Altsheler, Joseph A. – Civil War 03. Chapter 11, 12
CHAPTER XI. THE NIGHT RIDE
Harry was back with the general in a few hours, but now he was allowed a little time for himself. It seemed to occur suddenly to Jackson that the members of his staff, especially the more youthful ones, could not march and fight more than two or three days without food and rest.
“You’ve done well, Harry,” he said-he was beginning to call the boy by his first name.
The words of praise were brief, and they were spoken in a dry tone, but they set Harry’s blood aflame. He had been praised by Stonewall Jackson, the man who considered an ordinary human being’s best not more than third rate. Harry, like all the others in the valley army, saw that Jackson was setting a new standard in warfare.
Tremendously elated he started in search of his friends. He found the Invincibles, that is, all who were left alive, stretched flat upon their sides or backs in the orchard. It seemed to him that St. Clair and Langdon had not moved a hair’s breadth since he had seen them there before. But their faces were not so white now. Color was coming back.
He put the toe of his boot against Langdon’s side and shoved gently but firmly. Langdon awoke and sat up indignantly.
“How dare you, Harry Kenton, disturb a gentleman who is occupied with his much-needed slumbers?” he asked.
“General Jackson wants you.”
“Old Jack wants me! Now, what under the sun can he want with me?”
“He wants you to take some cavalry, gallop to Washington, go all around the city, inspect all its earthworks and report back here by nightfall.”
“You’re making that up, Harry; but for God’s sake don’t make that suggestion to Old Jack. He’d send me on that trip sure, and then have me hanged as an example in front of the whole army, when I failed.”
“I won’t say anything about it.”
“You’re a bright boy, Harry, and you’re learning fast. But things could be a lot worse. We could have been licked instead of licking the enemy. I could be dead instead of lying here on the grass, tired but alive. But, Harry, I’m growing old fast.”
“How old are you, Tom?”
“Last week I was nineteen, to-day I’m ninety-nine, and if this sort of thing keeps up I’ll be a hundred and ninety-nine next week.”
St. Clair also awoke and sat up. In some miraculous manner he had restored his uniform to order and he was as neat and precise as usual.
“You two talk too much,” he said. “I was in the middle of a beautiful dream, when I heard you chattering away.”
“What was your dream, Arthur?” asked Harry.
“I was in St. Andrew’s Hall in Charleston, dancing with the most beautiful girl you ever saw. I don’t know who she was, I didn’t identify her in my dream. There were lots of other beautiful girls there dancing with fellows like myself, and the roses were everywhere, and the music rose and fell like the song of angels, and I was so happy and-I awoke to find myself here on a hillside with a ragged army that’s been marching and fighting for days and weeks, and which, for all I know, will keep it up for years and years longer.”
“I’ve a piece of advice for you, Arthur,” said Langdon.
“What is it?”
“Quit dreaming. It’s a bad habit, especially when you’re in war. The dream is sure to be better than the real thing. You won’t be dancing again in Charleston for a long time, nor will I. All those beautiful girls you were dreaming about but couldn’t name will be without partners until we’re a lot older than we are now.”
Langdon spoke with a seriousness very uncommon in him, and lay back again on the ground, where he began to chew a grass stem meditatively.
“Go back to sleep, boys, you’ll need it,” said Harry lightly. “Our next march is to be a thousand miles, and we’re to have a battle at every milestone.”
“You mean that as a joke, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it came true,” said Langdon, as he closed his eyes again.