“He has neither needle nor thread with which to sew up those holes,” said Langdon, with wicked glee, “and he must go into battle again with a tunic more holy than righteous. It’s been a bad day for clothes.”
“A man doesn’t fight any worse because he’s particular about his uniform, does he?” asked St. Clair.
“You don’t. That’s certain, old fellow,” said Langdon, clapping him on the back. “And just think how much worse it might have been. Those bullets, instead of merely going through your coat sleeve, might have gone through your arm also, shattering every bone in it. Now, Harry, you ride with Old Jack. Tell us what he means to do. Are we going to rest on our rich and numerous laurels, or is it up and after the Yanks hot-foot?”
“He’s not telling me anything,” replied Harry, “but I think it’s safe to predict that we won’t take any long and luxurious rest. Nor will we ever take any long and luxurious rest while we’re led by Stonewall Jackson.”
Jackson marched some distance farther toward Strasburg, where the army of Banks, yet unbelieving, lay, and as the night was coming on thick and black with clouds, went into camp. But among their captured stores they had ample food now, and tents and blankets to protect themselves from the promised rain.
The Acadians, who were wonderful cooks, showed great culinary skill as well as martial courage. They were becoming general favorites, and they prepared all sorts of appetizing dishes, which they shared freely with the Virginians, the Georgians and the others. Then the irrepressible band began. In the fire-lighted woods and on the ground yet stained by the red of battle, it played quaint old tunes, waltzes and polkas and roundelays, and once more the stalwart Pierres and Raouls and Luciens and Etiennes, clasping one another in their arms, whirled in wild dances before the fires.
The heavy clouds opened bye and bye, and then all save the sentinels fled to shelter. Harry and Dalton, who had been watching the dancing, went to a small tent which had been erected for themselves and two more. Next to it was a tent yet smaller, occupied by the commander-in-chief, and as they passed by it they heard low but solemn tones lifted in invocation to God. Harry could not keep from taking one fleeting glance. He saw Jackson on his knees, and then he went quickly on.
The other two officers had not yet come, and Dalton and he were alone in the tent. It was too dark inside for Harry to see Dalton’s face, but he knew that his comrade, too, had seen and heard.
“It will be hard to beat a general who prays,” said Dalton. “Some of our men laugh at Jackson’s praying, but I’ve always heard that the Puritans, whether in England or America, were a stern lot to face.”
“The enemy at least won’t laugh at him. I’ve heard that they had great fun deriding a praying professor of mathematics, but I fancy they’ve quit it. If they haven’t they’ll do so when they hear of Front Royal.”
The tent was pitched on the bare ground, but they had obtained four planks, every one about a foot wide and six feet or so long. They were sufficient to protect them from the rain which would run under the tent and soak into the ground. Harry had long since learned that a tent and a mere strip of plank were a great luxury, and now he appreciated them at their full value.
He wrapped himself in the invaluable cloak, stretched his weary body upon his own particular plank, and was soon asleep. He was awakened in the night by a low droning sound. He did not move on his plank, but lay until his eyes became used partially to the darkness. Then he saw two other figures also wrapped in their cloaks and stretched on their planks, dusky and motionless. But the fourth figure was kneeling on his plank and Harry saw that it was Dalton, praying even as Stonewall Jackson had prayed.
Then Harry shut his eyes. He was not devout himself, but in the darkness of the night, with the rain beating a tattoo on the canvas walls of the tent, he felt very solemn. This was war, red war, and he was in the midst of it. War meant destruction, wounds, agony and death. He might never again see Pendleton and his father and his aunt and his cousin, Dick Mason, and Dr. Russell and all his boyhood and school friends. It was no wonder that George Dalton prayed. He ought to be praying himself, and lying there and not stirring he said under his breath a simple prayer that his mother had taught him when he was yet a little child.