The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

duty!” Drew made that as impressive as he could, whether it was worded correctly according to military protocol or not. It was, he thought with satisfaction, a nicely rounded, important-sounding speech, although a bit short.
    “Yes, sir!” The boy started for the door, but he was too late.
    The man who erupted from that portal was short and stout, his face a dramatic scarlet above the dark blue of his unbuttoned coat. He stopped short a step or two into the open and stood staring at the three on horseback, that scarlet growing more dusky by the second.
    “Who…are…you?” His demand was expelled in heavy puffs of breath.
    “Flag from General Morgan,” Drew repeated. Then to make it quite plain, he added kindly, “General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty.”
    “But, but Morgan was defeated…at Cynthiana. He was broken—”
    Slowly Drew shook his head. “The General has been reported defeated before, suh. No, he’s right here outside Bardstown. And I wouldn’t rightly say he was broken either, not with a couple of regiments behind him—”
    “Couple of regiments!” The man was buttoning his coat, his red jowls sagging a little, almost as if Drew had used the carbine across his unprotected head. “Couple of regiments…Morgan…” he repeated dazedly. “Well,” sullenly he spoke to Drew, “what does he want?”
    “You’re a captain,” Drew spoke crisply. “You’ll return with us to discuss surrender terms with an officer of equal rank!”
    “Surrender!” For a moment some of the sag went out of the other.
    “Two regiments—an’ you have maybe eighty or ninety men.” Kirby gazed with critical disparagement at such Union forces as were visible.
    “One hundred and twenty-five,” the officer repeated mechanically and then glared at the Texan.
    “One hundred and twenty-five then.” Kirby was willing to be generous. “All ready to hold this heah town. I don’t see no artillery neither.” He rose in his stirrups to view the immediate scene. “Goin’ to fight from house to house maybe—?”
    “General Morgan,” Drew remarked to the company at large, “is not a patient man. But it’s your decision, suh. If you want to make a fight of it.” He shrugged.
    “No! Well, I’ll talk…listen to your terms anyway. Get my horse!” he roared at the nearest soldier.
    They escorted the captain with due solemnity out of Bardstown to meet Campbell, a well-armed guard in evidence strung out on the pike. The Union officer picked up enough assurance to demand to see the General himself, but Campbell’s show of surprised hauteur at the request was an expert’s weapon in rebuttal; and the other not only subsided but agreed without undue protest to Campbell’s statement of terms.
    The Union detachment in town were to stack their arms in the square, leaving in addition their rations. They were to withdraw, unarmed, to a field outside and there await the patroling officer who would visit them in due course. Having agreed, the Union captain departed.
    Campbell was already signaling the rest of the company out of cover.
    “This is where we move fast. You all know what to do.”
    But much had to be left to chance. Drew and Kirby surrendered their borrowed carbines to the rightful owners and prepared to join the first wave of that quick dash.
    “Yahhhh-aww-wha—” There were no words in that, just the war cry which might have torn from an Indian warrior’s throat, but which came instead from between Kirby’s lips: the famous Yell with all its yip of victory as only an uninhibited Texan could deliver it. Then they were rushing, yelping in an answering chorus, four and five abreast, down the street under the shade of the trees, answered by screams and cries as the walks emptied before them.
    Blue ranks broke up ahead, leaving rifles stacked, provisions in knapsacks. And the ragged crew struck at the spoil like a wave, lapping up arms, cartridge boxes, knapsacks. For only moments there was a milling pandemonium in the heart of Bardstown. Then once again that Yell was raised, echoed, and the pound of hoofs made an artillery barrage of sound. Armed, provisioned, and very much the masters of the scene, Morgan’s men were heading out of town on the other side, leaving bewilderment behind.
    They pushed the pace, knowing that the telegraph wires or the couriers would be spreading the news. Perhaps the reputation of their commander might slow the inevitable