“That is the sound of Grant’s guns. He can fight better with those weapons than with spies.”
But Slade persisted, and Colonel Woodville, with an occasional word from his daughter, fenced with him, always using a light bantering tone, while the lad who lay so near listened, his pulses beating hard in his temples and throat.
“Your vigilance is to be commended, my good Slade,” Dick heard Colonel Woodville say, “but to-day at least I cannot secure such a commission for you from General Pemberton. We hear that Grant is massing his troops for a grand attack, and there is little time to thresh up all our own quarters for spies. We must think more of our battle line. To-morrow we may have a plan. Come back to me then, and we will talk further on these matters.”
“But think, sir, what a day may cost us!”
“You show impatience, not to say haste, Slade, and little is ever achieved by thoughtless haste. The enemy is closing in upon us, and it must be our chief effort to break his iron ring. Ah, here is my nephew! He may give us further news on these grave matters.”
Dick saw the entrance darken for a moment, then lighten again, and that gallant youth, Victor Woodville, with whom he had fought so good a fight, stood in the room. He was still pale and he carried his left arm in a sling, but it was evident that his recovery from his wound had been rapid. Dick saw the stern face of the old colonel brighten a bit, while the tender smile curved again about the thin lips of the spinster.
Young Woodville gave a warm greeting to his uncle and elderly cousin, and nodded to Slade. Dick believed from his gesture that he did not like the guerilla leader, or at least he hoped so.
“Victor,” said the colonel, “what word do you bring?”
“Grant is advancing his batteries, and they seem to be massing for attack. It will surely come in a day or two.”
“As I thought. Then we shall need all our energies for immediate battle. And now, Mr. Slade, as I said before, I will see you again to-morrow about the matter of which we were speaking. I am old, wounded, and I grow weary. I would rest.”
Slade rose to go. He was not a pleasant sight. His clothes were soiled and stained, and his face was covered with ragged beard. The eyes were full of venom and malice.
“Good day, Colonel Woodville,” he said, “but I feel that I must bring the matter up again. As a scout and leader of irregulars for the Confederacy. I must be active in order to cope with the enemy’s own scouts and spies. I shall return early to-morrow morning.”
Colonel Woodville waved his hand and Slade, bowing, withdrew.
“Why was he so persistent, Uncle Charles?” asked Victor. “He seemed to have some underlying motive.”
“He always has such a motive, Victor. He is a man who suspects everybody because he knows everybody has a right to suspect him. He may even have been suspecting me, his old, and, I fear, too generous employer. He has a mania about a spy hidden somewhere in Vicksburg.”
Young Victor Woodville laughed gayly.
“What folly,” he said, “for your old overseer, a man of Northern origin to boot, to suspect you, of all men, of helping a Yankee in any way. Why, Uncle Charles, everybody knows that you’d annihilate ’em if you could, and that you were making good progress with the task until you got that wound.”
Colonel Woodville drew his great, white eyebrows together in his characteristic way.
“I admit, Victor, that I’m the prince of Yankee haters,” he said. “They’ve ruined me, and if they succeed they’ll ruin our state and the whole South, too. We’ve fled for refuge to a hole in the ground, and yet they come thundering at the door of so poor an abode. Listen!”
They heard plainly the far rumble of the cannon. The intensity of the fire increased with the growing day. Shells and bombs were falling rapidly on Vicksburg. The face of Colonel Woodville darkened and the eyes under the white thatch burned.