men, moved out of Petersburg. It tore Harry's heart to leave the city, where they had held Grant at bay so long, but he knew the necessity. They could not live another day under that concentrated and awful fire. They might stay and surrender or retreat and fight again, and valiant souls would surely choose the latter.

The march began just after twilight turned to night, and the darkness and clouds of skirmishers hid it from the enemy. They crossed the Appomattox, and then advanced on the Hickory road on the north side of the river. General Lee stood on foot, but with the bridle of Traveler in his hand and his staff about him, at the entrance to the road, and watched the troops as they marched past.

His composure and steadiness seemed to Harry as great as ever, and his voice never broke, as he spoke now and then to the marching men. Nor was the spirit of the men crushed. Again and again they cheered as they saw the strong figure of the gray commander who had led them so often to victory. Nor were they shaken by the booming of the cannon behind them, nor by the tremendous crashes that marked the explosions of the magazines in Petersburg.

When the last soldier had passed, General Lee and his staff mounted their horses and followed the army in the dusk and gloom. Behind them lofty fires shed a glaring light over fallen Petersburg.



CHAPTER XVII

APPOMATTOX

The morning after Lee's retreat the Winchester regiment rode into Petersburg and looked curiously at the smoldering fires and what was left of the town. They had been before it so long it seemed almost incredible to Dick Mason that they were in it now. But the Southern leader and his army were not yet taken. They were gone, and they still existed as a fighting power.

"We have Petersburg at last," he said, "but it's only a scorched and empty shell."

"We've more than that," said Warner.

"What do you mean?"

"We've Richmond, too. The capital of the Confederacy, inviolate for four years, has fallen, and our troops have entered it. Jefferson Davis, his government and its garrison have fled, burning the army buildings and stores as they went. A part of the city was burned also, but our troops helped to put out the fires and saved the rest. Dick, do you realize it? Do you understand that we have captured the city over which we have fought for four years, and which has cost more than a half million lives?"

Dick was silent, because he had no answer to make. Neither he nor Warner nor Pennington could yet comprehend it fully. They had talked often of the end of the war, they had looked forward to the great event, they had hoped for the taking of Richmond, but now that it was taken it scarcely seemed real.

"Tell it over, George," he said, "was it Richmond you were speaking of, and did you say that it was taken?"

"Yes, Dick, and it's the truth. Of course it doesn't look like it to you or to me or to Frank, but it's a fact. Today or tomorrow we may go there and see it with our own eyes, and then if we don't believe the sight we can read an account of it in the newspapers."

It was a process of saturation, but in the next hour or two they believed it and understood it fully. On the following day they rode into the desolate and partly burned capital, now garrisoned heavily by the North, and looked with curiosity at the little city for which such torrents of blood had been shed. But as at Winchester and Petersburg, they gazed upon blind doors and windows. Nor did they expect anything else. It was only natural, and they refrained carefully from any outward show of exultation.

Richmond was to hold them only a few hours, as Grant and Sheridan continued hot on the trail of Lee. They knew that he was marching along the Appomattox, intending to concentrate at Amelia Court House, and they were resolved that he should not escape. Sheridan's cavalry, with the Winchester regiment in the van, advanced swiftly and began to press hard upon the retreating army. The firing was almost continuous. Many prisoners and five guns were taken, but at the crossing of a creek near nightfall the men in gray, still resolute, turned and beat off their assailants for the time.

The pursuit was resumed before the next daylight, and both Grant and Sheridan pressed it with the utmost severity. In the next few days Dick felt both pity and sympathy for the little army that was defending itself so valiantly against extermination or capture. It was almost like the chase of a fox now, and the hounds were always growing in number and power.

The Northern cavalry spread out and formed a great net. The Southern communications were cut off, their scouts were taken, and all the provision trains intended for Lee were captured. The prisoners reported that the Southern army was starving, and the condition of their own bodies proved the truth of their words. As Dick looked upon these ragged and famished men his feeling of pity increased, and he sincerely hoped that the hour of Lee's surrender would be hastened.

During these days and most of the nights too Dick lived in the saddle. Once more he and his comrades were clothed in the Virginia mud, and all the time the Winchester regiment brought in prisoners or wagons. They knew now that Lee was seeking to turn toward the South and effect a junction with Johnston in North Carolina, but Dick, his thoughts being his own, did not see how it was possible. When the Confederacy began to fall it fell fast. It was only after they passed through Richmond that he saw how frail the structure had become, and how its supporting timbers had been shot away. It was great cause of wonder to him that Lee should still be able to hold out, and to fight off cavalry raids, as he was doing.

And the Army of Northern Virginia, although but a fragment, was dangerous. In these its last hours, reduced almost to starvation and pitiful in numbers, it fought with a courage and tenacity worthy of its greatest days. It gave to Lee a devotion that would have melted a heart of stone. Whenever he commanded, it turned fiercely upon its remorseless pursuers, and compelled them to give ground for a time. But when it sought to march on again the cavalry of Sheridan and the infantry of Grant followed closely once more, continually cutting off the fringe of the dwindling army.

Dick saw Lee himself on a hill near Sailor's Creek, as Sheridan pressed forward against him. The gray leader had turned. The troops of Ewell and Anderson were gathered at the edge of a forest, and other infantry masses stood near. Lee on Traveler sat just in front of them, and was surveying the enemy through his glasses. Dick used his own glasses, and he looked long, and with the most intense curiosity, mingled with admiration, at the Lion of the South, whom they were about to bring to the ground. The sun was just setting, and Lee was defined sharply against the red blaze. Dick saw his features, his gray hair, and he could imagine the defiant blaze of his eyes. It was an unforgettable picture, the one drawn there by circumstances at the closing of an era.

Then he took notice of a figure, also on horseback, not far behind Lee, a youthful figure, the face thin and worn, none other than his cousin, Harry Kenton. Dick's heart took a glad leap. Harry still rode with his chief, and Dick's belief that he would survive the war was almost justified.

Then followed a scattering fire to which sunset and following darkness put an end, and once more the Southern leader retreated, with Sheridan and his cavalry forever at his heels, giving him no rest, keeping food from reaching him, and capturing more of his men. The wounded lion turned again, and, in a fierce attack drove back Sheridan and his men, but, when the battle closed, and Lee resumed his march, Sheridan was at his heels as before, seeking to pull him down, and refusing to be driven off.

Grant also dispatched Custer in a cavalry raid far around Lee, and the daring young leader not only seized the last wagon train that could possibly reach the Confederate commander, but also captured twenty-five of his guns that had been sent on ahead. Dick knew now that the end, protracted as it had been by desperate courage, was almost at hand, and that not even a miracle could prevent it.

The column with which he rode was almost continually in sight of the Army of Northern Virginia, and the field guns never ceased to pour shot and shell upon it. The sight was tragic to the last degree, as the worn men in gray retreated sullenly along the muddy roads, in rags, blackened with mire, stained with wounds, their horses falling dead of exhaustion, while the pursuing artillery cut down their ranks. Then the news of Custer's exploit came to Grant and Sheridan, and the circle of steel, now complete, closed in on the doomed army.

It was the seventh of April when the Winchester men rested their weary horses, not far from the headquarters of General Grant, and also gave their own aching bones and muscles a chance to recover their strength. Dick, after his food and coffee, watched the general, who was walking back and forth before his tent.

"He looks expectant," said Dick.

"He has the right to look so," said Warner. "He may have news of earth-shaking importance."

"What do you mean?"

"I know that he sent a messenger to Lee this morning, asking him to surrender in order to stop the further effusion of blood."

"I wish Lee would accept. The end is inevitable."

"Remember that they don't see with our eyes."

"I know it, George, but the war ought to stop. The Confederacy is gone forever."

"We shall see what we shall see."

They didn't see, but they heard, which was the same thing. To the polite request of Grant, Lee sent the polite reply that his means of resistance were not yet exhausted, and the Union leader took another hitch in the steel girdle. The second morning afterward, Lee made a desperate effort to break through at Appomattox Court House, but crushing numbers drove him back, and when the short fierce combat ceased, the Army of Northern Virginia had fired its last shot.

The Winchester men had borne a gallant part in the struggle, and presently when the smoke cleared away Dick uttered a shout.

"What is it?" exclaimed Colonel Winchester.

"A white flag! A white flag!" cried Dick in excitement. "See it waving over the Southern lines."

"Yes, I see it!" shouted the colonel, Warner and Pennington all together. Then they stood breathless, and Dick uttered the words:

"The end!"

"Yes," said Colonel Winchester, more to himself than to the others. "The end! The end at last!"

Thousands now beheld the flag, and, after the first shouts and cheers, a deep intense silence followed. The soldiers felt the immensity of the event, but as at the taking of Richmond, they could not comprehend it all at once. It yet seemed incredible that the enemy, who for four terrible years had held them at bay, was about to lay down his arms. But it was true. The messenger, bearing the flag, was now coming toward the Union lines.

The herald was received within the Northern ranks, bearing a request that hostilities be suspended in order that the commanders might have time to talk over terms of surrender, and, at the same time, General Grant, who was seven or eight miles from Appomattox Court House in a pine wood, received a note of a similar tenor, the nature of which he disclosed to his staff amid much cheering. The Union chief at once wrote to General Lee:

Your note of this date is but at this moment (11:50 A. M.) received, in consequence of my having passed from the Richmond and Lynchburg road to the Farmville and Lynchburg road. I am at this writing about four miles west of Walker's Church, and will push forward to the front for the purpose of meeting you. Notice sent to me on this road where you wish the interview to take place will meet me.

It was a characteristic and modest letter, and yet the heart under the plain blue blouse must have beat with elation at the knowledge that he had brought, what was then the greatest war of modern times, to a successful conclusion. The dispatch was given to Colonel Babcock of his staff, who was instructed to ride in haste to Lee and arrange the interview. The general and his staff followed, but missing the way, narrowly escaped capture by Confederate troops, who did not yet know of the proposal to suspend hostilities. But they at last reached Sheridan about a half mile west of Appomattox Court House.

Dick and his comrades meanwhile spent a momentous morning. It would have been impossible for him afterward to have described his own feelings, they were such an extraordinary compound of relief, elation, pity and sympathy. The two armies faced each other, and, for the first time, in absolute peace. The men in blue were already slipping food and tobacco to their brethren in gray whom they had fought so long and so hard, and at many points along the lines they were talking freely with one another. The officers made no effort to restrain them, all alike feeling sure that the bayonets would now be rusting.

The Winchester men were dismounted, their horses being tethered in a grove, and Dick with the colonel, Warner and Pennington were at the front, eagerly watching the ragged little army that faced them. He saw soon a small band of soldiers, at the head of whom stood two elderly men in patched but neat uniforms, their figures very erect, and their faces bearing no trace of depression. Close by them were two tall youths whom Dick recognized at once as St. Clair and Langdon. He waved his hand to them repeatedly, and, at last, caught the eye of St. Clair, who at once waved back and then called Langdon's attention. Langdon not only waved also, but walked forward, as if to meet him, bringing St. Clair with him, and Dick, responding at once, advanced with Warner and Pennington.

They shook hands under the boughs of an old oak, and were unaffectedly glad to see one another, although the three youths in blue felt awkwardness at first, being on the triumphant side, and fearing lest some act or word of theirs might betray exultation over a conquered foe. But St. Clair, precise, smiling, and trim in his attire, put them at ease.

"General Lee will be here presently," he said, "and you, as well as we, know that the war is over. You are the victors and our cause is lost."

"But you have lost with honor," said Dick, won by his manner. "The odds were greatly against you. It's wonderful to me that you were able to fight so long and with so much success."

"It was a matter of mathematics, Captain St. Clair," said Warner. "The numbers, the big guns and the resources were on our side, If we held on we were bound to win, as anyone could demonstrate. It's certainly no fault of yours to have been defeated by mathematics, a science that governs the world."

St. Clair and Langdon smiled, and Langdon said lightly:

"It would perhaps be more just to say, Mr. Warner, that we have not been beaten, but that we've worn ourselves out, fighting. Besides, the spring is here, a lot of us are homesick, and it's time to put in the crops."

"I think that's a good way to leave it," said Dick. "Do you know where my cousin, Harry Kenton, is?"

"I saw him this morning," replied St. Clair, "and I can assure you that he's taken no harm. He's riding ahead of the commander-in-chief, and he should be here soon."

A trumpet sounded and they separated, returning respectively to their own lines. Standing on a low hill, Dick saw Harry Kenton and Dalton dismount and then stand on one side, as if in expectancy. Dick knew for whom they were waiting, and his own heart beat hard. A great hum and murmur arose, when the gray figure of an elderly man riding the famous war horse, Traveler, appeared.

It was Lee, and in this moment, when his heart must have bled, his bearing was proud and high. He was worn somewhat, and he had lost strength from the great privations and anxieties of the retreat, but he held himself erect. He was clothed in a fine new uniform, and he wore buckled at his side a splendid new sword, recently sent to him as a present.

Near by stood a farm house belonging to Wilmer McLean, but, Grant not yet having come, the Southern commander-in-chief dismounted, and, as the air was close and hot, he remained a little while under the shade of an apple tree, the famous apple tree of Appomattox, around which truth and legend have played so much.

Dick was fully conscious of everything now. He realized the greatness of the moment, and he would not miss any detail of any movement on the part of the principals. It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Grant and his staff rode up, the Union leader still wearing his plain blue blouse, no sword at his side, his shoulder straps alone signifying his rank.

The two generals who had faced each other with such resolution in that terrible conflict shook hands, and Dick saw them talking pleasantly as if they were chance acquaintances who had just met once more. Presently they went into the McLean house, several of General Grant's staff accompanying him, but Lee taking with him only Colonel Thomas Marshall.

Before the day was over Dick learned all that had occurred inside that unpretentious but celebrated farm house. The two great commanders, at first did not allude to the civil war, but spoke of the old war in Mexico, where Lee, the elder, had been General Winfield Scott's chief of staff, and the head of his engineer corps, with Grant, the younger, as a lieutenant and quartermaster. It never entered the wildest dreams of either then that they should lead the armies of a divided nation engaged in mortal combat. Now they had only pleasant recollections of each other, and they talked of the old days, of Contreras, Molino del Rey, and other battles in the Valley of Mexico.

They sat down at a plain table, and then came in the straightforward manner characteristic of both to the great business in hand. Colonel Marshall supplied the paper for the historic documents now about to be written and signed.

General Grant, humane, and never greater or more humane than in the hour of victory, made the terms easy. All the officers of the Army of Northern Virginia were to give their parole not to take up arms against the United States, until properly exchanged, and the company or regimental commanders were to sign a like parole for their men. The artillery, other arms and public property were to be turned over to the Union army, although the officers were permitted to retain their side arms and their own horses and baggage. Then officers and men alike could go to their homes.

It was truly the supreme moment of Grant's greatness, of a humanity and greatness of soul the value of which to his nation can never be overestimated. Surrenders in Europe at the end of a civil war had always been followed by confiscations, executions and a reign of terror for the beaten. Here the man who had compelled the surrender merely told the defeated to go to their homes.

Lee looked at the terms and said:

"Many of the artillerymen and cavalrymen in our army own their horses, will the provisions allowing the officers to retain their horses apply to them also?"

"No, it will not as it is written," replied Grant, "but as I think this will be the last battle of the war, and as I suppose most of the men in the ranks are small farmers who without their horses would find it difficult to put in their crops, the country having been swept of everything movable, and as the United States does not want them, I will instruct the officers who are to receive the paroles of your troops to let every man who claims to own a horse or mule take the animal to his home."

"It will have a pleasant effect," said Lee, and then he wrote a formal letter accepting the capitulations. The two generals, rising, bowed to each other, but as Lee turned away he said that his men had eaten no food for several days, except parched corn, and he would have to ask that rations, and forage for their horses, be given to them.

"Certainly, general," replied Grant. "For how many men do you need them?"

"About twenty-five thousand," was Lee's reply.

Then General Grant requested him to send his own officers to Appomattox Station for the food and forage. Lee thanked him. They bowed to each other again, and the Southern leader who no longer had an army, but who retained always the love and veneration of the South, left the McLean house. Thus and in this simple fashion—the small detached fighting elsewhere did not count—did the great civil war in America, which had cost six or seven hundred thousand lives, and the temporary ruin of one section, come to an end.

Dick saw Lee come out of the house, mount Traveler and, followed by Colonel Marshall, ride back toward his own men who already had divined the occurrences in the house. The army saluted him with undivided affection, the troops crowding around him, cheering him, and, whenever they had a chance, shaking his hand. The demonstration became so great that Lee was moved deeply and showed it. The water rose in his eyes and his voice trembled as he said, though with pride:

"My lads, we have fought through the war together. I have done the best I could for you. My heart is too full to say more."

He could not be induced to speak further, although the great demonstration continued, but rode in silence to his headquarters in a wood, where he entered his tent and sat alone, no one ever knowing what his thoughts were in that hour.

Twenty-six thousand men who were left of the Army of Northern Virginia surrendered the next day, and the blue and the gray fraternized. The Union soldiers did not wait for the rations ordered by Grant, but gave of their own to the starved men who were so lately their foes. Dick and his friends hastened at once to find Harry Kenton and his comrades, and presently they saw them all sitting together on a log, thin and pale, but with no abatement of pride. Harry rose nevertheless, and received his cousin joyfully.

"Dick," he said as their hands met, "the war is over, and over forever. But you and I were never enemies."

"That's so, Harry," said Dick Mason, "and the thing for us to do now is to go back to Kentucky, and begin life where we left it off."

"But you don't start this minute," said Warner. "There is a small matter of business to be transacted first. We know all of you, but just the same we've brought our visiting cards with us."

"I don't understand," said Harry.

"We'll show you. Frank Pennington, remove that large protuberance from beneath your blouse. Behold it! A small ham, my friends, and it's for you. That's Frank's card. And here I take from my own blouse the half of a cheese, which I beg you to accept with my compliments. Dick, you rascal, what's that you have under your arm?"

"It's a jar of prime bacon that I've brought along for the party, George."

"I thought so. We're going to have the pleasure of dining with our friends here. We've heard, Captain Kenton, that you people haven't eaten anything for a month."

"It's not that bad," laughed Harry. "We had parched corn yesterday."

"Well, parched corn is none too filling, and we're going to prepare the banquet at once. A certain Sergeant Whitley will arrive presently with a basket of food, such as you rebels haven't tasted since you raided our wagon trains at the Second Manassas, and with him will come one William Shepard, whom you have met often, Mr. Kenton."

"Yes," said Harry, "we've met often and under varying circumstances, but we're going to be friends now."

"Will you tell me, Captain St. Clair," said Dick, "what has become of the two colonels of your regiment, which I believe you call the Invincibles?"

St. Clair led them silently to a little wood, and there, sitting on logs, Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant Colonel Hector St. Hilaire were bent intently over the chess board that lay between them.

"Now that the war is over we'll have a chance to finish our game, eh, Hector?" said Colonel Talbot.

"A just observation, Leonidas. It's a difficult task to pursue a game to a perfect conclusion amid the distractions of war, but soon I shall checkmate you in the brilliant fashion in which General Lee always snares and destroys his enemy."

"But General Lee has yielded, Hector."

"Pshaw, Leonidas! General Lee would never yield to anybody. He has merely quit!"

"Ahem!" said Harry loudly, and, as the colonels glanced up, they saw the little group looking down at them.

"Our friends, the enemy, have come to pay you their respects," said Harry.

The two colonels rose and bowed profoundly.

"And to invite you to a banquet that is now being prepared not far from here," continued Harry. "It's very tempting, ham, cheese, and other solids, surrounded by many delicacies."

The two colonels looked at each other, and then nodded approval.

"You are to be the personal guests of our army," said Dick, "and we act as the proxies of General Grant."

"I shall always speak most highly of General Grant," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot. "His conduct has been marked by the greatest humanity, and is a credit to our common country, which has been reunited so suddenly."

"But reunited with our consent, Leonidas," said Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire. "Don't forget that I, for one, am tired of this war, and so is our whole army. It was a perfect waste of life to prolong it, and with the North reannexed, the Union will soon be stronger and more prosperous than ever."

"Well spoken, Hector! Well spoken. It is perhaps better that North and South should remain together. I thought otherwise for four years, but now I seem to have another point of view. Come, lads, we shall dine with these good Yankee boys and we'll make them drink toasts of their own excellent coffee to the health and safety of our common country."

The group returned to a little hollow, in which Sergeant Whitley and Shepard had built a fire, and where they were already frying strips of bacon and slices of ham over the coals. Shepard and Harry shook hands.

"I may as well tell you now, Mr. Kenton," said Shepard, "that Miss Henrietta Carden, whom you met in Richmond, is my sister, and that it was she who hid in the court at the Curtis house and took the map. Then it was I who gave you the blow."

"It was done in war," said Harry, "and I have no right to complain. It was clever and I hope that I shall be able to give your sister my compliments some day. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take a strip of that wonderful bacon. It is bacon, isn't it? It's so long since I've seen any that I'm not sure of its identity, but whatever it is its odor is enticing."

"Bacon it surely is, Mr. Kenton. Here are three pieces that I broiled myself and a broad slice of bread for them. Go ahead, there's plenty more. And see this dark brown liquid foaming in this stout tin pot! Smell it! Isn't it wonderful! Well, that's coffee! You've heard of coffee, and maybe you remember it."

"I do remember tasting it some years ago and finding it good. I'd like to try it again. Yes, thank you. It's fine."

"Here's another cup, and try the ham also."

Harry tried it, not once but several times. Langdon sat on the ground before the fire, and his delight was unalloyed and unashamed.

"We have raided a Yankee wagon train again," he said, "and the looting is splendid. Arthur, I thought yesterday that I should never eat again. Food and I were such strangers that I believed we should never know each other, any more, or if knowing, we could never assimilate. And yet we seem to get on good terms at once."

While they talked a tall thin youth of clear dark complexion, carrying a long bundle under his arm, approached the fire and Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire welcomed him with joy.

"Julien! Julien de Langeais, my young relative!" he cried. "And you are indeed alive! I thought you lost!"

"I'm very much alive, sir," said young De Langeais, "but I'm starved."

"Then this is the place to come," said Dick, putting before him food, which he strove to eat slowly, although the effort at restraint was manifestly great. Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire introduced him to the Union men, and then asked him what was the long black bag that he carried under his arm.

"That, sir," replied De Langeais, smiling pathetically, "is my violin. I've no further use for my rifle and sword, but now that peace is coming I may be able to earn my bread with the fiddle."

"And so you will! You'll become one of the world's great musicians. And as soon as we've finished with General Grant's hospitality, which will be some time yet, you shall play for us."

De Langeais looked affectionately at the black bag.

"You're very good to me, sir," he said, "to encourage me at such a time, and, if you and the others care for me to play, I'll do my best."

"Paganini himself could do no more, but, for the present, we must pay due attention to the hospitality of General Grant. He would not like it, if it should come to his ears that we did not show due appreciation, and since, in the course of events, and in order to prevent the mutual destruction of the sections, it became necessary for General Lee to arrange with someone to stop this suicidal war, I am glad the man was General Grant, a leader whose heart does him infinite credit."

"General Grant is a very great man, and he has never proved it more fully than today," said Dick, who sat near the colonels—his first inclination had been to smile, but he restrained it.

"Truly spoken, young sir," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot. "General Lee and General Grant together could hold this continent against the world, and, now that we have quit killing one another, America is safe in their hands. Harry, do you think I've eaten too much? I wouldn't go beyond the exploits of a gentleman, but this food has a wonderful savor, and I can't say that I have dined before in months."

"Not at all, sir, you have just fairly begun. As Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire pointed out, General Grant would be displeased if we didn't fully appreciate his hospitality and prove it by our deeds. Here are some sardines, sir. You haven't tasted 'em yet, but you'll find 'em wonderfully fine."

Colonel Leonidas Talbot took the sardines, and then he and Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire rose suddenly and simultaneously to their feet, a look of wonder and joy spreading over their faces.

"Is it really he?" exclaimed Colonel Talbot.

"It's he and none other," said Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire.

A tall, powerfully built, gray-haired man was coming toward them, his hands extended. Colonel Talbot and Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire stepped forward, and each grasped a hand.

"Good old John!"

"Why, John, it's worth a victory to shake your hand again!"

"Leonidas, I've been inquiring, an hour or two, for you and Hector."

"John Carrington, you've fulfilled your promise and more. We always said at West Point that you'd become the greatest artilleryman in the world, and in this war you've proved it on fifty battle fields. We've often watched your work from the other side, and we've always admired the accuracy with which you sent the shells flying about us. It was wonderful, John, wonderful, and it did more than anything else to save the North from complete defeat!"

A smile passed over John Carrington's strong face, and he patted his old comrade on the shoulder.

"It's good to know, Leonidas, that neither you nor Hector has been killed," he said, "and that we can dine together again."

"Truly, truly, John! Sit down! It's the hospitality of your own general that you share when you join us. General Lee would never make terms with men like McClellan, Burnside and Hooker. No, sir, he preferred to defeat them, much as it cost our Union in blood and treasure, but with a man of genius like General Grant he could agree. Really great souls always recognize one another. Is it not so, John?"

"Beyond a doubt, Leonidas. We fully admit the greatness and lofty character of General Lee, as you admit the greatness and humanity of General Grant. One nation is proud to have produced two such men."

"I agree with you, John. All of us agree with you. The soldiers of General Lee's army who are here today will never dispute what you say. Now fall on, and join us at this board which, though rustic, is indeed a most luxurious and festive one. As I remember at West Point, you were a first-class trencherman."

"And I am yet," said John Carrington, as he took his share. They were joined a little later by a gallant young Southern colonel, Philip Sherburne, who had led in many a cavalry attack, and then the equally gallant Northern colonel, Alan Hertford, came also, and as everybody was introduced to everybody else the good feeling grew. At last the hunger that had been increasing so long was satisfied, and as they leaned back, Lieutenant Colonel St. Hilaire turned to Julien de Langeais:

"Julien," he said, "take out your violin. There is no more fitting time than this to play. Julien, John, is a young relative of mine from Louisiana who has a gift. He is a great musician who is going to become much greater. Perhaps it was wrong to let a lad of his genius enter this war, but at any rate he has survived it, and now he will show us what he can do."

De Langeais, after modest deprecations, took out his violin and played. Upon his sensitive soul the war had made such a deep impression that his spirit spoke through his instrument. He had never before played so well. His strings sang of the march, the camp, of victory and defeat, and defeat and victory, and as he played he became absorbed in his music. The people around him, although they were rapidly increasing in numbers, were not visible to him. Yet he played upon their hearts. There was not one among them who did not see visions and dream dreams as he listened. At last his bow turned into the old and ever young, "Home Sweet Home."

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, Oh! give me my lowly, thatched cottage again.

Into the song he poured all his skill and all his heart, and as he played he saw the house in which he was born on the far Louisiana plantation. And those who listened saw also, in spirit, the homes which many of them had not seen in fact for four years. Stern souls were softened, and water rose to eyes which had looked fearlessly and so often upon the charging bayonets of the foe.

He stopped suddenly and put away his violin. There was a hush, and then a long roll of applause, not loud, but very deep.

"I hear Pendleton calling," said Harry to Dick.

"So do I," said Dick. "I wonder what they're doing there. Have you heard from your father?"

"Not for several months. I think he's in North Carolina with Johnston, and I mean to go home that way. I've a good horse, and he'll carry me through the mountains. I think I'll find father there. An hour or two ago, Dick, I felt like a man and I was a man, but since De Langeais played I've become a boy again, and I'm longing for Pendleton, and its green hills, and the little river in which we used to swim."

"So am I, Harry, and it's likely that I'll go with you. The war is over and I can get leave at once. I want to see my mother."

They stayed together until night came over Appomattox and its famous apple tree, and a few days later Harry Kenton was ready to start on horseback for Kentucky. But he was far from being alone. The two colonels, St. Clair, Langdon, Dick, De Langeais, Colonel Winchester and Sergeant Whitley were to ride with him. Warner was to go north and Pennington west as soon as they were mustered out. Dick wrung their hands.

"Good-by, George! Good-by, Frank! Old comrades!" he said. "But remember that we are to see a good deal of one another all through our lives!"

"Which I can reduce to a mathematical problem and demonstrate by means of my little algebra here," said Warner, fumbling for his book to hide his emotion.

"I may come through Kentucky to see you and Harry," said Pennington, "when I start back to Nebraska."

"Be sure to come," said Dick with enthusiasm, "and remember that the latch string is hanging out on both doors."

Then, carrying their arms, and well equipped with ammunition, food and blankets, the little party rode away. They knew that the mountains were still extremely unsettled, much infested by guerrillas, but they believed themselves strong enough to deal with any difficulty, and, as the April country was fair and green, their hearts, despite everything, were light.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FINAL RECKONING

They rode a long time through a war-torn country, and the days bound the young men together so closely that, at times, it seemed to them they had fought on the same side all through the war. Sergeant Whitley was usually their guide and he was an expert to bargain for food and forage. He exhibited then all the qualities that afterward raised him so high in the commercial world.

Although they were saddened often by the spectacle of the ruin the long war had made, they kept their spirits, on the whole, wonderfully well. The two colonels, excellent horsemen, were an unfailing source of cheerfulness. When they alluded to the war they remembered only the great victories the South had won, and invariably they spoke of its end as a compromise. They also began to talk of Charleston, toward which their hearts now turned, and a certain handsome Madame Delaunay whom Harry Kenton remembered well.

As they left Virginia and entered North Carolina they heard that the Confederate troops everywhere were surrendering. The war, which had been so terrible and sanguinary only two or three months before, ended absolutely with the South's complete exhaustion. Already the troops were going home by the scores of thousands. They saw men who had just taken off their uniforms guiding the ploughs in the furrows. Smoke rose once more from the chimneys of the abandoned homes, and the boys who had faced the cannon's mouth were rebuilding rail fences. The odor of grass and newly turned earth was poignant and pleasant. The two colonels expanded.

"Though my years have been devoted to military pursuits, Hector," said Colonel Leonidas Talbot, "the agricultural life is noble, and many of the hardy virtues of the South are due to the fact that we are chiefly a rural population."

"Truly spoken, Leonidas, but for four years agriculture has not had much chance with us, and perhaps agriculture is not all. It was the mechanical genius of the North that kept us from taking New York and Boston."

"Which reminds me, Happy," said St. Clair to Langdon, "that, after all, you didn't sleep in the White House at Washington with your boots on."

"I changed my mind," replied Happy easily. "I didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings."

Soon they entered the mountains, and they met many Confederate soldiers returning to their homes. Harry always sought from them news of his father, and he learned at last that he was somewhere in the western part of the state. Then he heard, a day or two later, that a band of guerrillas to the south of them were plundering and sometimes murdering. They believed from what details they could gather that it was Slade and Skelly with a new force, and they thought it advisable to turn much farther toward the west.

"The longest way 'round is sometimes the shortest way through," said Sergeant Whitley, and the others agreed with him. They came into a country settled then but little. The mountains were clothed in deep forest, now in the full glory of early spring, and the log cabins were few. Usually they slept, the nights through, in the forest, and they helped out their food supply with game. The sergeant shot two deer, and they secured wild turkeys and quantities of smaller game.

Although they heard that the guerrillas were moving farther west, which necessitated the continuation of their own course in that direction, they seemed to have entered another world. Where they were, at least, there was nothing but peace, the peace of the wilderness which made a strong appeal to all of them. In the evenings by their campfire in the forest De Langeais would often play for them on his violin, and the great trees about them seemed to rustle with approval, as a haunting melody came back in echoes from the valleys.

They had been riding a week through a wilderness almost unbroken when, just before sunset, they heard a distant singing sound, singularly like that of De Langeais' violin.

"It is a violin," said De Langeais, "but it's not mine. The sound comes from a point at the head of the cove before us."

They rode into the little valley and the song of the violin grew louder. It was somebody vigorously playing "Old Dan Tucker," and as the woods opened they saw a stout log cabin, a brook and some fields. The musician, a stalwart young man, sat in the doorway of the house. A handsome young woman was cooking outside, and a little child was playing happily on the grass.

"I'll ride forward and speak to them," said Harry Kenton. "That man and I are old friends."

The violin ceased, as the thud of hoofs drew near, but Harry, springing from his horse, held out his hand to the man and said:

"How are you, Dick Jones? I see that the prophecy has come true!"

The man stared at him a moment or two in astonishment, and then grasped his hand.

"It's Mr. Kenton!" he cried, "an' them's your friends behind you. 'Light, strangers, 'light! Yes, Mr. Kenton, it's come true. I've been back home a week, an' not a scratch on me, though I've fit into nigh onto a thousand battles. I reckon my wife, that's Mandy there, wished so hard fur me to come back that the Lord let her have her way. But 'light, strangers! 'Light an' hev supper!"

"We will," said Harry, "but we're not going to crowd you out of your house. We've plenty of food with us, and we're accustomed to sleeping out of doors."

Nevertheless the hospitality of Dick Jones and his wife, Mandy, was unbounded. It was arranged that the two colonels should sleep inside, while the others took to the grass with their blankets. Liberal contributions were made to the common larder by the travelers, and they had an abundant supper, after which the men sat outside, the colonels smoking good old North Carolina weed, and Mrs. Jones knitting in the dusk.

"Don't you and your family get lonesome here sometimes, Mr. Jones?" asked Harry.

"Never," replied the mountaineer. "You see I've had enough o' noise an' multitudes. More than once I've seen two hundred thousand men fightin', and I've heard the cannon roarin', days without stoppin'. I still git to dreamin' at night 'bout all them battles, an' when I awake, an' set up sudden like an' hear nothin' outside but the tricklin' o' the branch an' the wind in the leaves, I'm thankful that them four years are over, an' nobody is shootin' at nobody else. An' it's hard now an' then to b'lieve that they're really an' truly over."

"But how about Mrs. Jones?"

"She an' the baby stayed here four whole years without me, but we've got neighbors, though you can't see 'em fur the trees. Jest over the ridge lives her mother, an' down Jones' Creek, into which the branch runs, lives her married sister, an' my own father ain't more'n four miles away. The settlements are right thick 'roun' here, an' we hev good times."

Mrs. Jones nodded her emphatic assent.

"Which way do you-all 'low to be goin' tomorrow?" asked Jones.

"We think we'd better keep to the west," replied Colonel Talbot. "We've heard of a guerrilla band under two men, Slade and Skelly, who are making trouble to the southward."

"I've heard of 'em too," said Jones, "an' I reckon they're 'bout the meanest scum the war hez throwed up. The troops will be after 'em afore long, an' will clean 'em out, but I guess they'll do a lot o' damage afore then. You gen'lemen will be wise to stick to your plan, an' keep on toward the west."

They departed the next morning, taking with them the memory of a very pleasant meeting, and once more pursued their way through the wilderness. Harry, despite inquiries at every possible place, heard nothing more of his father, and concluded that, after the surrender, he must have gone at once to Kentucky, expecting his son to come there by another way.

But the reports of Slade and Skelly were so numerous and so sinister that they made a complete change of plan. The colonels, St. Clair and Langdon, would not try to go direct to South Carolina, but the whole party would cling together, ride to Kentucky, and then those who lived farther south could return home chiefly by rail. It seemed, on the whole, much the wiser way, and, curving back a little to the north, they entered by and by the high mountains on the line between Virginia and Kentucky. Other returning soldiers had joined them and their party now numbered thirty brave, well-armed men.

They entered Kentucky at a point near the old Wilderness Road, and, from a lofty crest, looked down upon a sea of ridges, heavy with green forest, and narrow valleys between, in which sparkled brooks or little rivers. The hearts of Harry and Dick beat high. They were going home. What awaited them at Pendleton? Neither had heard from the town or anybody in it for a long time. Anticipation was not unmingled with anxiety.

Two days later they entered a valley, and when they stopped at noon for their usual rest Harry Kenton rode some distance up a creek, thinking that he might rouse a deer out of the underbrush. Although the country looked extremely wild and particularly suited to game, he found none, but unwilling to give up he continued the hunt, riding much farther than he was aware.

He was just thinking of the return, when he heard a rustling in a thicket to his right, and paused, thinking that it might be the deer he wanted. Instead, a gigantic figure with thick black hair and beard rose up in the bush. Harry uttered a startled exclamation. It was Skelly, and beside him stood a little man with an evil face, hidden partly by an enormous flap-brimmed hat. Both carried rifles, and before Harry could take his own weapon from his shoulder Skelly fired. Harry's horse threw up his head in alarm, and the bullet, instead of hitting the rider, took the poor animal in the brain.

As the horse fell, Harry sprang instinctively and alighted upon his feet, although he staggered. Then Slade pulled trigger, and a searing, burning pain shot through his left shoulder. Dizzy and weak he raised his rifle, nevertheless, and fired at the hairy face of the big man. He saw the huge figure topple and fall; he heard another shot, and again felt the thrill of pain, this time in the head, heard a shrill whistle repeated over and over, and did not remember anything definite until some time afterward.

When his head became clear once more Harry believed that he had wandered a long distance from that brief but fierce combat, but he did not know in what direction his steps had taken him. Nearly all his strength was gone, and his head ached fearfully. He had dropped his rifle, but where he did not know nor care. He sat down on the ground with his back against a tree, and put his right hand to his head. The wound there had quit bleeding, clogged up with its own blood. He was experienced enough to know that it was merely a flesh wound, and that any possible scar would be hidden by his hair.

But the wound in his left shoulder was more serious. The bullet had gone entirely through, for which he was glad, but the hurt was still bleeding. He made shift to bandage it with strips torn from his underclothing, and, after a long rest, he undertook to walk back to the camp. He was not sure of the way, and after two or three hundred yards he grew dizzy and sat down again. Then he shouted for help, but his voice sounded so weak that he gave it up.

He was never sure, but he thought another period of unconsciousness followed, because when he aroused himself the sun seemed to be much farther down in the west. His head was still aching, though not quite so badly as before, and he made a new effort to walk. He did not know where he was going, but he must go somewhere. If he remained there in the wilderness, and his comrades could not find him, he would die of weakness and starvation. He shuddered. It would be the very irony of fate that one who had gone through Chancellorsville, Gettysburg and all the great battles in the East should be slain on his way home by a roving guerrilla.

He rested again and summoned all his strength and courage, and he was able to go several hundred yards farther. As he advanced the forest seemed to thin and he was quite sure that he saw through it a valley and open fields. The effect upon him was that of a great stimulant, and he found increased strength. He tottered on, but stopped soon and leaned against a tree. He dimly saw the valley, the fields, and a distant roof, and then came something that gave him new strength. It was a man's voice singing, a voice clear, powerful and wonderfully mellow:

They bore him away when the day had fled, And the storm was rolling high, And they laid him down in his lonely bed By the light of an angry sky. The lightning flashed and the wild sea lashed The shore with its foaming wave, And the thunder passed on the rushing blast As it howled o'er the rover's grave.

He knew that voice. He had heard it years ago, a century it seemed. It was the voice of a friend, the voice of Sam Jarvis, the singer of the mountains. He rushed forward, but overtaxing his strength, fell. He pulled himself up by a bush and stood, trembling with weakness and anxiety. Still came the voice, but the song had changed:

Soft o'er the fountain, lingering falls the Southern moon, Far o'er the mountain breaks the day too soon, In thy dark eyes' splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell, Weary looks yet tender speak their fond farewell, Nita! Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part, Nita! Juanita! Lean thou on my heart!

It was an old song of pathos and longing, but Harry remembered well that mellow, golden voice. If he could reach Sam Jarvis he would secure help, and there was the happy valley in which he lived. As he steadied himself anew fresh strength and courage poured into his veins, and leaving the fringe of forest he entered a field, at the far end of which Jarvis was ploughing.

The singer was happy. He drove a stout bay horse, and as he walked along in the furrow he watched the rich black earth turn up before the ploughshare. He hated no man, and no man hated him. The war had never invaded his valley, and he sang from the sheer pleasure of living. The world about him was green and growing, and the season was good. His nephew, Ike Simmons, was ploughing in another field, and whenever he chose he could see the smoke rising from the chimney of the strong log house in which he lived.

Harry thought at first that he would go down the end of the long field to Jarvis, but the ploughed land pulled at his feet, and made him very weak again. So he walked straight across it, though he staggered, and approached the house, the doors of which stood wide open.

He was not thinking very clearly now, but he knew that rest and help were at hand. He opened the gate that led to the little lawn, went up the walk and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, stood in the doorway, and stared into the dim interior. As his eyes grew used to the dusk the figure of an old, old woman, lean and wrinkled, past a hundred, suddenly rose from a chair, stood erect, and regarded him with startled, burning eyes.

"Ah, it's the governor, the great governor, Henry Ware!" she exclaimed. "Didn't I say to you long ago: 'You will come again, and you will be thin and pale and in rags, and you will fall at the door.' I see you coming with these two eyes of mine!"

As she spoke, the young man in the tattered Southern uniform, stained with the blood of two wounds, reeled and fell unconscious in the doorway.

When Harry came back to the world he was lying in a very comfortable bed, and all the pain had gone from his head. A comfortable, motherly woman, whom he recognized as Mrs. Simmons, was sitting beside him, and Colonel Leonidas Talbot, looking very tall, very spare and very precise, was standing at a window.

"Good morning, Mrs. Simmons," said Harry in a clear, full voice.

She uttered an exclamation of joy, and Colonel Talbot turned from the window.

"So you've come back to us, Harry," he said. "We knew that it was only a matter of time, although you did lose a lot of blood from that wound in the shoulder."

"I never intended to stay away, sir."

"But you remained in the shadowy world three days."

"That long, sir?"

"Yes, Harry, three days, and a great deal of water has flowed under the bridge in those three days."

"What do you mean, colonel?"

"There was a military operation of a very sharp and decisive character. When you fell in the doorway here, Mrs. Simmons, who happened to be in the kitchen, ran at once for her brother, Mr. Jarvis, a most excellent and intelligent man. You were past telling anybody anything just then, but he followed your trail, and met some of us, led by Sergeant Whitley, who were also trailing you."

"And Slade and Skelly, what of them?"

"They'll never plunder or murder more. We divined much that had happened. You were ambushed, were you not?"

"Yes, Slade and Skelly fired upon me from the bushes. I shot back and saw Skelly fall."

"You shot straight and true. We found him there in the bushes, where your bullet had cut short his murderous life. Then we organized, pursued and surrounded the others. They were desperate criminals, who knew the rope awaited them, and all of them died with their boots on. Slade made a daring attempt to escape, but the sergeant shot him through the head at long range, and a worse villain never fell."

"And our people, colonel, where are all of them?"

"Most of the soldiers have gone on, but the members of our own immediate group are scattered about the valley, engaged chiefly in agricultural or other homely pursuits, while they await your recovery, and incidentally earn their bread. Sergeant Whitley, Captain St. Clair and Captain Mason are putting a new roof on the barn, and, as I inspected it myself, I can certify that they are performing the task in a most workmanlike manner. Captain Thomas Langdon is ploughing in the far field, by the side of that stalwart youth, Isaac Simmons, and each is striving in a spirit of great friendliness to surpass the other. My associate and second in command, Lieutenant Colonel Hector St. Hilaire, has gone down the creek fishing, a pursuit in which he has had much success, contributing greatly to the larder of our hostess, Mrs. Simmons."

"And where is Sam Jarvis?"

The colonel raised the window.

"Listen!" he said:

Up from the valley floated the far mellow notes:

I'm dreaming now of Hallie, sweet Hallie, For the thought of her is one that never dies. She's sleeping in the valley And the mocking bird is singing where she lies. Listen to the mocking bird singing o'er her grave, Listen to the mocking bird, where the weeping willows wave.

"The words of the song are sad," said Colonel Talbot, "but sad music does not necessarily make one feel sad. On the contrary we are all very cheerful here, and Mr. Jarvis is the happiest man I have ever known. I think it's because his nature is so kindly. A heart of gold, pure gold, Harry, and that extraordinary old woman, Aunt Suse, insists that you are your own greatgrandfather, the famous governor of Kentucky."

"I was here before in the first year of the war, colonel, and she foretold that I would return just as I did. How do you account for that, sir?"

"I don't try to account for it. A great deal of energy is wasted in trying to account for the unknowable. I shall take it as it is."

"What has become of Colonel Winchester, sir?"

"He rode yesterday to a tiny hamlet about twenty miles away. We had heard from a mountaineer that an officer returning from the war was there, and since we old soldiers like to foregather, we decided to have him come and join our party. They are due here, and unless my eyes deceive me— and I know they don't—they're at the bead of the valley now, riding toward this house."

Harry detected a peculiar note in Colonel Talbot's voice, and his mind leaped at once to a conclusion.

"That officer is my father!" he exclaimed.

"According to all the descriptions, it is he, and now you can sit up and welcome him."

The meeting between father and son was not demonstrative, but both felt deep emotion.

"Fortune has been kind to us, Harry, to bring us both safely out of the long war," said Colonel Kenton.

"Kinder than we had a right to hope," said Harry.

The entire group rode together to Pendleton, and Dick was welcomed like one risen from the dead by his mother, who told him a few weeks later that he was to have a step-father, the brave colonel, Arthur Winchester.

"He's the very man I'd have picked for you, mother," said Dick gallantly.

The little town of Pendleton was unharmed by the war, and, since bitter feeling had never been aroused in it, the reunion of North and South began there at once. In an incredibly short period everything went on as before.

The two colonels and their younger comrades remained a while as the guests of Colonel Kenton and his son, and then they started for the farther south where St. Clair and Langdon were to begin the careers in which they achieved importance.

Harry and Dick in Pendleton entered upon their own life work, which they were destined to do so well, but often, in their dreams and for many years, they rode again with Stonewall in the Valley, charged with Pickett at Gettysburg, stood with the Rock of Chickamauga, or advanced with Grant to the thunder of the guns through the shades of the Wilderness.



Appendix: Transcription notes:

The following modifications were applied while transcribing the printed book to etext:

Chapter 6 Page 103, para 11, change "Turner" to "Warner"

Chapter 7 Page 112, para 6, insert missing period

Chapter 11 Page 186, para 2, fix punctuation typos

Chapter 17 Page 290, para 2, fix typo "unforgetable"

The following words were printed with accented vowels, but I chose not to post an 8-bit version of this text:

Chapter 6 Page 94, para 1, "coordinate" with accented "o"

Chapter 15 Page 270, para 1, accented "o" in "cooperate"

As is typical in this series, there are a number of instances where the use of the comma in the printed book seems to me inappropriate. However, I have adhered to the punctuation as printed (except for obvious printing errors, which are noted above).

For example:

The horses given to them by special favor of Sheridan in place of their worn-out mounts, were splendid animals, and Sergeant Whitley himself had prepared them for their first appearance before their new masters.

The horsemen firing their own carbines and swinging aloft their sabers, galloped forward in a mighty rush.

THE END