Thus no one outside knew what the women of the district went through.
When they wrote to their husbands or sons that they were in straits, it meant that they were starving.Such a letter meant all the more because they were used to hunger, but not to writing, and a letter meant perhaps days of thought and enterprise and hours of labor.
As the war went on the hardships everywhere grew heavier and heavier;the letters from home came oftener and oftener.Many of the men got furloughs when they were in winter quarters, and sometimes in summer, too, from wounds, and went home to see their families.Little Darby never went;he sent his mother his pay, and wrote to her, but he did not even apply for a furlough, and he had never been touched except for a couple of flesh wounds which were barely skin-deep.When he heard from his mother she was always cheerful; and as he knew Vashti had never even visited her, there was no other reason for his going home.It was in the late part of the third campaign of the war that he began to think of going.
When Cove Mills got a letter from his wife and told Little Darby how "ailin'" and "puny" his mother was getting, Darby knew that the letter was written by Vashti, and he felt that it meant a great deal.He applied for a furlough, but was told that no furloughs would be granted then --which then meant that work was expected.It came shortly afterward, and Little Darby and the company were in it.Battle followed battle.
A good many men in the company were killed, but, as it happened, not one of the men from the district was among them, until one day when the company after a fierce charge found itself hugging the ground in a wide field, on the far side of which the enemy -- infantry and artillery -- was posted in force.Lying down they were pretty well protected by the conformation of the ground from the artillery; and lying down, the infantry generally, even with their better guns, could not hurt them to a great extent; but a line of sharp-shooters, well placed behind cover of scattered rocks on the far side of the field, could reach them with their long-range rifles, and galled them with their dropping fire, picking off man after man.A line of sharp-shooters was thrown forward to drive them in; but their guns were not as good and the cover was inferior, and it was only after numerous losses that they succeeded in silencing most of them.They still left several men up among the rocks, who from time to time sent a bullet into the line with deadly effect.
One man, in particular, ensconced behind a rock on the hill-side, picked off the men with unerring accuracy.Shot after shot was sent at him.
At last he was quiet for so long that it seemed he must have been silenced, and they began to hope; Ad Mills rose to his knees and in sheer bravado waved his hat in triumph.Just as he did so a puff of white came from the rock, and Ad Mills threw up his hands and fell on his back, like a log, stone dead.A groan of mingled rage and dismay went along the line.
Poor old Cove crept over and fell on the boy's body with a flesh wound in his own arm.Fifty shots were sent at the rock, but a puff of smoke from it afterward and a hissing bullet showed that the marksman was untouched.
It was apparent that he was secure behind his rock bulwark and had some opening through which he could fire at his leisure.
It was also apparent that he must be dislodged if possible; but how to do it was the question; no one could reach him.The slope down and the slope up to the group of rocks behind which he lay were both in plain view, and any man would be riddled who attempted to cross it.A bit of woods reached some distance up on one side, but not far enough to give a shot at one behind the rock; and though the ground in that direction dipped a little, there was one little ridge in full view of both lines and perfectly bare, except for a number of bodies of skirmishers who had fallen earlier in the day.It was discussed in the line; but everyone knew that no man could get across the ridge alive.While they were talking of it Little Darby, who, with a white face, had helped old Cove to get his boy's body back out of fire, slipped off to one side, rifle in hand, and disappeared in the wood.
They were still talking of the impossibility of dislodging the sharp-shooter when a man appeared on the edge of the wood.He moved swiftly across the sheltered ground, stooping low until he reached the edge of the exposed place, where he straightened up and made a dash across it.
He was recognized instantly by some of the men of his company as Little Darby, and a buzz of astonishment went along the line.What could he mean, it was sheer madness; the line of white smoke along the wood and the puffs of dust about his feet showed that bullets were raining around him.The next second he stopped dead-still, threw up his arms, and fell prone on his face in full view of both lines.
A groan went up from his comrades; the whole company knew he was dead, and on the instant a puff of white from the rock and a hissing bullet told that the sharp-shooter there was still intrenched in his covert.
The men were discussing Little Darby, when someone cried out and pointed to him.He was still alive, and not only alive, but was moving --moving slowly but steadily up the ridge and nearer on a line with the sharp-shooter, as flat on the ground as any of the motionless bodies about him.A strange thrill of excitement went through the company as the dark object dragged itself nearer to the rock, and it was not allayed when the whack of a bullet and the well-known white puff of smoke recalled them to the sharp-shooter's dangerous aim; for the next second the creeping figure sprang erect and made a dash for the spot.
He had almost reached it when the sharp-shooter discovered him, and the men knew that Little Darby had underestimated the quickness of his hand and aim; for at the same moment the figure of the man behind the rock appeared for a second as he sprang erect; there was a puff of white and Little Darby stopped and staggered and sank to his knees.
