ness, sickness, clothing grown ragged, shoes between
a laugh and a groan, the snow falling, the wind rising, the day
declining, and misery flapping dark wings above the head of the Army of
the Northwest! Over the troops flowed, resistless, a wave of reaction,
nausea, disappointment, melancholy. The step changed. Toward the foot of
Jersey came another courier. "Yes, sir. On toward New Creek. General
Jackson says, 'Press forward!'"

The Stonewall Brigade tried to obey, and somewhat dismally failed. How
could it quicken step again? Night was coming, the snow was falling,
everybody was sick at heart, hobbling, limping, dog-tired. The _Close
up, men_, the _Get on, men!_ of the officers, thin, like a child's
fretful wail, was taken up by the wind and lost. With Romney well in
sight came a third courier. "General Jackson says, 'Press forward!'--No,
sir. He didn't say anything else. But I've been speaking with a courier
of Ashby's. _He_ says there are three railroad bridges,--one across
Patterson's Creek and two across the river. If they were destroyed the
enemy's communications would be cut. He thinks we're headed that way.
It's miles the other side of Romney." He passed down the column.
"General Jackson says, 'Press forward!'"

_Press forward--Press forward!_ It went like the tolling of a bell, on
and on toward the rear, past the Stonewall Brigade, past the artillery,
on to Loring yet climbing Jersey. Miles beyond Romney! Railroad bridges
to cut!--Frozen creeks, frozen rivers, steel in a world of snow--Kelly
probably already at Cumberland, and Rosecrans beyond at
Wheeling--hunger, cold, winter in the spurs of the Alleghenies, disease,
stragglers, weariness, worn-out shoes, broken-down horses,
disappointment, disillusion, a very, very strange commanding
general--Suddenly confidence, heretofore a somewhat limping attendant of
the army, vanished quite away. The shrill, derisive wind, the grey
wraiths of snow, the dusk of the mountains took her, conveyed her from
sight, and left the Army of the Northwest to the task of following
without her "Fool Tom Jackson."

CHAPTER XIV

THE IRON-CLADS

Miss Lucy Cary, knitting in hand, stood beside the hearth and surveyed
the large Greenwood parlour. "The lining of the window curtains," she
said, "is good, stout, small figured chintz. My mother got it from
England. Four windows--four yards to a side--say thirty-two yards.
That's enough for a dozen good shirts. The damask itself?