He knew that the most of the Southern scouts and skirmishers were as wary
as the Indians that once hunted in these woods, and that, unless he used
extreme care, he was not likely to get past them.
He came at last to a point where he lay down flat on his stomach and
wormed himself along, keeping in the thickest shadow of woods and bushes.
The night was bright, and although his own body was blended with the
ground, he could see well about him. The sergeant was a very patient
man. Life as a lumberman and then as a soldier on the plains had taught
him to look where he was crawling. He spent a full hour worming himself
up to the crest of that ridge and a little way down on the other side.
In the course of the last fifteen minutes he passed directly between two
alert and vigilant Southern pickets. They looked his way several times,
but the sergeant was so much in harmony with the color scheme of the
earth on which he crept, that no blame lay upon them for not seeing him.
The sergeant was already hearing with his own ears. He heard these
pickets and others talking in low voices of the Northern army and of
their own.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367