“What defense has it?”
“About two hundred men. They are strangers to the region, drawn from the Tidewater country, and I don’t think they’re as good as most of General Jackson’s men.”
“Lack of discipline, you think?”
“Yes, but the material is fine.”
“All right. Then we’ll see that they acquire discipline. Nothing like the enemy’s fire to teach men what war is.”
They were riding at good speed toward the village, while they talked, and Harry had become at once the friend and lieutenant of young Captain Sherburne. His manner was so pleasant, so intimate, so full of charm, that he did not have the power or the will to resist it.
They soon saw Hertford, a village so little that it was not able to put itself on the map. It stood on the crest of a low hill, and the tobacco barn was about as large as all the other buildings combined. The twilight had now merged into night, but there was a bright sky and plenty of stars, and they saw well.
Captain Sherburne stopped his troop at a distance of three or four hundred yards, while they were still under cover of the forest.
“What’s the name of the commander there?” he asked.
“McGee,” Harry replied. “Means well, but rather obstinate.”
“That’s the way with most of these untrained men. We mustn’t risk being shot up by those whom we’ve come to help. Lasley, give them a call from the bugle. Make it low and soft though. We don’t want those behind us to hear it.”
Lasley, a boy no older than Harry, rode forward a dozen yards in front of the troop, put his bugle to his lips and blew a soft, warning call. Harry had been stirred by the first sound of a hostile trumpet hours before, and now this, the note of a friend, thrilled him again. He gazed intently at the village, knowing that the pickets would be on watch, and presently he saw men appear at the edge of the hill just in front of the great warehouse. They were the pickets, beyond a doubt, because the silver starshine glinted along the blades of their bayonets.
The bugler gave one more call. It was a soft and pleasing sound. It said very plainly that the one who blew and those with him were friends. Two men in uniform joined the pickets beside the warehouse, and looked toward the point whence the note of the bugle came.
“Forward!” said Captain Philip Sherburne, himself leading the way, Harry by his side. The troops, wheeling back into the road and marching by fours in perfect order, rode straight toward the village.
“Who comes?” was the stern hail.
“A troop of Stonewall Jackson’s cavalry to help you,” replied Sherburne. “You are about to be attacked by a Northern division eight hundred strong.”
“Who says so?” came the question in a tone tinged with unbelief, and Harry knew that it was the stubborn and dogmatic McGee who spoke.
“Lieutenant Harry Kenton of the Invincibles, one of Stonewall Jackson’s best regiments, has seen them. You know him; he was here yesterday.”
As he spoke, Captain Sherburne sprang from his horse and pointed to Harry.
“You remember me, Captain McGee,” said Harry. “I stopped with you a minute yesterday. I rode on a scouting expedition, and I have seen the Union force myself. It outnumbers us at least two to one, but we’ll have the advantage of the defense.”
“Yes, I know you,” said McGee, his heavy and strong, but not very intelligent face, brightening a little. “But it’s a great responsibility I’ve got here. We ought to have had more troops to defend such valuable stores. I’ve got two hundred men, captain, and I should say that you’ve about the same.”
It was then that Captain Philip Sherburne showed his knightly character, speaking words that made Harry’s admiration of him immense.
“I haven’t any men, Captain McGee,” he said, “but you have four hundred, and I’ll help my commander as much as I can.”
McGee’s eyes gleamed. Harry saw that while not of alert mind he was nevertheless a gentleman.
“We work together, Captain Sherburne,” he said gratefully, “and I thank God you’ve come. What splendid men you have!”