University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

The cheerless dawn broke at last, and Dora, shivering
as she wrapped her cloak about her, jumped impatiently
from the ambulance.

“What are we waiting for?” asked she, at length, of
the driver, after wandering about for a few minutes, in
the vain effort to restore her chilled circulation, and gain
some clew to the provoking detention that was causing
an impatient murmur all along the line.

“Don't know, miss, but guess it's so that the rebs shall
be sure to find out we're a coming, and get breakfast
cooked all ready.”

“Dora!” said a low voice at her elbow.

“Captain Karl — is it you?”

“Yes; I've run back to see how you were getting on
in this confounded chilly place.”

“I'm a little cold, but it's no great matter,” said Dora,
cheerfully. “What are we waiting for?”

“To hear something from those other fellows. A scout
has just come in to say the road is all blocked up with
timber, and the last three miles of their route is just like

crawling up a wall. They won't be in for the fight, any
way; so I don't see the use of stopping here. We might
as well go ahead, and gather our own laurels, without
regard to theirs.”

“What a pity! But they knew the road would be
steep, I suppose.”

“Yes, but they couldn't know of the timber, 'cause
why, the graybacks have just cut it. Secret expedition
indeed! I'll bet my head to a China orange they've been
standing to their guns all night waiting for us, and are
as disgusted at this delay as I am.”

“It's getting lighter, any way. Hark! There's
firing ahead.”

“Yes. Our advance has met their pickets, I suppose.
Well, there's no more use in trying to keep dark; I suppose
we may go in now.”

And, in fact, the order to march followed Captain
Karl's last words so instantly, that he had hardly time to
regain his company before it was in motion.

Leaving the road, the division now began ascending
the steep and wooded mountain, over rocks and briers,
pitfalls and felled timber, for about a mile, when it was
again halted in the skirt of a wood, with the enemy's
camp in full view.

The general commanding, who had remained with this
division, now perceived that he must commence the attack
single-handed, as there was no appearance of the

other force, and the rebels were drawn up within their
lines in battle array.

A company of the Indiana men were deployed upon
the right, and one of the Ohio volunteers upon the left.
Among these was Merlin, who, finding himself at the
extremity of the line, and hidden among brushwood from
observation, either of the enemy or his own comrades,
resolved to imitate, in some degree, the hero of Bunker
Hill, who was found “fighting upon his own hook.”

Creeping cautiously forward to the edge of the woods,
he found himself within a hundred yards of one of the
cabins within the fortification, and noticed, with some
indignation, a rebel officer standing in the doorway, and
haranguing his men vehemently, emphasizing his remarks
by contemptuous gestures towards the federal force.
Carefully raising his rifle, Merlin took deliberate aim,
and was just about to pull the trigger, when the slight
noise of cocking a piece arrested his attention, and,
glancing aside, he caught the glitter of a pair of eyes
sighting along a clouded barrel, at about half the distance
from him that he was from the officer.

A single glance was sufficient, and the Kentuckian
dropped prostrate behind the log he had used for a rest,
just as the flash and “ping” of the rifle heralded the
ball meant for his brain, but now whizzing harmlessly
some eighteen inches above it. A rebel sharpshooter
had evidently been seized with the same idea as
Merlin, and was merely halting on his path to glory and

the Union forces to give a quietus to the venturous Kentuckian.

Creeping along to the end of his log, Merlin very
slowly and carefully peered around it. The experiment
had nearly been a fatal one, for another bullet whistled
so close to his head as to cut his hair.

“Come, then, we'll have it out,” muttered he, looking
about him for a cover that would allow of more motion
than the small log where he now lay.

Close behind him rose a giant chestnut, with wide,
gnarled trunk, capable of concealing three men of Merlin's
slender figure. He immediately decided to reach
this; but it was necessary, first, to draw the rebel's fire,
and make the transit while he was reloading. Lying flat
upon his back, and holding his hat upon a short stick
lying conveniently at hand, he very gently raised it until
the crown was just above the edge of the log, then suddenly
dodged it down as if panic-stricken, and again
cautiously raised it. But the rebel sharpshooter was not
to be cheated by so old an artifice as this, and shouted
indignantly, —

“You needn't try to come the gum game over this old
'coon, you cussed Yankee!”

“Reckon I ain't afraid to meet you face to face, if
that's your game,” shouted Merlin in reply, and suddenly
sprang to his feet, but at the farther extremity of the log
from that where he had shown the hat. As he rose he

made a spring diagonally back, that brought him abreast
of the chestnut, and the same instant he was sheltered
behind it. The rebel bullet cut the bark from the tree as
he disappeared, and the marksman shouted angrily, —

“Yes, you can jump about like a squ'rr'l; but you
hain't got the heart of one, for all your talk.”

Without reply, Merlin, peering round the trunk of his
tree, took a rapid aim, and fired at the spot where he
supposed his enemy to be hidden, although he could not
be certain, as the latter had disappeared to reload.

A contemptuous laugh replied to him.

“Did you see a fox or sumthin' over there, stranger?”
inquired the voice.

Merlin was too busy in reloading to reply. As he
drove home the ball, he glanced again toward the thicket,
sure that his antagonist would now be taking another
aim. His eye caught the gleam of the clouded barrel,
and, as the flash blazed from its mouth, Merlin, quick as
light, sprang to the other side of the tree, and fired at
the spot where the little cloud of smoke was hardly yet
beginning to ascend.

A loud cry, succeeded by a stifled groan, told that the
hasty aim had been a true one.

Merlin paused to reload his rifle, and then cautiously
approached the thicket. Parting the thick underbrush,
he discovered his antagonist crouching to the ground and
pressing both hands upon his throat, while a spasm of

agony distorted his features. But no sooner did the head
of the Kentuckian appear above the bushes, than the fellow,
springing to his feet with a pistol in his hand, discharged
it full in his face, roaring out, —

“Take that, and go to —, you — Yankee!”

The pistol snapped, but did not explode. Quick as
thought descended the breech of Merlin's gun, dashing
the weapon from the hands of his enemy, and nearly prostrating
him to the earth. With a howl of rage, he drew
from his belt a bowie knife, and rushed forward. Dropping
his rifle, the Kentuckian snatched a similar weapon
from its sheath, and braced himself to receive the attack.
So furious was the onset of the rebel, that Merlin's slender
figure went down before it, and both men rolled upon
the earth, silent now, except for an occasional snarl of
rage from the rebel, and the deep-drawn breaths of the
other, whose first impulse was to act upon the defensive.
Presently, however, a sharp thrill shot through his frame,
as the knife of the rebel entered his side, and, failing to
reach the heart, glanced along a rib, inflicting a painful,
though not dangerous, wound. The sting of this wound,
the feeling of his own blood gushing over his hands, the
sight of the fell triumph in the face of his enemy, roused
at last the sleeping devil in Merlin's heart. The blood
rushed to his head, and sung through his brain; a red
glare filled his eyes; the same bloodthirsty rage seized
upon him that had led him in the hospital to the side of

Judson's bed; and all thought of self-defence, all lingering
instinct of mercy, was swept away before it. With
a wild cry, he wrenched his arm out of the rebel's grasp,
seized him relentlessly by the throat, and, even while
bearing him to the earth, stabbed him to the heart, and
repeated the blow again and again, until only a motionless
corpse lay beneath him.

Perceiving this at length, the Kentuckian rose to his
feet, and wiped his forehead. The frenzy passed away,
and he looked gloomily down at the lifeless form so lately
full of vigor and animosity.

“Well, he'd 'a done for me, if I hadn't for him; but I
don't like this business, any way; it makes a man feel
more like a devil than a human.”

Turning the body upon its back, Merlin decently
straightened the limbs, and laid the man's own cap over
the rigid face, and his rifle at his side.

“Don't like this privateering. Reckon I'll stop in the
ranks, and drop 'em at long range, after this,” muttered
he, picking up his own gun, and creeping out of the
thicket as stealthily as a murderer might. And through
that day, and upon many another stricken field, Harry
Merlin fought manfully and well: he ever avoided individual
contests; ever remembered, to his dying day, the
look upon that dead man's face as he lay stiffening in the
lonely thicket, his heart's blood reddening the grass beneath
him.