She remembered Lot's wife, but could not resist the temptation to take a one backward look.She saw as grand a landscape picture as the world affords.
Serenely throned upon the hill that dominated the whole of the lovely valley of the Cumberland, stood the beautiful Capitol of Tennessee.
Ionic porticos and graceful Corinthian columns of dazzling white limestone rose hundreds of feet above the fountains and magnolia-shaded terraces that crowned the hill--still more hundreds of feet above the densely packed roofs and spires of the city crowded upon the hill's rocky sides.It was like some fine and pure old Greek temple, standing on a romantic headland, far above the murk and toil of sordid striving.But over the symmetrical pile floated a banner that meant to the world all that was signified even by the banners which Greece folded and laid away in eternal rest thousands of years ago.
At the foot of the hill the Cumberland, clear as when it descended from its mountains five hundred miles away, flowed between its high, straight walls of limestone, spanned by cobweb-like bridges, and bore on its untroubled breast a great fleet of high-chimneyed, white-sided transports, and black, sullen gunboats.Miles away to her left she saw the trains rushing into Nashville, unrolling as they came along black and white ribbons against the sky.
"They're coming from the North," she said, with an involuntary sigh; "they're coming from home."She touched her mare's flank with the whip and sped on.
She soon reached the outer line of guards, by whom she was halted, with a demand for her pass.
She produced the one furnished her, which was signed by Gen.
Rosencrans.While the Sergeant was inspecting it it occured to her that now was the time to begin the role of a young woman with rebellious proclivities.
"Is this the last guard-line I will have to pass?" she asked.
"Yes'm," answered the Sergeant.
"You're quite sure?"
"Yes'm."
"Then I won't have any further use for this--thing?" indicating the pass, which she received back with fine loathing, as if it were something infectious.
"No'm."
"Quite sure?"
"Yes'm, quite sure."
She rode over to the fire around which part of the guard were sitting, held the pass over it by the extremest tips of her dainty thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it upon the coals, as if it were a rag from a small-pox hospital.Glancing at her finger-tips an instant, as if they had been permanently contaminated by the scrawl of the Yankee General, she touched her nag, and was off like an arrow without so much as good day to the guards.
"She-cesh--clean to her blessed little toe-nails," said the Sergeant, gazing after her meditatively, as he fished around in his pouch for a handful of Kinnikinnick, to replenish his pipe, "and she's purtier'n a picture, too.""Them's the kind that's always the wust Rebels," said the oracle of the squad, from his seat by the fire."I'll bet she's just loaded down with information or ouinine.Mebbe both."She was now fairly in the enemy's country, and her heart beat faster in momentary expectation of encountering some form of the perils abounding there.But she became calm, almost joyous, as she passed through mile after mile of tranquil landscape.The war might as well have been on the other side of the Atlantic for any hint she now saw of it in the peaceful, sun-lit fields and woods, and streams of crystal spring-water.She saw women busily engaged in their morning work about all the cabins and houses.With bare and sinewy arms they beat up and down in tiresomely monotonous stroke the long-handled dashers of cedar churns standing in the wide, open "entries" of the "double-houses;" they arrayed their well-scalded milk crocks and jars where the sun's rays would still further sweeten them; they plied swift shuttles in the weaving sheds; they toiled over great, hemispherical kettles of dye-stuffs or soap, swinging from poles over open fires in the yard; they spread out long webs of jeans and linen on the grass to dry or bleach, and all the while they sang--sang the measured rhythm of familiar hymns in the high soprano of white women--sang wild, plaintive lyrics in the liquid contralto of negresses.Men were repairing fences, and doing other Winter work in the fields, and from the woods came the ringing staccato of choppers.She met on the road leisurely-traveling negro women, who louted low to her, and then as she passed, turn to gaze after her with feminine analysis and admiration for every detail of her attire.Then came "Uncle Tom" looking men, driving wagons loaded with newly-riven rails, breathing the virile pungency of freshly-cut oak.Occasionally an old white man or woman rode by, greeting her with a courteous "Howdy?"The serenity everywhere intoxicated her with a half-belief that the terrible Rebel army at Murfreesboro was only a nightmare of fear-oppressed brains, and in her relief she was ready to burst out in echo of a triumphant hymn ringing from a weaving-shed at her right.
Her impulse was checked by seeing approach a figure harshly dissonant to Arcadian surroundings.
It was a young man riding a powerful roan horse at an easy gallop, and carrying in his hand, ready for instant use, a 16-shooting Henry rifle.He was evidently a scout, but, as was usual with that class, his uniform was so equally made up of blue and gray that it was impossible to tell to which side he belonged.He reined up as he saw Rachel, and looked at her for a moment in a way that chilled her.They were now on a lonely bit of road, out of sight and hearing of any person or house.All a woman's fears rose up in her heart, but she shut her lips firmly, and rode directly toward the scout.Another thought seemed to enter his mind, he touched his horse up with his heel, and rode by her, saying courteously:
