CHAPTER XXIV
BY THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH
Not long after they left, mother and I came in from a round of calls one day to find a telegram awaiting me:
“Dan wounded, but not dangerously. Come.
“Gus.”
I hurried into my room and changed my dress – to be careful of wearing apparel had become a pressing necessity – while mother went out to see about trains. We found there was no Petersburg train till next day; there might be one at seven in the morning. I was up at daybreak, got a cup of tea and a biscuit, looked at mother as she lay asleep, and with my satchel and little lunch basket in my hand went to the depot. There were crowds of soldiers there and a train about to start, but no woman was to go on it – it was for soldiers only. I went from one person who seemed to be in authority to another, seeking permission to go, but received the same answer everywhere – only soldiers were allowed on the train.
“But,” I said at last, “I am an officer’s wife, and he is wounded.” I broke down with the words, and in spite of my efforts to keep them back my eyes filled with tears. It was what I should have done in the beginning. I at once got permission. I went into the car, took my seat at the extreme end and shrunk into the smallest space possible. The car was packed with soldiers and I was the only woman on board. When we were about half-way a young lieutenant who occupied part of the seat in front of me said:
“Madam, if I can be of any assistance to you, please command me. I suppose you know that our train stops within three miles of Petersburg.”
“I did not know,” I said, “and I do not know what to expect, or what I shall do, or where I shall find my husband, although I suppose I shall be met.”
“If not,” he said, “I am at your service.”
No one was waiting for me at the depot; but the lieutenant secured an ambulance, got in it with me, and directed the driver to take us to Petersburg. We soon met Gus, Dan’s cousin, coming to meet me in a buggy. While I was getting out of the ambulance into the buggy I was plying Gus with questions about Dan. “Dan is at our house,” Gus told me. “His wound is a very ugly one, but the doctors say that he’ll get well. At first we thought he wouldn’t. He is shot through the thigh, and will be laid up for some time – that’s what he’s kicking about now.”
Our most direct route to Mansfield, where Dan was, lay through Petersburg, but we could not follow that route. The Yankees were everywhere about the city, Gus said, so we went through the outer edge of Ettricks, skirting the city proper. When we reached Mansfield my husband on crutches met me at the door. He looked pale and weak, but he was very cheery and tried to joke.
“He ought not to have got up, Nell,” whispered Grandmamma Grey. “He thought it would shock you to find him in bed – that is why he got up.”
Of course I immediately put him under orders. He returned to bed meekly enough, and from that time I did all I could, and it was all I could do, to keep him still until his wound healed. We read and sang and played on the banjo and had a good time. But as soon as he was able to hobble he would go to camp every day and sit around. General Lee’s headquarters were about a mile and a half from our house. Colonel Taylor and a number of old friends were there, and Dan could talk fight if he couldn’t fight. At last he insisted that he was ready to join his division, and we set out to reach it in an ambulance drawn by three mules.
When we came to Hatchers Run we found that creek very much swollen and the bridge not visible, but there were fresh tracks showing where a wagon had lately gone over.
“That shows well enough where the bridge is,” said Dan, pointing to where the wagon had left a track close to the water’s edge and visible for a short way under the water. “Follow that track,” he commanded our driver, who was three-quarters of a man, being too young for a whole man and too old for a lad, “the mules will find the bridge. They are the most sure-footed animals in the world. Just let them have their heads as soon as they get in the water.”
Jerry obeyed instructions. Sure enough, the mules got along well enough. That is, for a short distance. Then, splash! down they went under the water! We could just see their noses and their great ears wiggling above the surface as they struck out into a gallant swim for the opposite shore. Splash! we went in after them, and mules and ambulance were swimming and floating together. Jerry was terrified, and began to pray so hard that I got to laughing. All we could see of the mules were six ears sticking out of the water and wiggling for dear life, while our ambulance swam along like a gondola.
But things changed suddenly. Our ambulance was lifted slightly, came down with a jolt, and wouldn’t budge! The mules strained forward, but to no good. The ambulance wouldn’t stir, and their harness held them back.
“The ambulance has caught on some part of the bridge,” said Dan.
We were in a serious dilemma. The road was one in much use, and we pinned our hopes to some passer-by, but as we waited minutes seemed hours. No one came. Perhaps the wagon that had preceded us had given warning that the bridge was wrecked. We sat in the ambulance and waited, not knowing what to do, not seeing what we could do. By some saplings which stood in the water we measured the rise of the tide, and we measured its rise in the ambulance by my trunk – I was getting wet to my knees. Finally I sat on top of my trunk and drew my feet up after me. The situation was serious enough, and Dan began to look very anxious – Hatchers Run was always regarded as a dangerous stream in flood time. Still, no sign of any one coming. The rain continued to fall and the water to rise.
“At this rate we are sitting here to drown,” Dan said. “There’s but one way out of it that I can see. From what I know of the situation of our army there must be an encampment near here. Jerry, climb out of this ambulance over the backs of these hind mules till you get to that leader. Get on him, cut him loose, and swim out of this. Ride until you find an encampment and bring us help.”
But Jerry didn’t look at it that way.
“I’m skeered ter fool ’long dat ar mule. I ain’t nuvver fooled ’long er mule in de water. I kaint have no notion of de way he mought do wid me. You kaint ’pend on mules, Mars Dan, ter do jes lak you want ’em ter on dry land, much less in de water. Arter I git out dar, cut dat ar mule loose, an’ git on him, he mought take out an’ kyar me somewhar I didn’t wanter go. I mought nuvver git ter no camp, nor nowhar, Mars Dan, ef I go ter foolin’ ’long er dat mule out dar in de water.”
The major caught his shoulders, and turned his face to the stream. “Have you watched that water rising out there for nothing?” he asked sternly. “We are sure to be drowned if you don’t do as I tell you – all of us.”
Between certain death and uncertain death Jerry chose the latter, crawled over the hind mules, got on the leader and rode him off. He took this note with him:
“Nearest Encampment of any Division, C. S. A.:
“I am in the middle of Hatchers Run in an ambulance with my wife. The stream is rising rapidly and ambulance filling with water. Send immediate relief.
“Daniel V. Grey,“Adjutant of the Thirteenth.”
After the boy was gone there we sat and waited while the water rose. I got very cold and Dan, who was yet weak from his wound and confinement, got chilled and stiff. After more than an hour of waiting we heard from the woods on the other side a noise as of men running, and then there came rushing out of the woods toward us thirteen men of mighty girth and stature. They were Georgia mountaineers who had been sent to our rescue. When they came to the water they didn’t like the look and feel of it, and evidently didn’t want to get in it.
“What is we uns to do?” they called across.
“Something to get us out of this,” Dan hallooed back, “and be quick about it, or we shall drown.”
“How is we uns to git to you uns?”
“Get in the water and swim here.”
They talked among themselves, but none of them seemed disposed to do this.
“Men!” called my husband, “I am hardly well of a wound, I am stiff and weak. I can not save my wife, who is up to the waist in water. Will you stand there and see a woman drown?”
They seemed ashamed, but none of them made the move to go in. Then the largest of them all – he seemed a mighty giant – stepped forth and took command.
“You say thar’s a lady in that ambulance?”
“Yes, my wife.”
“Wall, I’m blowed! An’ she ain’t a-hollerin’ and a-cryin’?”
“Do you hear her?” asked Dan irritably. “She’s braver than some men I know. But you can count on it that she is wet and cold. We are nearly frozen!”
“Wall, I’m blowed! An’ she’s right out thar in the middle er that run, an’ she ain’t a-hollerin’ and a-cryin’! Tell you uns what I’ll do. I’ll swim out there and bring her back on my back. An’ then I’ll swim back agin an’ bring you on my back.”
“I can’t!” I said. “I’m cold enough to die now, and I can’t get in that water. I’ll die if I do.”
The giant gave orders. The men hung back. Then we heard him roaring like a bull of Bashan.
“Git into that ar water, evvy man of you uns, an’ swim fur that ar ambulance! I was put in comman’ er this here expuddition, an’ I means ter comman’ it. ’Bey orders, you uns is got ter, or you uns’ll git reported to headquarters ez I’m a sinner. Git in that thar water. Furrard! Swim!”
How well I remember the great, good-natured giant as he swam around our ambulance, bobbing up and down, and taking in our bearings!
“You see, cap,” he said, “all the bridge is washed away but the sleepers, an’ that’s what you uns is hung on. Unhitch them mules,” to some of his men.
“Now, cap, soon’s them mules is loose we uns’ll lif the ambulance off er this, an’ pull you uns to shore. Jes you uns make yourse’fs easy, and we uns’ll git you uns out er this.”
The mules unhitched were led to shore, and then the men pulled the ambulance safely to land. I don’t remember what became of the thirteen mighty men. Nor do I recall clearly the rest of that cold ride when I shivered in my clothes, but I remember getting to a house where I was seated in a great chair close to a blazing fire of hickory logs, and I remember that when I went to get out my night-dress I found all the clothes in my trunk wet, and that when I went to bed I felt as if I were going to be ill, and that I rested badly. But the next morning I was up and on my way again. Again we came to a swollen stream. This time we could see the bridge, and it wobbled about. Dan thought it was safe to drive over. But not I! Just then some gentlemen came up behind us and insisted that I was right. So I got out of the ambulance and was helped across on some logs or beams or something which stretched across the stream underneath the bridge, and may have been a part of it, but whatever they were I thought them more secure than an ambulance and mules and an uncertain bridge. I made Dan cross this way, too, though he said it wasn’t best for his leg, and made all sorts of complaints about it. The ambulance was obliged to cross on the bridge, and the devoted Jerry drove it, quarreling and complaining and praying all the way. We had not gone much farther before, lo! here was Stony Creek, swollen to bursting, rushing and furious, and again a hidden bridge.
“I nuvver seed so much high water befo’ in all my life,” said Jerry, thoroughly disgusted, “nor so dang’ous. Water behin’ an’ befo’. We all is in a bad way.”
There was a wagoner on the bank who said the bridge was all right and but slightly under water. I protested, but Dan made Jerry drive in. I wanted to turn back. But Dan argued that there was as bad behind us, and that he must get to camp by the time he was due, and after a little the mules found their footing and kept it, though the water swished and whirled over the bridge. We saw a man and a horse swept down the stream – I thought they might have been swept by the current off the very bridge we were crossing. The current was too strong for the horse; he could do nothing against it, and had given up. As they passed under a tree the man reached up, caught a sweeping branch and swung himself up in the tree; the horse was drowned before our eyes before we got across the bridge.
We left the man in the tree, but promised to send him help. There was a house two miles from the creek, and to this we drove. It was full of people; the parlor was full, the halls were full, and the kitchen and the bedrooms were full of men, women, and children. It reminded me of a country funeral where people are piled up in the halls, on the steps, and everywhere a person can stand or sit. Soldiers were always passing to and fro in those days and stopping for the night at any convenient wayside place, and as for not taking a soldier in – well, public opinion made it hot for the man who would not shelter a wayfaring soldier and share the last crust with him. The house held a large number of soldiers that night, and in addition a water-bound wedding-party. On this side the creek was the groom; on the other side the bride. The groom had on his good clothes – good clothes were a rarity then – but he looked most woebegone.
We told the people in the house about the man in the tree; and every man in the house went down to see about him.
They called out to him saying they would throw him ropes and pull him in, but when they tried to throw the ropes out to him they found that he could not be reached in that way. The tree was too far from the shore. It was after midnight when they gave up trying to reach him with ropes. Then they told him to keep his courage up till morning, and they made a great bonfire on the banks, and some of them stood by it and talked to him all night. First one party and then another would go out and stand by the bonfire, and keep it up, and talk to him. The relieved party would come to the house and warm themselves and go back again. Nobody slept that night. There was nowhere for anybody to lie down. When morning came the creek had fallen and they pulled the nearly frozen man to land.
The next day found us at our destination, Hicksford.
CHAPTER XXV
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
While I was at Hicksford I stayed at General Chambliss’s. I was very happy there. Dan’s camp was not far off, and he came to see me very often and every morning sent his horses to me. In my rides I used frequently to take the general’s little son, Willie, along as my escort, and one morning, when several miles distant from home and with our horses’ heads turned homeward, who should ride out from a bend in the road and come toward us but two full-fledged Yankees in blue uniform and armed to the teeth. My heart went down into the bottom of my horse’s heels, and I suppose Willie’s heart behaved the same way. We did not speak, we hardly breathed, and we were careful not to quicken our pace as we and our enemies drew nearer and nearer, and passed in that lonely road a yard between our horses and theirs. We did not turn back; we crept along the road to the bend, until our horses’ tails got well around the bend. Then Willie and I gave each other a look, and took out at a wild run for home. We went straight as arrows, and over everything in our way. I had all I could do that day to stick on Nellie Grey, who went as if she knew Yankees were behind – only in her mind it must have been the whole of Grant’s army. Dan laughed our “narrow escape” to scorn, and said the two Yankees were probably Confederates in good Yankee clothes they had confiscated. At this time Confederates would put on anything they found to wear, from a woman’s petticoat to a Yankee uniform, but Dan never could convince us that those two Yankees were not Yankees.
After this I rebelled less against going out, as I sometimes had to do, in “Miss Sally’s kerridge.” This was an old family carriage, a great coach of state with the driver’s perch very high. The driver, an old family negro as venerable and shaky in appearance as the carriage, attached due importance to his office. He thought no piece of furniture on the place of such value as “Miss Sally’s kerridge.” He cared for the horses as if they had been babies. This part of the country had not been so heavily taxed as some others in the support of the two armies, and a little more corn than was usual could be had. Uncle Rube was sure that his horses got the best of what was going, and also that everything a currycomb could do for them was theirs. He himself when prepared for his post as charioteer wore a suit of clothes which must have been in the Chambliss family for several generations, and an old beaver hat, honorable with age and illustrious usage. When we were taken abroad in “Miss Sally’s kerridge,” we were always duly impressed by Uncle Rube with the honor done us. On the occasion of a grand review which took place not far from General Chambliss’s residence, I, with three other ladies, went in the “kerridge.” The roads were awful – in those days roads were always awful. Troops were traveling backward and forward, artillery was being dragged over them, heavy wagons were cutting ruts, and there always seemed to be so much rain.
Uncle Rube quarreled all the way going and coming. He sat on his high perch, and guided his horses carefully along, picking the best places in the road for “Miss Sally’s kerridge,” and talking at us.
“It’s jes gwine to ruin Miss Sally’s kerridge takin’ it out on sech roads as dese hyer… Nuf to ruin er ox-kyart, dese hyer roads is, much mo’ er fin’ kerridge… Well, ’tain’ no use fur me ter say nothin’… Jest well keep my mouf shut… Monstratin’ don’ do er bit er good… When dey git it in dar haids dey’s gwine, dey’s gwine, don’t kyeer what happens… Ain’t gwine heah nothin’, dey ain’t, not ontwell dey gits Miss Sally’s kerridge broke up… I say folks orter go ter ride when de roads is good, and stay at home when de roads is bad… An’ lemme take kyeer uv de kerridge.”
With these intermittent mutterings and frank expressions of displeasure Uncle Rube entertained us until we got to the review stand.
To crown his disgust we were late in starting back home, and at dark he was leaning forward from his lofty altitude, peering into the road ahead and seeking vainly “de bes’ place ter drive Miss Sally’s kerridge along.” He said “dar warn’t no bes’ place,” and was in despair of ever getting that valuable vehicle home in safety. At last the crash came! Down went one carriage wheel into a mud-hole! It stuck there, and we were rooted for the time being. However, I think Uncle Rube would have got us out but for some untimely assistance. Bob Lee, the youngest of the Lees, and Bob Mason (the son of the ex-United States Minister to France, whose home was near General Chambliss’s) came riding by. They stopped and shook hands with us through the carriage window, and asserted their gallant intention of getting us out of our mud-hole. They tried to lead the horses forward, to pull and push “the kerridge” out, but in vain. Then Bob, to Uncle Rube’s utter amazement and indignation, made him get down, while he, Bob, mounted the box. Uncle Rube stood on the roadside, the picture of chagrin and despair.
“Dar ain’t no tellin’ what’s gwi’ happen now!” he exclaimed. “Mars Bob don’ know how ter manage dem horses no mo’n nothin’. Don’, Mars Bob! Mars Bob! don’ whoop ’em! Law-aw-dy!”
Bob had gathered the lines in one hand and with the other was laying the whip on Rube’s pets. The horses, utterly unused to the whip, plunged like mad. There was an ominous sound! – our axle was broken, and we were helplessly stuck in the mud.
“Dar now!” wailed Uncle Rube. “What I tole you? I said Miss Sally’s kerridge gwi’ git ruint! and now it’s done been did. It’s clean ruint, Miss Sally’s kerridge is. I tole Mars Bob dem horses don’t know nothin’ ’bout a whoop. Dey ain’t nuvver bin ’quainted wid er whoop. I bin er-sayin’ an’ er-sayin’ all erlong dat de kerridge gwi’ git broke, an’ it’s done been did. O Lawdy!”
Our young rescuers borrowed a cart from a farmer near by and got us home in it. I have forgotten how Uncle Rube managed, if I ever knew. But I shall never forget the scene when several hours later we all sat around the fire in the sitting-room, chatting over our adventures, and Uncle Rube, hat in hand, came to the door and made report to his mistress of the family misfortune. His eyes were big as saucers. He laid the blame thick and heavy on “Mars Bob’s” shoulders, exonerating his horses with great care.
“Dey’s sensubble horses ef anybody jes got de sense ter manage ’em, dey is.”
And then Miss Sally, in spite of her efforts to preserve a gravity befitting the calamity, broke down like the “kerridge” and laughed hysterically.
There was plenty to eat at General Chambliss’s. I always remember that fact when it was a fact, because it was beginning to be so pleasant and unusual to have enough to eat. Hicksford hadn’t been raided, and there were still chickens on the roost, bees in the hive, turkeys up the trees, partridges in the woods, and corn in the barns. The barn, by the way, was new, and the soldiers gave a ball in it. We all went and had a most delightful evening. I well remember that I went in “Miss Sally’s kerridge,” and that General Rooney Lee and I led off the ball together. I remember, too, that we had a fine supper: turkeys, chicken-salad, barbecued mutton, roast pig with an apple in his mouth, pound-cake, silver-cake, cheese-cake or transparent pudding, “floating island” or “tipsy squire”; plenty of bread, milk, sure-enough coffee – everything and enough of it. We danced till morning and leaving our gallant entertainers in the gray dawn, went off to sleep nearly all day.
The next ball was in an old farmhouse where some of our cavalry were quartered. We had another good supper – everything good to eat and plenty of it – like the first. There were no chairs or furniture of any kind, as I remember, but there were benches ranged around the barn for us to sit on when resting during the pauses of the dance. After a dance with him General Rooney Lee led me back to the room where the banquet was spread to taste something especially nice which he liked and which I had not touched – eating a good thing when you could get it was a delightful and serious duty in those days. There was quite a circle around us, and we were all nibbling, laughing, chatting away as if there were no such things as war and death in the land, when a courier in muddy boots strode across the room to the general, saluted, spoke a few words, and the general walked aside with him. The music was enticing, and while the general was engaged with the courier I went back with some one else to the ballroom and took my place in the lancers. We were clasping hands and bowing ourselves through the grand chain when the dance was interrupted. The army was to march.
There was great confusion, hurried hand-shaking, sometimes no hand-shaking at all, no time for good-bys. The soldiers could not stand on the order of their going. I do not remember how I came to the farmhouse, but I know that my husband bundled me unceremoniously into a cart with some people I hardly knew, and sent me home, telling me to pack my trunk but not to be disappointed if he could not take me with him. I did not lie down at all. I packed my trunk as soon as I got home, then sat down and waited, and before long my husband came for me in an ambulance. His courier, Lieutenant Wumble, was with him, and the ambulance was driven by an Irishman named Miles. The horses were tied to the back of the ambulance, and frequently my husband and Lieutenant Wumble rode ahead reconnoitering. It began to rain. “What made you always start in the rain?” I have been asked by friends to whom I was relating my campaigns. What I want to know is, what made it always rain when I started? Let me but step into an ambulance and immediately it began to rain. My movements had to be regulated by the movements of the army, not by the weather, though really the weather seemed to regulate itself by mine.
We found the roads worse as we advanced. The farther we went the deeper was the mud. Mud came up to the hubs of our wheels; the mules could hardly pull their feet up out of the miry mass in some places. At last we found ourselves regularly “stuck in the mud.” There was no pushing or pulling the ambulance farther. It was nearly dark, but fortunately we were near a farmhouse, and at the side of the road where we got stuck was a stile made by blocks of unequal heights set on either side of a plank fence. These blocks were simply sections of the round body of a tree which had been sawed up. On the opposite side of the stile a pathway led to the house. The mud-hole in which our ambulance was embedded was about ten yards from the stile. My husband insisted that I be carried bodily to the stile, and Lieutenant Wumble, who was one of the most gallant fellows in the world, took it as a matter of course that he must carry me. He urged that he had been brought along to be useful and that Dan had never recovered entirely from his wound. But Dan hooted at the idea! He was very much obliged to the lieutenant, but really he was used to this sort of thing, and understood lifting ladies about much better than Wumble. It was not altogether brute strength, but some science that was required. So Dan stepped out of the ambulance on to the side of the mud-hole, where of course the ground was not so muddy as in the center where we were stuck, but where it was rather slippery, nevertheless. Balancing himself nicely, he took me out, but just as he poised me on his arm with scientific ease and grace he slipped and fell backward, sprawling in the mud, and I went over his head, sprawling, too.
Whereupon Lieutenant Wumble, laughing, came to pick me up, saying as he did so:
“I told you that you ought to let me carry you. Just lie there, major, and I’ll come back for you as soon as I set your wife down. Keep quiet, major,” as Dan swore at the mud and slipped again, “and I’ll pick you up and get you along all right.”
As Dan dragged himself up he was a perfect mud man, and he had left the print of himself in the mud behind him. They took us in at the farmhouse, and sent men to help the driver prize the ambulance out of the hole. They scraped the mud off me, and a colored woman washed my clothes and hung them by the fire, so they might be dry by morning. Of course, this process put me in bed at once. Our supper was poor and the bed uncomfortable, but it was the best our hosts could do.
After an uncomfortable night we started off again toward Dinwiddie Court-house, which was to be our next stopping-place. As we journeyed on we knew that we were getting into most dangerous quarters. The nearer we drew to Petersburg the nearer we were to the tangle of Federal and Confederate lines; the nearer to skirmishers and scouts from both armies. The night got blacker and blacker – you could not see your hand before you – and the blacker it grew the more frightened old Miles became. Out of the darkness where, invisible, he sat astride the invisible mule he drove, he poured an unceasing stream of complaint.
“Arrah! the divil a bit can Oi see where Oi’m goin’. It’s so dark ye couldn’t see a light if there was any. The mules, intilligint crathurs they are, maybe they know where they be goin’. It’s more than the loikes of me does. But what Oi’ve got agin a mule is that they don’t know an honest Amerikin in gray clothes – or mixed rags it is now – from a nasty, thavin’ Yankee.”
If we were silent for a few minutes, then Miles spoke out for company’s sake, or asked unnecessary questions perhaps to find out if we were there, and that the Yankees hadn’t spirited us away.
“These woods are full of Yankees,” he said. “It’s chock-full of them, it is. An’ it’s so dark, it is, they could just come out here an’ kill us all, they could, an’ we’d never know it.”
“Shut your mouth up, you fool!” said my husband, who knew that the woods were full of Yankees. “If we can’t see them they can’t see us, and how are they to know but we are Yankees unless you tell them, you blathering idiot?”
“The divil a bit Oi’ll be tellin’ ’em, the nasty blue thaves. Thrust Miles O’Flannigan for thet. But they could just come out o’ them woods, they could, an’ take us all prisoners an’ we’d never know it. An’ the driver’s the fust man they’d git, sure.”
At last Dan got out, mounted his horse, and rode in front of the ambulance.
“Now,” said he to Miles, “follow me, and if you open your d – mouth again, I’ll blow your brains out.”
Lieutenant Wumble brought up the rear, riding behind the ambulance with a cocked pistol. And so we rode through the Egyptian darkness of the night, and the now more than Egyptian silence. Miles’s mouth was effectually closed. He followed Dan, whom he could not see, by the sound of his horse’s tread, and as he was careful to keep as close to him as possible we made better progress.
We had been in the darkness so long that none of us knew our whereabouts. Presently we heard the low, deep mutterings of thunder. It came nearer and grew louder rapidly. Suddenly the sky seemed rent! There came a sheet of white lightning and with it an awful crash which made my heart stand still. A tree a few feet from us had been struck. The lightning had shown us that we were only a few miles from the Court-house. I have never known such a storm as the one through which we traveled that night. One peal of thunder did not die away before another began. One instant we were in thick darkness – a darkness that could be felt– the next, ourselves, the woods, the road, were bathed in a fierce white light. Between the Yankees and the storm that night I think Miles would have become a gibbering idiot but for the equalizing influence of Dan’s pistol.
“No trouble for the Yankees to rickonize us – ugh!” the rest of the sentence would be lost in the darkness, but I knew that Miles was feeling the salutary muzzle of Dan’s pistol against some part of his face.