A shorter version, under the titleTALES OF THE VALOROUSVIRGINIANS,

appeared serially in

THE SATURDAY EVENING POST,

Copyright 1953 by

The Curtis Publishing Company.

Copyright, 1953, by Jams WarnerBelkh

Library of Congress Catalogue CardNo. $3-11281

Printed in the United States of

America

BALLANTINE BOOKS

404 FIFTH AVENUE

NEW YORK 18, N.Y.

For

Brigadier General Henry BarlowCheadle, U.S.A., Rtd,,

who was the first regimentalcommander to be made a generalofficer in World War lion the fieldof battle, by presidential order. Aprofessional who loved his 16th

Infantry -a regular regiment withfifty-four battle honors dating to1798, to 'which the General addedthe taking of Gran, in the finesttradition of the First InfantryDivision.

Foreword by FLETCHER PRATT

THIS is A BOOK about very youngmen in war, becoming veteranswhile their officers are learninghow to handle them. Tactically, thatis; from the very beginning theleading figure in the book knew agood deal about the personal side ofhandling men, both here and on thefactual record. It is also, in

accordance with modern taste andMr. Bellah's own particular skill, abook about the minor incidents thatinvolve the rear-rank private, andthat are often of a great deal moreimportance to him than how thebattle came out. This is regardlessof the fact that he went into thebattle out of a certain idealism andin the future is going to be deeplyaffected by its major results—if hehas any future after the battle.

So far as my memory goes, thistechnique has not often beenapplied to the Civil War, and mostespecially to the Virginia end of itPut the combination Civil War-

Virginia into the hopper and youwill usually come out with abeautiful girl in crinoline on aplantation and a couple of dashingyoung captains who say "Suh," havea high sense of honor, and clanktheir spurs. The rear-rank private ison hand in such stories purely as aspear-carrier. This time he is thecenter of the picture, and it must bea good deal nearer what the war wasreally like. The average Virginiasoldier was not really a plantationproduct.

Moreover, Mr. Bellah hasheightened his effect by athoroughly honorable use of dialect.

Not the kind that confuses the issueand makes things difficult tounderstand, but that which gives anacceptable reproduction of thespeech rhythms and thoughtpatterns of the people doing thetalking. This whole series of "takes"is told in a kind of easy drawl, asthough they came from the mouthof someone who was at least a closeparticipant in the events described.

The nature of those events is alsoworthy of some atten-

tion. Yon cannot have a war or awar story without battles, especiallywhen, as in the present case, the

framework requires that each talebe wrapped around some majoroccasion of the war. The usualtrouble is that the battle becomesso much the center of the picturethat the author feels obliged tomake it his leading character andends up writing history instead offiction. The hero has to carry themessage that saves the day. Mr.Bellah has neatly avoided this trap.The major events take place allright, but he is quite aware thatbattles, for all their intensity ofaction and emotion, make up a verysmall part of war, either countingthe amount of time spent on them

or the amount of thought devotedto them—except afterward, whenold soldiers get 'round to tellinglies. Most of the time is spent inworrying about things like the souptureen or the silk dress—which youwill find chronicled hereinafter.

Jeb Stuart pops into and out of acouple of the stories, looking prettymuch to the life, but the majorhistorical character is StonewallJackson. It is hard to give a truepicture of a general from a soldier'spoint of view; you can only say howhe looked to the soldiers, and inthis case the portrait is probablyjust about accurate, except that

Jackson's sternness seems a littlewritten down, and so is his religiousside. But perhaps the private didn'tknow about these things, or didn'tthink them remarkable. There seemto have been a fair number ofpraying colonels in the C.S.A.

And in any case this is Jacksonbefore the war took on itssubsequent intensity, while it stillseemed possible that the issuecould be decided in the terms andwith the proportionate casualties ofthe other wars America hadengaged in up to that time. Itshould not be forgotten that whenthe Civil War opened we were

military amateurs and pretty naiveones at that. One of the specialexcellences of this book is themanner in which it shows DavinAncrum and Roan Catlett turningfrom skylarking boys into theveterans who fought that titanicseries of struggles on the long roadto Appomattox.

As this book closes, those struggleshave just begun with the SevenDays' Battles, and even these takeplace offstage. The area covered isthe first year of the war, and excepttoward the end, there is not muchthat can be said to backgroundthese stories. Mr. Bellah's valiant

Virginians saw it all, and knew asmuch as anyone else about whatwas going on. The skirmishingaround Harper's Ferry in the earlydays of the conflict, with which thebook opens, was exactly that—aseries of confused clashes in whichnot many people got hurt oraccomplished very much. Bull Run,where the fighting was hot enoughand angry enough for a time, was aclash between two groups of menonly playing at soldier so far. TheUnion army marched out to whereit knew it could find theConfederates and they had a battle.That was all. At Ball's Bluff,

McClellan had ordered areconnaissance in force across thePotomac, and then withdrew itssupports, with results cited in thesepages.

It is only when we come toKernstown that strategy begins toraise its head. Jackson took abeating there and it was a solid one,but he was probably right inclaiming that this was one of thosebattles where it did not matter somuch who had won the formalvictory as that there had been abattle. The Shenandoah Valley wasthe back door to Washington, and ifthe Confederates were going to be

active there, Washington wouldhave to see that it wasstrengthened, no matter how muchthe result might weaken the forcessupposed to be conducting anoffensive against Richmond alongthe peninsula between the York andthe James.

The phrase "supposed to be" is usedadvisedly. The background of thelast two stories is the discovery bythe Confederate generals—Leedeserves most of the credit-thatMcClellan, who was aroundRichmond on two sides, closeenough to hear the churchbellsring, and with considerably superior

forces, was not going to take anyaggressive action until he had stillmore men. Very well, they wouldtake action against him.

Jackson attacked the Union force atthe north end of the Shenandoah,defeated it and sent it flying.Lincoln and Secretary Stanton—there was no one below them whohad the authority to move thetroops of more than one army—ordered one army eastward into theValley from West Virginia,reinforced the beaten troops alreadythere, and recalled a whole corpsthat was marching to j oin McClellan, sending it westward into the

Valley in a triple pincers movementon Jackson, This was whenStonewalPs men earned the nameof "foot cavalry." By hard fightingand incredible marching he hit eachjaw of the pincers in turn, damagedit badly, and was down beforeRichmond attacking McClellan'sright wing, before the Federalsknew what had happened.

It is observable that morebackgrounding is necessary as thewar goes on and things getcomplicated. These stories areconcerned with the change thatmade the complications.

THE VALIANT VIRGINIANS

When you cross the Blue Ridge andcome into the Shenandoah Valley,the breed of man changes subtly.He grows taller against the westernmountain bastions of Virginia andhis voice shades soft in primalcourtesy, nor does he speak asoften, for a great many of the thingsmen talk of elsewhere wereresolved forever long before he wasborn — and brook no furtherdiscussion. His memories of raceare deep within him, his habits oflife patterned by them. There isright and there is wrong still left forhis decision, but the dividing line

between is more sharply drawnacross God^s canvas of themountains than it is in the cities ofthe world.

Of this breed was Roan Catlett,born six miles from Deerfield,where the women the Catlettsmarried "kept the blood and keptthe progression." A few miles northhis cousin Forney Manigault,second boy of old Judge Manigault> first drew milk from his mother'slady breasts and knew thewhispering winds in the toweringoaks of Manigault. Lastly there wasDavin Ancrum, cousin to Forneybut not to Roan, but a boy grown

tall to walk with men.

There were Indian mounds theyplayed among and because ofYorktown and New Orleans andBladensburg

so close still upon their boyhood,they 'were the Indians who defeatedEraddook. A downed and shatteredredcoat 'was the capstone of thegrowing American tradition, so theydestroyed a British Army once morein the savage play of youth —Roanoke Colony being gone so •farinto the mists of history by theirtime that the Indian once more hadattained to a nobility they 'would

emulate.

They broke their own horses andcoerced the blood of Timolean andBright Eyes to the flat saddle. Theirfathers taught them to shoot. Theold men of Chapultepec and CerroGordo taught them their history —that there is a time of peace and atime of war and that the inalienableright to bear arms is a part of thedignity of free men.

Their mothers gentled them withnative courtesy so that they mightdevelop a deference for age, theobligation of protection for youthmore helpless than their own, and a

seme of decency toward women sothat some day they might look a girlin the eye full and take her hand forbetter or for worse — but whatever,forever.

But long before Forever started, theshore batteries of CharlestonHarbor fired on Sumter and theyoung United States locked itsfledgling muscles into an inter-family struggle that no one won andno one lost — for Appomattoxmarked the birth of soul and statureof this land of ours, and the legendof the gallant Army of NorthernVirginia is still the deep, firm beatof its stout heart.

Roan Catlett, Forney Manigault,Davin Ancrum. Remember theirnames for in their time they weremen. And being men, the essence ofimmortality came upon them. Astheir grandfathers did not die atBrooklyn Heights, so their sons didnot die at San Juan or El Caney,their grandsons at Chateau Thierryor in the Argonne Forest, theirgreat-grandsons 'with RCT 116 onOmaha Easy Red — or in the skiesabove Heartbreak Ridge in farKorea.

For this is a century of war, and likeit or not, wars

must be won by us when we arebom to them. That what happens toone now has happened to one'sblood long ago, is sometimes acomfort in time of present trial Solet us go back and watch thepreparation a country underwent inorder that it might be strong andunified., fit to meet the trial ofleadership that the years wouldbring.

Long, long after Appomattox if youhad asked Roan or Forney or Davinif they had fought, their eyes wouldhave come up slowly and level andthey would have said, "I was outwith Stonewall Jackson"

But in that spring of 1861, Forneytrudged up the road to the Catlettplace and he said "Roan — yougoiri*?" Roan looked at him withthe Catlett eyes that were like stifffingers pronged upon him.

"Yes."

Forney traced dust with his boottoe. "What about Davin — he's onlyfifteen. The Senator won't let himgo unless you promise to look outfor him."

"I'll promise. Well y Forney? Comeon."

So the hill-billy muleteers and thegentry squadrons of Turner Ashby'were formed and the great cavalrytradition of J. E. B. Stuart gallopedthrough the land. May the echo oftheir hoof beats never die in thememories of US. 56191111 and hispresent companions in arms; for itis a comforting thing in age to havebeen out with Jackson, but a greaterthing by -far to know that onestands rifle in hand faced towardthe savage doctrine that man maylive only in duress under the heel ofhis more opportunist fellow —whereas his innate dignity is a factbefore God that seven centuries of

thought and prayer and bloodshedhave brought to fullest flower inthis broad and pleasant land.

"Well, Forney? Come on."

$ATERL££'S FARM

P£TERSWLLE\\ BRUNSWICK81/RKITSVILLE

FIRST BLOOD

AT HARPER'S FERRY

ROAN CATLETT NEVER ATE hogafter the Cross Keys fight. He'dvomit If he smelled it cooking. Theygot loose in the woods after CrossKeys and ate the Yankee dead. Butthat first spring of the war, whenthe Valley companies marched upthe Shenandoah to take the arsenalat Harper's Ferry, Roan was still apowerful hog-eating man.

Cap'n Murt Patton marched theShort Mountain Company. He wasin Mexico last war with Winfield

Scott. Vera Cruz, Molino del Rey,Cerro Gordo and Chapulte-pec.Sharp fighting, to hear the Cap tellof it over a jug, and he had plenty oftime to tell of it, for he was too oldand too fat to ride a horse any more,so he led the company up, riding inDoctor Breckenridge's brougham.

By the time the company got as farnorth as Harrison-burg, the Capwas having everybody call himmajor. The folks in New Marketgave him such a send-off two weekslater that he promoted himself upto colonel. By the end of the month,when the company tore itself loosefrom Winchester, he put a bunch of

feathers in his old Army hat,divided the boys up into tworegiments of ten men each and rodehis carriage into Harper's Ferry,general of the brigade.

At Harper's Ferry it was like MarketDay every day. There wasn't anynonsense about drilling or shootingat

the mark, and there were so manyother self-promoted militia generalsarguing who commanded overwhat, that they let the soldiers be.Besides, everybody owned his ownhorse and his own gun and nobodywas used to being told what to do,

except by his own pappy—and mostof the Short Mountain boys had'listed themselves up for the war toget quit of that. All but DavinAncrum. Davin wasn't yet sixteen.Senator Ancrum only let Davin goalong if he gave his promise to dowhat Roan Catlett told him. Thatwas the way it was agreed,otherwise Davin couldn't get to go.

All told, at Harper's Ferry therewere about forty-five hundred boysgathered to fight by the timeVirginia was taken into theConfederacy on May seventh. Folkssaid this Abe Lincoln, fifty milessoutheast in Washington, had about

a hundred and fifty thousandYankee soldiers, while forty-fivemiles north, in Chambersburg,Pennsylvania, a Yankee generalnamed Patterson had about twelvethousand more. Right smart odds.

Roan Catlett turned seventeen thatspring, but he was berry brownalready with the Valley sun, and hishair was dark red-black, like a newcolt's, so he looked about twenty.He was four inches over six feet andhe could clamp his teeth into the offrim of a hogshead, tilt it to him andlift it, full to the heading withtobacco, clear oS the ground. Thatway he always had betting money in

pocket.

Roan got sparking a pert snip of agirl over west of town in the partthey call Bolivar, and one night thegirl let drop that her uncle was thebiggest breeder of Chester Whitesin Western Maryland. The namewas Satterlee and this hog farm layabout twelve miles over thePotomac. Now, a Chester White iswhite, with pink skin like a baby's.As the breeders say, it possessesgood carcass qualities, which meansit eats well when roasted. Andfinally—to Roan's thinking—theyoriginated the breed in Chester,Pennsylvania, which made them

sure-enough

Yankee hogs and free as thesummer breeze for the taking.

You couldn't sleep at night anyway,on account of the trains rumblingthrough. The Baltimore and OhioRail Road runs double trackthrough Harper's Ferry from Pointo' Rocks twelve miles down towardWashington, to about sixteen mileswest of Martinsburg. There was talkof blowing out the covered bridge toget quit of the noise, but therailroad was working for us as wellas for the Yankees. So the bridgestayed in and nobody got much

sleep.

Roan got Davin to ride up toSatterlee's farm with him the nightafter he found out about it, andreconnoiter those Chester Whites.Now, Roan and Davin weren't kin.Roan was Forney Manigault'scousin. So was Davin. But theyweren't cousins to each other.Forney was slow-thinking. He hadto chew things out in his mind forthe right of them. So Roan didn'ttell Forney about this hogexpedition.

About the fifth roast-hog breakfastin a row that the company was

enjoying, Forney Manigault lookedover across at Roan. "Roan," hesaid, "where y' takin' Davin nights?"Forney is Judge DabneyManigault's second boy. The judgerode circuit forty years in thecounty and never took court oath.Said his word was his bond and hewasn't going to fancy it up withoaths like the liars did. There wasthe judge's look in Forney when hespoke to Roan.

"I'm takin' him ridin'," Roan said,and he turned slow and let his eyesfinger Forney's eyes. Roan had theCatlett eye. So pale blue it lookedlike it ought to hurt. Only man in

the world you could feel his eyes onyou like stiff fingers. Only man, thatis, except Stonewall Jackson.

"Davin ain't grown yet," Forneywent on. "He needs his sleep. He'smy cousin. You leave him be nights.Y'hear?"

"He may be yore cousin," Roan said,"but his daddy

*8 THE VALIANT VIRGINIANS

told him to mind me. And that'swho he's goin' to mind until we getthe orders countermanded."

Making him out to be a boy to belooked after like that beforeeverybody, got Davin slow hot in hisshirt. But Davin was a politician likethe senator. He wouldn't ever crossan issue straight off, for chance oflosing it entirely before he figured away of approach. But he'd talk rightsteady while he was thinking—tothrow you off the argument.

Davin said, "The boys tell me we gota new commanding officer here inHarper's Ferry. Just come up fromRichmond to take over. Had ameeting of all the militia gin'ralsyesterday and whittled 'em down toarmy size. They all come out of

meeting captains and under. Thosethat come out at all. Only old Cap'nMurt couldn't go to th' meetin' onaccount he was sleepin' off a jug. SoI guess he's still a gin'ral. Only oneleft, though," and Davin went oneating roast hog.

Forney Manigault hadn't taken hiseyes off Roan the whole time. NorRoan his.

"And another thing," Forney said."These yere hogs, Roan. You buyingthem out of yore barrel-lifting betmoney?"

"I wasn't," Roan said. "Does that

bother yore appe-titie?"

"Not buyin'," said Forney, "isstealin'."

Davin said, "The new man's name isColonel Tom Jackson from downthe Institute at Lexington. Taughtschool there." As he said that, hewas sort of looking up over Roan'shead at something behind, and helooked so long, everybody elseturned slow around to see what hewas looking at, and there stood atall stranger, better than six feet, ina plain blue uniform coat, sort offrayed and shiny at the sleeves, withan Institute cap tilted so's not to

hide his eyes. Talk of Catlett eyes—the eyes in that man's head you'dnever forget, once you looked intothem. Like blue lights. There'skilling in Catlett eyes and there waskilling

in this man's eyes, too, but it wasdeep down under his kindness.Controlled, so's anger'd have to goclear to the bottom of his soul tobring it up.

Davin got up on his feet. "Honoredto have you jine us at breakfast,suh,"

"Thank you kindly. I'm Colonel

Jackson." The man nodded. "Whatcompany is this?"

Cap Murt came out of the bushesjust then, buttoning his frock coatfrom Mexico over his pants andhooking on his old artillery sword.Cap Murt was crowding seventy andhis eyes weren't so good.

He skirted around the boys andwalked up to this Colonel Jacksonclose enough to see the eagles onhis coat, and he said, "Goodmorning to you, colonel BrigadierGin'ral Murtagh Patton,commandin' the Short MountainLight Cav'ry Brigade. What can I do

for you, sir?" Then something camebetween those two like a twigcracking. For a moment they stoodstump still, before Cap'n Murtthrew back his head like an old bulland roared, "Good Lord in heaven,effen it ain't Lootinint Jackson fromthe Chapultepec Road!" and hesaluted. "Sarjint Patton, sir, ofMagruder's Battery. That was mygun you and me man-hauled acrostthe ditch!"

This Colonel Jackson smiled. Itcame into his eyes like a glory, andit wrapped around him and oleMurt until they were a millionmiles away in their memories. And

the colonel held out his hand.

"Sergeant Patton!" he said, and hechuckled "Did you ever find outwhere the Fourteenth Infantry gotto that day?"

"No, sir. Never did." Cap shook hishead, tears in his eyes fromremembering. "I was too plumbwore out to go look for 'em. All Icould do was to serve that gun withyou. We was droppin' round shot inthe hip pockets of them Mexicansshortly! I guess we kinda won thatwar, eh, lootinint?"

General Jackson laughed. It doesn't

sound right to call

him colonel even if he was only acolonel there at Harper's Ferry."Our part of it anyway, sergeant, I'mgoing to need a good man like youat headquarters. An old regular," hesaid. "We've got to make an armyout of these volunteers."

Cap said, "Any time you say. Anyplace. You jine us now for breakfast,sir? Honored to have you."

"I've had my breakfast, thank you.Looks like a very fine mess of roastpig you have here," and he shot alook over toward the bushes where

the hide and the leavings were."Chester White, from the hide. Thecommissary issue you that?"

"Well, not exactly, sir," Cap said. "Itcomes under the heading ofsupplementary field rations, Ishould put it. If I had to report it inwritin'."

"I see," General Jackson nodded."Some members of the MarylandLegislature visited camp yesterdayand one of them mentioned that thecountry north of the Potomac wasexcellent breeding ground forChester Whites* He said that afarmer named Satterlee had a herd

of several hundred."

Davin Ancrum was taken withGeneral Jackson's friendly manner."Yes, sir. That's right, sir," he said."Twelve miles around SouthMountain. Up near Bur-kittsville."

"Is that so?" The general looked athim.

That's when Roan stepped in frontof Davin and said, "If there's blame,I'm taking that blame, sir. All of it."

"What blame would that be?" Thegeneral raised his eyebrows.

"For foraging the hog, sir. Stealing it—if that's to be the word. And fourother hogs before this one."

General Jackson thought it out for aminute, then he said, "There are alot of technicalities in a war. Forinstance, if this hog was rooting inPennsylvania when youappropriated it, we could call thatforaging, for it would be property inthe enemy's country. Its being aMaryland

hog, however—makes a slightdifference. Maryland is still tryingto make up her mind whether tojoin the Confederacy or not. So,

until she decides, there is apossibility that Mr. Satterlee's hogsare loyal Southern hogs—and totake them without paying for themwould be stealing." Right up to thatlast it was as if he were aschoolteacher trying to explain apoint. And Roan took it that way,first on one foot, then on the other.But when the general said "loyalSouthern hogs" there was quiet funin it suddenly, lurking there justunder the surface of the words —asmile in the eyes alone. "At least,"he said, "that is how the Marylandsenator put it to me when he lodgedMr. Satterlee's complaint."

"Yes, sir," Roan said. "It won'thappen again/'

When General Jackson went on tothe next camp, inspecting, ole Capcut up his extra red flannelunderpants and made himself thebiggest set of artillery sergeant'schevrons ever. He sewed them onhis coat sleeves and took thefeathers out of his cap.

"Now," he said, "that LootinintJackson's promoted me up toheadquarters, y'all goin' to see somechanges made around here."

First thing happened we got a drill

schedule and all the separatecompanies got regimented uptogether. When the horns blewnow, you got up. You ate. Youdrilled. You went to sleep.

Then General Jackson got the trainsworking so that his army couldsleep at night. He wrote a letter tothe president of the Baltimore andOhio Rail Road asking him toplease run all the heavy coal trainson the east-bound track throughHarper's Ferry between eleven andone o'clock in the daytime. Cap'nMurt was in charge of paper work atheadquarters by that time. That'show the company knew why the

night coal trains stopped.

There'd been a coolness betweenRoan and Forney Manigault eversince that first day the generalstopped by camp. Because Roan hadpretty nearly got young Davin

into trouble. When the eastboundcoal trains stopped ramblingthrough at night, Forney said,"When y'goin' to do what Gin'ralJackson told you to do, Roan?*'

Roan looked at him full. "What'd hetell?"

"Plain as speaking out, he said you

stole those five Chester Whites.When y'goin' to ride up toSatterlee's and pay him?"

Roan said, "How far back in theManigault family they breed thishoss thief—y'all have to be so all-fired honest out in public abouteverything since?"

Young Davin Ancrum was standin'there quiet until the horse-thiefpart. Then he eased into the talklike the senator. "Speaking ofhosses, I got to get Old Nell backhome by June. If I don't get me aYankee hoss by then, I got to go fora foot soldier and walk this yere

war!"

Forney said, "Roan, I don't take talkagainst the Manigault family. If y'llstep down to the river bank, suh, I'llbe pleased to have my satisfaction."

Now, Roan was big and there wasn'tany question that he could jasperooForney. But Roan was a gentleman*He never fought men he was surehe could take. He said, "Forney, Ispoke in lightness. If it appearedinsultin' to you, I apologize. I figureten dollars a hog. I got forty dollarsin bets from lifting hogsheads withmy teeth from the Second, Fourth,Fifth and Twenty-Seventh

Virginians —with ten more to gofrom the Thirty-third after recalltonight. It was to be for buyingDavin here a hoss, but if you thinkGin'ral Jackson wants those hogspaid for, I'll pay. For I ain't neverseen a man like Ole Blue Light. Youjust have to do what he wants. Askor not."

Forney nodded. "I'm glad to hearyou say that, Roan, and to show youmy talk ain't just empty preachertalk, heah"—and he handed Roan awad of paper money. "Everybody inthe comp'ny ate on them fiveChester Whites, so I took up acollection of two-fifty apiece. Add

yore own two-fifty and you've gotfifty dollars for Sat-

FIRST BLOOD AT HARPER'SFERRY U

terlee, with yore barrel-liftin' fiftystill left for Davin's new hoss."

Davin said, "That's right friendly ofyou, Roan, to want to buy me ahoss. I ain't going to need thecourtesy, though, I get a sight ofsome hoss-ridin' Yankees."

But you couldn't walk in and out ofcamp nowadays, when the prowlingitch was on you at night. General

Jackson had fellas at night withguns on the covered bridge and thecanal bridge and the roads out westand south. They challenged. Andyou couldn't get a pass to go outeither. You just plain couldn't goout, so those hogs wouldn't havebeen paid for to this day if it hadn'tbeen for that railroad deal. The coaltrains were all going down-toWashington noontime for three orfour days, but the empties had tocome up at night and they werealmost as-noisy. So GeneralJackson wrote another letter to therail-road president, Cap told, andsuggested that he hold the empties

overnight in Washington one night,and send 'em up west again on theother track between eleven and onein the daytime, so that all the carswould be rumbling each waythrough Harper's Ferry during thesame two-hours. Then he sent the5th Virginia Infantry, ColonelHarper, west to Martinsburg to seethe suggestion was carried outproperly, and he sent a detachmenteast to Point o' Rocks, including theShort Mountain Cavalry, for thesame reason. The night thecompany got down there, Roan,Forney and Davin took off to payold Sat-terlee back for his five

Chester White hogs.

When they turned left off theFrederick road, Davin> said, "We'remaking good time. You don'tsuppose we could push on a waystoward Chambersburg to have a* tryat getting a Yankee soldier's hossfor me, do you?"

"Leave well enough be," Forneysaid. "There's twelve-thousandYankees in Chambersburg."

"That's what I mean," Davin said."We're sure to get one good hossamong that many."

Roan was riding a little ahead offthe crown of the:

road. He pulled up, listening withhis head turned sideways to whatlittle night wind there was. "Whatyou hear, Roan?"

He shook his head he didn't know,and flatted his hand for the two tostand while he rode up under therise like General Jackson taught inthe drill

Forney unslung his rifle, and Davin,seeing him do it, unslung his, too,and they sat there stiff in theirsaddles, waiting. Pretty soon Roan

came back, his own rifle across hispommel.

"There's twenty wagons in front ofSatterlee's, standin* there headedthis way. And there's lantern lightand some fellas on hossback.Loadin' pens are full of hogs. . . ,Davin, you hold our bosses. Forneyand me're goin' down for a closelook."

They went down on foot, keepingoff the road, and they skirted wideto come in mid-column of thewagon convoy. They werecommissary wagons with U. S. onthe canvas, half of them loaded with

Chester Whites already and theother half loading. Three, fourhundred hogs, all prime. There wasa soldier counting tally by lanternand another with a sword standingby to give orders. Four otherssupervising Satterlee's men'sloading. Counting one waggoner foreach wagon, twenty-six Yankees alltold.

Lying in the ditch opposite, Roanpulled a spear of sweetgrass and bithis teeth on it for the juice, lookingand listening. Forney was hunkereddown beside him, thinking andgnawing his long upper lip like hedoes.

Then he whispered, "It's sureenough Yankee soldiers loadin'them hogs. Buy or steal for them,it's foragin' for us if we take 'emnow." Just like the judge handingdown a considered opinion. Roantouched his shoulder and theystarted back up to where Davin waswith the horses, and told him.

"Gentlemen, let's take them hogs,"Davin said.

"The thought was in my mind,"Roan said, "except

with odds of nine to one, it's prob'lygoin' to mean some shootin' and I

don't aim to get you hurt, Davin."

"Mr. Catlett, suh," Davin said, "I'llthank you to leave m'tender yearsout of this. If I'm man enough tocarry a gun in war, Fm man enoughto shoot a Yankee. That bein'settled, what's yore plan?"

Roan grinned. "It's a simple plan,"he said. "An inferior force only hasone chance for success. Attack withsurprise—like Gin'ral Jacksonteaches. Them six hossback soldiersare goin' to ride ahead when theystart. Davin and I are goin' to make'em turn right on the Frederick roadfor Point o' Rocks, instead of left,

and ride on with 'em. . . . Forney,yo're goin' to stay at the crossroadst'see that each hog wagon turns andfollows on. Then you bring up therear to keep the convoy closed up."

Forney said, "I reckon that covers it,Roan."

Roan kneed his horse. "If yo'reready, gentlemen, we'll takepositions for openin' the ball"—andhe nodded back to where they couldhear the whips begin to crack andthe wheels to creak—"for thefiddles're tunin' up."

They moved on back to the

Frederick-road junction and took upposition this side on the road toSatterlee's, in shadow under aclump of trees.

After a while Roan whispered soft,"I ain't never killed a man, so I don'tknow how it'll be. Neither do youtwo. But if it'll help y'all to think itout, I'm goin' to kill the first Yankeetonight who don't do what I say,when I say it. It ain't goin' to be mepersonally. It's goin' to be me as asoldier of the sovereign state ofVirginia, which was a dominion inits own right long before the stateswas made united."

"Thanks, Roan," Davin said. "That'sright comfortable thinkin'."

Forney just sat his horse, deepdrawn in his own mind. Then thefirst wagon topped the rise, movingat the walk, and the soldier with thesword was up ahead with the fiveother horse soldiers, free of thehigh-rising dust, and about

ten yards between them and thatfirst wagon. Roan let them just passhim. Then he kneed in behind,between them and the leadingwagon.

"Turn right, gentlemen! And don't

reach for yore hand guns!" He hadhis own out, held close in with thehammer cocked full.

You could see the whites of theireyes like swamp mallow blobbingthe darkness as the Yankee detailwhipped around to see who wastalking. There was the space of halfa drawn breath, then from orderlytwo by two the horses were up,pirouetted, kneed out of line, themen cursing and reaching. Roanshot close, fast. Twice. And twice—and twice again the echoes cameback down the Valley so perfect itwas almost as if that was what he'ddone it for—to hear the echo. For

that's the way a man thinks at timeslike that, apart from it all. Not quiteliving it at the time. Not seeingRoan barrel-whip the fifth man offhis horse and wrist-lock the swordman into an arm bar in the saddle."Ah said don't reach, suh!"

And Davin with his rifle in the faceof Number One Waggoner, "Youheard what Mistuh Catlett tole you!Turn right and don't draw!" Butwhat you never forget are the bellyscreams torn from deep pain. Bloodchoking a man's breathing like mudclogging a pump, and somebodysobbing like a baby while his legsthrash the ditch weeds.

"Lord A'mighty," the sword manyelled, "what is this —a holdup?Leggo my arm!"

"This yere's Gin'ral Jackson's army,suh! Yo're a pris'ner of war—and allyore hogs with you! Turn right, Isaid, and git!"

With that, the head wagon startedand turned right, and you couldhear Forney galloping rear andturning the rest of them. "Nevermind that shootin'! Jest follow thewagon ahead and keep goin'!"

It was that easy—only it wasn't, forRoan. He knew he'd killed, and the

feeling was fresh in his mind, like a

smashed finger hurting all up hisshoulder in spite of what he'd saidbefore. He rode to one side, keepingthe sword man ahead of him andthe lead waggoner in the corner ofhis eye. And he grew up a mite thatnight. Grew a mite hard inside. Thefun was gone out of it, and it neverwould come back full blown like ithad been, for blood was in it now.And dead men. But pretty soon itgot plain spoken in Roan's mind.It's when you're born, that does it toyou. There was Braddock, years ago,cut to pieces by the Indians in spiteof what Colonel Washin'ton told

him. Then there was the British tofight and lick down Yorktown way,and Roan could remember his owngrand-pappy telling how they didthat. And there was Cap'n Murt atChapultepec with Colonel Jackson.And himself on the Point o' Rocksroad tonight. It's when you're born.If you're born to a war—fight it! Andwhen you fight-fight for keeps.

Then Roan missed Davin, and heshouted, and Davin didn't answer.He shouted for Forney, and Forneydidn't answer, and the cold wormscrawled in his stomach, for he couldsee the tree holes now in the falselight with dawn to come just

beyond. He kneed out to theroadside and looked back into thewagon dust that hung low in themorning damp, like brush-firesmoke. The hogs were beginning tosqueal, for it was getting on to theirslopping time. One wagonloadwould take it up from the next,until all three hundred were givingout like the low notes of those coal-burning steam calliopes on MarketDay. "Davin!"—and that time Davincame up through the dust,galloping. "Where's Forney?"

Davin reined in beside Roan andshook his head. "Them dangedhonest Manigaults!" he said.

"Forney rode all the way back toSatterlee's after we got the wagonsturned —to pay him for the fivehogs we stole. And you know whatSatterlee said? He said he soldthese hogs to the Yankees fortwenty dollars a head. In that case,'says Forney, 'for ten dollars a headyou'll be pleased to know

five of your hogs have been loyal tothe Confederacy,' and he threw fiftydollars paper at his feet. Then hedrew on Satterlee and he said,'Yankee money's contraband of war,suh. And if you've got it for tradin'with the enemy, yo're enemy too. Sohand it ovah!'" Davin jerked his

thumb. "Forney's ridin' at the rearwith six thousand dollars gold notesin his pants and his conscienceclear."

"How'd you git blood on yore shirt?"Roan asked him.

"You shot me, Mistuh Catlett."

"I what?"

"Mistuh Catlett, yo're the best shotin the county, hand gun or rifle. Butyou shot me, suh."

"How d'you mean—I shot you?"

"Like I said." Davin grinned. "Thefirst Yankee you killed—was me,suh. You creased off my upper arm.Missed clean the bone, but bydeflection the lead took the Yankeein the throat after it nicked me.Nervous, I reckon you were, MistuhCatlett. Would you like that story toget around the comp'ny, suh?"

"Not to Forney, I wouldn't. Nor toyore pappy, Davin."

"Quite so, Mistuh Catlett." Davinbowed in the saddle. "The woundthen becomes an hon'ble warwound, suh, provided there's a littleless talk about my tendah age and

how I have to do what you say,place of ni'father. But militarilyspeakin', suh, I'd be pleased tofollow you through the windows ofhell into the back yard and over thefence any time you've a mind. I gotfive good hosses out of last night'sfracas—to pick my choice of, comefull light!"

It was broad day when the hogconvoy came into Point o' Rocks.Broad day and better. Nearer halfpast ten when they got in. The uptrains for the eleven-to-one-o'clockshuttle through Harper's Ferry werelined up, head to tail, on thewestbound tracks, waiting for the

word. A solid mess of cars as far upthe tracks as you could see, andover by the telegraph office therewas General Jack-

son himself with Cap'n Murt. Theoperator came out with a telegraphform.

Cap'n read it. "Colonel Harper atMartinsburg, sir," he said. "Hiseastbound trains will be allmarshaled off the single line ontothe double line in about fifteenmore minutes."

General Jackson nodded. Then helooked up and saw those twenty

Yankee commissary wagons full ofhogs, with Roan and Davin andForney riding the line of them to ahalt.

"Come here, sir," he called to Roan."You're the Chester White man,aren't you? Where'd you get thosewagons?"

"If there's any blame, sir, I'll takeit"—and Roan told him the story.

General Jackson turned away onceor twice and ran his hand down hisnose and over his beard. Finally hesaid, "Well, sir, from ourstandpoint, the night's been right

profitable. We could use wagonsand we could use pork. And sixthousand dollars in gold notes'dhelp the war chest in Richmond.But I don't doubt in the least thatMr. Satterlee's got anothercomplaint. And he'll make it noisythis time. So drive the wagons upthe platform ramp and load themon the empty flatcars."

"Yo're not sending them back, suh?"Roan gasped.

General Jackson just looked at himfull in the eyes and ignored thequestion like it had never beenasked. Cold. Then he walked a few

paces up the platform.

"Roan," old Cap Murt said soft,"don't never mistake again—an' askColonel Jackson what he's goin' todo in a war. He don't even tell hischief of the staff, an' all he writeshis missus is how nice the rosessmell outside headquarters.Besides, he's busy this morning.Once he gets all the Balt-O cars andengines on these two double tracks,he's switching the whole caboodleof it onto the branch line south torun it to Winchester and horse-draw it from there over to theManassas Gap Rail Road atStrasburg.

The Confederacy needs cars andengines, too, as well as hogs andwagons."

Roan Catlett stared across atGeneral Jackson. The general wasturning to pace back the platform.When he came to Roan again, theglory was in his eyes. "When youforage, youngster," he said quietly,"forage." Then he smiled and Roan'sguts sort of melted and ran downinside his legs and, from thatmoment on, it was, in a way, likelove for a woman in him forStonewall Jackson—a part ofhimself gone for all the rest of hislife, leaving him empty and grateful

and humble of soul inside. GeneralJackson saw it there, for thosethings show plain and they leave aman naked, and it isn't good forothers to see. So he put his hand onRoan's shoulder and he said, "Andwhat time is breakfast thismorning, Corporal Catlett—if theinvitation still holds?"

The Potovnac River then becamethe -focal point of war. Washington,where the crawling forces of theUnion were concentrating, lay northof it with the broad sweep ofVirginia to the southward. All thatspring patrols denied the right tocross in 'freedom. Men died in

small actions, whetting theirangering souls -for the full-bladedslaughter of the greater fights tocome. To the westward the long arcof the river lay across the entranceto the rich food treasury of theShenandoah Valley and LieutenantColonel J. E. B. Stuart became thewatchdog. To the eastward the riverwas the barricade before theCapital, manned by the swarmingvolunteers of McDowell.

It was to be a short war. All warsare, at their beginnings. Two greatarmies were in concentration, greatin numbers for that day, butgrotesque in ill-discipline,

heterogeneous in equipment,plagued with unqualified officers.They grew as cancer grows, theirsize increasing their threat anddecreasing any possibility of closecontrol. They were two vastconcentrations of rabble underarms. Little more. Some of theofficers on both sides were careerofficers, but pitifully few comparedto the total. Again, the professionalhorizons of the regulars were thesmall horizons of garrison duty andfrontier service. None of them "hadseen troop concentrations of thissize before, or had any experienceof administration or command or

sanitation of large forces.

In this respect, both gatheringforces were about equal. They wereequal in respect to lack of and -non-uniformity of equipment. And theywere equal in a hotheaded will tofight — the questionable anduninitiated will to fight that isbased upon no previous experiencein the actuality of battle. Each armybelieved fully that once joined in

combat with the other it 'wouldsweep the -field clean. Recruitvinegar, you might say. But therewas more to it than that; this wasone 'war in history wherein the men

on both sides knew what they werefighting for from the verybeginning, for it had taken thirtyyears to bring the disagreement tothe field. Their heritage wascommon. In unity they had foughtthe Indian and pushed theircolonies west of the Appalachiansacross the central plains to thePacific paradise of California. Twicetogether they had fought the Britishoff their fledgling necks. Together,they had subjugated Mexico anddictated peace deep in the heart ofthe Mexican homeland.

Now this unity was shattered and itwas shattered on one basic point of

disagreement. Did or did not eachindividual state that had held thepower to enter into coalition withthe others, still retain the power towithdraw? Could a contractingpower enter into national union byits own sovereign will and stillretain enough of that will towithdraw when displeased withnational majority decisions? Inother words, how far were thesacred minority privileges ofAmerican thinking to go — so farthat the union of the country itselfcould be destroyed by them?

Slavery of the black man wasconvenient propaganda —glib words

for shallow thinking. Johnnie Reband Dam-yankee were the slogans.But the fact of the matter lay instates' rights as against theauthority those states had given tothe federal government and nowsought to withhold. McDowell'sarmy represented the federal policepower. Beauregard stood in defenseof man's primary allegiance to hisstate. That was the issue.

So then while two great armiessprawled across the •face of thePotomac country, growling at eachother, the men of those armies grewslightly older in their minds. Thepageantry and bright adventure of

the march away were gone from it,the fluttering handkerchiefs of thegirls, the last solemn words ofpaternal wisdom, the silent tears ofmother heart.

They had killed and been killed anda blue coat and a gray coat were thesymbols of mounting hatred. Theyhad buried boys they had gone toschool with a few months before,shot it out in picket actions andskirmishes with other boys who hadbeen reading Caesar'sCommentaries in Boston in Marchwhile they read them in Richmond.

So they moved toward First

Manassas—First Bull Run,whichever you please — for the firstgreat trial of strength. Here theywould fight a dreadful battle thatwould cloud the heavy summer airwith the sick sweet stench ofdecomposing flesh for weeksafterward. There would be men onboth sides who could never see thefull yellow moon again without thegrease of gangrene clogging theirnostrils through the associativechannels of memory.

Equal in strength and training, withequally commendable tacticalplans., the two armies would meet,and the tide of battle would join full

and deadlock for a time. Thensubtly it would turn in the Southern-favor for no good or known reasonunless it was Stonewall Jackson'scounterattack pom the Henry HillThe Northern Army would breakand in the inertia of indisciplineflee toward Washington, its officersin many instances getting thereahead of their men — be-fore thetaverns could be drunk dry. By thesame indiscipline, BeauregardesSoutherners 'would fail to exploittheir God-given opportunity topursue, -fail to push the advantageof victory. Had they done so yWashington would have fallen and

history would have had a differentface. Of what nature, who can say?

But the important thing was whatthat battle did to meris minds. Itcoerced blind hatred into thebeginnings of mutual respect. Thesewere foemen worthy of each other'ssteel. Win, lose, or draw this was abreed of men 'who could not denyeach other. Let the New Yorkpoliticians curse the Johnnie Rebsfor defaulting cutthroats. Let theRichmond staff colonels damn theYankees for ravishers of Southernwomanhood, but no com-

bat soldier on either side at

Manassas ever hated blindly again.

For Manassas was the birthplace ofa nation, t<wo lifetimes distantfrom Valley Forge — a rebirth insteel and blood of those principlesthat freemen find more necessaryto defend than life itself, the rightto political integrity in principle andfact.

STUART'S CHARGE

AT BULL RUN

THIS SOUP TUREEN of theWashington family was a lovelything. Pale cream salt glaze withraised blue cornflowers in delicateclusters. You could see the shadowof your finger through it, held to thelight. One of the earlierWashingtons, before PresidentGeorge, had the soup tureen about1760 from Josiah Wedgwoodhimself, of Stoke-upon-Trent.

That was all in the letter fromForney Manigault's grandmother. It

was early in June they organizedthe 1st Brigade of the Army of theShenandoah and General Jacksonwas given command of it. The ShortMountain Cavalry Company wasattached to it; so was the ReverendDoctor Pendleton's artillery batterywith their four old smooth-bores,called Matthew, Mark, Luke andJohn. That's the way they gave theorders, too: "Stand by, Matthew. . . .Matthew, read-ay? . . . Fire,Matthew!" "Gospel on the way, sir.n

Roan Catlett was detailed to brigadeheadquarters riding dispatch duringthe Falling Waters skirmish,

because he was orderly in his dressand habits for a youngster. Hewasn't twelve feet from GeneralJackson when a Yankee cannon balltore a limb off a tree. GeneralJackson was writing out an order.He brushed the splinters off thepaper and clawed them out of hisbeard and went on writ-ing withouteven looking up.

Just after that cannon ball missed,old Doctor Latham drove up theroad with the soup tureen and theletter, watching the battle, curious,through his spectacles, like he wason a round of calls and getting thenews to talk it. Forney Manigault

was over on the far left flank withthe company, fending. The doctorhaltered his horse and rig to a fencerail. He saw Roan and he said,"Come yere, Roan," and he told it toRoan about the soup tureenForney's grandmother had sentwith the letter to Forney's Great-Aunt Chastity, He had a package ofother letters from home : or all theboys in the Short MountainCompany and a quart bottle ofsulphur and molasses for DavinAncrum, 'count of Davin was onlyturned fifteen, and still a growingboy, and his mother wanted him totake it for spring toning.

There were leaves falling from thetrees. The old doc looked up. "That'smighty odd, leaves falling in July,Roan. Don't recall ever having seenthat before."

"No, sir. No, sir," Roan said. "Bulletscuttin' them, sir. Mebbe you bettermove the rig down the road a piece,sir. We're kinda close in here."

"Nonsense," doc told him. "Can'tsee down there. You go on aboutyour business, Roan. I'll just sithere a spell and watch."

So Roan took the letters and thesoup tureen, and he said, "Yes, sir.

Yes, sir," and all the rest of the fighthe was worried sick to retching forfear a bullet'd smash that beautifulpiece of Wedgwood china before hecould get it over to Forney.

Forney was pretty shaken when hesaw Roan, because the first boy inthe company was killed that day.Hadley Stuart. Hadley was lyingroadside with his hands dirty. That'swhat you thought of first—evenwhen you saw the throat shot cleanout of him. Let's wash his handsclean. Lying there with the summerbreeze moving his fine blond hair,like he was still alive—only gray inthe face and chiseled sharp like a

statue and lying awful flat

to the ground. You couldn't believeit was laughing Hadley.

"Ridin 5 right beside me, Roan,"Forney whispered. "I heard it hithim—like a rock chunked in swampmud," and young Davin Ancrumjust stood there with the tearsrunning down his own dirty face.

AH you could think of was the newsgetting home to the Stuart place—how Hadley was killed in the fightand his laughter gone down thesummer wind. With his mother,after a while, asking, soft, with the

desperation held tight in her, "Washis face hurt? Hadley was such apretty baby."

"It's an omen to me, Roan." Forneyshook his head. "Just a few inchesleft and it'd been me. Maybe it willbe, next time."

"Stop it!" Roan's voice was quiet."We got to bury. Hadley's ours. Wedon't let nobody touch ours but us.There—by the sycamore, where it'speaceful like. . . . Forney, this yere'sGeorge Washin'ton's soup tureenyore grandmother sent for you totake to yore Aunt Chastity overManassas way. . . . Davin, this yere's

yore sulphur-and-molasses tonic."

About two weeks later it was, alongin July, when the Short MountainCavalry Company was ordered upnear Shepherdstown to join Lt. ColJames Ewell Brown Stuart'sregiment. That was the fellow theygot to calling "Jeb" Stuart lateralong, you may remember. He was aright personable man, of mediumheight, built in one powerful pieceof grown manhood—to sit a horseand nothing else. He'd been out onthe prairies Indian-fighting andthey said he knew every name of histhree hundred sabers, and eachsquad he sent out on scout he

instructed personally, each tnan byname. Close-knit and black-haired,Colonel Stuart, with an arrogantWest Point eye to him, but it had apixy smile deep in it that they saidthe ladies went for mighty easy.

He looked the company over whenit reported to him,

and when he got to ForneyManigault he said, "What's thatgunny bag hanging to your cantle,soldier?" and Forney said, "That'sGeorge Washin'ton's soup tureen,sir."

Stuart looked full into Forney's eyes

for insolence, but he didn't find any.

"How'd you come by it?" he said.

Forney sort of shifted a bit underStuart's eyes. "Well, sir," Forneysaid, "my grandmother inherited itfrom the Custises and she alwayspromised, when she died it was togo to Aunt Chastity, over Manassasway. Well, sir, she knows I'm to thewars and she writes how some veryold friend of hers named GeneralBeauregard is over Manassas waygetting set to fight this YankeeGeneral McDowell aroundWashin'ton. She figures that withall them hundred thousand

Yankees, General Beauregard's goin'to need some help from GeneralJackson's Valley Brigade up here—and that I'd get to go over whenthey send for us. That's about thehow of it, sir. I got it wrappedagainst breaking—in m'extradrawers—but it worries me prettymuch."

Then, before Colonel Stuart couldanswer, young Davin Ancrum, onForney's off side, said, "A fine oldlady, Forney's grandmother, sir. Igot the cover to her tureen in mycantle pack to keep the two partsfrom smashing together at thegallop, but I'll sure be glad to get it

to where it's goin'. How soon youaim to start for Manassas, sir?"

You could see Colonel Stuart washaving trouble with the dignity acolonel has to have.

"My respects to your grandmother,young man, but General Beauregardhas not given me his confidence tothe extent that she seems to enjoyit."

Right then an orderly galloped in,looking for Lieutenant ColonelStuart, and after Stuart read theorders, he looked at Forney sort offunny this time, and he said, "I'd

like to meet your grandmothersomeday, sir. I've got a place for heron my staff."

The Valley Brigade slipped out thesixty-odd miles for Manassasbehind a cavalry screen. It marchedfrom Winchester east, forded theShenandoah, waist deep, and camedown out of the Blue Ridge throughAshby's Gap to Piedmont, to takethe steam cars on from there. It wasgetting hot, July hot, when dawnlies in the valleys in thick blue hazeand you can still smell yesterday'ssun scorch like cindered toast.Coming through ManassasJunction before light, the column

got a halt order passed downthrough it, and that stopped theShort Mountain Company so closeto a hospital that you could hear aman screaming. Not consciousscreaming that you can control, butdeep out of delirium. Some poordevil wounded in the skirmisharound the Stone Bridge on theeighteenth. In the last dark of night,that's not good to hear.

When Roan spoke Forney inpassing, Forney didn't answer. Hejust stood there in the dark,looking, like a strange face at thewindow. Roan turned and cameback to him.

He said soft, "You let up, Forney,you hear? Thinking ahead is likepunishing yoreself before you dowrong."

Forney just reached into his jacket."I want you to see my father getsthis letter afterwards. He's a family-think-ing man. Proud of blood. He'sgot a right to know I tried." Forneyshook his head. "Oh, it ain'tanything in the letter but chat andnews to him. I just kinda wanted totalk to him once more. Just let himget that—and you write him."

Roan took the letter. He held it aminute in both hands. "All right,

Forney," and he bowed slightly,because that was the way withRoan.

Daylight broke about then, andalong about six in the morningthere was gunfire a little west ofnorth, which folks said would be uparound the Stone Bridge on theWarrenton Pike about six miles. Sothe brigades got on the road again—General Jackson's, Bee's andBartow's— to march toward the gunfight. Bee and Bartow led off

up the road that parallels theOrange and Alexandria Rail Road,with General Jackson's five Virginia

infantry regiments trailing in thedust behind. And that was dust. Itgot seven, eight inches deepunderfoot to walk in and two inchesthick to breathe. At the road toMitchell's Ford, the three brigadesturned off left for due north, andabout a mile and a half north of therailroad and a straight mile south ofBull's Run from Mitchell's Ford,they halted. A right pretty place.

Sometime after nine the sound ofthat gun fight began to shift left.Sudley Springs by the sound now.When General Jackson finishedprayers, he put a glass over towardhis left flank and he said, "That's

low dust on the Sudley Road. Thick-clouded. Infantry, and it can't beours. The Short Mountain Companywill move out until it contactsColonel Stuart's regiment. Bring meback his word on the situation atthe gallop. You'll find him betweenthe Henry Farm House and theStone Bridge, probably behind theridge line." That was GeneralJackson—he could see through thehills.

Roan led 'cross country north andwest. He'd lost his hat, and the sunbrought the dark red out of hisblack hair like slow embers incharcoal. Forney, with that

Wedgwood soup tureen in thegunny bag from his cantle, rodenext to Roan, quiet in his ownthinking, with his cousin Davinwatching him close and not likingwhat he saw in Forney's face.

About two miles on the way, therewas a quick wind shift, like a fireswirl of smoke, and with it aretching stench from a draw. Andthere it was to ride through, withthe horses blithering at it and someof the boys vomiting. The surgeonshad used the place after theeighteenth, like they'd gone madwith the butcher knife. The horseswere walking in it. A green hand

clawing at their hoofs with half anarm on it and a couple of smashedfeet lying side by side in shoes, withten inches of leg, but

no man on them. The greasy fliesclouded thick, and there was a fieldrat!

Roan lashed through that mess."Git that off yore minds, y'hear?"But how could you?

Through his tight-shut teeth,Forney said, "If I git hit bad for thesurgeons to carve me, don't take myhand gun off me, Roan! Let mekeep it—for out/'

Roan turned slow in the saddle withthe light of those Catlett eyes of hisburning deep into Forney. "That'sthree times, Mr. Manigault," hesaid, soft. "Have quit of that kind oftalk!"

"There's Colonel Stuart!" Davinpointed, and it was. He had left hisregiment and ridden over to theHenry Hill when the battle shifted.At fifty-yard intervals back, he hadhis connecting files waiting, so hecould shout and the word'd passlike telegraph.

Across the pike the Yankees werepouring down thick between Mr.

Mathews' House and the old StoneHouse, heading to force overYoung's Branch, like ripeblueberries dumped from a broken-wheeled market cart. There wereartillery shells puffing like cottonswabs close over their heads withred in them, like cracked frostedknuckles. It didn't look actual,though. That was the funny thing. Itlooked like a picture drawing in aschool-book.

The worst thing was the sight ofthat flag with them. The right ofthat was hard to come by. That wasthe old glory flag of long back. Ithad blood in its red stripes from

Roan's own grandpappy's veins-—and Davin's great-uncle. It hadhonor in its white from the wholeManigault tribe from long gone.One of those stars in the blue wasfor the sovereign state of Virginiaherself. But there it was across thevalley—with the damn Yankeeshaving hold of it. And how can youthink that out? It puts the bittertears deep. So deep you can't crythem. In Davin Ancrum's boy'smind it went; / git the chance, Fmgoin' to shoot me a blue-belliedcolor sergeant and git my flag

back. All in a moment, which isbattle too. Thoughts for a lifetime

that take twenty seconds.

When Roan brought the point up toreport to Colonel Stuart at hislookout, the colonel said, "TellGeneral Jackson we have twoenemy divisions on our left flank, Ibelieve." Then he pointed down toour line in front. "Fending along outthere in the corn is Colonel Evans*riflemen with the Louisiana Tigers.Cooke and Wade Hampton arebacking him up, but it isn't going tobe enough against this flankingmove. I don't think you'll need totell him." Stuart nodded behindwhere they were and a shade overhis left shoulder. There was General

Bartow's Brigade coming up on therun, yelling, with Irnboden's batterygalloping like the devil beforebreakfast. And on the other sidethis General Bee with his Carolinafireballs screaming to drink bloodhot from a boot, without sugar orcream.

But what Jeb Stuart was reallynodding at was General Jackson.Those two knew how to make theland fight for them. That's WestPoint, and it's a knack precious fewgenerals ever learn. If the land don'tfight for you, soldiers die.

The fight below wasn't all together.

It was meeting the Yankee forcepiecemeal—first Evans, next Cooke,then Bartow, and then Bee andHampton. Punch, hit or miss, andafter a while all of 'em falling back.Getting snakewhipped now, sureenough.

Jackson alone wasn't sucked in.That's what Stuart really meantwhen he nodded. Jackson had the1st Brigade coming up slow, like ondrill, and taking position with thehill crest to shelter them. You sawhim and saw the line belowbreaking up and falling back, and itwas like Christmas, when you knowyou're not going to get what you

want.

That was when there was a clearclose sound as if a sharp-honedrazor caught the strop and slicedright through it. Forney Manigaultlooked down. His left foot

was still holding the stirrup on hisboot toe, but the stirrup leather wastrailing the dust, cut clean in two bya bullet.

Roan Catlett grinned. "That's one,Forney," he said, "and you livedthrough it. What for you had to callit twice more on yourself?"

Nobody knows where time goes. Itwas ten minutes ago the companywent to find Stuart, just after nineo'clock, and now it was crowding fornoon by the sun. There was a rightsmart mill for a time around theHenry House below, and Imboden'sbattery was galloping back up,everybody shouting. Then ourinfantry was breaking its line allalong, and fighting up backwards,shooting from the knee. There weresome powerful wide gaps in it, likekicked-out teeth, and the men surelooked jasperooed. Through thesmoke and right in the front of itall, there was this madman

galloping his soaped horse, wavinghis sword. And you could hear."Look!" he shouted. "There isJackson " They said it was GeneralBee from Carolina. Then GeneralJackson let loose on the battle, likea mountain man stepping up tomark in a Thanksgiving turkeyshoot. His horse had beenwounded, he had a big bullet tear inhis coat at the hip and a bloodyhandkerchief wrapped around thebroken middle finger of his lefthand, but he looked like a mansetting off late for church, madbecause he wanted to get therebefore first hymn.

Now you can feel a battle turn. Itdon't make any difference how, foryou ain't human in a battle. Andnothing happens that's human. Itjust happens. As soon as theShenandoah Brigade opened, thatbattle turned like a greased wheel,and the smile of God came uponGeneral Jackson. He volleyed thewhole Yankee army. Volleyed again,and the Yankee center buckled.Then the bayonets flashed on in thesunlight like a thousand shards ofbroken mirror, and General Jacksonshouted, "If they're beating us, sir,we'll give them the bayonet!"

Forney yelled, "Roan, they got

French soldiers down there!" andhe whipped up his arm and pointed,and his hat snapped off and scaledaway behind. He reached to hishead like to catch it, and he turnedslow around and stared at it, lyingin the sumac with a hole through it.

Roan spat cotton that didn't clearhis chin. "That's twice, Forney!"

They weren't French soldiers at all;they were what they called the NewYork Fire Zouaves, in red pants andcaps with white leggings and prettylittle blue short coats, coming offthe Sudley Road. Column-of-fours.

Just as Forney pointed, a staffofficer galloped up. "ColonelStuart," he said, "GeneralBeauregard directs that you bringyour command into action at onceand that you attack where thefighting is hottest!"

Colonel Stuart cupped his hands."Boots and saddles!" and you couldhear the repeat going back throughhis link files—an echo so fast it waslike hail on a tin roof. In no timethe head of Stuart's regimentalcolumn was coming up through thefences on Bald Hill at the trot withCapt. William Blackford leading.Stuart turned and waved the

company into position in thecolumn. Then he hand-signaledagain for the rear to oblique left anddeploy on right into line. It's amighty pretty sight, horse and man,when the sabers flash and thetrumpet shrieks. Only you've gotscant chance to enjoy it, for a horseat the gallop does a hundred yardsas fast as a steam train, whenblood's in his nostrils. Halfway tothem—those five hundred red pantsfaced around and leveled and fired along streak of red flame in pale bluesmoke, Capt. Welby Carter wentdown; then the smoke was too thickto see a thing. But they couldn't see

either and in the battle fog theymade their mistake. They reloadedinstead of standing with the knife atcharge bayonets. Half reloaded,Stuart hit them.

It was bloody awful. Half Stuart'shorses thought they were huntingand that they were making to clearthis

red-pants fence with smoke over it,so they gathered and took off. Theirfore hoofs topped into faces andchests. They caved like pickedpumpkins, and the charge wentthrough. The charge broke then andturned in a thrashing mill to smash

back through the gouting shamblesfrom the rear. It was awful. Sick,puking, stenching awful.

Roan was drenched in cold sweat.Forney had blood all the way to theshoulder. Young Davin Ancrum hadonly four inches of blade left.Snapped clean. He threw thestumped hilt back at them, like itwas a rock.

"Bite on that!" he yelled, and otherthings.

In the galloping scramble to getuphill again, Forney shoutedsomething and kneed left, pulling

his mount crosswise to Davin andRoan. Roan yelled, "Not that way!"and there was a chunk sound and amuffled smash of breaking china,and Forney shrieked like a cut pig,"I'm hit, I'm hit!" Roan grabbed athim and got him over the hill still inthe saddle.

Forney was hit all right. A calf Vearnick through both sides of hisrump. Only with the musclesstretched the way they were at thegallop, it looked like ForneyM gotthe whole bottom shot off him.They laid him over a log, face down,to plug lint in until it sopped up theblood. The girls down home sent

lint to the company in perfumed-paper packages. You were supposedto guess which girl by the perfume.Roan took a pinch of lint andpassed it in front of his nose like apinch of snuff.

Then he plugged it into Forney andshook his head. "Forney, I'd beashamed what yo're using this poregirl's petticoat for!"

"Shut up!" Forney grunted.

Roan took another pinch of lint andinhaled deep from it. "Forney," hesaid, "you called it three times onyourself. Maybe you better let God

run his own war from now on."

"Shut up!" Forney grunted.

So Roan got the blood stopped andhe rigged up a white shirt like a sortof diaper and he said, "Hold stillwhile mamma pins you up, Forney."

You think it's funny? Well, it isn't.It's shock. It's what comes offighting. Shock's gray like a casketcloth. Your soul's wrapped in it. Youwant to put your arms aroundsomebody and cry like a baby. Youget doing whatever— and you can'tstop. Over and over until it leavesyou.

Roan couldn't stop. "Dear JudgeManigault," he said, "I have a sadduty to perform in writing to you.Forney's been shot in th' "

That was when Forney whipped upand spun on his heels, his bootssucking blood, and smashed Roan.Roan went down like a poleaxed ox,and there was Forney bawling like atoddler—real tears—crouched overRoan, his finger pointed rigid to thegunny bag at his cantle.

"Damn yore eyes, Roan Catlett!" heblubbered. "I broke mygrandmother's soup tureen!" and hepressed both hands to his face with

the sobs tearing out of him. "I heardit smash, damn you, Roan Catlett! Ilove my ole grandmother! She usedto give me apples and take mewalks and tell me stories!" And hesat down on the log with his headon his arms, and you'd thought hisheart would break.

Davin Ancrum put his hand onForney's shoulder. "Come on,Forney, don't take it so hard. I stillgot the cover whole."

Like a couple of old men sittingthere, they were, nodding theirheads solemnly and'settling theaffairs of the world.

"Yes"-—Forney wiped his eyes—"that's right. We got the cover.Well," he said, "it's the best that Icould do, but I'm sure sorry. Suresorry." Roan opened his eyes. "Suresorry, Roan," Forney said.

Roan got up. Probably didn't evenknow Forney'd hit him. Didn't actlike it. Just said, "I got an idea youcan

sit sideways on a horse and get backto Manassas that way, Forney boy.Let's try."

Monday afternoon the wholecompany came back into Manassas,

two by two, leading at the walkdown the Union Mills Road. Feelingpretty good, because that Bull's Runbattle was a jasperoo and GeneralJackson won it, for the ShortMountain money.

Sitting on a veranda of a house asyou come into town, with a cushionto his chair and his polished bootscocked on the rail, was youngForney Manigault with a pipe ofshag going.

"Well, well," said Forney. "My oldfriend Roan Catlett come from thewars," and he stood up andstretched a bit, elegant like.

An elderly gentleman came out ofthe house and squinted over hisspectacles. "Yore friends, sir?" hesaid. "Ill have Commodus saddleyore charger. . . . Corn-modus!"

"Stand," Roan told the boys, "whilewe watch a passel of Negras get Mr.Manigault ready to accompany us."

Then the man's wife came out withdoughnuts and lemonade. Lawyerand Mrs. Pemberton. Right-pleasant-spoken people. And it wasall fun again, with one by one thecompany going in the big kitchenfor a hot bath themselves and achange of shirt. Everybody laughing

and telling how it was and how itwas going to be now, with the wardone and the Yankees gone home.Laughing, that is, until thismacaroni rode up, with the carriagebehind him in the street.

You've seen 'em in Richmond of aSunday? Gray top hat with a highfresh collar to his ears and a foldedsilk neck cloth, black with smallwhite dots. Gray frock coat andtight pants over his varnished halfWellingtons. Silver-knobbed cropand yellow gloves. It's all right ifyou like it, but as young as he was,about twenty-two, and

right after a battle like Bull's Run—and on the finest horse you eversaw—it can rub you rough.

He signaled to the coachman tostop the carriage as if it mustn'tcome any closer with the princessin it. Then he took off his hat andhe said, "I beg yore pardon, but canany of you tell me in what housethe Carolinian General Bee's bodylies?" Without the mannerly "sir"onto it.

Roan's eyes flicked. He straightenedup slow and put his thumbs in hisbelt.

"Don't reckon that any of us hereever heard of any GeneralBeesbody."

"Is that meant to be funny, suh?"

"It wasn't, sir," Roan told him, slow."It's just the way you talk. I thoughtyou said Beesbody. You slur yourwords, sir—for a Virginian."

"I am not a Virginian," and therewas pond ice in it. "General Bee waskilled—because of the Virginians,"the fellow said in fury. "The wordcomes from Major Rhctt direct. AndMajor Rhett is General Johnston'schief of staff, suh! He ought to

know. In yesterday's battle theCarolinians bore the brunt. Theywere badly shaken. General Beeshouted for someone who callshimself General Jackson. * Whereis Jackson? Where is Jackson?' heshouted. To get him to come helphim. But this Jackson didn't movean inch. He just stood where hewas, not lifting a finger, like a"—thefellow's face was boiled scarlet—"like a damned stone wall!"

Roan took his thumbs out of hisbelt and dropped his hands. Veryslowly he walked across toward thefop. "Get off yore horse," he said,soft in the throat. "Because I'm

goin' to carve it into yore hide, slowand neat lettered, what was reallysaid by that general to keep yoreboys from running clear toCharleston. What was really saidwas, "Look! There is Jackson,standing like a stone wall! Rallybehind the Virginians!'" and with aquick hand,

he whipped the fop off his horseand he said, "Take off his shirt,boys, while I strop my knife point."

There wasn't a princess in thatcarriage. There was a very old lady,with a satin bonnet set tip top ofher ivory hair knot and tied under

her ear with a big satin bow. Cometo think, maybe she was a princesstoo. Just grown old. It's always howyou believe. She was that old whena person's waking and sleeping runstogether all day and all night.

She opened her eyes and said,"Forney Manigault!"

Forney jumped, and everybodylooked.

"Yes, ma'am?"

She said, "Forney, whatever are youdoing in Manassas? Does yourgrandmother know you're here?"

Forney's foot shuffled. "Well, AuntChastity, as a matter of plain talk,my grandmother sent me."

"She's not sick, is she?"

"No, ma'am. She's right spry still.Right spry."

You could see that Forney wasfighting for every minute of time.So Davin helped. He worked thesoup-tureen cover out of his cantlepack. He waved Commodus awayfrom Forney's stirrup and undid thegunny bag. He reached inside forForney's extra drawers with theshattered pieces in it, and the

funniest look came on his face, likehe had sorghum candy stuck in histhroat. Only what he really had wassulphur and molasses all over hishands. Next minute, there was thatbeautiful Josiah Wedgwood souptureen out in the sunlight, withouta nick in It, not a crack. Sort ofdazed, Davin put the cover on it,and that fine thin china rang in thehot street like a lady's silver tablebell.

He walked over and held it out tothe old lady. "Davin Ancrum,ma'am. Glad to do a service forForney's grandma."

"My goodness," Aunt Chastity said."Cousin Emily's soup bowl Iremember it very well. CousinMatilda

Mesereaux had it from AuntAugusta Semmes. It was alwayspromised to me."

Forney tugged out hisgrandmother's letter and handed itup carriage side, and just then theold lady saw Roan standing withone foot on the dandy's neck, thedandy thrashing and flopping underit like an axed rooster. She reachedinto her reticule for her handglasses, opened them and held

them by the handle in front of hereyes.

"Chesnut," she called, "what are youdoing, lying on the ground? . . .Forney, that is your cousin ChesnutHaxall from Charleston," and shebegan to read her letter. After amoment's reading, she said over thetop of the letter, "He has come uphere to stay with me until theymake him a captain or a major orsomething down in South Carolina.. . . Chesnut, pick up your hat." Aftera little bit further reading, she said,"My goodness, Forney; yourgrandmother says you're in thecavalry."

"Yes, ma'am," Forney grinned."Looks as if I am."

She said, "But there was a dreadfulbattle yesterday." She looked over atthe rest of the company. "Aperfectly dreadful battle. I live outin the country," she explained, "andthere were soldiers all over myplace all day. The shooting was soclose it broke more than two dozenof the windows."

"Sure glad you got away safe, AuntChastity."

"Got away?" She put her handglasses close on Forney. "Got away?

I don't know what you mean,Forney. I live at Grammercie. It'smy home. I'm in town todaybecause it's my Sewing Day with theEpiscopal Mission Board." And thenshe said, "You weren't in that battle,were you, Forney?"

Forney shuffled foot again. "Well,ma'am," he said, "for a time, I wasin a little part of it."

"You weren't hurt, were you,Forney?"

"Well, ma'am, I "

Roan bowed. "No, ma'am," he said.

"Forney weren't hurt at all."

The rest of the summer of 1861found the Potomac River once morea rough line of demarcationbetween the difference of opinion.Opposite the city of Washington,the Union forces had troops southof the river but in no consolidatedorganization that could, in amodern tactical sense, have beencalled a bridgehead. Alexandria wascontrolled by these troops.Arlington House., the residence ofColonel Robert Edward Lee, lateCorps of Engineers, United StatesArmy, and now an obscure staffofficer in Richmond, was used

variously as a Union field hospitaland a -forward echelonheadquarters. The Sixty-Ninth, NewYork, held a shallow bridgehead inRosslyn, protecting the southernend of the Canal Bridge. Thisbridge) on the site of which the KeyBridge now stands, brought thecanal waters across the Potomacfrom Georgetown in an openaqueduct so that the canal mightserve Alexandria—its mule-drawnboats passing within sight andearshot of the present Pentagon.

A summer war for summer soldiers,after Bull Run, with both armiespassing from the offensive—not to

the defensive necessarily — butrather to complete apatheticinactivity, with the exception ofminor patrol prowling. Confederatecavalry sniffed the outskirts ofAlexandria. They came downbetween Arlington House andRosslyn and watered their mountsin the Potomac, probably rightwhere the present Memorial Bridgeconnects the main gates of theCemetery with the LincolnMemorial on the Washington side,along the land now occupied bySouth Post, Fort Meyer.

Across the river they could see thederrick-spidered domeless Capitol,

the Washington Monument—flat-topped still, at about one-third of itsheight to be—and the full rawexpanse of the frightened town.

For Washington was frightened,'with a victorious armed -force tothe southward and the 'wholedoubtful but insurgent state ofMaryland to the north. ThePresident had sent out animmediate call for additionalvolunteers and they 'were pouringin but they were ra<w. This time,however , they were not comingwith the flamboyant bombast of thearmy that had been soundlytrounced at Bull Run. They were

coming quietly with a sense of near-disaster in their hearts—and theslow anger that fear instills. Theywere coming doggedly from thenorthern farms and cities for it wasas if the ghost of Pitcairn was onLexington Bridge once more,Wellington's Peninsula veteranswere marching on Plattsburg, or thelast long rifle in the overrun Alamohad ceased to fire.

These men were to be McClellarismishandled army of theChickahominy, of Malvern Hill, ofCold Harbor, a hardening breed ofmen with not so much a personalfight in their hearts as a mass

consciousness of which way destinylay. The United States was theproperty of their fathers—in theirtime they would not see itdissipated. Hold the whole farmtogether and to Ugh hell withhacking off parcels of it to split theownership!

For Southern arms that summer,the war was won. Bull Run proved itconclusively. Even Congress knew itat last, for Congress had come outto see the battle with its ladies andits picnic lunches and runfrantically when the tide turned,leaving a ten-mile trail of brokenparasols, top hats, wine bottles, and

food hampers.

So what was left? Stay around awhile, flushed with the high wine ofvictory so the Yankees would damnwell remember them, and then gohome to kiss the girls who had seenthem off. Row the Potomac atsundown and have a drink inWdlard's just to say you had. Dustup the sentries now and then tokeep them awake—but the battle'sdone and the war's done and that'swhat we came for. So let's go home.

Not so T. J. Jackson. Nor BeautyStuart. Nor the rest

of the ex-regulars. As they could seethrough hills in battle, so too theycould see through the summer tothe painted leaves of fall In theirshoulder blades they could feel thesmall western actions alreadyprobing for control of theMississippi. In the Atlantic miststhey could feel the waterenvelopment of the Northern navyfending for Cape Fear to blockadethe ports. Two fumbling arms asyet, but with their import plain — toembrace both sides of theConfederacy in a wrestler's hug andcrush it breath-less! So they kepttheir men to drill schedules, denied

them furlough, bent their minds tothe cold threat of the massing newarmies across the Potomac.

That summer saw the real birth ofthe greatest army the world hasever seen, the Army of NorthernVirginia. Greatest, because it couldnot be defeated. Shoeless, hungry,short on ammunition always,blanketless in winter, rotten withdysentery, bareheaded to the rains— the Army of Northern Virginiaremained upon its feet for four longyears. Marched when it was told tomarch, counterattacked with thespleen of a hill cat. Won greatbattles and lost great battles, but

always stood to its colors to fightagain until it furled those colors inthe dignity and awful pride ofAppomattox*

SLAUGHTER

AT BALI'S BLUFF

HADLEY STUART'SGRANDFATHER and his old horsePrince caught up with the ShortMountain Cavalry Company outsideof Fairfax Court House a few daysafter the Bull's Run battle. He wasan old man, but he didn't look asold as he was until you looked rightclose into his eyes. Then you couldsee the procession of the yearsgoing down deep into him like astone dropped in a blue mountainpool

"It's like this, sir," he told RoanCatlett. "With Hadley killed,somebody in the Stuart family hasto fill in his part. Hadley's ma won'tlet his brother Ambrose 'list untilhe turns fifteen. His pa's been deadthese six, seven years"—he smiled—"so I reckon that left me."

Roan was slow to smile ever, afterManassas, and with his better thansix feet of hill-grown bone andmuscle and his leather sunburn helooked much older and meanerthan his going on eighteen yearsshould have made him look. It wasin Roan's eyes probably that itwouldn't make too much sense

having an old man like that in thecompany. Hadley's grandpappy sawthat and he smiled,

"I've got every one of my teeth stillanchored solid in m'head, son—andPrince is a good sound horse for allhe got old enough to vote thisspring." Being called "son" madeRoan feel a little homesick, but thethought of a

twenty-one-year-old horse madehim smile it away fast. "I guess it'sall right, sir," he told Hadley'sgrandfather. "For all of me, you canstay."

"I'm right glad of that, sir, because Itold General Lee I'd get his hat andsend it to him in Richmond." Theold man's eyes twinkled and hishead sort of went down toward hisleft shoulder like he was listeningfor the laugh that would pick hiswords up for a joke. But HadleyStuart was the first boy killed in thecompany. That day over at FallingWaters when a cannonball hit a treeclose enough to General Jackson toplow splinters into his beard. Andthere wasn't any joke inremembering that. Besides, nobodyknew who General Lee was, thatearly in the war.

Davin Ancrum touched his foreheadto the old man. "I'd be right pleasedto go get the hat for you, sir, you tellme where he left it. We werepowerful fond of Hadley." ForneyManigault frowned. Davin was hiscousin, and he knew Davin's way ofvolunteering to build up credit for aletdown.

Hadley's grandfather snorted."General Lee didn't really mean getthe hat, son! He said it for a joke.When he resigned from the UnitedStates Army he left his home andwent straight to Richmond. Lefteverything. Big white house downthe Potomac, he and Miz Lee had.

Called it Arlington House.Remember it long ago. Pillars infront and a portrait of GeorgeWashington in the parlor.Overlooks a slope to the river. Butthe Yankees took it over right awayas a headquarters; so that does forthe hat. But it was a right specialhat, I reckon. You know how somemen are? Placing great store incertain hats? When he gave me myletter in Richmond and I thankedhim, he laughed and said, £ I leftmy hat up there on the Potomac,where you're going, sir. If you canget it back for me, that'll return theslight courtesy I've been able to do

you.'" The old man's eyes got sort ofwistful. "Joke or not, I'd sure like toget that hat, to return General Lee's

courtesy to me. But it's impossible,so I reckon we'll just forget it. ...Whoa-up, Prince! Stand still,y'hear?"— which wasn't necessarybecause the old horse was soundasleep where he stood, and hadbeen all the time.

Now the order in the company fromRoan was to go light on Hadley'sgrandpappy, and on that old blackhorse, Prince. Let him work as hardas he wanted, only damn well seethat the heavy work was done

before he got to it, and damn welldon't let him know it was plannedthat way.

It wasn't any chore to do that, forMr. Stuart was likable. He couldcook like a sailor cooks—takeanything for a base, add anythingyou had to offer, and come up withreal tasty potluck. He could telltime by the stars, give him amoment to look—and never off onlya few minutes, and maybe at that itwas the clock you checked by thatwas off, not him. He'd been a sailorand been all over the world. It wasin his walk somewhat and the wayhe'd ask, "Smoking lamp lit?" when

he wanted a pipe on night patrol.But he didn't offer talk. Not likemost oldsters, cankering the spleenin you, telling how it was in theirday.

Day patrols'd shove over wide,southeast, and water their horsesright in the Potomac River with thewhole mud-flat Washington Cityright across, to see it all. Nightpatrols'd push around close to thehead of the Aqueduct Bridge,listening to those New YorkIrishmen jasperooing each other intheir camp. Sixty-ninth Regiment itwas, guarding the bridge, and comesundown the whisky'd flow red.

Their Colonel Corcoran had gothimself captured in the battle andsent to Richmond—and he was theonly one they'd ever kept order for.So all bets were off until he gotexchanged.

One night on point, dismounted,Forney and Davin got in closeenough listening, to fall over one ofthose New York boys sleepingwhisky deep. Fall didn't even blinkhim, but it tinkled his bottle, sothey took it off him

in the name of Jeff Davis and wenton around and down to theriverbank to look the situation over.

"Right good bourbon," Davin said.

"Store bought. Thin," Forney said.

Davin pointed across river. "Coupleof boys in Jeb Stuart's regiment tellme they went right intoWashington one night and boughtdrinks at Kirkwood's Hotel onTwelfth Street."

"How?" Forney turned his headsharp.

"Boat," Davin said.

"In uniform they'd 'a' been caught.Out of uniform ain't honest." That's

the Manigault family for youalways.

"What uniform?" Davin reached forthe bottle back. "Both of us got thefundamental clothes on we wore athome. Shirts and pants. Take off thesabers and hats, and we're justcountry boys in for marketing."

"What boat?" Forney grunted.

"Right down there," Davin pointed."With everybody saying the war'sover, I'd sure hate to miss seeingWashington before I go back toschool—especially the Capitolwhere my daddy used to orate."

Mighty fine orator, SenatorAncrum. Powerful chest and throat.

The boat didn't leak too badly andthe next thing Forney knew, Davinwas paddling it right down themiddle of the Potomac. Only thingForney could think was that hewasn't going to let his cousin goalone, even if it wasn't what aManigault would do, left on his ownto decide.

Wind was off the city and the placesmelled worse than Manassasbattlefield. Sour sick. Old swampthey built the town on—with astench of fudged sewage simmering

in the damp heat to make the fish-rot river flats a relief until theirboat got opposite that stone shaftthey were going to finish somedayin memory of George Washington.The Yankee Army had itsslaughterhouse

there and the fetid leavings coveredhalf a rotting green acre, four feetdeep.

By that time the bottle was done.Besides, the moon broke out fromthe clouds and they could see theCapitol straight down the sludgecanal, all cobwebbed with derricksand scaffolds, and no dome on it

yet, which was what they'd come tosee. Where Senator Ancrum orated.On top of all, three or four sentrieswere shooting at them from theriverbank now, so Davin turned theboat and headed back.

"Looka there, Forney!" he said."There's that general's house wherehe left his hat!"

And sure enough, up the slope inthe trees in the moonlight therewas a big house with white pillarslike old Mr. Stuart had said.

Forney said, "Let's not stop, boy!Them bullets are getting close to

hitting, we take a deep breath tomake ourselves a rnite wider!"

"Sure was good bourbon," Davingrinned.

They made back to below AnolostanIsland, beached the boat and wenton back to where they'd left thepatrol with the horses. Only thingwas Roan was there, come down toinspect, and he smelled the liquoron them. Going to take the hide offthem in quick long-arm jerks, notfor touching the stuff on duty butfor touching it, that's all —when oldMr. Lovatt Stuart said, "Sergeant, Igave them a half issue of my own

medicinal rum apiece/' and hepatted his saddle bag. "Against themalaria. Medicine. Pure medicine.They were coming down, else."

He was like that, the old man. Sharpas a whistle for the right thoughtand word in trouble. Like an oldsoldier.

When everybody knew finally thatBeauregard wasn't going to takeWashington, he said, "I'm sort ofglad. It got taken once by theBritish. Wasn't pretty. Army ranaway at Bladensburg. CaptainBarney's sailors came up from themosquito fleet, running with

cannons on their

shoulders. Tried to save it, butBarney got wounded and it was allover. British burned the PrintingOffice and the Treasury and thePresident's Palace. President JimMadison ran away to Maryland.Dignity bled clean out of thecountry for a while. Wasn't pretty."He shook his head slowly. "Thisyere's a family fight. Blood feuding,but we're all Americans, don'tforget. So let's fight each other likemen; let's not get to burning outeach other's houses, like banditti."He smiled. "I talk too much,"

When Col. Jeb Stuart first saw oldMr. Stuart, he looked twice, quick,and kneed over to him. "I don'tplace your name, sir? You've justjoined?" It wasn't for any reason atfirst, except that Colonel Jeb had toget names. Knew all names of histhree hundred men. Called themplain, day or night. Captains tocooks.

"Lovatt Stuart, sir." Then he saw thecolonel's eye cloud just a shade atthe sight of how old he was andhow old Prince was, sleeping soundthere on formation under him.Sound, to horse snores. The firekindled deep to pride in the old

man's own eyes. "Total age of horseand man," he said, "one hundredyears." And that was right, He wasseventy-nine and Prince wastwenty-one, like it or leave it.

Colonel Stuart was only twenty-eight years old that year, and hedidn't like it. You could see that. Acavalryman's got hard work to do,and there're two ways it can't bedone. One is to try to be a hero, sothe others always have to get youout of show-off trouble; and theother is always to need help theother way, from lack of strength orspirit, horse or man. Either waytakes it from the files to right and

left and weakens the command.That was in Jeb Stuart's mind, andyou could almost see fear in the oldman's eyes when he saw it there. Ifhe got to be sent away beforeAmbrose reached fifteen, it wouldlet the whole family down.

"I have a letter," he said, "fromGeneral Robert Edward Lee, sir. Ididn't aim to show it"—he pulled itout

of pocket and held it in hand—"butif it's going to be

going home or not I'd sure like tostay for just one

battle."

Colonel Jeb looked quick at RoanCatlett with the question.

Roan snapped his hand up, flickinghis hat brim. "Pulls his freight, sir,"Roan said. "Lifts his weight. Shoresorry to have to lose him, sir.'*

"Proud to have you with us, sir."Colonel Jeb bowed slightly. "Theletter won't be necessary as long asSergeant Catlett vouches for you.Unless it's to me personally."

"It's to 'Whom-it-may-concern,' sir.Thank you, sir," and the old man

put the letter back in. Later he saidto Roao, "Thank you kindly,sergeant—if you weren't lying?" andRoan couldn't quite meet his eye.He just said, "No man lies toColonel Stuart twice," and themeaning was plain between them.

"I understand/' the old man said."You won't regret it, sir."

The summer wore along. The warwas over. All the hotheads wereyelling for discharges or furlough togo home and tell how they won it.But Gen. "Stonewall" Jacksonwasn't going home, so he didn't lethis men go. Nor was Colonel Jeb, so

his regiment stayed too. Drilling.

After McDowell, the Yankees got afellow named McClellan incommand and along toward the endof September the war wasn't over atall Word got around that there wasa sizable Yankee force campedbetween Conrad's and Edward'sFerries near Harrison's Island onthe Upper Potomac. Our left, underGen. "Shanks" Evans, who had theriflemen at Bull's Run, was securedon Lees-burg, but they were shy oncavalry scouts, so early in Octoberthe Short Mountain Company,being Shenandoah boys, got orderedup under this Evans to help scout

for the Mississippi infantry—13th,17th and 18th regiments.

It was in the air that something wasgoing to rip. The cork was still inthe bottle on Sunday morning, thetwentieth, but you could feel itsizzing to pop. The company rodeinto Drainesville just at first lightand broke into prowl points of fourto scout the river line. Roan, old Mr.Stuart, Davin and Forney took theright-hand east flank, and comingup on Ball's Bluff, dismounted, andbegan to look-see Harrison's Islandopposite and the far shore.

Suddenly the old man pointed.

"Boats," he said. "Flat-boats fromthe Chesapeake Canal. Soldiers in'em."

"Don't make sense," Davin shookhis head. "This side the bluff is toosteep to climb up to here. Must be ahundred, hundred fifty feet straightup almost from the water to wherewe are. Why boat over to the island,opposite here? It don't make sense."

"It made sense when Wolfe did it atQuebec," Mr. Stuart whispered. "Afellow once said, 'Never say a cliff'sinaccessible; just say difficult forhorse artillery/ "

Roan chewed grass. "Like this way,you think, sir? Sneak over here andup the bluff face because wewouldn't think they could? Start thefight up-river a piece and fall on ourflank from here?"

"It could be," the old man nodded.

"Gripes," Roan snorted. "It's youridea, sir; you ride dispatch in andtake the word to General Evans.Fast."

You'd never forget that picture ofMr. Stuart against the autumn sky.When he crawled back to Prince,the old horse was asleep as usual,

but he woke up and flared hisnostrils and pranced a little bit toshow he wasn't. Mr. Stuart threw aleg over and straight in the saddle,raised his hand with his hat in it toRoan and the others. Prince seemedto feel something, too, for he upswith his fore-hoofs and to hell withhis rheumatism. The cavalier, theman on horseback, the spirit of thebattle that only one sculptor in athousand can see in the cold stonehe carves

his statue from. "Total age of horseand man, one hundred years."

Well, that's the way it was, you'll

read in cold history print. Twoforces. One to cross betweenEdward's Ferry and Conrad's. Theother from Harrison's Island and upthe cliff, to catch Shanks Evansbetween and run him out ofLeesburg. Only Shanks wasn'tthere. Which saved trouble, becausethe Yankees didn't get there either.Where they did get the next day waseach halfway, when the corkpopped. The force that climbedBall's Bluff was mostlyMassachusetts people. GeneralEvans let 'em move down almost toLeesburg before he let go. Theymust have been the feint, because

they fell back right away, leavingonly one man dead. But the soundof the battle brought the other forcedown to help, and shortly afternoon Evans had them pinned cold,on three sides, to the top of Ball'sBluff. That was no Bull's Run. Itwas stand and deliver and lash itout for blood. New Yorkers nowwith the Massachusetts men—40thRegiment by the belt plates on thedead—and they said the 1stCalifornia Regiment wassomewhere in it, too—mostlyPennsylvanians and elsewhere,however, which is what they sayCalif or-nians are.

Just before twilight, old Mr, Stuartfound the company again, where itwas being held off, shelter of thewoods, for when the cavalry mop-up would begin.

"I didn't stay away, sergeant," hetold Roan. "I was kept by GeneralEvans for dispatch and guiding."

"That's all right," Roan nodded, hiseyes keen to the fight across theway. "I figured so." But what he wasreally figuring was when the chargeorder came, there'd be the old manwith him on his old horse, Prince,and it getting toward dark and thebluff edge steep and all. The way a

man thinks who's got twenty mento think for. And he sure didn'twant to charge old Mr. Stuart andthat twenty-one-year-old horse,Prince. He sure as hell-fire didn't.Across the bluff top, the gun smokewas blue in

the twilight, hanging like autumnmist, gashed with red as the firinggot hotter.

Where the company waited therewas a mask of oaks, and the leavesnow and then would drift downfrom long shots high above. It wascoming up on cavalry time now,fast, for the Massachusetts men and

the New Yorkers were slowlybacking to the cliff top. Fascinatingto watch. Like a boat drifting towardthe open lip of a waterfall. In amoment the word would comegalloping in the twisted mouth ofone of General Evans' staff:"Cavalry to clear the field! Draw . . .sabers!" and Roan sure enoughdidn't want to charge Mr. Stuart andthat old horse, Prince.

It was in his eyes of course. Mr.Stuart saw it, and a man can't keepbegging and hold his pride forever."The poet Homer once said"—theold man's voice was soft— "that'that man is happy who has sons

and whose sons have sons, and whohimself is permitted to die upon thefield of battle.' " But before Roancould say, "How's that, sir?" therewas a sound like a boot suckingmud and Prince threw up his headin awful surprise, slewed aroundlike his hind hoofs had slipped onslick, and started to go down slowlyall over. Mr. Stuart was off and athis mount's head before the oldhorse was quite down. They justsort of looked at each other—justlooked—and Prince made a noise inhis throat, when the pink foambubbled through his nostrils, thatyou would have sworn was a laugh

at some old and homely joke theyhad between them. "And I reckonthat goes for horses too." The oldman looked up at Roan. "Satisfyyour function in life, and be able torecapture a figment of youth againat the very end." He eased Prince'sgirth and drew the saddle off hisdead horse. "Made Prince feelmighty good, being with theyounger horses."

Then they all saw the word coming;saw the officer galloping in, his hatgone and the wind tangled in hishair; saw his face twist in a shoutdrowned by the firing.

Roan turned taut to the boys."Dismount and tighten girths! . . .Mr. Stuart," he said, "we'll see youlater."

It wasn't a battle from that time on;it was slaughter. The poor devilstaken on three sides against thebluff top went over it. Some tried toscale down. More got pushed. Therewere knives in it and clubbed rifles,with the autumn-darkness sea blueto full black, and the cliffsidescreaming with lost souls, to thewater's edge.

Some tried to swim. Some tried toget off in the boats. By then the

company was afoot, horses with theholders on top, fighting down sideby side the Mississippi infantry.One boat got off and sank, thenanother, and another.

It was Davin Ancrurn who foundMr. Stuart. He hadn't gone to thestragglers' line at all; he'd made forthe cliff top and climbed down eastof the fight, worked his way totwenty feet above the river, wherethe boats were beached, andcrouched there, deliberatelyshooting holes in the bottoms ofthem with his Sharps carbine andhis hand gun. Smashing the ruddersand riddling the planks. Maybe he

didn't win the battle, but he surefixed it so precious few Yankees gotback across the river to tell howthey lost it.

Had to carry the old man up, he wasthat exhausted. He couldn't talk. Ithad just run his strength out, doingthat. The last of it. All he had left.But it was worse than that. Hewanted it to be that way. With hisold horse, Prince, shot dead underhim, the whole adventure wasclosing up. The accounts totted.He'd had his battle and that's allthere was. Davin was crying—notreally; just the tears flooding hiseyes. "We'll get you another horse,

sir," kneeling beside him in thefirelight, begging up to Roan Catlettwith his eyes, while Forney putmore blankets to keep the old manwarm. Roan shook his head. Davinpulled him aside. "But don't let himdie, Roan," he begged. "He just liesthere smiling. You've got to dosomething, Roan."

It was awful watching that fadedsmile touched across that old whiteface like a benediction. From all theyears back it came through, likeevening sun after a storm. Darinshook his head again. "And hedidn't even get to get that general'shat he talked about!"

John Lasater came up with Prince'ssaddle where the old man had left iton the cliff top* They touched hislips with his own rum and he wentto sleep then. Old sleep, softbreathed. Davin held the bottle.Roan just walked away.

Forney said, "Don't take on so,Davin. He had sons and grandsons—and Ball's Bluff was sure a field ofbattle while it lasted," and he rolledinto his own blanket.

"I'm going to get that hat for him,"Davin said fiercely, standing therein the firelight with the flamewrithing on his face and the rum

bottle in his hand. Fighting does feythings to the mind. It takes the real,and shadows it in fantasy, whilefantasy will stay in it for years,crouching beyond the edge ofmemory. Davin was there for amoment to his cousin Forney, withthe crimson yellow fire ribbonslacing across his face and that bottleof rum uncorked in hand. The nextminute the fire was gone in theflaked white ash of dawn, but Davinwas still there, this time with thehat in his hand, holding it out inwhite anger, sobbing, "You let himdie, damn you! You let him die!"

With Davin, the time between was

almost as fast, for he saw himselfgo and get back, before he evenstarted. That was the rum, slosheddown raw on battle shock. He sawhimself sneak to the piquet line andrope out his mount, onsaddle andlead to the road. Mount and start.Passing sentries at the gallop,shouting, "Dispatch for Colonel JebStuart!" Walking between, to savehis mount. Circling Centerville toavoid question and riding wide ofFairfax under the full arch of deepnight. There were gaps in it whichwas the rum, too, for old Mr. Stuartcarried powerful seagoing medicine.But it was awfully clear

SLAUGHTER AT BALL'S BLUFF •59

being close in the bushes to that bigwhite house with the six pillarslooking down the broad grass swardto the Potomac. Awfully clear inDavin's mind that it had to be thatGeneral Lee's house because theYankees were sure enough using itfor some kind of a headquarters.There were the slow sounds ofsentries' feet on the gravel drive inback and, in what light there was,the glint of bayonets on theirmuskets. What would make it surewas the picture of GeorgeWashington in the parlor.

Davin went over the lawn slowly, onhis belly, the way it was taught indrill, clinging to shadows tight withhis shirt buttons. Close to the wall,he inched along, figuring to find awindow into the cellar that he couldforce with his spring knife, andclimb up into the house frombelow.

His mind was on GeorgeWashington's picture now, becausethat was the next step to take to besure he was in the right place.When he got into the cellar, he tookhis boots off and hung them aroundhis neck before he groped in thedarkness for stairs up. But when he

got up, there wasn't much need, forthe carpets were thick underfoot.Only thing was, you had to bemighty careful opening doors, forthey were big doors, swollen intheir frames with the night damp.There were people, too, in the back,the way people are at night whenthe hours are working down theslope toward morning. A spurredboot slipping off a desk top. Thesmell of stale coffee, reheated, andtobacco smoke stenching damp andthin and bitter. Soldiers. Orderliesand staff officers of whateverheadquarters it was made into.There was yellow lamplight

splashed down some of the halls.This General Lee must have been avery wealthy man for a house thissize and this richly furnished. Silk-covered chairs and sofas. Pictures,and suddenly one of those pictureswas George Washington in thedistant smear of lamplight, on hisgray horse with his sword pointingstraight out at Davin Ancrum.

That made him sure of the house,and a great warmth

of accomplishment came over him.He felt good inside and big andpowerful in his muscles. But timewasn't standing still So he inched

out into the great hall and started towork down sideways, close to thewall, watching the sweep of stairsabove and the light splash of theheadquarters office and holding hisbreath. Right beside the door, hesaw the hat. There were half adozen blue Yankee kepis on thechest top beside it, so it was easy totell General Lee's. Very carefully hereached out his hand, crouching toget his arm to go far enough, andhis fingers closed over the stiffbrim. Fie drew it to him and workedback up the hall, holding it tight tohis stifled chest.

It seemed to take him hours longer

to get out of the house, down cellar,out the forced window and acrossthe lawns on his belly. When hewas clear, he ran to make up time—ran all the way to where he'd left hisboat. Climbed up the slope to wherehe'd left his horse and started thelong way back to the companybivouac.

When Forney opened his eyes,there Davin stood, with the hat heldout, cursing him soft in his teeth,"You let him die, damn you! You lethim die!"

Roan was kneeling beside old Mr.Stuart chafing his hands and trying

to poke up the fire between, andthere was a young fellow there withRoan, his blanket roll at his feet,with a squirrel rifle laid overtop andhis horse still saddled just beyond.

"Shut up!" Roan said. "He's notdead."

Davin yelled, "I got the hat for him—to send to his friend inRichmond! The general who gavehim the letter!"

Forney woke up and saw Davinthere with the hat the way he'dbeen there with the rum bottle justa minute before, it seemed like.

"This yere's Ambrose Stuart," Roansaid. "Hadley's brother. He justturned fifteen. Been riding to jineus. . . . Shut up, Davin!"

That was when old Mr. Stuartopened his eyes. "Hello, Ambrose,"he said.

Ambrose said, "Yore to go straighthome, grandfer." He turned toDavin and Forney and Roan. "He'sreal old," he said softly. "He foughtdown there at Bladens-burg ineighteen fourteen with Barney. Amidshipman, he was. On theHamilton when she sank the Britishfrigate Penelope off Montauk.

Down at Veracruz last war, againstthe Mexicans."

"Keep quiet, Ambrose," the old mansaid. "You talk too much."

And Davin said, "Here's the hat, sir.I got it for you— for your friend,General Lee."

Old Mr. Stuart looked up at Davinas if he didn't rightly understand."What would General Lee do with ahat like that, son?"

"Well, sir, I don't rightly knowabout what he'd do with it. I didn'tfigure that. Just that you wanted his

hat to send to him. So I got it foryou, sir."

"Where? Where'd you get it?"

"From his house. Where the Yankeesoldiers had all their hats. The bigwhite house with the six pillars thatoverlooks down to the Potomac."

Old Mr. Stuart pushed up in hisblankets and reached out a hand.He took the hat and stared at it for aminute. "By Jeremy," he said, "Iain't agoin' home! . . . Son," he saidto Davin, "you mistook the house!You got the wrong side of the river!. . . Sergeant," he said, "can I stay if I

get another horse?" and he was upon his feet then. "Look at the namein that hat," he shouted, "and try topry me loose from this man's army,and 111 really show my letter!"

Roan looked in the hat and helooked at Davin, and he walkedslow across and smelled his breath.

"You've been drinkin', Davin," hesaid, "and this time I'm goin' towhip you for it. Put up yore hands!"

The hat rolled over to Forney. Helooked at the name. ThoseManigaults are the most honestpeople in the whole world. He said

to Ambrose, "How in the hell are wegoing to get this hat he stole—backto Mr. Lincoln?"

Midway that -first summer of the'war it became evident to Richmondthat the massing of Union troops inthe vicinity of Chambersburg,Pennsylvania, as 'well as atWashington, constituted twoseparate capabilities of attack 'whenthe new armies were ready tomarch. One capability was a straightdrive south on the Confederatecapital The other was a drivethrough the lush granary of theShenandoah Valley to envelopRichmond from the rear.

Whereas Jackson had made a namefor himself of sorts, at Bull Run, asa combat general officer, he was -not yet immortal. It was theStonewall Brigade at that timerather than he himself as StonewallJackson, and among the galaxy ofbright stars at Bull Run, he was stilla middle-ranking "Brigadier. Hewas, however, known by higherauthority as a most competentofficer for the training of newtroops. The performance of hisbrigade at Bull Run was credited tothe fact that in a matter of weeks hehad trained them pom raw separateunits into a coordinated command

that could perform well in combat.

So he was relieved of his brigade atCentreville and sent, withouttroops, to Winchester with themission of organizing the newmilitia levees into a Valley Army forthe defense of the Shenandoah.Through the fall and winter he didhis job well for two anachronisticreasons. The one was that hegradually acquired as cavalry thehighly individualistic and poorlydisciplined force of Turner Ashby.Ashby was not a professionalsoldier, nor had he any intention ofaping one in manner or method;but he could screen for Jackson, he

could get information and he wouldfight for it viciously, if need be.

The other reason was that atChristmas time Jackson

requested and got his old FirstBrigade as a nucleus, an example oftraining, a veteran corps aroundwhich he could mold his new armyto the First Brigade's template ofperformance.

Turner Ashby's war was personalHe was the finest horseman inVirginia at the time and he coulddraw unto himself all the hotspurswho loved a horse, a jug, and a girFs

smile. He could lead them too, aslong as they were in units smallenough for him to controlpersonally and visually. But he hadno facility at decentralization ofcommand, nor had the cotmnanditself been trained by him in anyconcept of coordinated action.Again., Virginia to Ashby meant hishome at Rose Hill and the adjacentValley he had hunted in. It meanthis brother who had been killedearly and on whose grave Turnerhad sworn a private and awfulvengeance. Beyond that, he had nostrategic concepts. Yet he servedJackson well, riding circuit eternally

on the broad arc of the river that cutacross the northern entrance to theValley. Scouting the Unionpreparations for advance, even togoing himself into their camps indisguise when necessary. It isinconceivable that any man ofAshby's command needed a map ora compass. They 'were native sons,operating on their own terrain,knowing the trails and bypathssince boyhood, out on their owngood horses, with their own goodrifles, in defense of their ownsplendid Valley with a pride andarrogance that lies deep in theShenandoah breed.

Roan Catlett, when his companyjoined Ashby, was of an age whenboys are crystallized into soldiers, ifsoldiering lies in their hearts. HadStuart kept him in his command hewould have been subjected to thefull treatment of cavalry disciplineand been a better man. With Ashbyhe was not. Roan admired Ashby forhis incisive daring and worked forhim well, but he could not love him.It was like a gay expensive school inwhich the boys know they arewasting their father's hopes andsubstance, and

a discomfort sits upon the betterminds. For Roan, Ashby never quite

came off. Jackson and J. E. B. Stuart'were the breed any soldier couldlove. They always accomplishedtheir missions to the letter of theirorders, but, within that militarynecessity of the regular, they gaveparamount consideration to theirmen. Ashby could not, for the veryconcept of it was left out of him. Hewas an individualist, so were hismen. What they did, they did insmall units with a sort of temporarymass enthusiasm for the job inhand. Thereafter, it was taken forgranted they could look out forthemselves. But men cannot, inwar, for there is nothing more

helpless than an individual in mass,when his commanding officer failsto realize that the basic componentof men is man.

The winter wore on Into spring, thewet and frost-shot spring of '£2. Thebright victory of Mctnassas was ablade long tarnished now by time.The Union odds to the northwardhad slowly become overwhelmingboth in numbers and equipmentwhen totted man for man and gunfor gun against Jackson's smallforce.

In Washington, McClellancommanded; under him, McDowell.

Little Mac, the white-haired boy ofthe Union forces. The small westernactions for the control of theMississippi had begun to assumethe outward and visible signs of arolling campaign. The Navy 'wasclosing the Atlantic ports of theConfederacy. What Stuart andJackson had seen in thesummertime 'was now 'writtenplain for all men to see. And thepicture 'was not pleasant.

Alone to the northward stoodVirginia^ offering the terrain andmost of the manpower against thefull brunt of the spring attacks.Offering her farms to be overrun,

her homes to be lost. Women to bestricken blind in their souls whentheir loves were killed in the field.Children, with their hearts to bebroken in tiny pieces.

But against that time of travail, atall and bearded man began toassume his immortal stature.Thomas Jonathan Jackson, one-time lieutenant of guns atChapultepec, one-

time schoolteacher at Lexington,all-time wrestler with his literal,living God. A close student ofNapoleon for over fifteen years.Close friend to no man, for he was

too hard to know. Kindly to all menin his thinking, even when dutylashed him to contained butfrightful anger — as it did onceagainst Ash by. But a soldier ofsoldiers, for in addition to hispastmastery of combined armstactics he had the broaderstrategical vision that completes themilitary cycle.

The ending of one militaryoperation to Jackson was theimmediate and uninterruptedbeginning of the next. No battle wasjustified unless it wove itself deftlyinto the whole fabric of the war.Jackson, therefore, became the

empiric father of the modernAmerican military doctrine. That is'why he is great in history. Oneknows it now, in cold reason.

'But in the spring of '62 one knewonly what was in men's hearts whenthey saw him great-coated by theroadside. "Stonewall Jackson—forthe Valley!"

WHY STONEWALL JACKSON GOTLICKED AT KERNSTOWN

IT WAS WELL AFTER NOON whenRoan Catlett's horse was hit.Stretched full to clear a stone wallnorth of Stephen-son's, gettingaway from a close-in scout on theYankee west flank. Roan heard thebullet strike, like tobacco spithitting loose board. Felt Jasonflicker at the top of the jump, likebreaking a taut silk thread. ForneyManigault was ahead of him, left,with Davin Ancrum intervaled outto the right and Colonel Ashbythundering along behind at thegallop.

Turner Ashby pulled up his ownmilk-white on the other side of theridge line, spun her on her heelswith the wind in his black beard andflung off. "Your mount's hit, Catlett.Let's look." There were frost crustsalong the hollows and the coldspleen of March was bitter in theair. Roan was off, holding Jason'shead, looking at his eyes close forpain.

Turner Ashby put a hand to Jason'soff flank; touched beside theentering wound with a gentlegloved finger. Walked aroundquickly to the near side. Bent close,his dark, fine-planed face clenched

at the e) r es. Two weeping bulletrips, you could cover with a two-bitpiece each. One each side where ithad gone clean through. TurnerAshby looked quick into Roan'sdesperate question.

"Blanket him and walk him slow. Ifyou can get him to Doc Tatly inWinchester he may have a chance.The doc performs miracles withhosses, keep him drunk enough.Sorry, Catlett. Fine animal. . . .Manigault!" He unbuckled his nearsaddle bag and drew out the roll ofnewspapers. Baltimore,Washington, Philadelphia and NewYork papers picked up each scout,

from roadside and old bivouacswhere the Yankees dropped themafter reading. Torn, muddy or what—the order was "Get theirnewspapers." "Take these papers into General Jackson's headquartersand tell 'em the Yankee advanceguard will be about four miles fromWinchester come nightfall. Last Iknew, Jackson's headquarters wasat Taylor's Hotel in Winchester.That's all." Colonel Ashby mountedhis milk-white. "Rejoin when youcan. We'll be somewhere." And hewas gone in the mists like nothingso much as the quick flash of adeer's brush in white birch. Turner

Ashby of Rose Hill. God rest hisgallant soul.

The three troopers climbed wearilyup through the scrub oak towardthe Unger's Store Road, leadingtheir mounts. Three old men, notyet twenty summers grown, butwith no laughter left in them. LastNovember end to this Marchbeginning had killed their laughter.Screening the hundred-mile arc ofthe Potomac across the mouth ofthe Shenandoah Valley againstGeneral Banks' thirty-eight-thousand-man Yankee power playhad sapped their youth. Novemberto March, with the Southern ports

on the Atlantic falling one by one tothe Northern fleet; with the armiesof the West yielding up theMississippi, battle by battle, untilVirginia alone was the only saberpointing sharp at the bastions of theNorth. Virginia, hell; only Jackson,for east of the Blue Ridge the wordnow was that last summer'svictorious Manassas army wasfalling back to the Rapidan underheavy pressure. And that leftStonewall Jackson alone, out on alimb, pinched in the ShenandoahValley, outnumbered, outgunned,with the whole right wing ofMcClellan's quarter-million-mari

new army pouring down on himlike spring rains swollen in therivers. That will kill youth andlaughter.

Top of the rise, Forney Manigaultmounted stiffly with thenewspapers strapped to his pommelroll. His chapped lips rasped open,Mood-beaded, to speak. But therewere no words. He kneed his mountand took off across the flat for theUnger's Store Road. Roan andDavin could see him get smallerand smaller, until he lifted over therail fence a couple of miles west—ablack bug galloping towardWinchester.

Davin Ancrum, racked with chill,pulled himself slowly up onto hisown saddle. His jacket sleeve wascaked white with nose run, hisreddened eyes rheumed his frost-burned cheekbones.

"Lean down," Roan said, and he puta dirt-crusted hand up to behindDavin's ear. "You got fever, Davin.Pull loose yore blanket and wrap init."

Davin said, "No! Let be."

They walked, Roan leading bothhorses, Davin sitting his. Slow, withthe tarnished yellow sun smoking

cold to slide behind Little NorthMountain in another two hours.

You get so tired in war. Sleep can'tlift it, for it builds up slow inside,and solidifies like old age, and thereis only wisdom left, with less andless strength to carry it. Roan knewhis horse was going to die. Knewhe'd have to shoot him soon. Firstsure-enough horse Roan ever had.Watched him swell slow in goldenDolly's belly the long spring andsummer he was just past his ownthirteenth birthday. Watched Dollyfoal by lantern light. "Stallion,Roan, and all yours. That's theblood of Timoleon you see in the

colt's eyes. He's a gentleman, Roan.Treat him like one."

Dying on his feet now on theUnger's Store Road to Winchester,the way Jackson's tiny army woulddie in its next battle—and the wholeSouthern cause with it. Defeat anddesperation galled the soul of RoanCatlett and his blood was rancid inhis veins.

Coming down into Winchester, hecould see the Pioneers trenchingacross the Valley Pike. Standinggaunt in the twilight against thedistant Massanutton peaks, to easetheir backs. "What's the word,

scout?" and a jerked chin to thenorth, with the question hard in theeye. Valley men, asking of theValley. A personal war this secondspring. Every man jack for his ownfamily now, with the deed to hisland in the rifle in his hands, andthe early-spring working of it in hisditching shovel

"They're cominY' Roan said."Tomorrow. Next day."

The diggers looked north again andspat and gripped their shovels oncemore. "Let 'em come, scout." Thirty-eight thousand against forty-fivehundred. "Let 'em come, scout"—

and you could cry if there were anytears left.

It was full dark now and theevening wind of March was knife-sharp under the bare branchesarched above the Winchesterstreets, worrying, like old people'sdistant voices. There were heel tapsin the darkness on the brick-pavedwalks far ahead, as if they scurriedfrom Roan and Davin to leave themdeeper in their misery.

Then right beside where theypassed, from the deeper dark of atree shadow, Forney Manigault'ssore throat rasp, "Roan! Ya'll took

long enough. Turn in yere."

Roan had both bridles—Jason's andDavin's. He turned In through theshadow sentinels of high gatepoststo fine gravel underfoot thatsplashed like brook water, withForney moving to walk beside him,"I found this yere Doc Tatly for yoreboss Jason, and a bed for the nightfor Davin to rest in good. And hotsuppuh for us all"

As he said it a stable door openedand splashed warm yellow light intothe cold dark above them, and therewas a young girl standing. Proud;like a young empress almost, out of

a story-book. Full-skirted andslender, facing into the night withno fear of what it held below her.Her face shrouded in shadow, butbeauty in it full

Davin jerked his head up and sawthe girl. He leaned full to hismount's neck to steady with bothhands as he

disengaged his off stirrup and slidheavily to the ground, shakingmiserably with chill, his hat in bothhands. "Davin —Ancrum, ma'am."

With one hand to Davin to steadyhim, Roan bowed. "Roan Oatlett,"

he said. "The Short MountainCavalry Comp'ny, ma'am. Brigadednow with Colonel Turner Ashby."

"Yes." Her voice was thin in the coldnight air. "This is the home ofColonel Lentaigne. He is away, butyou are most welcome. I am hisdaughter, Molly Lentaigne." Therewas cool, studied dignity in the wayshe said it. A young gentlewomanoffering the hospitality of herfather's home to strangers. Andthen, because it sounded stilted toher when it was finally spoken, shewarmed it with quiet eagerness."My brother is Brace Lentaigne.He's with Colonel Ashby too. You

haven't seem him lately, have you?"

Roan said, "I regret I don't knowyore brother, Miss Molly."

She moved her head sharply, almostas if she felt offense. "Just lead thehorses up the ramp," she said; "thenwe'll get the sick man into bed."

She stepped into darkness to pushthe stable door wider.

Inside, there was a little fat man inbaggy black pants and a dirty grayclaw-hammer coat dragged low tohis hips each side, as if he hadchimney bricks in his pockets.

"Tatly, the boss doctuh," he said. "Atyore service. Which un's the hurthoss?" Then he walked slow over toJason and took his jaw gently inhand. "You, hunh? What yo' meangettin' yoreself shot by adamyankee? Big hoss like you?Ought to know bettah. Six year old,"he said. "Timoleon blood by yoreline too. Stand still while I look,"and he lifted off the blanket.

"You know this hoss, sir?" Roanasked.

"Know all Valley hosses," doc spat.4 'Oncet I look at un. Good thing Ido too. Because I think foh um and

jolly um, and they know I do."

"Name's Jason," Roan told him.

"Hold the lantern," doc told him,but as he said it, the light of thelantern flooded up toward them,and through it Roan saw a twelve-year-old girl, holding it high. Hesmiled at her and winked infriendliness. She raised a finger toher lips and moved her headslightly toward Davin, sunk down inthe straw, his back against the barnwall behind.

"Your friend's got measles," the girlwhispered. "Spots all over his face.

But it'll shame him to have a child'sdisease, being a trooper of ColonelAshby's"—she shook her head—sowe won't tell him, shall we? Justpretend —fever?"

Roan stared at her. "Measles arecatching," he grunted. "We'll haveto tell yore sister. It won't be rightfor us to stay yere now."

"We can't tell my sister," the littlegirl said. "On account of the baby.But it won't matter if she doesn'tknow. We'll put him in thedownstairs bedroom I had last yearwhen I had measles. That'll be farenough away. And there is a big

bottle of turpentine and opium thatwas left after I got well"

"Yore sister's married?"

"You have to be married to have ababy, silly. Only she hasn't had ityet. Another day or two, they think."

"You mean the young lady " Roanturned and

looked out into the black beyondthe open stable door. "You meanMiss Molly?"

The girl stared at him as if he hadsuddenly gone out of his reason.

"You're making fun of me," she toldRoan quietly, "because I let myhems out," and there was a brightglint in her wide eyes as an angrytear glaze filmed them. "Pm MollyLentaigne."

Roan swallowed hard, looked againtoward the open door and back atthe little girl. "You stood so tall,there on the ramp above—with nolight on yore face, and so

dignified that I thought you were"—he smiled—"I thought you were amite older—than you are, MissMolly." And he bowed, and the wayhe said it this time was not

mocking, not just fun with a child.It was honest respect, and she knewit.

She dropped her full curtsy to him,with color in her cheeks and hereyes lowered, and for just amoment the seven years betweenthem were seven years on ahead.Not now, but on ahead where youthalways lives, and where Roan hadstopped living ever again from toomuch war. Just for a second, shewasn't twelve; she was nineteen.And just for a second, his nineteenwas twenty-six, and a strangeembarrassment caught him full, forthe line between girl and woman

can be a very thin one at times.

Jason began to go down betweenthem. Went down like an old dog tosleep in the straw. Drew himselftogether in a half turn as if to matgrass; curved in on himself veryslowly to bring the whole of himclose to his hurting, let his kneesbuckle and sank down with a softnoise in his nostrils and a long,tired stretch of his neck.

"Sure, sure." Old Tatly knelt besidehim, his hand on his cheek. "Youtake it easy now, Jason hoss. Yo'reamong friends, y'ole fool!"

Roan hunkered down and laid hishand soft to Jason's neck, and at thetouch it was his father's stable sixyears before, with golden Dollybirthwet in the lantern light, withlittle Jason born all new again withhis great wobbly legs struggling tostand. Through the distortion of hisown filmed eyes, Roan looked hardat old Tatly.

"Colonel Ashby told me you coulddo miracles, sub. If you can't, withthis hoss, you tell rne in time,y'hear? If he has to be—shot"—Roan fisted his chest hard so theblow echoed like a drum thump—"I'll shoot him. Nobody else." He

stood up quickly to steady himself,and in that moment when hedesperately needed it, the little

girl put her hand in his. "He'll be allright, Mr. Catlett," she said. "You'llsee."

They took Davin up the gravel driveto the house. Roan sponge-bathedhim and got him to bed. Then, insome way that Roan didn't quiteunderstand, or try to, he waswalking toward Taylor's Hotel withthe little girl, his saber rattling likepeddler's pots, his spurs singing onbrick. Things happen like that whenyou're dog-tired— no relation to

other things. Just happen.

"A long time ago my father broughtan espaliered lemon tree all the wayfrom Jamaica," she told him. "Itgrows in a hot frame and has reallemons. General Jackson loves tosuck lemons. They keep youhealthy," she said. "It's awful luckywe have them for him, don't youthink?"

"Yes, I do indeed," Roan said. "Ithink that's very lucky."

"My brother Brace," she said, "was amajor with Colonel Marron, but heresigned just to be a trooper with

Colonel Ashby. That's what wethink of Cousin Turner here in theValley! Will there be a big battlenearby?"

"There'll be a battle, I reckon," hetold her solemnly. Not all at once,the way it sounds, but long spells ofher talk and Roan answering onlywhen she stopped for him to.

"My sister Thyrza—Brace's wife,that is—hopes her baby is going tobe a little boy. I sort of hope it'll bea little girl. Which do you like best?Boys or girls?"

" 'Sugar and spice'"— he bent

slightly to her and squeezed herhand—" 'and all things nice.' Ireckon I like little girls."

She was silent for a long moment,then her voice was solemn. "I hadthe right to let my hems out," shesaid stubbornly. "Black Emmalina isso scared the Yankees'll come, shewon't budge from the house, day ornight. Can't do anything, unless Itell her what. Brace's wife

isn't able to do, until after the baby.Brace Isn't here and my father isover with Prince John Magruder. SoI have to do. I have to run things."There was quiet pride in it, and a

defiant toss of her head. "So if Ihave the name, I can have the fame,too," she said. "Can't I?" And thatwasn't a question, it was pushingher own courage hard from inside,for her voice dropped to softness asshe said it. "Besides," she told him,"when my mother died, she told meI'd have to look after my father.That means his house and hispeople—when he's away too!" Shewas so near tears that Roan wasfrightened. Afraid if Molly cried,he'd sit right down on the curb andblubber, too, from a horribly emptysense of the futility of all living. Butshe didn't cry. She said, "You'll just

love General Jackson," and she heldup her paper sack of three lemons."I'll introduce him to you."

There was a crowd in front ofTaylor's Hotel and lamplight blazingfull, with horse holders steadyingthe staff mounts on the hitchingpole, and suddenly old fat Cap MurtPatton, pushing through with hisbig red sergeant's chevrons tosleeve and his artillery saber fromMexico banging against his bowedlegs. "Roan, I'm pow'-ful glad t'seeyou!"

"Cap Patton, Miss Molly," Roansaid. "Cap raised and commanded

our comp'ny last year, but he wasdown Mexico way a war ago withStonewall—when they werelieutenants and sergeants together.So he got promoted up toheadquarters."

"Molly and me, we ole friends,Roan." Cap grinned, and he put ahand on the girl's head. "Lemons,"he said. "That's wonderful! He's justcome back from suppuh at DoctorGraham's, up the Manse. You goright in, girl. Captain Hotchkiss'llget you to the general." And to thecrowd he called hard, "Let the littlelady through, y'all y'hear?" Then hegrabbed Roan's arm and pulled him

back. "All hell's poppin' in theskillet fer breakfast, Roan," hewhispered. "Heads'll roll, you mark!Began to

happen right after ForneyManigault brought the last batch ofnewspapers in."

"What?"

"Like-a-this: Gin'ral Jackson pulledhis wagons and main body outsouth with the last of the light, forthe benefit of the Yankee scouts tosee. To turn 'em fast under cover ofdarkness and march back again tohit the Yankee off balance and paste

him hard, north of town, grace ofGod and the blessings of thebay'net, like it says in the Bible. Butthe staff pulled the wrong string.They let his brigades get too farsouth to come back north againbefore dawn, and some of thewagons are as far as New-town.Eight miles." Cap shook his head."So we lose the town and the roadnet."

Roan stared at the old soldier. "Youmean we ain't goin' to fight forWinchester, Cap?"

"Lord Harry, Roan!" Cap clutchedhis arm fiercely. "It ain't

Winchester now. It's Richmond—and high, low, jack for the wholecruddy wah!"

"I don't follow that!"

"You ain't paid to. Only himself ispaid to. And his own staff got himoff balance this time. It'll take amaneuver now to set the Yankeesup again. But you'll get yore battle,Roan, when General Jackson'sready fob it! Heah he comes now!"

The provost was clearing the crowdfrom in front of Taylor's. Peoplewere turning away, their lips pursedtight, walking off into the blue

darkness, their eyes shadowed indefeat*

Roan never forgot that picture ofthe man. There General Jacksonstood in Taylor's doorway, tallerthan Roan in his great spurredboots, and the biggest feet you eversaw. Dust brushed clean, but hisbeard scraggled where he'd tuggedan angry hand through it. The visorof his old Institute cap frayed like acocklebur where his thumb andfinger always reached to tug it tight,but never to tug it low enough tocover the flame-blue light of his

eyes. Damnedest eyes you ever saw.

Like frost-blued fingers poking atyou. God in them and the gallopingdevil Kindliness and killing. Loveand laceration.

He held the paper sack of lemons inone hand and Molly Lentaigne'shand in the other. For a moment,he stood tall and furious as heturned his head back toward thetight, worried faces of his officersbehind.

"That," he said, "is the last councilof war I will ever hold!" It was soft,but you could hear it all right, for itwas like a silken whiplash he cutacross their faces. He and Molly

came out onto the brick walk.

"But you'll come back toWinchester, general, won't you?"

She looked up at him, clear-eyed,without a vestige of fear in her tautproud little body. His shouldersmoved slightly in his own deeptiredness and worry. Then he did awonderful thing. He smiled and theglory of his great soul was in it.That lumbering, awkward body bentin rough gallantry, and he kissedher hand like a young blade. Roanheard his own knees crack loud ashe stood stiff, hand rigid in salute.It's that way with real generals. Just

as the true princess felt the roseleaf under a spate of downcushions, a fighting man feels a realgeneral. It's something apart,between man and man, and youcan't ever fake it with epaulets andfeathers. Tom Jackson was a battle-fighting man!

Going back to the house with Molly,Roan walked stiff against the heavydespair that rode his soul

"You have a carriage, Molly?Friends south, maybe? Strasburg?Middletown? Nineveh?"

"Oh, yes. Of course. But why?"

"Yore sister's baby," he said quietly.

The little girl stopped. "My fatherwouldn't like it for •us to leave thehouse and go away. It wouldn't beright, Mr. Catlett."

He held her hand tighter. "You callme Roan," he said. "It's morefriendly and we all need comforttonight. Yore

fathered understand, I reckon, withthe Yankees coming." She shookher head. "General Jackson'U comeback. I know It, Roan."

"Sure he will But for now—the baby

and all?" "Well," she said, "I'll askThyrza—but she won't leave, Ithink, unless Brace comes and tellsher to. And I won't leave her alone.And what about Mr. Ancrum lyingsick? What about Emmalina tooscared to move, and old Mor-decaitoo old? Somebody has to watchDoc Tatly close, too, when he'sworking on a sick horse. He getstalking to them so hard he doesn'twatch the bottle."

As they turned into the drive again,there were lights near the house,and horses hoofing the ground.Closer to, one was a milk-white, andTurner Ashby's soft voice

challenged them, "Who is it there?"He hardly came to Roan's shoulder,Turner Ashby, but somehow thatdidn't matter, for he was a mangrown tall In soul. "Catlett," he said,"I've just heard the word we'repulling out south and I've passed itto tell all our boys to rendezvous inKernstown to screen the infantrywithdrawal." Then he saw Molly. Heput both gentle hands to her upperarms. "Molly girl," he said soft,"sometimes the Lord God has tohave us grow up very fast. Thingshappen, and He has to make usmen and women overnight." "Whatis it, Cousin Turner?" "It's Brace,

darling," he said.

"He's hurt? Oh, no!" Her handswent up to the colonel's arms.

"He's—dead, Molly. Killed overBerryville way." She stood thererigid for a second. You could feelthe tightness rack her whole littlewoman body as she held herselfagainst the horror. Slowly shepressed his hands frorn her andstood back alone in it. "You haven't—told Thyrza—yet? The way sheis?"

"No," Ashby said; "we've just gothere." Her head twisted frantically,

looking sharp into the lantern-torndarkness.

"We've taken him inside," TurnerAshby said.

The girl clasped her hands togethertightly, twisting them hard againsteach other. "What shall I do?" sheasked him. "What shall I do? "—thesoft, frantic age-old wail of woman.No tears yet, only the sou! agony todefend the hearthstone. Thedesperation of all motherhood,seeking within for the courage thatis so much deeper than the courageof the firing line—that, in defense ofthe family, can kill, if need be, so

much more ruthlessly than thebayonet. Then, slowly, she turned toRoan. "I can't go away now—even IfThyrza would want to. And shewouldn't."

Turner Ashby took her hand andstarted for the house, and Forneycame out of the darkness. He hadDavin's horse saddled for Roan, andhis own. He swore in his raw throatand he spat phlegm. "Roan," hesaid, "we can't leave her here, withthe Yankees comin*. The ole Negrawoman's a gibberin' fool and the olehouseman's nigh to ninety and nohelp at all."

"It's her home," Roan said, "withbirth ripenin' in it— and her dead tobe buried from it and her fatheraway fightin' with GeneralMagruder. You don't aim to pry alady away from those lady duties,do you?"

Roan tiptoed in the back to thedownstairs bedroom. Davin wassleeping, the heavy breath soughingin his mottled cheeks. Roan tookhis hand gun and saber and boots,and wrapped them tight in hisreeking uniform. He woke Davinup, hand to his forehead to bringhim to, easy.

"Davin boy, I'm hidin' yore stuffunder the straw in the stable whereJason is. We're pullin' out andBanks' advance guard'll probably bein town tomorrow. You lie doggoand cook a story up how you ain'told enough to jine the army yet,y'hear? You got measles—that'llhelp prove you ain't grown and keepyou from bein* took prisoner. Stayhere until we come back."

Davin opened his eyes wide. "Weain't really licked, are we, Roan?God bless, I couldn't stand that!"

Roan closed Davin's door softly andstood for a moment in the hall.

From the front of the house hecould hear the girl's desperatesobbing, caught inside her with theeffort to hold it in control. She wasstanding at the parlor door, one armup the side of it, her face pressedtight against the arm. Ahandkerchief crumpled wet in herother hand. Outside, Roan heardColonel Ashby's voice calling a softorder; heard horses thrash graveland trot down the drive, sabersclanking. Roan walked slowly upthe long hall Molly turned at thesound of his footsteps and stared athim in utter desolation. Roan heldout his hand for hers, and as she

gave it he stooped and kissed herforehead.

Above her on ancient smoky canvasthere was a face from long yearsgone—in Continental regimentalswith the pale blue Cincinnati lacedin a buttonhole. Beyond her in theparlor there was the same face,dead in youth, with the fierce flameof battle not yet quite shadowedunder the calm of death. TrooperLentaigne, laid decently upon thecouch, with his silky blond haircombed and his stiff handscomposed upon the hilt of thecavalry saber that lay across him.Between the two, in the anguish of

growing up, Molly's tear-stainedchild's face, with the same delicatepride of nostril and the same fullforehead.

"Roan"-—she sucked her lipbetween her teeth and shook herhead fiercely—"I am sorry—therewas—no supper—for you all," andsuddenly she flung herself into hisarms. He held her tight against hisfilthy clothing, giving her whatcomfort he had to give in her child'sneed for it Crying silently insidehimself. And against his dirty jacketshe whispered, "But I'll take care ofJason, and you tell General Jacksonthat there'll be more lemons for

him when he comes back!" . . .

You never see the whole battle froma trooper's saddle. Only that partright around you. All the rest isclouded in rumor, obscured in thefog of war. You never know theplans. Long, long afterward youread what the gen-

erals write In books, and some of itbecomes clear, but never quite all ofit until one day a missing pice turnsup when you don't care any more,and the years fall away starkly toyour long-dead youth, to cold rainand the white burn of chilblains, tothe hard rat gnaw of hunger in your

empty belly, to dull hopeless fury inyour mind. And you remember,that's what the newspapers were'for.

Stonewall Jackson's infantryplodded south in silent desolation,with the wagons and what artilleryhe had, churning the Valley Pikeinto a thick, cold poultice, knee-deep. Slopping it over onto thebottomless morass of the fields flatbeside. White, angry faces, thin-lipped and bitter in the eyes.Newtown to Strasburg toWoodstock, and Jackson himself asfar as Rude's Hill. Slow, slogging,hungry miles with odds of eight to

one—some will put it ten to one—attheir backs. Retreating. Givingground. Their own Valley land,where their hopes lived and theirdead lay buried in the oldchurchyards.

Rumor lashed the army of theValley for ten febrile days like agaunt old harridan with a bittertongue. Johnston east, across theBlue Ridge, was falling back too—tothe Rapidan River. The Rapidan,hell! Johnston's headed way backtoward the Virginia Central RailRoad line. The Pamunkey Riverline. The gates to Richmond.Against McClellan's quarter million

new army thrusting out ofWashington, the Southern armieswere rolling up like a tattered tentcloth. The jig's up and the fiddler'sgoin' home. . . .

The Yankess were in Winchester fora while, feeling south after Jackson.Feeling easy, for they knew he wasdone. Piqmt brawling only.Tantalizing. Dusting up Ash-by'sscouting cavalry. Then the brawlingfell off to nothing and the Yankeespulled back into Winchester. Soonthe most of them began to moveout east to Castleman's Ferry acrossthe Shenandoah, heading forSnicker's Gap through the Blue

Ridge Mountains to pour morepressure on Johnston? Why? Why,if McClellan's quarter

million is over there pushingJohnston already? Ask StonewallJackson—but ask him fast, for thatnight he turned his columns. Andnow it's gospel that he suspected allalong that McCIellan wasn't there—a word here, an item there,something somewhere else in thosenewspapers he pored over everynight —and troops leavingWinchester for the east proves it!So turn right about, for Jacksonstarts before dawn always—unlesshe starts in the middle of the night.

Force the infantry march backnorth to Winchester—forty-threemiles in two days, with having topull each foot free from twelveinches of glutinous sucking, spring-flood Virginia, each step north.Stonewall Jackson for the Valley,with a battle comin* up!

Kernstown, friend? Got licked sure'miff. But to no frazzle, sir— not tono frazzle.

Turner Ashby hit the Yankeerearguard piquets on their eastflank a mile south of Winchester,out of Kerns-town, like a roaringValley storm lashing down the Mas-

sanuttons. Hit 'ein with twohundred and eighty hell~for~tarnation cavalrymen and threelittle horse guns to develop thebattle for General Jackson.

General Jackson moved theinfantry off the Pike west to fightthe main action, maneuveringacross Middle Road toward theOpequon and the Cedar CreekTurnpike, grace of God and theblessings of the bay'net.

One time, Turner Ashby and hiscavalrymen cut their way plumbinto the streets of Winchester onthe blade. Right straight into the

yard of the Lentaigne house, andthere was Davin Ancrum bustin' outof the barn with that great goldenhorse to bridle, yellin 7 , "Git offm'hoss, Roan! This yere's yourn!"draggin' at Roan's near leg to pullhim down.

Young Molly shouted from theveranda, "It's Brace's horse, Roan!Her name's Lady!" And then softlyto Roan alone as he pulled up underthe veranda rail: "She's gotTimoleon's blood in her too"—andagain: "Jason couldn't

get well. Doc Tatly knew, the secondday. So I did it, Roan, with Brace's

gun. In the ear, Roan. Close. Ikissed him for you first. He neverknew." Then very softly, "I thoughtyou'd like for me to do it. Not doc,"And in the yard, reaching for hisstirrup, "It was a boy, Roan—Thyrza's baby. He's Brace Lentaignenow," and, as Roan kneed fast away,"You'll come—back—Roan—someday, please?"

Then Ashby rallied his raid and theycut out of Winchester again, closingin on Jackson's right to press themain fight two miles south of town.Up near Pritchard's Hill they wereat it with the bay'net, some of theVirginia companies worn thin

enough to spit the survivors on oneramrod, but they fought it out coldto sundown, and withdrew indecent order from the field. Andthat was the Kernstown fight.

So long, long afterward it's allwritten down in the books thegenerals write—how McClellanwasn't east of the Blue Ridge at all,but gone by water to attackRichmond up the Peninsula. Andthe books say that when Lincolnreceived the report of Kernstown,he stopped the tail end of themovement at once, for fear of acounteithrust on Washington, sothat on the eve of McClellan's

advance up the Peninsula toRichmond, he found himselfsuddenly deprived of the whole 1stArmy Corps. ~~

So the fight wasn't Kernstown at all.Eighty dead men up there in theShenandoah Valley lost their livesto save Richmond. And that's abargain.

But not yet, you're not old. Not yetThere is Stonewall still in the livingflesh that night, with the sadness ofanother battle fought on Sundayriding his godly soul. Standingroadside, his long coat loose-drapedfrom his hunched shoulders, his

great fingers twined behind hisback, nursing the hand hit atManassas, staring into the glow ofthe spitting log fire, as the returnsof battle are brought to him.

"I think I may say that I amsatisfied, sir," he said, and

after another moment, he nibbedhis hands briskly and walked slowlyoff into the darkness.

Still later, with Lady standing tohand for the brush and a sackful ofoats, the things that Molly had saidcame alive to Roan again andechoed down from the stars. As if

she were right there beside himsaying them now: "I kissed him foryou first. He never knew. I thoughtyou'd like for me to do it. Not doc."

Davin, wrapped tight against thechill, looked across at Forney andreached a hand for a drag atForney's pipe. Forney grinned."Wonder what the Yankeenewspapers'll say tomorrow?"

"Never mind that," Davin said. "Igot to get the straight of somethingelse. I ain't sayin' anything aboutthe little girl. She nursed me fine.But what happened to the younglady that met us at the stable door?

Sick as I was, I could see she waspowerful pretty—and awful worthknowin' fer her presence andmanners—and not bein' afraid."

Roan looked across at him. "Youain't goin' to see that young ladyagain," he said, "for four moreyears. Because it's goin 7 to take herthat long to get to be sixteen. Andyou ain't goin' to see her then,Mistuh Ancrum, because I aim tocall on her m'self, and take her bossback. Does that answer yorequestion, sir?"

Roan Catlett rode Lady -for the restof the war. You cannot speak of a

mare like Lady for, like a finewoman, she was what she was onlyto Roan. The Short MountainCavalry Company kept its identityas long as Turner Ashby lived, butwith the attrition of campaign itgradually disintegrated and itsmembers were absorbed in otherunits. Forney Manigault and DavinAncrum were Roan's menthroughout, and where he wentthey went too. And they went theroute.

From the doubtful victory ofKernstown, Jackson withdrew deepinto the Valley, drawing Banks afterhim as water seeks its level, rather

than inspiring Banks with aretreating target for hot pursuit.Banks was a politician primarilyand a general only throughopportunity. He fought his battleson letter paper to his superiors inWashington, filling them -full ofcampaign pledges which he seldomattempted to carry out. Jacksonfought his in advance, in the loneand secret recesses of hisprofessional mind.

By the end of April, Strasburg,Winchester, Front Royal, NewMarket, and Harrisonburg werechoked with Union Troops, Thelower Valley was solid with Banks' 3

Army — twenty thousand men, withBlenker, Geary, and Abercrombienear enough to the railroad toreinforce him by steam car, withsixteen thousand more. Across theShenandoah Mountains to the west,was Fremont's Union Army withthe mission of making junctionwith Banks through the passes—about nine thousand more men.Eighty miles to the east, across theBlue Ridge Mountains, McDowell atFredericks burg had thirty-threethousand Federal troops opposingAnderson's twelve thousandConfederates for the northern driveon Richmond while

McClellan lay to the southeast ofthe Confederate capital with onehundred and ten thousand men,against Joe Johnston's fiftythousand.

Simplify it: one hundred and forty-three thousand Union troopsdirectly threatened Richmond, withsixty-two thousand Confederates todefend on April 30th , 1862.

In the Valley, Jackson, with a totalavailable force of seventeenthousand, was faced with a junctionof two Union armies totalling forty-five thousand, all told. If he left theValley, it was lost to the

Confederacy and if he did not timehis leaving right, McDowell mightcut him off with thirty-threethousand more before he couldreach Richmond.

It has been the lot of mostAmerican soldiers in modern timesto fight winning wars. Victory, orthe instinctive knowledge of victoryto come, is an incentive thattranscends fear and dysentery,jungle heat and bitter cold, hunger,wounds, and the raw, gaunt lot ofthe individual soldier. He goes on invision of the bright end to his going.

Few armies have been magnificentin defeat. Washington's tatteredrabble crossing Jersey. The 'Britishregulars whipped from Mons to theMarne. The young men of Korea.

And Jackson's men of April '62.

It is a gauge of Jackson that henever made a plan without firstbasing it on the best possibleknowledge he could obtain of theenemy situation. Throughouthistory, it is a recurringphenomenon that even the greatestgenerals have had the unfortunatehabit of mind of entertaining firmconvictions of what the enemywould do and thereafter acceptingall indications that proved themright, rejecting all that proved themwrong. Napoleon was guilty twice,of record. Once at Moscow. Once atWaterloo. In our time suchcumulative mistakes were made

twice. Once at Pearl Harbor. Once atBastogne.

But Jackson was a superb-G-2. Heknew Banks' character and he knewthat Banks 7 immediate striking

force of twenty thousand men wastwenty miles north of Staunton —six march hours by the roads of thatday. If Banks joined Fremont, thejig was up. The junction wasimminent.

If there is any cardinal rule oftactics, which one doubts — it beingam involved and ahnost an exactscience — it is to strike before

forces are joined full, or oncejoined, to divide them by maneuverand defeat them in detail.Piecemeal

Jackson chose not to await thejunction. He saw his opportunityand took it in one of the boldest,most care-fully-thought-out movesin military history. But to make itdead certain, he put the fatalquietus on Banks first. He pulledthe wool over the joker's eyes in asmagnificent a maneuver as therealm of counter-intelligencerecords. He cost Banks six hours'march time by bluffing deucesagainst Banks' three of a kind and

Banks believed him.

So did Jackson's soldiers, and theheart 'went out of some of them. Itwent out of Roan Catlett and a littlebit of Roan died within him. Forthere is no such thing as a braveman or a steadfast man. Some aremore continuously brave andsteadfast than others, but with mostmen these qualities -fluctuatewithin the confines of their basiccharacters. Character itself is atemplate within which there arecertain general things a man will orwill not do — within which thereare certain prices he will not pay, oraccept.

Courage in war attains to certainlevels within each individual. Hewill, as a general rule, move forwardwith his unit when the order comes.Not to, is to invoke drastic andpublic penalty. He will, when forcedto act alone and without witnesses,tend to doubt the incumbentnecessity for full-out effort, andconsider his own hide as of primaryimportance. Again, there is a certainmadness right around the corner ofevery combat soldier's mind. Helives in personal filth and privation.He has, if he is lucky in mind,drawn the curtain close behind himso

that he no longer hears the throatywhisper of his girl or sees the lightsof home at dusk. He has had toclose himself to the fast in order tofree his present of ghosts thatmight betray his necessity foralertness. But a curtcdn is alsodrawn ahead of him. Just beyondthe immediate. For he has nofuture. He lives with death;therefore he is free to court her.And sometimes madness takes hismind, the Death Wish flames fulland he trades the last vestige ofsanity for the primeval killing, thehate of instinctive aeons —and hisUltimate Discharge.

If this were not so, there would beno difference between the worth ofdecorations. It is significant that thecitations for the highest are beyondthe comprehension of most combatveterans. It is more significant thatthey are given posthumously, moreoften than not.

Somewhere between these levels.Roan fluctuated, when Jackson leftthe Valley.

HOW STONEWALL CAME BACK

IT WAS TOWARD the last of thatsecond April that Roan Catlettbegan to ride in the shadow of blackdoubt The bright Manassas fight ofthe summer before had tarnisheddull under the slow months offalling back to the Rappahannock.In the Shenandoah Valley, Jackson,heavily outnumbered, played foxmost of the time, but all the timehe'd given ground. From thePotomac patrols, he'd been pushedsouth to Winchester, only to give upWinchester and pull farther south.With only Ashby's scattered cavalryactions pressuring back on the

Northern pursuit and the eternalsharp picket brawls, to give thefeeling of any fight left in it at all.Once there had been that brilliantcountermarch back to Winchester,for the Kernstown Fight. Forty-three muddy miles of marchingback—for a three-hour slug fightand out south once more, proud,but licked again!

The sawdust runs out of a man andhe becomes old inside, with an oldman's senile fears close to his heartand an old man's tears drenchinghis soul. Inside, where he lived,Roan was licked. It hung on himnight and morning and wouldn't

lift, whatever. Too close to hispersonal honor to say the word, buttoo insistent now, to give it the lie.

That last morning in April whenGeneral Turner Ash-

by sabered the Union cavalry backinto their own camps atHarrisonburg, it came plain toRoan. There ain't no use. You couldalways drive them in, in smallactions, but still they cameacoming. From Harrisonburg north,the Valley was choked thick withYankees. Solid blocked to thePotomac. Across the ShenandoahMountains due west, there was

Fremont's brand-new WesternArmy, rumored to corne downthrough Buffalo Gap and takeStaunton. Behind Roan's back,across the Blue Ridge Mountainseast, there were thirty-threethousand Federals pressingFredericksburg, to close thenorthern door on McClellan's siegeof Richmond—and if that ain't allfour sides but a footpath, what is?

Ashby brought his troopers out ofthe woods after re-forming themand led them back down the CrossKeys Road toward Port Republic.They said Turner Ashby'd gone alittle mad a year ago when they

killed his brother. Said when DickAshby's body was lowered into thegrave up at Romney that Turnerhad snapped his brother's saberacross his knee and thrown bothpieces in on the casket. Said the twobroken pieces striking hollow woodwas worse than any curse he mighthave called. Strange man. Small anddark almost to a Spanish cast.Praying man. Gentle in his wordsand clean in talk and thought. Aman'd do well not to have Ashby'shand against him.

Warm rain soaked them, runningdown inside, washing the body filthinto their steaming boots. Roan felt

it good. Miserable—but perverselygood—a part of the whole damnedbusiness under the mists that hidthe great hulking mountains likeveils across the faces of mourningwomen.

If they killed my brother Buford, I'dnever let up on 'em. But I savedBufe from it for a couple of yearstill he gets eighteen — and it ain'tgain' to last that long. Bufe don't dietrailside with the outer air blood-bubblw! through a hole in Ms chest,pressuring his lungs to slow

strangulation. No, sir; he stays atV.M.L down in Lexington where a

drill gun in hancTll give him thefeel and a uniform to his bac&lllend the cockiness. When pa wrotehe'd tried to leave school and enlist,I wrote it strong to Bufe, likedeserting his corps. Job was-plain.Study and work it out -for two moreyears. No, sir, Bufe, a man dorft runaway from the job in hand. Heworks it out to the finish, before hetakes on the next.

Roan skinned his lips back off histeeth in violent mental satisfaction.Bufe was his—out of all the family.Bufe was his own, in some strangeway it can happen. There-hadalways been thoughts and laughter

between them without words. Apiece of the cosmos, dividedequally. Each knowing the innerman of the other since the verybeginning, when Bufe, toddling onfat uncertain legs t walked from hismother and put his chubby hand in-Roan's four-year-old one. "Let gom'brother! I do his fightin' for him,'till he grows!"

Morning of May first it was stillraining. Not in drops you could see,but in heavy drenching sheets thatbrushed your face like gossamerwash on God's clothesline. Thethreadbare head of GeneralJackson's column came up the Elk

Run Valley out of that rain, sixthousand all told, but sullen insidefrom retreating. Men slogging mudto-the knees in places, guns boggingdown to trunnions, until they weredug free. Horses' legs plastered withthe drying mud on their backscorded thick like scabs over-sabercuts. But the column didn't crossthe Shenandoah into Port Republictown. It turned east on the Brown'sGap Road, heading for the BlueRidge Mountains.

You couldn't believe that, when youfirst saw it from Ashby's bivouac.Must be one regiment turning off tosecure that side of the crossing,

while the rest went on into town.Only it wasn't. Regiment afterregiment made the same turn eastand the column didn't stop for evena breath. Medium's Station lay thatway—on the Virginia Central RailRoad—with Richmond south andeast by

steam car. And all the Valley leftbehind. Harrisonburg, Staunton,Lexington—for the Yankees to pourinto if Jackson left. And Jacksonwas leaving.

You could see the infantry suckingthe greasy mud, feel the mistymountains pawing at your

shoulders, but you couldn't hearabove the snarling river water,white-roaring, so that you had toshout, "What's that?"

"The Valley jig is up! Jackson'spulling out for the last stand aroundRichmond. March direction don'tlie. He's headin' for the rail roadand it's high-low-jack and thegame!"

A few minutes later Turner Ashbywas crouching roadside with hismap on his knee, his milk-whitehorse beside him, laced thick withthe mud. General Ashby hated tohave his horse streaked, but there

wasn't time. There never was timeany more. He had his orders.

He passed them. "The main screenwill be maintained onHarrisonburg," he said softly, "tocover the rear of General Jackson'swithdrawal. Two troops will workwell over west, and north ofStaunton to fend around BuffaloGap, Lebanon Springs, McDowelland the Bull Pasture River, to feelout the advance elements ofGeneral Fremont's ShenandoahMountain Army." Ashby looked upat the handful of his officers andnon-coms. There was mud in hisblack mustache, twisted into it like

pomade, but his dark eyes were ascalm as if he were planning to plowhis north forty, up at Rose Hill."Those two troops will be betweentwo Federal armies," he said, "sodon't go to shooting up each otherthrough jumpiness. The orders areto fend and scout"~-Turner Ashbyfolded his map and stood up—"anddelay fighting where you canwithout being sucked in and taken.Questions?"

There it was, plain. The last muddyditch! Throw the cavalry backagainst them once again to hide thefact of withdrawal as long aspossible. Nine hundred of Ashby's

troopers against two Federalarmies. Feel 'em, fool J em,

fuddle 'em, as long as could be to letJackson get to Richmond.StonewalPs heart must be brokeninside him at the orders calling himdown there—and every other Valleyheart with it.

Roan's troop rode west for two days.Back toward Cross Keys and downto Bridgewater. Mount Crawfordand on to Stabling's Spring. Hedidn't want to get out of thisdreadful break-up alive somehow,and yet he didn't want to die. He'dbuilt up too much credit on the

living side. Other men right and lefthad been killed riding with him andhe had lived. To die now was likethrowing in a good hand at cards.But there wouldn't be anything tolive for afterwards, if you played'em. The money wouldn't buy. Youcouldn't even get the last year out ofmind, and with the war lost, youcouldn't tolerate the awful memory.It would be like the cancerouslumps that grow inside of old folks.Can't cut them out, so they snarltheir growing into vitals until theonly way left is death. Deathbecomes academic and the values oflife cease to be.

The third day, when they had asharp skirmish along Mossy Creekwith a Harrisonburg vedette, Roanfought with his whole mind andbody waiting for a bullet. Hell, itcouldn't be long now. There wa'n'tnothing left but for it to hit him. Hebegan to quiver in his flesh for it,like a horse twitching flies, andwhen the fight was done, he had abad five or ten minutes when hethought he was going to cry—go allto pieces and whimper in his soul.He clawed his sweating face withhis dirty fingers. Twisted his handsinto it for control His breath caughtin silent sobs and he had no God in

that moment to lean upon, becausehe felt unworthy to call upon Him.It was like he had really died a littlebit and was halfway across. Too farto pull clear back and not farenough to go on. Awful.

The troop moved on up into NorthRiver Gap in the Shenandoahs, andRoan rode with it like a man in sick

stupor. There were almost fourtroops in the mountains by Maysixth, under Ashby's Captain Sheetz.Operating by squads and halftroops, feeling out the road toFranklin for General Fremont'sadvance guard—fending as far north

as Brock's Gap Settlement to makesure Fremont wouldn't try to comethrough the mountains up there tojoin his army with Banks' atHarrisonburg, instead of south totake undefended Staunton. Roandidn't care what happened. Hisheart was gone out of it.

He knew he was going home acouple of days before he went. Notdeserting, for there was nothing leftto desert from—just going home,like a man has to when his work'sfinished, win or lose. Plugging thesemountains, just waiting for it,hopelessly, was fool's business now,with Jackson gone. Sure you could

spot 'em first and sting 'em likealways, but four troops couldn'tstop Fremont. Fremont's armywould pour through four troops likespring wash down the creeks andthere'd be nothing left but losthope. But today, tomorrow, therewas still time and everything'd bethe same at home as before—exceptin his mind. At least he'd have thatsameness to breathe in for a spell,before it happened.

The Catlett place was about sixmiles from Deerfield in the ShortMountain country. Log cabin it wasin Indian times long before. Thenbuilt onto as they cleared the land

in his great-grandfather's time andmore still in his grandfather's.When the Tidewater branch of Cat-letts died out, the old Englishfurniture and the silver came overthe mountains by oxcart, and someof the Catlett pictures came with itThat was when they built the brickpart of the house. Funnyhodgepodge of a place really,because the Catletts never tore anyof the old parts down. They justbuilt on solidly as they lived solidly.Kept what they had and added to.The women they married did thatfor them—kept the blood and keptthe progression.

It wasn't that Roan really wanted togo home, because

he really didn't. There just wasn'tanything left for him to do. It wasgoing to hurt bad to go, becausehe'd have to tell his father all of Itand he hated to do that. How they'dwhipped the Yankees man for manand troop for troop, every time thefight was joined—and yet lost it allsomehow day by day, week by week,until nothing was left now but ahandful of tired and raggedcavalrymen in the mountains,between two whole Yankee armies—with Richmond ringed about andthe Valley wide open. Thy 'will be

done — but dear God in heaven, 1wish I 'was a little boy again withmy -father big W help me.

Roan hadn't ever wanted to gohome since he'd started out forHarper's Ferry last year. He seemedto have a soldier's instinct aboutthat from the start. Turn your backon all that was before and don'tcome back until the fight's over orit'll weaken you somehow in yourmind. It'll soften your bowelsagainst going back to fear and sweatand killing.

He walked slowly down the GreenValley Pike, leading his tired mare,

Lady, and breathing the evening airdeep for the first smell of his ownchimney smoke. Lady touched hervelvet lips to his crusted shoulder,slobbered his upper arm andbreathed down her nose in softwhispers to him. Fremont's men'dburn the houses and loot off thestuff to send north. A trooper ofAshby's they'd collar like a hossthief, like as not hang him wherethey took him. But not Roan. That'swhat a man's last gunload is for, toshoot it out cold to them for hisown kill, standing. He ground histeeth in tired and impotent rage, forall the dead men he'd buried and all

the hope that had died with them,for his youth that was gone and hisold age that would never sit uponhim more heavily than it did thisnight.

Then roadside, half a dozen yardsahead to the right, a gunlocksnicked open sharp. "Stand andstipulate!" Roan stopped in histracks. It was an old man's voice,cracked

slightly in the words, but not withfear—and the sound of it echoedvaguely from the past.

"Friend," Roan said, puzzling the

voice.

"Friend to who?"

Roan laughed then. "Friend toJudge Manigault," he said, "and toGin'ral Turner Ashby and StonewallJackson! That enough, sir? I'mRoan Catlett, judge."

"God bless m'soul, Roan"—thejudge stepped out of therhododendron. "H'are you, boy?"and with his old Lefevre rifle in hisleft hand, he held out his right toRoan. "Yore pappy'll shore be gladt'see you!"

"Yes, sir," Roan said, "Yore boyForney's all right, last I saw. He's uparound Harrisonburg, with Ashbyhimself."

"Oh, Forney'H get along," the judgesnorted. "The Slow Devil's in himand the Devil always looks after hisown." He swept an arm back towardthe roadside and two more armedfigures crawled out of the bushes.One was Tom Ruffin, thehunchback saddle maker fromDeer-field, and the other was DavinAncrum's eleven-year-old brother,Custis. They had rifles, and whitekerchiefs were tied to their upperleft arms.

"What is it?" Roan asked.

"Law of lev<§e, suh," JudgeManigault said. "Legal as taxes. Weheard things weren't turnin* offgood just right now and that thisyere fellow Fremont was on his waydown yere from Franklin with abrand-new Yankee Army to joinBanks. Folks don't take kindly toJohn C. Fremont heahabouts, eventhough his wife is Senator TomBenton's daughter, Jessie—grand-niece to Governor McDowell, ofCherry Grove, just south a piece.Bad blood, suh! His mother wasMiz' Anne Whiting Pryor, who lefther husband in Richmond and ran

off to Savannah with aschoolteacher named Fremont, hisfather. Major Pryor shouIdVe shotthe seducer dead, you ask me, butthe major was an old man with ashaky hand. So we aim to shoot theson, he sets foot in our country!"

"You can't," Roan said; "a citizenfires a shot at a blue-coat, they'llexecute him out of hand."

"No, suh." Judge Manigault drewhimself up. "Law of levee en masse,suh. All the old men left—all theboys too young to go. They ain'tfirm' any lone, personal shots atFremont. That's •franc-tireuritf —

not legal. But lev£e en masse islegal as militia. These yerehandkerchiefs on our arms and thefeathers in our caps is uniform.Every man jack of the ShortMountain Defense Comp'ny hasstood up and sworn to obey me—aregularly sittin' magistrate of theCommonwealth of Virginia, suh.That's command. Uniform andcommand make us an armed forceunder the law of levee en masse,same as the army, suh—and as westand—not a one of Fremont'smen's goin' to come into ourmountain or our valley and live totalk about it!"

"You tell Davin you saw me, Roan,"young Custis An-crum said. "Youtell him pappy and me ain't goin' tolet 'em burn our house and barns!"

The tears were so thick in Roan'sthroat that he choked. "Well " hesaid. "Well, I reckon n

"Git along, boy," Judge Manigaulttold him. "You'll be late t*yoresuppah."

A mile farther down, Roan turnedin the drive and led Lady straight tothe barn.

There was lantern light up there

and after a moment it raised high."Who is it?"

Roan stopped and swallowed hard,"Roan, sir," and the two men stoodthere, twenty yards apart across thedarkness, unable to move for aminute or to say more. What can besaid, ever, between a grown manand his father? That they both livedonce, drawn close in child love andlove of child, and that the yearshave broken the protecting circle sothat no longer can arms fend dangeror a son in manhood seek them? Ofthe hour before the attack, whenthe need for older words andthought becomes so vital, that it is a

pain inside like unto nausea? Or ofthe older man, roaming the coldhouse with the haunt

upon him, when the rain beats withthe high wind off Short Mountain?Take care of yourself, Roan—like ahoarse, demanding prayer.

Their hands came together, more tokeep each from embracing the otherthan for any other reason, andThomas Catlett said, "You'vethickened through, Roan/' andRoan said, "Reckon so/' and thatwas awful, for there was so muchmore they couldn't say. "Go to yourmother, boy. I'll do for the hoss,"

and Roan said, "Yes, sir"; then hewas running blind toward thehouse, his boots and spursthundering across the summer-kitchen breezeway and up the stepsin back. "Mom!"

He scrubbed himself clean in thegreat wooden tub in the kitchen andgot into clean clothing and it feltwrong on him somehow, like apopinjay strutting uniform in theRichmond Home Guard. It tookhim back to times before—andthere never could be times before—ever again. His campaign smell wasgone to his own nostrils and hishonor somehow gone with it.

"What's it like, Roan? Do they giveyou warm food? Do you have chapelservice?" The searching, homelyquestions of mothers, against thethings they cannot know.

"Not like yore cooking, mom"—hetried to smile, but the effort twistedhis mouth hard—"and not like theRev-rund Kinsolving's brimstonepreaching."

"What's it like, Roan?"—his sister,Emily, turned fifteen, intense andslendering tall, with burgeoningwomanhood. "What's it like,Roan!"—breathless with it almost,as she held his boots, new dubbined

by her own hand in fierce love forher older brother. Tell me of thegallantry and the glory and of someyoung Lochinvar I cannot yet know,but *who rides for me as surely asmy heart beats for the sound ofhoofs that will someday come.What's it like. Roan? Her eyes werebright upon him with her delicatenostrils flared to her indrawnbreath.

"Boredom mostly, Em. Hurry up—and wait. And measles." He laughedto stem the tears within, for the

knowledge was full upon him thathis own people were utter strangers

to him this night. That what hadbeen so close a part of him was nolonger there for him to touch. Theyear between was like a wallbetween. The voices he knew sowell could not probe his thinkingany more. Like a man in a dream hewas, who walks eternally through ablank-faced crowd, trying to ask forthat which he must seek, with hisvoice soundless, and deaf earsturned against him.

"What's it like, Roan?" Charlielooked up at him with his chubbyboy's face turning man subtly withhis tenth year, his eyes wide and hisjaw pushed out hard. "You kill a lot

of Yankees, Roan? Tell us how!"

Edward half drew his saber andtouched a thumb to the cuttingedge. "Ask pop, Roan; if I can jointhe levee. Custis Ancrum's onlyseven months older than me. Askhim!" . . .

"What's it like, Roan?" That was hisfather, much later, when SarahCatlett left them together with awoman's instinct for a man and hisfirst son. It had a different soundfrom all the others, as if somehowThomas Catlett knew what it waslike full well, but didn't dare to doany more about it than ask. Roan

stood up and walked across behindthe table, wondering how to tell it;knowing he had to, but wonderinghow. Then he knew how the onlyway must be.

"I don't know about Richmond, sir,but we've lost the Valley cold.Gin'ral Jackson's had to pull out atlast. Left only Ashby."

"Yes"—his father frowned slightly—"I was afraid so, from what weheard." He nodded once or twice,like a man who finally gets histhinking straight.

"They've sent us over here," Roan

said, "four thin troops, to do whatwe can to harass Fremont joiningBanks, That's the story plain"—heshook his head fiercely—"and it's nouse!"

"What then, Roan?" his fatherasked softly.

There it was as Roan had dreaded it.He was the man bringing the news—the man with the immediateexperience. He posed the problem.His, then, to make the decision, forit is too late ever to be a little boyagain, once the years have passed.

"I don't know, sir," he said

helplessly. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Thomas Catlett said."You've got older than me,somehow, Roan, since you went offwith the army. You know things Idon't know. Think things, I reckon,that have never been in my mind. Ihave never been a soldier, Roan. Itis as if I were suspended somehowbetween Grandfather Catlett andyou. Somewhere between Cowpensand Yorktown in that old war andGeneral Jackson in this one.Looking in through a window. Not apart of it." Thomas Catlett smiledwistfully. "It is as if you were myfather, in a way; not I yours."

Roan drew in a deep breath. "I'll tellyou then, sir"— and the shame wasfull upon him, but he beat it backwith the heavy hand of youth. "Wemust load the wagons with all wewant to save, and take the familyout south. Mother and Emily andthe two boys."

The words were there betweenthem, and there was no callingthem back. Their echo lay inshattered pieces, jagged and uglywith destruction, and the silencethat followed after was the silenceof things dead.

"Out south—to where, Roan?"

"I don't know," Roan said. "All Iknow is that the Valley jig is up andI had to come and tell you."

The silence fell again, and it was adreadful-sounding nothingness thathung in the old room and probedthe farthest reaches of its shadows.From the walls, it came back uponthem again like tide returning upthe beach and held them in its coldimport of finality.

"What about Buford, down atLexington?" His father's voice wassteady.

Then it was as if Roan had known

all along that his

father would ask that question next.As if he had been standing, braced,to meet it, but when it came he hadno answer.

"How is Bufe?" he asked quickly."Have you heard? Tell rne!" Tooquickly, to buy him time.

Thomas Catlett moved his eyes tolook at his oldest son withoutmoving his head. "Last week," hesaid, "Ruford wrote you had writtenhim about not leaving school"— andthat was all Thomas Catlett said.For just a second or two his tongue

sucked his lips as if he would saymore, but he closed his mouth onthe impulse and clasped his handson the table edge. The words hemight have said were in Roan'smind, plainer than if he had saidthem: Like deserting your corps.,Bufe — a man don't run away fromthe job in hand. He 'works it out tothe finish before he takes on thenext. Deep anger lashed at Roan'svitals, caught as he was betweennecessity and the shame of meetingit He was like a man tied up andstruck, then, across the face. Youcouldn't tell this to Buford, for Bu-ford couldn't know it yet for what it

really was. He was like Roan hadbeen last year—fresh in his heartfor it, eager with the dreams ofchildhood, but with manhoodbursting within him now to makethose dreams come true. The trap ofglory. The bone-strewn short cutthat eternally weaves its bloodysnare for youth,

"You know that boy better than Ido, Roan," his father said. "Hisheart is one with your heart. Whereyou are is where his mind lives.What you do is what he will alwaystry to follow. You might be twins—close in mind as some twins are.But with more than that in it,

because you are older. Olderenough so that all of Buford's lifeyou will be to him what a father isfor the first few years of a boy's life.His god, Roan."

Then the guilt came full upon Roanand hung in his nostrils like thestench of flesh rot. Not his ownguilt alone but the guilt of despairthat creeps into the souls of men assickness will take their bodies whenplague stalks

the land. Rotting their minds withthe mass fear that comes of doubtand question. Shriveling theirhearts until they are like sheep for

the driving, denying them the rightto walk in forthright pride as men,destroying the heritage of God'simage.

Thomas Catlett reached a steadyhand and raised his brandy to hislips. He watched his son's eyes overthe rim of the glass as he drank. cWhat were you planning— to dropby Lexington on the way? To tellBuford and take him along—onsouth?"

Roan stared at the older man. "I—a"

Just then the dogs began to give

voice down in the runs. Old Bessfirst, with her heavy bell ringing fullto the night. Then the otherswaking and coming in on thechorus because it was Old Bess andthey didn't dare not take her wordfor whatever stalked the darkness.Close in to the house Splinter wokeand growled in his whiteningmuzzle, like an old man cursing forthe sleep he was going to lose now.Roan stepped quickly for his handgun, pulled it out of holster.

His father watched him for amoment, then he crossed to thedoor, opened it and stepped outside.Splinter was growling down by the

pike now, thrashing angrily aroundthrough the brush, circling for whatscent there would be to satisfy hissleepwalking. Outside with hisfather, the darkness seemed tobring the whole place in close onRoan. To ring him about tightly sothat he couldn't move his arms.There was too much of it suddenlyfor one man to live in all alone. Toomany old people crowding close fora moment, whispering from otheryears long gone. Buckskin peoplewith long rifles to hand who hadknown Captain Washington longbefore General Braddock got toknow him—or My Lord Cornwallis.

Steady people, forthright to Godand stouthearted to living with thefundamentals deep grained in theirsouls. It was like they had all slowlydrifted down from the burial placeto stand by this night and watch theCatletts close—with the

right the Catletts have to watchtheir own. Babies born in the oldhouse, who had grown up to thosemountains, to call the land theirs intheir time—in sweat and worry andheartbreak. In joy and loving andliving. The gun hung heavy inRoan's hand, like someone pullingon his arm, and in that moment heknew his shame full.

"There is someone on the pike," hisfather said quietly. They could seeold Splinter against the night sky.He had straightened out his circlingand was standing braced with hisancient nose up to what wind therewas. Then Old Bess in the runsmust have told him, for she tore itout of her throat suddenly to shoutthe others down in a panic ofunholy joy and Splinter took off upthe road fit to tear his rheumatismout by the roots.

"Lord a'mighty!" Buford said. "Ain'tit enough I got to walk all night butJudge Manigault like to shot medown the road, Splinter like to eat

me up and m'own brother Roanmeets me gun in hand! . . . H'areyou, dad? . . . Damn, man, I'm gladt'see you, Roan! What time is it?"And again there the three of themwere as Roan and his father hadbeen earlier, with so much to sayand no words to say it with. Nopower to get it out of their innerthinking.

"Past eleven, Buford," ThomasCatlett said.

"Just made it," Buford snorted indisgust, "in time to turn around andmosey straight back!"

"Made it from where, Bufe?" Roan'svoice was sharp,

"Staunton, Roan. Where else?"

"What the hell for Staunton!"

"Well " Buford grinned. "The armymust of done

something wrong, for they sentword for the Cadet Corps to comeon up from the Institute to help.We left Lexington the first of Mayto march up. General Smithmarched us—they say to GeneralJackson's order. That's all I know."

"That can't be!" Roan saidhelplessly. "They wouldn't do that—put boys in to hold Staunton!"

"Not so much of the boy talk,Roan," Bnford grinned. "They gaveus men's shoes and socks down atthe Deaf and Dumb Asylum wherewe're camped, and we're going toget real rifles to replace our smoothbores when we take off west to fightFremont." He stood on one foot andheld up the other to show the issueshoes. His cadet trousers werestuffed in mud-crusted lacedleggings and his short jacket wasstrapped at the waist with theInstitute belt—buckle turned to the

rear. "Too bright for a target," hesaid. "Orders are to wear it in back,but polish it bright, don't fear!" andhe pulled the Institute kepi down tohis eyes so's just not to hide them,in the selfsame way GeneralJackson had of doing, and Roanknew suddenly that every man jackof the corps was doing just that tohis kepi forty times a day, becauseJackson had that habit, hoping toburr the visor with thumb andfinger just as Jackson's was burred.Of such things are schoolboys madeforever—and were it not so, therewould be no men in the world,

"What you doin' here, Roan? They

told us Ashby was screening way upin the mountains. TowardsFranklin."

"That's right," Roan growled. "I—just—dropped by. Close enough to."

"Me, too," Buford said. "Got a pass'til reveille. Reckon I should seema? Or would it upset her—mehavin' to go right back without eventime for a snack?"

"Reckon you should," his fathersaid. He stood for a momentlooking full at his oldest son inwhat light there was, and a strangething came to pass. Just as Thomas

had felt for a brief moment thatRoan was older in his mind than hewas in his for this night, so nowBuford, as he stood there slightlypuzzled, looking from one to theother, was older than either ofthem, for manhood isn't years, it isheart, and if the heart be strong inyouthful dreams, who shall denythat it still is heart?

"I'll go saddle Lady," Roan growled.He walked across the paddock, icycold in his whole inner body. How

could they do it? How could theyorder those boys up from Lexingtonto try to hold Staunton, when

Jackson's whole army had pulledout? His fury snarled in his mindlike a treed hill cat—the numb furya soldier lives in half his time. Hecursed General Jackson with hislips drawn thin against his teeth.They cannot have Buford. Til goback, but they cannot have Buford.But he knew now he was onlywhistling in the dark. Had been,about Bufe, from the first.

When he led Lady up to the house,his mother stood there with ahandkerchief crushed tightly in herhand, but no tears. "It seems ashame," she said, "to walk so far tohave to start right back! Fll give you

some ham and biscuits to take. I "

"It's only fifteen miles up andfifteen back/' Buford said, "by road.Shorter the way I cut across. It'snothing —as long as I saw you for aminute. And none of you are toworry," he said solemnly, "becauseFremont ain't goin' to get to passthrough those mountains! Take myword for it, Virginiae FidemPraesto!"

Thomas Catlett took down hissquirrel rifle. "Fll walk a piece backwith you both."

Then they were on the road again

north. Three shadowy figures withLady behind, following Roan closefor comfort. The night damp wasdown full and there was still no talkin it, for there couldn't be. Thethinking ran too deep for talk. Oldthinking. That these three menwere not themselves alone, but onlya part of a long dead march behindthem to bring them where theywere tonight. And that ahead in theshadows of tomorrow lay thefurther march of their own sons.Caught between, the presenttenants of the name, with the powerin their hearts to add to it, but noright whatsoever to detract.

After a while Thomas Catlettstopped and pulled a white kerchieffrom his pocket, circling his upperleft arm with it and knotting it withhis teeth.

"Judge Manigault's road block isjust beyond," he said.

"I've got the twelve-to-daylightwatch with Doctor Cros-set andSenator Ancrum. Good night, boys."He held out his hand to Roan.

Roan stared at his father. "You justlet me talk! You weren't goin',whatever!"

"I reckon not," his father smiled."This Valley is mine —from wayback. I wouldn't—have any otherplace to go." Roan took his father'shand and then he whipped off hishat and leaned and kissed hisfather's cheek. Bufe took off his hat.Thomas took off his hat. "Take careof yourselves, y'heah?" and theysaid, "Yes, sir. Take care of yourself,sir."

Out of earshot down the road,Buford said, "Goin' where, Roan?Where were you and papa goin'?"

"No place." Roan shook his head."Just talking, earlier. About—

after"—he gestured vaguely to thenight.

"Been at Staunton a few days,"Buford said. "Drilling and such.Tonight was the first chance I got toask a pass. Funny, Roan, we shouldhave picked the same night. Makesa man believe strange things—likethinking goin' across space the waytelegraphing goes down a wire.We've been like that a lot, in ourtime." He turned his face toward hisbrother. "Ever notice?"

"Yes." Roan's throat hurt. "Yes. Ihave." Let go m> brother! I do bis -fighting -for him till he grows.

"Roan," Buford said. "I'm awfulproud of you. I couldn't say that toany other living man the way Imean it. Kind of makes me feelinside like you was a girl I wantedto kiss," he laughed. "I ain't agoin'to kiss you, so don't draw back, butI'm awful proud of you, boy. Asergeant of Ashby's Cav'ry! Boy!"

"That's good, huh?" Roan smiled.

"Damn good, for my money."Buford nodded once or twice. Thenhe said, "I'm turnin' off just beyond,Roan. The road down towardWaller's Creek that follows therailroad in to town. Could I ask you

something?" His voice was solemnsoft. For a moment Roan couldn'tdraw

his breath and his heart was whitecold within him. Dear God, hethought, don't let the -finger beupon Buford like it 'was on ForneyManigault when he saw death atManas-sas. Don't let Buford tell methat he sees it grinning at hbn now.Don't God, don't.

"Go ahead, Bufe, ask."

"Well," Buford said, "what's it like?Just that, I reckon. What's it like,Roan?"

The reprieve in Roan was like a livething, leaping for joy. It pressed histhroat tight so that he could nottalk. But he could breathe again andthink again, and with the thinkingcame the hopeless, futile knowledgethat no man who's been in it canever really tell it right. There are nowords.

"How do you mean, Bufe?"

"Well," Bufe said thoughtfully, "justthat, I reckon. Just what's it like ina battle? I never thought one way oranother to fight a man with fists. Ifhe was big, I reckon I fought harder'cause I was scared. Reckon I never

thought if I was brave or a coward.But I'd kind of like to know what it'slike—if you can tell me?"

Roan's impulse was to fling his armtightly across Buf e's shoulders tohold him close, but it was too latefor that. Too late now foreverything. I can't do his fightingfor him any longer, -for he*s grown.With that he laughed, and thesound was horrid against thesilence of the night. "That's all it is,Bufe, boy. Just what you said. Ifhe's big, you just fight harder,'cause yo're scared!" Then Roan didput his hand on Buf ord's shoulder,not his arm around, but his hand

tight, fingers pressing hard. Theanger in the paddock was gone fromhis soul with the faint and distantecho of the past. "I reckon yo'regrown, Bufe. Take care of yoreself,y'hear?"

"You, too, Roan. Here's m'turn-off.Good luck."

Roan threw his leg over Lady andsat for a moment looking down athis younger brother, getting theboy's face full in mind as he saw itnow. And his heart was

quiet within him, for he knew nowthat, win or lose, you never throw

the cards in, for the money neverbuys anyway—beyond thesatisfaction of your own soul for theplaying.

Buford stood there in the roadway,his face turned to the sound of thescrabbling hoofbeats, his mouthopen still to call good-by once again,but it was too far now for Roan tohear. .So, after a moment, he turnedhis back and put his tired boy's legsinto the last ten miles back intoStaunton, to the job in hand.

It was lightening for dawn by thetime Roan worked his way up intothe high country where he'd left his

patrol. "All hell's breaking opensoon," they told him. "Word's beencorning all the way down the line allnight. Fremont's man Milroy hasgot thirty-seven hundred Yankeesin McDowell Village, foot of BullPasture Mountain right ahead of us,with a regiment deployed onShenan-doah Mountain. Rest ofFremont's army is strung alongSouth Branch Valley. Schenk'sBrigade is thirty-four miles north atFranklin, and Fremont himself isstill in Petersburg, with Blenker'sDivision not yet quit of Rom-ney!That's seventy-five miles ofstringing out, sarge. There's goin' to

be some fancy clobberin'heahabouts before day is done!"

"What with—four cav'ry troops? "

"Hell. Ain't y'heard? Jackson'sback!"

Roan was too far upcountry to see.But Buford, jogging fast intoStaunton to make reveille, saw.

When the first train rolled slowlyinto Staunton Station, folks didn'tknow what for, beyond just a train.Then somebody recognized ClubbyJohnson forming up the companies,with his big stick to hand instead of

a sword—shouting in that loudvoice of his he didn't even soften tosay sweet words to the ladies. Bythat time the next train closebehind was clanking to a steam-spitting stop and the third-brigaderegiments began piling off— the10th, 23rd and 37th Virginia—takingit on the double

to clear the tracks, forming columnin the street beside. "Stonewall'sback!" The word smoked throughtown like brush fire in a quick windshift and folks came arunningleaving lay what be—death,childbirth and taxes. Down to thedepot to see it and breathe it and

shout inside with the joy of it.

"Damn if Stonewall didn't march usclean to Medium's Station, withouta word of whereto! Cars come inand marshaled and ev'one swore tohell we're headed for Richmond.Trains were all set to pull—and theypulled. But west and back again—not east! And by Garry forbreakfast, heah we are, to git thatbastoon Fremont!" More trainswere pulling, as far down the singletrack as you could see. Stopping andletting off. First brigade now— the"Stonewall" since Manassas, underthat fancy General Winder—2nd,4th, 5th, 27th and 33rd Virginia,

piling down and forming columns.

"What for y'ask? I'll tell you whatfor! That Tom Jackson's plentysmart, in spite of what some say.Ev'body in the Valley thought he'dsnuck out—so did Banks and so didFremont! That's why Jackson doneit—to make them believe! Betweenthe two, the Yankees've got fortythousand men, once they jine up.But they ain't agoin' to jine now.Stonewall kept Ashby wedgedbetween, and now he's all betweenhimself with six thousand men toput the clobber on one and one,piecemeal, before they know whichside's painted. Hold up theah! Wait

for pappy!"

You could see General Jackson thenthrough the troops forming in thestreets and the troops detraining.Here a minute for a quick sight ofhim putting a word to CaptainHotchkiss. Gone then, walking slowand thoughtful, and there againbending an ear to General Winder'squestion. Not a smidgin of haste inhim, nor excitement, with thecrowds cheering him and the littleboys yelling shrill. Just tall andcalm and quiet, with his beardcombed out with morning and hiseyes so blue it hurt to look into

them. His old overcoat buttonedtight for a while, then draped to hisarm as the heat of the day camefull. Once in a while, thumb andfinger to his cap visor where it wasburred, to pull it down firm. Seeingall of it, prodding hard for it to bethe way he wanted, oblivious towhatever else but what he had to do—but powerful thankful in his soulthat this fight wasn't coming up forSunday. StonewalFs back!

Upcountry twenty-two miles, thecavalry dismounted to fight on foot.Sent the horses back with horseholders and took the line withcarbines to pin the flung-out

Yankee pickets. Pinned 'em colduntil Old Clubby Ed Johnson camedouble-quicking his advance-guardmarch up to take over. Took overand went through, waving his bighickory club like a drum major andshouting blue billy for bumblebees.Yanks recognized him. "There's oldJohnson! Let's flank him!" andClubby yelled back, "Yes, damn you!Flank me if you can!" and he droveon through the regiment on themountain, developing the fightaround McDowell Village.

It was a rifle fight, Bull Pasture,when the third brigade came up,laid on across jagged, sawtoothed

mountains where a cat could hardlycling, let alone wheeled artillery.Four hours of lead drenching, withthe barrels hot to frying eggs, andboth sides scrambling the steepslopes for position and neithergetting it too well. Roan's troop wasin part of it, dismounted, when itbegan to break toward nightfall Notlong, but just enough for him toknow he wasn't waiting for it anylonger. His flesh was cool in sweatwith the mountain winds, but therewas no faint quiver of expectationleft in it. Firm and hard and slow-triggered.

Then darkness came down and the

Yanks in the village began to pullout, heading for the bridge, retiringunder cover of what artillery theycould bring to bear on the flat.Pulled out about a mile and built alot of campfires— and pulled outagain, leaving the fires to cover forthem

while they headed north forFranklin, telescoping the whole ofFremont's army back on itself andmaking sure, for all bets, that therewouldn't be no junction with Banksyet awhile!

Roan found Buford with his jacketoff, digging trenches to bury Yankee

dead. Whole Institute Corps wasburying —to harden the boys up,some said. But the hell with that —Jackson himself had let 'em marchupcountry with his own oldStonewall Brigade—and that'senough for a start in war, for anyman's money.

"H'are y', Bufe."

"Hello, Roan." Buford sleeved thesweat off his face and came upgrinning, shovel in hand. "Somefight, I reckon, by the sound. Didn'tget to see much with," he saiddistinctly, "the Stonewall Brigadeheld in reserve."

Roan grunted. "Never do see much.Jest what's around you."

"Sure," Buford nodded. "So I reckonwe'll go back to Lexington now,what with exams six weeks ahead,and not even see that much."

"I reckon," Roan said.

"But I'll be back," Buford said, andhe wagged his head emphatically,"because it ain't no more than justwhat you said— c if he's big, youfight harder, 'cause you're scared!'"

The bodies weren't covered. Theylay beside the lengthening trench

just as they had been littered in,with the earthy smell of deathrising from them like swamp mist.Too many of them to givepersonality back to any. Ohio boysfrom the Maumee—WesternVirginia boys from the coal country.Dead soldiers left behind forever inthe backwash of a lost fight, withdirty hands and wrenched facessoftening to peace in the quietnobility that comes upon those whodie under God's sky to go down intoGod's earth as they lie—with notribal trappings of funeral pompand circumstance to make them

seem asleep—no paint and flowers

and music to give the lie to Death.

"It's a little more," Roan said softly."I couldn't tell you when you asked,for it wasn't in me then, but it isnow, Bufe."

"What, Roan?"

Roan looked at his brother closely."Bufe," he said, "life takes a lot ofliving, but only one dying. I don'tknow how it happened"—he shookhis head—"but I died a little bit overat Mossy Creek the other day, sonow, when it really comes, I've gotit all to do over again." He smiled."Will you remember that, Bufe—if

you come back—just don't—die toomany times. Bufe, Fm hungry. Let'seat."

Jackson's operation againstFremont's advanced -forces 'west ofthe Shenandoah Mountains rolledMilroy back onto Schenk atFranklin Village and precluded anyimmediate possibility of Fremont'sjoining 'Banks through the gapswest of Staunton. Banks, in themaneuver, had been completelyhoodwinked by Jackson and almostliterally "marched around" Asensitive Banks might haveconceived the idea that he had beenignored. But Banks was not at all

sensitive, merely cautious, so likeMontgomery pivoting on Rheims,he withdrew -from Harri-sonburgand shuttled north up the Valley toNew Market. To his superiors inWashington, he was merelyshortening his lines. To himself hethought he was giving Jackson noopportunity to make a lightningmove on him. If Jackson sointended, Banks, the politicalstrategist turned soldier, wouldthrow him off balance and out oftiming.

Clever Banks! Because immediatelyhe knew he had hoodwinkedJackson. He knew he had

hoodwinked Jackson becauseJacksotfs man Ashby put cavalrypressure on him immediately bothfrontally and pom the westward —and cavalry pressure is the setup foran attack. So Banks withdrew toconsolidate for that attack, knowingfull well that by moving first he hadbrought Jackson beyond the breakof measure and thus precludedsurprise.

Had a frontal attack on Banks beenJackson's next plan, Banks wouldhave been dead right. But it wasnot. Jackson was in no position, onhis manpower factor alone, toassault at odds better than two to

one against him. He

could not reduce Banks with thebattle axe, but he could slit histhroat 'with the military scalpel Andhe did.

When Banks* rear guard underAshby's pressure cleared the east-west road that crosses the ValleyTurnpike at right angles throughNew Market, Jackson began to forcethe northern march of his mainbody. Banks was telescoping rapidlyfor the twenty-five miles toStrasburg — canalized between thelong run of Little North Mountainto the west and the Massanutton

range to the east.

Now a jug'll make the old men see itall again, 'when thunder growls inthe Massanuttons, for the glory of itwill hang on the high crags forever.Best keep off those mountainswhen the mists coil thick—or onceagain they'll come marching. Oldrooster-necked Dick Swell, with hisstomach growling loud on thefrumenty he fed himself "for mortalfear of gut-rot. The First Brigadethey always called the "Stonewall"since Manassas. Frying pans stuckdown their rifle barrels. The singingLoitisiana Boys in white gaiters;dancing like women at night,

without a straggler on the day's longmarch; fighting to the sound of theguns like the Devil gone corn-juicehappy. With Old Jack everywherethe line along. Telling nothing.,giving no word. Camping hisregiments at crossroads so theycould talk at night but never guesswhich road for dawn, until themarch started. And then, by Cracky,reaching New Market and turningsharp east for the Massanuttons.Close enough to smell the wind inBanks 9 tail feathers —£726?walking away from it! Who's crazynow? Tom Fool Jackson they said —all but his own men. His men just

kept on marching.

Up and up and up into the mist-hung mountain forests* LeavingBanks behind. Climbing over anddown across? South Fork to Luray.Then turning north in Page Valley.Now it came plain even to thelumberheads. He's marchingaround Banks again, but this timeto get Banks himself. He'sparalleling Banks' army } with theMassa-

nuttons to screen his move andwhen he comes out at Front Royalhe'll be across Banks' supply lines!

So press it, Brother! Beat yore feet.Richmond's tottering behind youwith McClellan beating on the door.But she ain't fell yet! Jackson'sthree-o'clock-m-the-morning-men,marching before da<wn exceptwhen Old Blue Light starts thenight before. And don't askquestions, Gaivd A'Mighty —forthere he is, ndirf Old Sorrel, heavin'his own tired shoulder to a bogged-down gun^ mud in his beard, cakedhard.

'Banks slept at Strasburg, behindhis trenches. You can't fool SenatorBanks. Jackson is way down south.This is only Ashby's scouts

knocking on the door and Pll sonotify Washington tomorrow. No,Siree. Only you can't "fool with Godeither. If God intends a man to be asenator, Abe Lincoln himself bestnot try to make him a majorgeneral!

Jackson came out of his valley atFront Royal across the ManassasGap Rail Road — Banks 7 direct lineof communications withWashington. Part of the breach ofthe Front Royal lines was theConfederate cavalry charge incolumn of fours at the gallop on theWinchester Road. Banks got out ofthe pocket by taking one side of the

triangle into Winchester whileJackson fought down the longerhypothenuse. But Banks left hissupplies almost intact — shoes andblankets, food and medicines,ammunition, tentage, and wagons.Mr. Commissary Banks to Jackson'smen thereafter.

There was a time when Jacksonpersonally fought his advance guardthrough the dark streets ofWinchester — returning, as he hadpromised little Molly Lentaigne.The impetus of attack drove thevictorious Valley Army on northuntil once more they saw thePotomac and frightened

Washington.

'But only briefly, for the price ofgiving Banks a tactics lesson, 'wastime again. And time ivas allowingFremont the

opportunity to close from the 'westbehind Jackson, almost to joinShields, closing from the east.

So Jackson slipped back throughthe closing door at Strasburg—actudly through the extreme rangefire of Shields' and Fremont'sadvance guards — and retreatedonce more to fight the slow pursuitagain at Cross Keys and Port

Republic, by which time the focusof battle had shifted to Richmond.

Let there be -no doubt that part ofMcClelland failure in the SevenDays' Battle was the fact thatJackson's Valley defeat of Fremontand Banks, piecemeal, and hisoutsmarting of Shields, sofrightened Washington that Me-Clellan again could not count on thevast power play of troops hethought he had to crush Richmond.

But then again there was anotheringredient that thwarted McClellan,that he did not dream of. Jacksonslipped out of the Valley stalemate.,

f mo f ving swiftly in the dark cloakof complete secrecy, and struckMcClelland north-right flank androlled him up like a rug — to theJames River!

THE SECRET

OF THE SEVEN DAYS

THE TENSION EASED up a bitafter the Cross Keys and PortRepublic fights. Up in theShenandoah Valley, on June eighth,Stonewall Jackson met Fremont'sFed Army at Cross Keys and drovehim back on Harrisonburg—losingpoor, gallant Turner Ashby. Thenext day Jackson crossed the riverat Port Republic and drove GeneralShields' army back up the LurayValley. Three days later, downRichmond way, Gen. J.E.B. Stuart—the same who was a lieutenant

colonel up at Manassas the yearbefore—rode his twelve hundredcavalry thundering aroundMcClellan's hundred and fivethousand 'sieging army— fromMechanicsville on the north clearalmost to the James River on thesouth—to show up the wholeYankee threat for a loose-jointedheavy hand over Richmond withscant power to close the fist, nowthat Robert Edward Lee was incommand.

That was when Davin Ancrum gotthe letter from his father that if hegot anywhere near his Great-AuntHonor Summerhayes' place, he was

to drop by for another horse toreplace the one he had to shoot. SoDavin showed the letter and got athree-day pass to go downCharlottes-ville way to AuntHonor's horse farm.

Roan Catlett grinned, "Slack times athree-day pass is good for twoweeks, but you come back, y'hear?With Forney Manigault out forwounds, I don't aim to git ridin*orders, without you with me forluck, boy!"

"Well"—Davin waved his pass—"ifanything starts, 123

Gin'ral Jackson'll know where tofind me. Just tell him to come gitme."

It was a bright June day whenDavin crossed the Blue Ridge, withheavy heat to come, by the fast waythe mists smoked off the treetopsafter sunrise. He felt free and lightin spirit. His own man, for sure.Turned full sixteen with this pastyear of Valley fighting, but with boystill hiding under it. Funny howthat could be. Like two people,almost.

Davin laughed at both. "I sure'n hellain't still goin' to school studying

books—whatever else!"

He caught a mule ride halfway upBrown's Gap and a couple of ridesin army wagons farther along. Agreat golden day, getting better tolive in, each mile east. A day toslowly meet a yellow-haired girl in apale blue dress, with a silver ribbonto her hair.

Davin met a hearse. Caught up withit rather, a few miles beyondMechum's River Station, A real old-fashioned hearse with glass sideswhere they weren't busted out, andlacquered urns and white featherplumes on it, moth-eaten somewhat

—like the old white-muzzled jug-heads that pulled it. Old Negra onthe box; beside him a quartermastercaptain in a brand-new uniformfrock coat and sword, his arm in ablack silk sling. Two soldiers stoodbelow in the road, spitting andwaiting like soldiers do, for the nextword of what happens.

The captain turned slowly on thebox and looked down at Davinwalking along. "About time youshowed up, trooper. Just followalong. . . . Come on, Neb; tickle ? emup," and the hearse started off againdown the dirt road,

Davin looked at the two dustysoldiers. They were about the sameheight and in the same state ofcampaign shabbiness that he was.An infantryman and anartilleryman.

The beetle-crusher held out hishand. "Threewhitts m'name, scoutThirty-Third Virginians. 'Lousy'Thirty-

Third—but we git to git a bath andspankin' new uniforms, soon's wereach Richmond."

"That so?" Davin said. "Well, I had abath yesterday, and I don't aim t'go

t'Richmond."

"Talk yoreself out of Christmas,wouldn't y', bub? Suppose t'be fourof us for funeral escort-—infantry,artillery, cav'ry, and we pick up thequartermaster up in Richmond,where they got plenty of them lyin 5aroun' loose.'*

Davin shook his head. "I'm out ofGin'ral Turner Ash-by's lot. I got athree-day pass for down.Charlottesville way. That's whereI'm goin'."

"Hell," Threewhitts winked, "youwouldn't up and spoil a man's fine

funeral, now would you, scout?"

"What's it got to do with me?"Davin said. "I got a legal pass."

"Sure, sure," Threewhitts said."Only Captain Scott Barnaby here'llwrite you an extension. Got toomuch other trouble to let you go,now he's got you. Body ain't fresh'sit might be. Buried for a time afterit happened. Brought an undertakerup from Richmond, but you knowhow it is, the weather turns warm.Sealed iron casket with a window init. But the family wants burial inRichmond and the captain's gotplenty money on him to see it

happens that way. Know any girls inRichmond?"

"Only my Cousin Tandy," Davinsaid, "but I still ain't agoin'."

The artilleryman jerked his headtoward the casket in the hearse."Brigadier General ChadwickMcHoes," he said. "Acting DeputyQuartermaster General of all of JeffDavis' armies. His hoss blew up onhim. M'name's Tom Jourdin. TheRevrund Doctor CaptainPendleton's old batt'ry. Just gotover wounds."

"His hoss blew up?"

Jourdin said, "Sure'n hell hit did.Shell went right inside the animule.Blew up inside. Wasn't any hoss leftand precious little general, theytell."

With that, the three of them walkedon silently for a while, trailing theold mule-drawn hearse.

"They got observation balloons forthe fightin' down aroundRichmond," Threewhitts saidpresently. "I sure aim to see 'em if Ican. Read in the papers how. Yankscall theirs the Intrepid. They got aballoon professor who ascends it upwith a wire down from it—from

over the Chickahominy nearGaines' Mill—to look-see our linesand tell back by telegraph. Got to gitup a thousand feet to stay clear ofour Whitworth guns south of theriver."

"Yo're plumb crazy," Jourdin said."A thousand feet is way the hellhigh an' up!"

"We got any?" Davin asked.

"Sort of a one," Threewhits nodded."Homemade like. We gas it up inRichmond tied to an engine and runit up and down the York River RailRoad to ascend it up our side of the

fighting, paper says."

"That's somethin', I reckon," Davinsaid. "Saw one go up once. MarketFair at Staunton befoh the wah.Fellow hanging on it too. Stripedtights."

Wasn't any use arguing this escortthing. Just walk along with it forcompany and beggar off casuallywhen he got to Aunt Honor's. Theonly thing was that walking andtalking to the two others, the wholeescort pulled in under Aunt Honor'sside portico and stopped beforeDavin quite realized where he was.

Aunt Honor Summerhayes was afixture. Summer-hayeses are oldpeople around Charlottesville, andold people tend to breed up fixtures.It won't do her kindly to tell howshe looked, but you should see how,to understand. A big woman. Big totall, that is. Not through. Through,she was no thicker than a thinstrong man'd be, any place. Onlyone better horseman in the wholeCommonwealth of Virginia thanMiz Honor. Jeb Stuart. Bred horses,Miz Honor. Years of it made herlook sort of like a horse, likemarried people get to look alike.But powerful land to her people. A

great hand for charity. Took

care of all the poor people milesaround—even if it killed them.

"Well, Scott," she said to thecaptain, "I got your lettah, but youtook long enough getting here! Putthe hearse out in the barn for thenight and come in for sup-pah.What are these soldiers doing withyou?"

"Escort, ma'am."

"Not that boy there." Aunt Honorpointed a bony finger at Davin."That boy's an Ancrum." She looked

Davin questioningly in the eye for amoment. "Can't call your name,son," she said, "but you've gotAncrum blood. Not the DInwaldieAncrums, I'd say. A hand or sohigher than the Dinwaldies, andbroader in the withers, I reckon thesenator's line. Over Short Mountainway?"

"That's right, ma'am. M'f atherwrote I was t'git a hoss."

"For sure!" Aunt Honor boomed."Come in, y'all!"

The captain looked at the hearse."In the barn, you said, ma'am?"

"Where else?" Aunt Honor squintedat him hard. "I've known ChadMcHoes since I wore pigtails. He'sall packed and loaded, so there's noneed unloading—with all the fuss offlowers and charcoal saucers.Besides, it's bad luck—when you'renot buryin' from the house. Neverliked Chad too much anyway. It'shis brother Beckwith I'm doing thisfer."

After supper, Aunt Honor tookDavin into the house office.

"Lucky you're goin' to Richmond,"she said. "You can take CousinTandy's silk wedding dress down.

I'll wrap it for you, dampproof. I'vegot a three-year-old hunter for you,son. Eclipse blood with a strongstrain of Bright-eyes too. Beenhidin' him from thecommandeering "

"But I'm not Eclipse blood? C'n Isee him, Aunt

Honor!"

"The family was at the SpotswoodHotel for a while," Aunt Honor said,"but they've opened the old house

again—on Broad Street back of theGovernor's Mansion."

"But, ma'am, I'm not "

"Opened it for Cousin Tandy'swedding. Not rightly theirs, thehouse. Inherited it from theLinthicurns when Uncle Sloanemarried Miss Sarah Linthicum. Shedied of child fever. Cousin Tandy'sWade's daughter. Summer-hayes,that is. Drinks too much—and ridesa hoss like a hill Negra—Wade, thatis. Married Thalia Ancrum fromDinwaldie. Thin girl. Vaporish."

"But, Aunt Honor, this CaptainBarnaby has made a mis "

"Wedding dress is a tradition.

Belonged to the Du-chesse deSaussure, one of Louis Philippe'snever-mind. When GrandfatherCassals was Secretary of Legationhe married her, back in the'Thirties. Then Cousin Chastitywore it when she married thatschoolteaching popinjay who diedof a consumption in Natchez."

"I'm trying to tell you, ma'am "

"Next it went over to your branchwhen your sister, Henrietta,married Brainerd Manigault.Brainerd got killed the other day,they tell me. Well, Henrietta'll getsomeone else, with her roving eye,

you mark. Your father sent thedress down here to me—to get it toRichmond somehow. I reckonyou're the somehow. Senator putsgreat store on family tradition.Great store."

"M'father?" Davin said. "He wants itdown? Well— j »

They loaded the great iron casket ona flatcar down at CharlottesvilleStation the next day and rigged atent fly over it for shade. CaptainBarnaby paid off the hearse and gotblankets for the escort.

The Virginia Central Rail Road ran

pretty close to the Yankee rightwing on the north, after it leftNoel's Junction heading forRichmond, but they had jumptracks up there to route cars downthe Richmond, Fredericksburg andPotomac line. The flatcar with thecasket got side-

tracked off for supply trains acouple of times. The three of themsettled to it in soldier boredom,getting food now and then at thestops. Second morning, when Davinpulled the blankets off his face,where he was lying with the bundleof Cousin Tandy's wedding dress fora pillow, the car was on a siding and

stopped. He could smell city allaround—damp stone pavementsand the dusty spice smell of horsedrays, cindery smoke and the drybreath of pine packing cases.

It was just coming light. Jour dinwas sitting on the casket, scratchinghis armpit inside his shirt, gettingready to pull his boots on.

"Cap'n Barnaby woke me awhileback," he said, "He's gone up totown to arrange. Got to get thequartermaster fella to make four forescort, and borry a gun caissonfrom some defense batt'ry."

Threewhitts yawned and sat up.Davin rolled the blankets andlooped the bundle of CousinTandy's wedding dress across hisshoulders with the rope he'd rigged.

"Left half an hour ago, walking,"Jourdin said. "Funeral's supposedto be from St. Paul's Church, but wegot first to tote him up and leavehim lay in state at the Capitol nearEleventh all day for folks t'see.Then the captain's got to get newuniforms for us. He's walkin'. Be aright smart time he's gone, Ireckon."

Threewhitts looked around slowly,

taking his bearings. "This yere mustbe Fourteenth Street leading overMayo's Bridge, with the Richmonddocks the other side. Y'all smellbacon cookin'?" Threewhitts drew adeep breath. "Damn if I don't!" Hepointed. "Down by the bridge"—andhe scrambled fast off the car.

"Can't all go," Davin shook his head."Somebody's got to stay with thegeneral."

Threewhitts looked at Jourdin."How then? Match? Two to go firstand scout it up for breakfast, thenspell the other one to go?"

Davin and Threewhitts walkedacross the tracks and

climbed up the bank to FourteenthStreet where it leads onto thebridge. The other side, below, thebridge-guard relief was cooking in askillet around a little scrap-woodfire. They spoke them and made adeal on account of being out ofAshby's Cavalry and the 33rdVirginians of the Stonewall Brigade."That so? Well, sure 'nuff. Long wayfrom home, ain't you? Gather'round."

With his mouth full, sitting on thebridge bank, Davin saw the little

steamboat tied up on the far side ofthe wharves beyond the bridge.Great bubble of bright-colored ragsheaped beside it on the dock. Liketo smother the steamboat under, ifit fell over on it. Like to fall over onit any minute too; because the ragclutter was ruffling up high likesomething was trying to get outfrom under —swelling like a greatmulticolored blister—ballooning.

Davin choked. "There she is,Threewhitts!"

"She's just that freakin' balloon,"the guard corporal snorted. "Theygassing it up from the dock main.

Don't any of them know how towork it, you ask me. Blow th'selvesup someday sure,"

"What about Tom Jourdin'sbreakfast?"

"Match you." Davin flipped a coin.

Davin walked down to the dock.They had this thing hooked up to awheel gas valve beside the mooring,filling it full with a powerful hosingsound and a stench of raw gas youcould have hung a blanket roll on. Apile of mismatched silk like apatchwork quilt. The crew on thedock were walking out the great silk

folds, keeping them smooth forfilling, spreading the rolled part flatand keeping the basket ropes clearfrom snarling the fishnet that wentaround the outside.

The sergeant fella with them had atwisted leg that bent outward at theknee, instead of front and back.Quite a trick for him to walk with it,so he stood mostly, shouting how.

"Howdy, bub." He looked at Davin."Never saw one of these yerecontraptions before, I reckon?"

"Yes, I did," Davin said. "Up atStaunton Market Fair three years

ago, I saw one."

"Saw me, then"—the sergeantnodded. "Made m'living at it.Ascented up at Stannton, threeyears ago."

"Striped tights?" Davin asked.

"Striped tights," the sergeantnodded solemnly. "The MiraculousWizard Watts, Professor of AppliedAeronautics."

"That's something!" Davin said."You goin' up now?"

"Nope." Watts shook his head.

"Busted m'leg at Philadelphia rightafter Staunton," and he pointed athis knee, flexing it so Davin couldsee how it worked. "Besides, theygot a cav'ry lieutenant fer that—whocan draw on the map what he sees.Lieutenant Barraclough."

Davin nodded. "Balloon at Stauntonwas all one color —silver. Howcomes it this one's like a rainbow?"

Wade snorted. "This yere's aproject. When they got the idea wehad to have a balloon to match theYanks, they don't have silk to makeone. What'd they do? Collected ev'rysilk dress from ev'ry girl fer miles

around! Made a man feel mightyindecent to be around it until thegas killed the perfume smell."Watts winked. "Boudoir nervous.Come on, lay off your blanketbundle and give us a hand here"—and he bent quickly to the snarlingnet ropes, feeding them back toDavin to lay clear.

"It ain't m'blanket bundle. It's myCousin Tandy's wedding"—and thenwith sudden mountain shrewdness— "present," he said, and snuggedthe end of the bundle tight underhis arm. "Well," he said, "I reckon Ibetter mosey."

Sergeant Watts straightened up."Say, wait a minute." Davin grippedthe bundle tighter. "Where youfrom? You ain't a Richmond soljer."

"Ashby's Cav'ry, up in the Valley.Leastwise Ashby's, until he gotkilled. Don't know whose now."

"It's true then, ain't it?" Watts fixedhim with an in-

tent eye. "About General Jacksonbeing in Richmond last night,conferencing with General Lee?"

"I—don't know. Just got in t'daym'self. Gin'ral Jackson was

bivouacked at Madison's Cove up inthe Valley when I left three daysago. How could he be here?"

"You're here, ain't you?" Wattspursed his lips. "So could Jacksonbe. He moves around, they tell," andhe laughed "You ain't lyin'?"

Davin shook his head, but there wasa vague unrest upon him suddenly.It didn't set right now, to be so faraway from his outfit. Out of hand ofnews from people he knew, andthings he had learned to feelinstinctively for true or false. Thelost-dog feeling of soldiers on theirown.

"They goin' up soon's it's full?" heasked awkwardly.

"That's why I asked you. We beenascenting before by running herdown the York River Rail Road onan engine. Now we got these ordersto hook her up to this yeresteamboat and run her down theJames."

"That so? What's down the Jamesto look at? McClel-lan's army's upthe north between Mechanicsvilleand White Oak Swamp."

"That's just it. Ain't nothin' downthe James. Yankee gunboats near

Bermuda Hundred and transportsat City Point is all."

"What then?"

"Well"—Watts winked—"if I was aYank and seen this balloon go updown the James to look-see, I'd getitchy about what for. It'd draw myattention why it ain't up North sidearound the Chickahominy where italways was before. Wouldn't it you?Like mebbe we want 'em to thinkwe're gettin' set to hit 'em down theJames River side."

"So they pull a lot of reserves downto prepare against it. That yore

idea?"

Sergeant Watts shrugged. "Whynot? If Stonewall Jackson was inRichmond last night, his Valleyarmy may

be right behind. He hits the Fedsnorth in the Mechanics-ville flankand keeps 'em movin' toward theJames till they're rolled clean up onthemselves, right to left, like aparlor rug, come spring cleaning!"

The unease in Davin stirred again.He turned and looked back the wayhe had come, Threewhitts and Jour-din were nowhere in sight. There

was some distant artillery firing upto the north, but not hot. Just thenhalf a dozen folds each side of themain balloon bubble caught the gasfull, and rippled into the risingmass of silk, swelling it high abovethem, with the rope net snarlingagain under their feet so they had tojump clear.

There was this LieutenantBarraclough yelling now foreverybody to give a hand, and Davingrabbed hold with the rest of thecrew. They drew the covering netclear of its tangle and rove out theshrouds of basket ropes, walkingthem down aboard the steamboat to

where the basket lay on theafterdeck beside the anchor-ropewinch. You could feel the silk bagbegin to tug now. Lot of force in thegas and coming in fast.

"Get up topside, some of youfellas!" Watts yelled. "Fend herclear the funnel befoh a sparkcatches her!" With somebody onshore screaming, "Fend her off thetrees!" and everybody runningaround, some on the lower deckwith axes cutting the mooring ropesand the man at the gas valveturning the wheel frantically, like abrake-man on a runaway steam car.

The balloon made a noise insidelike a great drum booming once,muffled, and it swelled suddenlyfull round, drawing the net snugand jerking the shroud lines taut.The basket, on its side on the deck,jerked up to sit on its bottom,spewing out sandbags and glassesand a map board. Then the man atthe valve snaffled the gas neck tightwith a strap and unhooked it free ofthe pipe. With that the bag leapedstraight up aft of the steamer to thelimit of the anchor rope, carryingthe basket with it until the bottomof it was four feet above the deckwith the

snubbed anchor rope drumminglike a bull-fiddle string—and thesteamer in midstream, its enginethrobbing.

A cut of panic knifed through Davinat sight of the water between himand shore, but like all things in thearmy you can't do anthing about, itleft nothing but the determinationthat they still wouldn't get CousinTandy's wedding dress to put withthe extras in the patch bin forward,against rips and tears. Absentwithout leave you could talk awayor take the punishment, but thiswedding dress his father

They had the sandbags gatheredtogether to rerig on the basket rimand Lieutenant Barraclough stoodwith the map board and glasseswhile half a dozen men tried towind down the winch to bring thebasket back to deck. They werecoming around the bend now, withthe navy yard left, heading southdown the Jarnes toward Drew-ry'sBluff. Davin couldn't just standthere, so he turned to help, buildingup credit for himself against aletdown, which was his usual way.Winch would let out, but theycouldn't get it to grind down.

"Give somebody a leg up!" Watts

yelled. "Then hand him thesandbags; that'll weight it!"

A dozen of them had their handsup, clawing at the basket, Davinwith them. They looked at oneanother and one made a handstirrup. "Come on, son," and beforeDavin really knew he was doing it,he put his foot in and they hoickedhim high enough to grab the basketrim and tumble headfirst inside.When he got his head over, theybegan to pass up the sandbags.

Lieutenant Barraclough handed upthe map board and field glasses."There're racks for them," he said,

and just as he said it, the winchratchet let go in a running metallicshriek and the basket shot thirtyfeet up and stuck again.

It knocked Davin flat inside andtook the breath out of him. Whenhe got his head over the rim thattime, the thirty feet was not only upbut it was aft as well, over thesteamer's muddy wake.

Lieutenant Barraclough stood in thestern, shouting at him throughcupped hands, "Sit tight! Don't tryto slide down the rope!"

Then for half an hour they worked

on the winch, sweating andhammering and cursing it, whileDavin watched them, and thesteamboat plowed on towardDrewry's Bluff.

The lieutenant kept calling to himoff and on. Finally he said, "Look,trooper. We can't grind you down,and if you slide down the rope, Ican't get up to observe. We can headback in and call it off or we can letyou up farther, for you to do theobserving. Which'll it be?"

"Well, I don't know, sir I ain't never"

"That toggle to the hoop above youIs the rip cord. If you go all the wayup, you can pull that to let the gasout and bring you down. Comingdown, if it's too fast, you dump outsand."

"Yes, I know—but "

"All you do is look for dust on theroads to indicate troop movement,"Barraclough shouted, "and mark themap! It's the Gilmer map. Ninesixteenths of an inch to the mile.You're a cavalryman. It's just likehorse scouting, only from higherup!"

"How—far—up—is higher up?"Davin shouted.

"That's Drewry's Bluff ahead, left."Barraclough pointed. "High enoughonly for you to see well over northand as far east as City Point. Higherif they shoot!"

"Higher if they—what?"

And just then the ratchet began tohammer shrill again, the men at thewinch leaped back, shouting, andthe balloon bounded upward with ajerk that knocked Davin fiat againand a rush of air that gagged him.When he finally got his head over

the rim that time, the steamboatwas a tiny toy way below and thewhole James River no wider than afarm ditch. His face frozen in fear,he hung on for a few minutes, hiseyes tight shut, pulling up on thebasket rim. The basket was turningslowly as the gasbag

turned, but after a few minutes itcame steady and he opened hiseyes, and suddenly it was the mostamazing thing in the whole wideworld, and the pure exhilaration ofit drenched his soul in awfulbeauty.

He could see way east and north

now—miles, when he used the fieldglasses.

Must be fourteen miles to theYankee right wing at MechanicsvilleBridge. Couldn't get to make thatout for sure, but he could sureenough see the Chickahominy andWhite Oak Swamp six or sevenmiles northeast, where McClellanhad his left wing secured. Thensuddenly in the high silence, heheard distant artillery fire. He putthe glasses north to try to see thered of shell bursts in the haze, but itwas still too far. Up Mechanicsvilleway. "By glory, mebbe StonewallJackson has sneaked down to help

jasperoo them, and I'm missing it!"

He came in closer with the glassesand caught a line of light blueammunition wagons raising a longplume of dust toward where theLong Bridge Road joins with WillisChurch. Marked them down on themap. Over east between Crenshaw'sand where Western Run crosses,there was a column of infantrymarching north. Low dust, thick-clouded. Two regiments anyway, bythe column length—moving towardthe gunfire. He marked them down.Then it got so easy it made himchuckle. Just like hossbackscouting, except you could see

everything. Cavalry moving northout of W. M. Harrison's Landing —high dust and thin, and fourartillery batteries turning left at thesawmill near Mt. Prospect

He was so excited he shouted downwhat he was seeing, even though itwas way too far to hear. He couldsee the steamboat, tiny as a waterbug, well south of Drewry's Bluffnow, with the rippled wake out backand the bow wave front, likeswimming legs. He went back to hiswork, spotting more dust movingnorth on the roads, all the while theartillery fire way up there got hotterand heavier, like the long roll on

distant drums. "Sure'n hell

there's a big battle making! It mustbe Gin'ral Jackson's come downfrom the Valley! It must be—andI'm missing it!"

That time, when he looked down atthe steamboat, there was no wakeor bow wave to her and she wascanted around sideways to the rivercurrent, tipped slightly to her portside with the tug of the balloon ropeon her stern. Grounded hard on asand bar. The rope trailed eaststraight across the river and theYankee side of the bank, with thewind that pressured the bag. Smoke

puffs there were, from theriverbank, like rifle fire and, byGarry, it was rifle fire—with aplatoon of blue coats scramblingdown the banks to get closer rangeon the steamer. The wind caughtthe bag hard now and tugged theanchor rope almost straight,carrying the basket over fartherinland. They'd sure enough capturethe steamboat, caught as she wason the bar; then they'd capture him.No blessed fear, they'd capture him!

For a white moment of panic, hetried to remember exactly what thelieutenant had told him. Let sandout to go higher; pull the rip cord to

come down. He pulled CousinTandy's wedding-dress bundletighter around his shoulder,clutched the map board and pulledon the rip cord. Nothing happenedfor a moment, except the basketseemed to drift farther inland onthe anchor rope. Drifting, it broughtthe ground closer up to him. Hepulled harder and, looking back,found he could no longer see theriver, only little blue figuresrunning from it. There were treescoming up fast toward him now, sohe pulled a few sandbag dumpcords. That slowed the trees, butnot too much, for a moment later

he could see the leaves on them.Then the anchor rope was slicinginto them, snipping leaves in agreen cloud behind. Then thebasket plowed into top branchesand the great silk bubble went onahead and settled, rippling out flatlike a great spread crazy quilt.

Davin got out fast, fell a bit, andbegan to climb down.

He could hear distant shoutingfrom the direction of the James,and a few scattered rifle shots; sohe headed off in the oppositedirection, going fast toward thenorth by the sun. Came to the edge

of the woods and saw a farm wagonmoving along, direction of LongBridge Road. Piled high with lastfall's hay. Crawled in in back for abreather and to put distancebetween him and the Yanks,without leaving trail

After the better part of a slow hour,the road ran through woods again,so Davin dropped down from thehay and crawled in under thebushes to think it out. He could stillhear the heavy artillery firing to thefar north of him. He had no clearidea of what time it was, but he wasdead solid in his mind now that itmust be Stonewall Jackson up

there. It must be, from the sharpand ugly character of the fight, andall that Watts had said.

He climbed a tree after a while andlistened out the firing carefully.Sure'n hell it was somewhere uparound Mechanicsville. He figuredfrom the map, if, like Watts said,McClellan began to roll up like arug under Jackson's pressure andget forced down across the Chicka-hominy toward the James, that it'dbe on a route down, something likeMechanicsville—Gaines' Mill—ColdHarbor—Savage Station—Frayser'sFarm—Malvern Hill, because that'sthe way the roads lay. Having

decided that, he went to sleep forthe rest of daylight, because ifMcClellan was coming down thatway, that would be the way forDavin to get north to join his ownoutfit. And night would be the besttime to work his way through ahundred and five thousandYankees.

That night he worked north as faras a place on his map called Tate &Riddell. Quite a road net joinedthere-Charles City Road, LongBridge, Quaker Road—withconnecting short roads across.Holed up to sleep the day off in aclump of rhododendrons, he

couldn't sleep much because ofYankee troop movements all day.Passed the time by putting all of iton his map—infantry, cavalry,

artillery—just as he'd been told todo in the balloon. But close to, thisway, he could get the regimentalnumbers from the flags and whatstates they were from andapproximately what time theypassed, with arrows in whichdirection they were moving. It builtup to quite a thing after a while,that maybe some general could useright handily.

The firing kept moving east for the

three days Davin worked slowlytoward it; until the twenty-eighth itwas up north of Savage Station onthe Richmond and York River RailRoad. Davin was getting a rightdecent span of mileage, consideringhe had to move slowly to avoidcountersigns at night. But then, sowas General Jackson getting goodmileage, in spite of the fact he hadto fight a hundred thousand Fedsfor it. Whatever, Stonewall Jacksonand Davin were right close tojoining up now, and as Davin holedup at sunup in a clump of maple onthe Seven Mile Road, the wholecharacter of the Yankee rear

movement began to change. First,there were wounded wagonloadspulling out south. So many of themyou could hardly keep count. Athree-day slug-fight crop.Mechanicsville, Games' Mill, OldCold Harbor wounded. Then therewere regiments marching back.Badly mauled regiments, withbatteries down to three guns, two,and sometimes only one. Horsecavalry with half the men afoot andstraggling. Then heavy supplywagons. Ammunition, flour barrels,pork and tentage. Engineers withbridge equipment. Everything. Andlying roadside in the brush, Davin

got all of it on his map.

The Seven Days' Battle caughtDavin as it swept past Watkins Mill,late the afternoon of the twenty-ninth, headed south for Frayser'sFarm and Malvern Hill. Talia-ferro'sthird brigade hot on the tail ofMcClellan pulling out of SavageStation. When you're close, youhave "to lie close on account ofpasswords and itchy trigger fingers.Davin waited until he saw the 23rdVirginia colors pass him in theskirmish line across the fields, thenhe got up

and walked in toward the colors of

the 10th Virginians moving downthe road in reserve.

"Fella says he's out of Ashby'sCav'ry. Talks crazy. Says he camepart way by b'loon and his pass ranout. Better send him to the provostmarshal. . . . Get along, bud; we gotwork coming up."

The provost said, "Got a map onhim, hunh? Balloon? He's daffy!Must be a spy. There's GeneralJackson's topographical engineerover theah. Take him over toCaptain Hotchkiss—mebbe's amajor now. Let Hotchkiss decide,I'm busy."

The letdown after three days ofworking back through the enemylines had Davin shaky inside by thattime. He just stumbled along in atired daze, like a man who's got hiscourage up to have the blacksmithpull his tooth—and the tooth's comeclean without snagging off theroots. He handed over the mapwhenever they asked and just stoodblinking from lack of sleep, andwaiting, with Cousin Tandy'swedding dress still roped to hisshoulder.

Young Hotchkiss frowned at him."Look here," he said; "this is thewhole axis of General Jackson's

attack marked out, and GeneralJackson don't even tell his staff!And look here—here's almost thewhole of McClel-lan's armymovement behind the lines for thepast three days, horse, men andguns. They are pulling out for theJames to hold the high ground atMalvern Hill, you ask me! Keep thatman close. If he tries to escape,shoot him!'*

"I ain't agoin' nowhere," Davin said."I just come."

Then suddenly across the road,there was Gin'ral Jackson himself,standing by his great horse with his

officers grouped around him. Whitewith dust and caked wet in thearmpits with sweat through thejacket. His great round beard wasscraggled from tugging at it threebattle days. His face looked drawnto the bones under it, tight like apudding cloth, from lack of sleep,but his back was as straight as aramrod. He took the map fromyoung Hotchkiss and glanced at it.Then for a moment he

studied it intently, fingering out theroad nets on it with the hand hit atManassas — that always throbbedhim after. Measuring mileage bylaying the first two joints of the

index finger to the road, then to thescale. Then, very slowly, he let themap hang to arm's length and heturned and looked south toward thebattle thunder rolling down towardFrayser's Farm now, and he put histhumb and finger to his oldInstitute kepi visor where it wasburred, and he pulled the hat tight,so's just not to hide the awful bluebattle light of his eyes. Then hesmiled. . . .

Davin didn't find Roan or his ownoutfit until after the Malvern Hillbattle on July first, which leftMcCIellan in full retreat to underhis gunboats' covering fire on the

James River. Didn't find him untilafter he'd got into Richmond again,during the lull.

In Richmond at the Summerhayeshouse on Broad Street behind theGovernor's Mansion, Davin gavethe dress to his Cousin Tandy.

"Oh, Davin, we've been expectingyou!" she said. u Aunt Honor's got athree-year-old hidden out in ourstable here for you. Eclipse blood."When Davin gave her the dress shesaid, "How perfectly sweet of you!You're a dear boy, but I can'tpossibly wear it!"

"Why not, Tandy? Don't it fit?"

"But it's not that at all! You justdon't know Richmond girls, Davin.They just live and breathe thisawful war in every fiber!"

"That so?"

"Of course it's so. How could we liveif we weren't patriotic to the lastdrop of our blood! You see, theycollected every silk dress in the'Confederacy to make a balloon, andit got captured!"

"Oh, it did?"

"And no Richmond girl would everthink of wearing

When he found Roan, Roansquinted at him hard.

"Well, Dav," he said, "Gin'ralJackson sure knew where to findyou. He sure came and got you!''

"I didn't git to talk to him m'self,"Davin said earnestly, "but is theregoing to be trouble about the passrunning out? Can you fix it for me?You know I wouldn't "

Roan considered it for a moment."They were all for putting you

through the sausage grinder for aspy. Until they put it to Gin'ralJackson himself."

"Bad trouble?"

"Well," Roan drawled, "it's beyondanything I can do about the pass, ifthat's what you mean. With themall up in arms about how you gotthat map and what to do with you,Old Stonewall Jackson made thedecision himself."

"What'd he say? Come on! Tell me!"

"Well," Roan said, "Stonewall justsort of smiled at them in that way

he has, and handed them back thepass. Then he got on his horse, withyour map in hand and 'Gentlemen,'he said, 'extend the man's pass!'"

So we have told a tale of half a war,and seen a nation half-born in theblood and anguish of its own laborpains. There is Second Manassasstill to come—and Chancellors-ville.The dreadful Wilderness andGettysburg where the struggleattains immortal crescendo. Thereis the strangulation of the blockadewhich bled the dying Confederacywhite; and the Mississippi actions,north and south, that double-knotted the ligature. Jackson dies

and J. E. B. Stuart dies and the lastof the glory dies with them. There islittle but cussedness left — andpride of corps which can transcendall personal misery, and does. Thewill to go on against all odds, whichis the rebirth of manhood,whenever it happens in history.Two lifetimes after Washington'sragged Continentals evacuated NewYork, the Army of Northern Virginiawas forced to uncover Richmond.

"On the way to Appomattox, theghost of an army Staggers a muddyroad for a week or so Throughfights and weather, dwindling awayeach day"

Who today can see Appomattox as itwas? Too much national dishonorfollows on the echo of Booth'spistol shot. Degradation comesupon the land and metfs hearts aretwisted in black anger that wasnever there in combat.

At Appomattox there is the dignityof God, the quietude of honoreddeath, for at Appomattox the Armyof Northern Virginia is dead —butstill upon its feet. Dead in thepresence of overwhelming Unionforce that has it penned so that onefurther step, one more shot is onlymadness. And nwdness is no longerin this thing. But discourtesy is and

crassness is — in the actions of thegolden-haired Custer, for WestPoint could never make him a

gentleman, nor a soldier. Nor couldthe dead Seventh Cavalry at the BigHorn.

Two decent men however^ meet ina quiet room and the war is ended.

All the way back to the ShortMountain country, Roan Catlett)Forney Manigault, and DavinAncmm plodded in shock. Talk hadleft them gradually during the lastjour years so that there 'would havebeen little for them to have said

even had victory kissed theirshields. Roan was twenty-two withsix wounds upon his body. Forneywas just turned man to vote but hiselbow would never bend again.Davin was just twenty, but a man soold in mind that his children wouldonly find youth still in him when hedug down consciously to bring it upfor them.

There was no heartbreak in thatshock, no bitter stain of frustration.Certainly no guilt, for they had beenfighting for their Country, notagainst it. The shock wasimpersonal and it beggaredanalysis. A gray shroud like the first

reaction to a crippling blow, anapartness that stole the taste from -food, the sunshine from themorning, the wine from the high,good air of the mountains. Theywalked three days in the little deathof it, leading their gaunt horsesuntil the strength built up in theanimals once more.

Then strangely they were on theirold boyhood road, three ghostshaunting it, coming to the firstturning. When they reached it,Davin stopped. "Well, Gentlemen—" he said and he took off hisabominable hat, holding it in hisleft hand. He held his right out to

his cousin Forney. "Take care ofyourself, Forney" To Roan, he saidnothing beyond the grip of hisfingers on Roatfs. The tears floodedhis eyes then and lifted his chinhigher. They channeled the deepwar grime of his face. He could notsob, for the muscles of his throatand chest were caught tight as fearhad never caught them. Nor did hewipe the tears y for they were likeslow blood from his soul that wouldnot stop.

When he dropped Roan's hand, heshook his head once, short andsharp. Then he turned up his road— to farming, to storekeeping, to

this and that that required no greatmental effort, for his memory wasalways too strong upon his youth toallow anything else to encroach tooheavily upon his mind — ever. AtSan Juan Hill long afterwards, as afifty-three-year-old Major ofVolunteers when the order came toadvance on the Spanish blockhouse,Davin turned to his men andshouted "Come on. Boys — we'lldrive the damyankees off that hill!"

At Forney'*s turnoff, they stoppedagain. Forney said y "Roan—I wantyou to think about it. Til have to goto the University, my Dad's so seton it. Maybe at Char-lottesville the

thinking 9 II come straight for usagain. At least it can't hurt us, doingnothing on good bourbon' 9

Roan shook his head. "Not me,Forney. I've got to work. It's theonly way I can saddle the hate —not of anything particularly — butof all of it. Hate is like a man youhave to wrestle hard. You can't letup until you break him. . . »

And much later that night at theCatlett place Roan said the samething to his -father.

" What work, Roan?"

"Body work, Sir. Sweating work.Muscle work that tires you gray tosleep"

"Where?"

"Texas way, Sir. There are a lotgoing. Land is cheap and the placeis wide. It's not like I was your onlyson y Sir, You've got three to staywho haven't the reason I have forgoing. I fought for this land—and Ilost it. I can't bear to see it anymore!"

"Once before, Roan, you wanted toleave. Maybe leaving is in your soul.Maybe that's really why you went to

war — to leave life itself"

Roan raised his head. "How do youmean? 77

"Some men are always leaving. Jobto job. Woman to woman. Ideas toideas. But there's a funny thingabout

that—it catches up when you growold. Benedict Arnold asked his oldContinental uniform coat be drapedabout him when he died. Desertersalways have to turn in be-fore theend to get their records straight. Aman can live in far lands most oflife but he hankers in his age to

come back to where he was a boy —to where his people sleep. I didn'tmake that up. It's a law of life. Likethe Ten Commandments* Nobodymade them up. They are the sumtotal of man's moral experiencethroughout the ages. Where'd youget that golden mare, Roan? She'sgot Timoleon blood or 1 don't knowhorseflesh''

Roan started slightly as if he hadheard something faintly down themidnight road. "/ got her . . . aftershe shot Jason."

"Who shot Jason?"

"A little girl in Winchester — when Ihad to leave. Look here, Sir. Let'sturn in. I've got to start forWinchester tomorrow, to take Ladyback"

There were four chimneys left ofthe Lentaigne house? clutched tothe sky like fingers of a stiff hand,with the two charred cross gables ofSheridan's mitre arching them. ButMolly was there as she alwayswould be. Sixteen that spring,chatelaine of her -father's land, herfather's house and her -father'speople when so little remained ofany of it that for a moment therewere only tears in Roan — but

inside him. Not in his gaunt eyes.

Her dark hair was parted cleanly inthe middle and braided tightly alongeach side. Her nose turned up just atiny shade at the tip. Her waist wasgirl slender m the young flesh ofwomanhood. For a moment whenshe saw him walking up the olddrive leading Lady, she stood starkand unbelieving, for the heritage ofdefeat was on her too — and shehad been born to losing everything.

Then she laughed deep in herthroat. Not a laugh really but agentle sound of exquisite joy.

"Ro&nP she said. "/ knew you'dcome back!"

About JAMES WARNER BELLAH

JAMES WARNER BELLAH HASdedicated his -writing life to anexamination of Americans and theirpast and'present way of life. TheValiant Virginians is his latestoffering—a study of the privatesoldier of the Confederacy, writtenwithout white-pillared tidewaterhouses or crinolines, without theflamboyance of Scarlett O'Hara andthe eternal swagger of fictionalbright sabres.

Born in New York City threemonths before the turn of thepresent century, Mr. Bellah came ofthe last gasp of an ancient Irishfamily which has since acquiredseveral more gasps, as he puts it, inthe persons of his three sons, whorange from a twenty-two-year-oldsoldier in the 44th Infantry Divisionto Stephen Hopkins Bellah, agedone and a half. His people havebeen lawyers and judges and part-time soldiers here for two-and-a-half centuries. A namesake, CaptainJames Bellah, fought as an infantryofficer at Princeton, Brandywine,and Cooch's Bridge. John Bellah, for

whom Mr. Bellah's middle son wasnamed, was a soldier in the secondwar with Britain and explored wellbeyond the western waters of theOhio country before 1809. A great-uncle was a Confederate navalofficer, His own grandfather wasCaptain Charles Jefferson Johnson,15th United States Infantry, whowas wounded seven times fromHarrison's Landing on—and whoarrived at Appo-mattox in anambulance, still in command of hiscompany. His father raised acompany of volunteers in theSpanish-American War.

The history of the United States was

thus, in a way, a personal familyrecord during Mr. Bellah's boyhood—of which record he says one thingpertinent: "Whether they carneyesterday or three centuries ago, allAmericans have one thing incommon. They had and have theprimeval courage to turn theirbacks forever on tradition and thescenes and habits of their childhood—to seek the elusive

promise that lies in new lands.There was no going back nor isthere today—and therein lies finaldedication!"

Mr. Bellah was educated at

Columbia College in New York City.His M. A. is in history (GeorgetownUniversity). He was privileged to sitas an undergraduate under the lateJohn Erskine and had his first bookpublished by Knopf, shortly after hetook his A. B. His early story "Fear"in The Saturday Evening Post is stillconsidered to be the finest story offlying ever written. His stories havegone into thirty-odd anthologiesand been translated into fifteenlanguages. Books of his, by officialrequest, are on the shelves of theLibrary of the Imperial WarMuseum in London and of theBibliotheque de la Musee de la

Guerre in Paris. The worksheetsand original manuscripts of TheValiant Virginians were requestedby Columbia University to becomepart of the permanent exhibit. TheUnited States Military Academy atWest Point has requested theoriginal situation maps thatKenneth Fagg of The SaturdayEvening Post art staff made forthese stories, from air mosaics hesupervised. Mr. Bellah has beeninformed that the Virginia MilitaryInstitute intends to confer anhonorary degree upon him for hiscontribution to living Virginiahistory.

In setting the fall perspective for hiswork, Mr. Bellah has lived andtraveled and written the world over.China in the days of Chang TsoTeng—and later in the days ofGeneral Stilwell. The FederatedMalay States, Burma, India, andArabia, Europe from the time ofmany kings to the time of manyupstart threats and unconscionablepolitical turmoil Mexico, South andCentral America (he was a memberof the crew of the first plane to flymail from Miami to Panama), NewGuinea, Australia, and Japan.Travels lightly told of in his tongue-in-cheek autobiography, Irregular

Gentleman.

He has been a soldier. In France atseventeen in the first World War,he went shortly into the RoyalFlying Corps from the TransportService and ended the war as a deHaviland pilot with the 117thSquadron R.A.F. Briefly

thereafter he was a captain inGeneral Haller's expedition for therelief of Poland, In World War II hestarted as a platoon commander,16th Infantry, First InfantryDivision. He served thereafter, inone capacity or another, in. everystaff echelon from battalion to

theatre. In Southeast Asia he wason Viscount Mountbatten's staff.He served with General Stilwell atTaihpa Ga and Mainkwang, alongthe Tanai River. He was attachedtemporarily, through the death inaction of his British oppositenumber, to General Orde CharlesWingate's Chindits. He flew in thepoint glider with Phil Cochran's tinyairborne task force that seized andheld the target "Broadway" deep incentral Burma, from which airheadthe 3rd Indian Division operated tocut the supply lines of the fourJapanese divisions that thenthreatened Imphal.

His novel of that war was WardTwenty, a work seldom equalled forits stark acceptance of the cost ofwar.

At present Mr. Bellah lives in SantaMonica where the Pacific washeshis doorstep. Eleven years ago hemarried Helen Lasater Hopkins,daughter of the late Colonel N.Hopkins, U.S.A., of the MarshalMission. Mrs. Bellah does most ofhis detailed research once he blocksit out—in the intervals between thecontinuing task of raising youngsons that the progression may goon.

Of The Valiant Virginians Mr.Bellah says: "Few men know how astory is born, or a group ofcharacters. I lay in hospital twoyears ago thinking of the morepleasant places I had been in myliving and suddenly theShenandoah Valley was the mostpleasant of them all. But it hasalways lived fullest for me when theghosts of Jackson's men marchthrough it. I can, in my profession,destroy time and space at will. Idestroyed the hospital and wentback to live in the Ws where thegreatest peril was a minie ball andthe greatest joy the smile of a soft-

eyed girl in Winchester. So wasborn The Valiant Virginians and ifyou do not believe they live, I swearto you that they do still, for atsundown of a Sunday not a monthgone—from the pleasant backverandah of Charles and MildredPicketf s at

Fairfax—we saw three of Stuart'stroopers lead their mounts in forwater. Cadett, Ancrum, andManigault

"It was so unusual a sight in 1953on a hot Virginia evening, that theportraits, too, reached for a glass asthe great silver tray passed once

more!"

FLETCHER PRATT 'was born inBuffalo, New York, in 1897 and haswritten a number of books onmilitary subjects, including Ordealby Fire, a famous and highlyesteemed one-volume history of theCivil War.