“Somewhere between a mile and a mile and a half.”
“And they say it’s two or three hundred feet deep. Look at the steamers, boys. How many are there?”
“I count seven pyramids of smoke,” said Warner, “four in one group and three in another. All the pyramids are becoming a little faint as the twilight is advancing. Dick, you call me a cold mathematical person, but this vast river flowing in its deep channel, the dark bluffs up there, and the vast forests would make me feel mighty lonely if you fellows were not here. It’s a long way to Vermont.”
“Fifteen hundred or maybe two thousand miles,” said Dick, “but look how fast the dark is coming. I was wrong in saying it’s coming. It just drops down. The smoke of the steamers has melted into the night, and you don’t see them any more. The surface of the river has turned black as ink, the bluffs of Grand Gulf have gone, and we’ve turned back three or four hundred years.”
“What do you mean by going back three or four hundred years?” asked Warner, looking curiously at Dick.
“Why, don’t you see them out there?”
“See them out there? See what?”
“Why, the queer little ships with the high sides and prows! On my soul, George, they’re the caravels of Spain! Look, they’re stopping! Now they lower something in black over the side of the first caravel. I see a man in a black robe like a priest, holding a cross in his hand and standing at the ship’s edge saying something. I think he’s praying, boys. Now sailors cut the ropes that hold the dark object. It falls into the river and disappears. It’s the burial of De Soto in the Father of Waters which he discovered!”
“Dick, you’re dreaming,” exclaimed Pennington.
“Yes, I know, but once there was a Chinaman who dreamed that he was a lily. When he woke up he didn’t know whether he was a Chinaman who had dreamed he was a lily or a lily now dreaming he was a Chinaman.”
“I like that story, Dick, but you’ve got too much imagination. The tale of the death and burial of De Soto has always been so vivid to you that you just stood there and re-created the scene for yourself.”
“Of course that’s it,” said Pennington, “but why can’t a fellow create things with his mind, when things that don’t exist jump right up before his eyes? I’ve often seen the mirage, generally about dark, far out on the western plains. I’ve seen a beautiful lake and green gardens where there was nothing but the brown swells rolling on.”
“I concede all you say,” said Dick readily. “I have flashes sometimes, and so does Harry Kenton and others I know.”
“Flashes! What do you mean?” asked Warner.
“Why, a sort of lightning stroke out of the past. Something that lasts only a second, but in which you have a share. Boys, one day I saw myself a Carthaginian soldier following Hannibal over the Alps.”
“Maybe,” said Pennington, “we have lived other lives on this earth, and sometimes a faint glimpse of them comes to us. It’s just a guess.”
“That’s so,” said Warner, “and we’d better be getting back to the regiment. Grand Gulf defended by Bowen and eight thousand good men is really enough for us. I think we’re going to see some lively fighting here.”
The heavy boom of a cannon from the upper circle of batteries swept over the vast sheet of water flowing so swiftly toward the Gulf. The sound came back in dying echoes, and then there was complete silence among besieged and besiegers.
The Winchesters had found a good solid place, a little hill among the marshes, and they were encamped there with their horses. Dick had no messages to carry, but he remained awake, while his comrades slept soundly. He had slept so much the night before that he had no desire for sleep now.
From his position he could see the Confederate bluffs and a few lights moving there, but otherwise the two armies were under a blanket of darkness. He again felt deeply the sense of isolation and loneliness, not for himself alone, but for the whole army. Grant had certainly shown supreme daring in pushing far into the South, and the government at Washington had cause for alarm lest he be reckless. If there were any strong hand to draw together the forces of the Confederacy they could surely crush him. But he had already learned in this war that those who struck swift and hard were sure to win. That was Stonewall Jackson’s way, and it seemed to be Grant’s way, too.