“Strange, isn’t it?” said Pennington.

“But fine to hear,” said Warner.

“Likely they were in the tree this morning when the battle began,” said Dick, “and the cannon and the rifles frightened ’em so much that they stayed close within the leaves.  Now they’re singing with joy, because it’s all over.”

“A good guess, I think, Dick,” said Warner, “but isn’t it beautiful at such a time and such a place?  How these little fellows must be swelling their throats!  I don’t believe they ever sang so well before.”

“I didn’t think today that I’d be sung to sleep tonight,” said Dick, “but it’s going to happen.”

When his eyes closed and he floated away to slumberland it was to the thrilling song of a bird on a bough above his head.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MESSENGER FROM RICHMOND

It seemed that Dick and his comrades were to see an activity in the valley under Sheridan much like that which Harry and his friends had experienced under Stonewall Jackson earlier in the war.  All of the men before they went to sleep that night had felt confirmed in the belief that a strong hand was over them, and that a powerful and clear mind was directing them.  There would be no more prodigal waste of men and supplies.  No more would a Southern general have an opportunity to beat scattered forces in detail.  The Union had given Sheridan a splendid army and a splendid equipment, and he would make the most of both.

Their belief in Sheridan’s activity and energy was justified fully, perhaps to their own discomfort, as the trumpets sounded before dawn, and they ate a hasty breakfast, while the valley was yet dark.  Then they were ordered to saddle and ride at once.

“What, so early?” exclaimed Pennington.  “Why, it’s not daylight yet.  Isn’t this new general of ours overdoing it?”

“We wanted a general who would lead,” said Warner, “and we’ve got him.”

“But a battle a day!  Isn’t that too large an allowance?”

“No.  We’ve a certain number of battles to fight, and the sooner we fight them the sooner the war will be over.”

“Here comes the dawn,” said Dick, “and the bugles are singing to us to march.  It’s the cavalry that are to show the way.”

The long line of horsemen rode on southward, leaving behind them Winchester, the little city that had been beloved of Jackson, and approached the Massanuttons, the bold range that for a while divided the valley into two parts.  The valley was twenty miles wide before they came to the Massanuttons, but after the division the western extension for some distance was not more than four miles across, and it was here that they were going.  At the narrower part, on Fisher’s Hill, Early had strong fortifications, defended by his finest infantry, and Colonel Winchester did not deem it likely that Sheridan would make a frontal attack upon a position so well defended.