He moved nearer and was about to lay his hand upon her
arm, when his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full in
the face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left the room by a
door that was partly behind him. He had turned his head to watch her,
but when she was gone his eyes again sought his mother. She too had left
the place. Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered. The moonlight
on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling sea. The
trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze. Blended with its
borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure to step on. This
young soldier knew the optical illusions produced by tears. He felt them
on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the breast of his trooper’s jacket. He left the house and made his way back to camp. The next day, with no very definite intention, with no dominant feeling
that he could rightly have named, he again sought the spot. Within a
half-mile of it he met Bushrod Albro, a former playfellow and schoolmate,
who greeted him warmly. “I am going to visit my home,” said the soldier. The other looked at him rather sharply, but said nothing. “I know,” continued Lassiter, “that my folks have not changed, but—”

“There have been changes,” Albro interrupted—“everything changes. I’ll
go with you if you don’t mind. We can talk as we go.”

But Albro did not talk. Instead of a house they found only fire-blackened foundations of stone,
enclosing an area of compact ashes pitted by rains. Lassiter’s astonishment was extreme. “I could not find the right way to tell you,” said Albro. “In the fight
a year ago your house was burned by a Federal shell.”

“And my family—where are they?”

“In Heaven, I hope. All were killed by the shell.”



A BAFFLED AMBUSCADE


CONNECTING Readyville and Woodbury was a good, hard turnpike nine or ten
miles long. Readyville was an outpost of the Federal army at
Murfreesboro; Woodbury had the same relation to the Confederate army at
Tullahoma. For months after the big battle at Stone River these outposts
were in constant quarrel, most of the trouble occurring, naturally, on
the turnpike mentioned, between detachments of cavalry. Sometimes the
infantry and artillery took a hand in the game by way of showing their
good-will. One night a squadron of Federal horse commanded by Major Seidel, a
gallant and skillful officer, moved out from Readyville on an uncommonly
hazardous enterprise requiring secrecy, caution and silence. Passing the infantry pickets, the detachment soon afterward approached
two cavalry videttes staring hard into the darkness ahead. There should
have been three. “Where is your other man?” said the major. “I ordered Dunning to be here
to-night.”

“He rode forward, sir,” the man replied. “There was a little firing
afterward, but it was a long way to the front.”

“It was against orders and against sense for Dunning to do that,” said
the officer, obviously vexed. “Why did he ride forward?”

“Don’t know, sir; he seemed mighty restless. Guess he was skeered.”

When this remarkable reasoner and his companion had been absorbed into
the expeditionary force, it resumed its advance. Conversation was
forbidden; arms and accouterments were denied the right to rattle. The
horses’ tramping was all that could be heard and the movement was slow in
order to have as little as possible of that. It was after midnight and
pretty dark, although there was a bit of moon somewhere behind the masses
of cloud. Two or three miles along, the head of the column approached a dense
forest of cedars bordering the road on both sides. The major commanded a
halt by merely halting, and, evidently himself a bit “skeered,” rode on
alone to reconnoiter. He was followed, however, by his adjutant and
three troopers, who remained a little distance behind and, unseen by him,
saw all that occurred. After riding about a hundred yards toward the forest, the major suddenly
and sharply reined in his horse and sat motionless in the saddle. Near
the side of the road, in a little open space and hardly ten paces away,
stood the figure of a man, dimly visible and as motionless as he. The
major’s first feeling was that of satisfaction in having left his
cavalcade behind; if this were an enemy and should escape he would have
little to report. The expedition was as yet undetected. Some dark object was dimly discernible at the man’s feet; the officer
could not make it out. With the instinct of the true cavalryman and a
particular indisposition to the discharge of firearms, he drew his saber. The man on foot made no movement in answer to the challenge. The
situation was tense and a bit dramatic. Suddenly the moon burst through
a rift in the clouds and, himself in the shadow of a group of great oaks,
the horseman saw the footman clearly, in a patch of white light. It was
Trooper Dunning, unarmed and bareheaded. The object at his feet resolved
itself into a dead horse, and at a right angle across the animal’s neck
lay a dead man, face upward in the moonlight. “Dunning has had the fight of his life,” thought the major, and was about
to ride forward. Dunning raised his hand, motioning him back with a
gesture of warning; then, lowering the arm, he pointed to the place where
the road lost itself in the blackness of the cedar forest. The major understood, and turning his horse rode back to the little group
that had followed him and was already moving to the rear in fear of his
displeasure, and so returned to the head of his command. “Dunning is just ahead there,” he said to the captain of his leading
company. “He has killed his man and will have something to report.”

Right patiently they waited, sabers drawn, but Dunning did not come. In
an hour the day broke and the whole force moved cautiously forward, its
commander not altogether satisfied with his faith in Private Dunning. The expedition had failed, but something remained to be done. In the little open space off the road they found the fallen horse. At a
right angle across the animal’s neck face upward, a bullet in the brain,
lay the body of Trooper Dunning, stiff as a statue, hours dead. Examination disclosed abundant evidence that within a half-hour the cedar
forest had been occupied by a strong force of Confederate infantry—an
ambuscade. TWO MILITARY EXECUTIONS


IN the spring of the year 1862 General Buell’s big army lay in camp,
licking itself into shape for the campaign which resulted in the victory
at Shiloh. It was a raw, untrained army, although some of its fractions
had seen hard enough service, with a good deal of fighting, in the
mountains of Western Virginia, and in Kentucky. The war was young and
soldiering a new industry, imperfectly understood by the young American
of the period, who found some features of it not altogether to his
liking. Chief among these was that essential part of discipline,
subordination.