“Hold on, Billy, I’ll lead the way,” said Harry.
But Billy was already in the stream, his short legs drawn up, and his horse swimming strongly. Harry and Dalton followed without a word, and the three emerged safely on the eastern side.
“You’re a brave swimmer, Billy,” said Harry admiringly.
“‘Tain’t nothin, sir. I didn’t swim. It was my horse. I guess he’d take me across the Mississippi itself. I wouldn’t have anything to do but stick on his back. Look up, sir, an’ you can see the mountains close by.”
Harry and Dalton looked up through the rift in the trees, and saw almost over them the lofty outline of the Blue Ridge, the eastern rampart of the valley, heavy with forest from base to top.
“We must be near the Gap,” said Dalton.
“We are,” said Billy. “We’ve been coming fast. It’s nigh on to fifteen miles from here to home.”
“And must be a full thirty to Harper’s Ferry,” said Dalton.
“Does this path lead to some point overlooking the Gap,” asked Harry, “where we can see the enemy if he’s there, and he can’t see us?”
“Yes, sir. We can ride on a slope not more than two miles from here and look right down into the Gap.”
“And if troops are there we’ll be sure to see their fires,” said Dalton. “Lead on, Billy.”
Billy led with boldness and certainty. It was the greatest night of his life, and he meant to fulfill to the utmost what he deemed to be his duty. The narrow path still wound among mighty trees, the branches of which met now and then over their heads, shutting out the moonlight entirely. It led at this point toward the north and they were rapidly ascending a shoulder of the mountain, leaving the Gap on their right.
Harry, riding on such an errand, felt to the full the weird quality of mountains and forest, over which darkness and silence brooded. The foliage was very heavy, and it rustled now and then as the stray winds wandered along the slopes of the Blue Ridge. But for that and the hoofbeats of their own horses, there was no sound save once, when they heard a scuttling on the bark of a tree. They saw nothing, but Billy pronounced it a wildcat, alarmed by their passage.
The three at length came out on a level place or tiny plateau. Billy, who rode in advance, stopped and the others stopped with him.
“Look,” said the boy, pointing to the bottom of the valley, about five hundred feet below.
A fire burned there and they could discern men around it, with horses in the background.
“Yankees,” said Billy. “Look at ’em through the glasses.”
Harry raised his glasses and took a long look. They had the full moonlight where they stood and the fire in the valley below was also a help. He saw that the camp was made by a strong cavalry force. Many of them were asleep in their blankets, but the others sat by the fire and seemed to be talking.
Then he passed the glasses to Dalton, who also, after looking long and well, passed them to Billy, as a right belonging to one who had been their real leader, and who shared equally with them their hardships and dangers.
“How large would you say that force is, George?” asked Harry.
“Three or four hundred men at least. There’s a great bunch of horses. I should judge, too, from the careless way they’ve camped, that they’ve no fear of being attacked. How many do you think they are, Billy?”
“Just about what you said, Cousin George. Are you going to attack them?”
Harry and Dalton laughed.
“No, Billy,” replied Dalton. “You see we’re only three, and there must be at least three hundred down there.”
“But we’ve been hearin’ that Stonewall Jackson’s men never mind a hundred to one,” said Billy, in an aggrieved tone. “We hear that’s just about what they like.”
“No, Billy, my boy. We don’t fight a hundred to one. Nobody does, unless it’s like Thermopylae and the Alamo.”
“Then what are we going to do?” continued Billy in his disappointed tone.