“I take it that it can’t be anything else. There is certainly in these parts no rebel force of cavalry large enough to make this trail.”
“How old would you say these tracks are?”
“Hard to tell, but they can’t have been made many hours ago. We’ll press forward, lieutenant, and we can save time going through the fields on the edge of the road.”
Although they had to take down fences they made good speed and just as the sun was rising they saw the light of a low campfire among some trees, lining either bank of a small creek. They approached warily, until they saw the faded blue uniforms. Then they galloped forward, shouting that they were friends, and in a few minutes were in the presence of Grierson himself.
He had been making a great raid, but he was eager now for the opportunity to strike at Forrest. He must give his horses a short rest, and then Dick and the sergeant should guide him at speed to the ford where the opposing forces stood.
“It’s twenty-five miles, you tell me?” said Grierson to Dick.
“As nearly as I can calculate, sir. It’s through swampy country, but I think we ought to be there in three or four hours.”
“Then lead the way,” said Grierson. “Like your colonel, I’ll be glad to have a try at Forrest.”
Sergeant Whitley rode in advance. A lumberman first and then a soldier of the plains, he had noted even in the darkness every landmark and he could lead the way back infallibly. But he warned Grierson that such a man as Forrest would be likely to have out scouts, even if they had to swim the river. It was likely that they could not get nearer by three or four miles to Colonel Winchester without being seen.
“Then,” said Grierson, who had the spirit of a Stuart or a Forrest, “we’ll ride straight on, brushing these watchers out of our way, and if by any chance their whole force should cross, we’ll just meet and fight it.”
“The little river is falling fast,” said the sergeant. “It’s likely that it’ll be fordable almost anywhere by noon.”
“Then,” said Grierson, “it’ll be all the easier for us to get at the enemy.”
Dick, just behind Grierson, heard these words and he liked them. Here was a spirit like Colonel Winchester’s own, or like that of the great Southern cavalry leaders. The Southerners were born on horseback, but the Northern men were acquiring the same trick of hard riding. Dick glanced back at the long column. Armed with carbine and saber the men were riding their trained horses like Comanches. Eager and resolute it was a formidable force, and his heart swelled with pride and anticipation. He believed that they were going to give Forrest all he wanted and maybe a little more.
Up rose the sun. Hot beams poured over forest and field, but the cavalrymen still rode fast, the scent of battle in their nostrils. Dick knew that these Southern streams, flooded by torrents of rain, rose fast and also fell fast.
“How much further now, sergeant?” asked Grierson, as they turned from a path into the deep woods.
“Not more than three miles, sir.”
“And they know we’re coming. Listen to that!”
Several rifles cracked among the trees and bullets whizzed by them. Forrest’s skirmishers and scouts were on the south side of the stream. As they had foreseen, the river had sunk so much that it was fordable now at many points. Dick was devoutly grateful that they had found Grierson. Otherwise the Winchester regiment would have been flanked, and its destruction would have followed.
Skirmishers were detached from Grierson’s command and drove off the Southern riflemen. Dick heard the rattling fire of their rifles in the deep wood, but he seldom saw a figure. Then he heard another fire, heavy and continuous, in their front, coming quite clearly on a breeze that blew toward them.
“Your whole regiment is engaged,” exclaimed Grierson. “Forrest must have forded the river elsewhere!”
He turned and shook aloft his saber.
“Forward, lads!” he shouted. “Gallant men of our own army will be overwhelmed unless we get up in time!”