CHAPTER XXVII

The effort to crush Lee’s army by a frontal attack led to the disastrous defeat of Cold Harbor, and Grant who was never personally routed resolved to throw his army south of the James River.  It involved a concealed night march, while his lines were in many places but thirty to one hundred feet from the watchful Confederates.  The utmost secrecy was used in regard to the bold movement intended, but preparations for it demanded frequent reconnaissances and map-sketching on the part of the engineers.  A night of map-making after a long day in the saddle left John Penhallow on June 6th a weary man lying on his camp-bed too tired to sleep.  He heard Blake ask, “Are you at home, Penhallow?” Few men would have been as welcome as the serious-minded New England captain who had met Penhallow from time to time since the engineer’s mud-bath in the Pamunkey River.

“Glad to get you by yourself,” said Blake.  “You look used up.  Do keep quiet!”

“I will, but sit down and take a pipe.  Coffee, Josiah!” he called out.  “I am quite too popular by reason of Josiah’s amazing ability to forage.  If the Headquarters are within reach, he and Bill—­that’s the general’s man—­hunt together.  The results are surprising!  But I learned long ago from my uncle, Colonel Penhallow, that in the army it is well to ask no unnecessary questions.  My man is very intelligent, and as I keep him in tobacco and greenbacks, I sometimes fancy that Headquarters does not always get the best out of the raids of these two contrabands.”

“I have profited by it, Penhallow.  I have personal memories of that young roast pig, I think your man called it a shoat.  Your corps must have caught it hard these last days.  I suppose we are in for something unusual.  You are the only man I know who doesn’t grumble.  Francis says it’s as natural to the beast called an army as barking is to a dog.”

“Of course, the habit is stupid, Blake.  I mean the constant growl about the unavoidable discomforts of war; but this last week has got me near the growling point.  I have had two ague chills and quinine enough to ring chimes in my head.  I haven’t had a decent wash for a week, and really war is a disgustingly dirty business.  You don’t realize that in history, in fiction, or in pictures.  It’s filthy!  Oh, you may laugh!”

“Who could help laughing?”

“I can to-day.  To-morrow I shall grin at it all, but just now I am half dead.  What with laying corduroys and bridging creeks, to be burnt up next day, and Chickahominy flies—­oh, Lord!  If there is nothing else on hand in the way of copies of maps, some general like Barnard has an insane curiosity to reconnoitre.  Then the Rebs wake up—­and amuse themselves.”

Blake laughed.  “You are getting pretty near to that growl.”

“Am I?  I have more than impossible demands to bother me.  What with some despondent letters—­I told you about my uncle’s wound and the results, I should have a fierce attack of home-sickness if I had leisure to think at all.”