He knew that they would follow, hang on
persistently, but he had supreme confidence in the speed and strength of
his horse, and youth rode triumphant. It was youth more than anything
else that made him raise himself a little in his saddle, look back to his
pursuers and fling to them a long, taunting cry, just as Henry Ware more
than once had taunted his Indian pursuers before disappearing in a flight
that their swiftest warriors could not match.
But the little band of Union troopers clung to the chase. They too
had good horses, and they knew that the man before them was a Southern
messenger, and in those hot July days of 1863 all military messages
carried on the roads north of the Potomac were important. The fate of an
army or a nation might turn upon any one of them, and the lieutenant who
led the little Union troop was aware of it. He was a man of intelligence
and a consuming desire to overtake the lone horseman lay hold of him.
He knew, as well as any general, that since Gettysburg the fate of the
South was verily trembling in the balance, and the slightest weight
somewhere might decide the scales. So he resolved to hang on through
everything and the chances were in his favor. It was his own country.
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