His master never pressed him with rude questions when
his zeal bore such good results for their table.
Ned Vaughan had been very much amused at an old woman who had been
driven from her home by marauders. She had piled such goods and chattels
as she could handle into an ox cart and drove past the grey battle
lines, hurrying as fast as she could Southward. Her wrinkled old face
beamed with joy at the sight of their burnished muskets and her eyes
flashed with the gleam of an Amazon as she shouted:
"Give it to the damned rascals, boys! Give 'em one fer me--one fer me
and don't you forget it!"
Far down the line she could be heard delivering her fierce exhortation.
The men smiled and answered her good-naturedly. The day of wrath and
death had dawned. It was too solemn an hour for boastful words.
For two days the grand army in blue poured across the river and spread
out through the town of Fredericksburg. The fateful morning of the 13th
of December, 1862, dawned in another heavy fog. Its grey mantle of
mystery shrouded the town, clung wet and heavy to the ground in the
silent valley before the crescent-shaped hills and veiled the face of
their heights.
Under the cover of this fog the long waves of blue spread out in the
edge of the valley and took their places in battle line. The grey men in
the brown grass on the hills crouched behind their ditches and stone
walls, gripped their guns and waited for the foe to walk into the trap
their commanders had set.
Pages:
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383