“Oh, never mind. If it has to be done through the begging of my friends I decline the honor. I don’t know that I’d care to be any kind of a colonel, anyhow. I’d have to pass the boys here, and maybe I’d have to command ’em, which would make ’em feel bad. Old Jack himself might become jealous of me. I guess I’m satisfied as I am.”
“I like the modesty of the South Carolinians, Tom,” said Dalton. “There’s a story going the rounds that you South Carolinians made the war and that we Virginians have got to fight it.”
“There may be such a story. It seems to me that it was whispered to me once, but the internal evidence shows that it was invented by a Virginian. Haven’t I come up here and shed some of my blood and more of my perspiration to save the sacred soil of the Mother of Presidents from invasion? And didn’t I bring with me Arthur St. Clair, the best dressed man in Charleston, for the Yankees to shoot at? Hello, what’s that? This is a day of events!”
Hoots, cat-calls, and derisive yells arose along a long line. A trim young officer on a fine bay horse was riding down a path beside the Opequon. He was as beautifully dressed as St. Clair at his best. His hands were encased in long white buckskin gloves, and long brown mustaches curled beautifully up until they touched either cheek. It was he, this Beau Brummel of the Southern army, who had attracted the attention of irreverent youth. From the shelter of trees and bushes came a chorus of cries:
“Take them mice out o’ your mouth! I know they’re there, ’cause I see their tails stickin’ out!”
“What kind o’ hair oil do you use? I know your head’s oiled, or it wouldn’t shine so.”
“Be sure you keep your gloves on or the sun’ll tan your hands!”
“Oh, my, it’s mother’s pretty boy, goin’ to see his best girl!”
The young officer flushed crimson through his brown, but he knew it was no use to resent the words of his tormentors, and he rode steadily on, looking straight before him.
“That’s Caswell, a Georgian, of Longstreet’s corps,” said Sherburne; “a good soldier and one of the bravest men I ever saw.”
“Which proves,” said St. Clair, in a tone of conviction, “that clothes do help make the man.”
Caswell passed out of sight, pursued by derisive comment, but his place was taken quickly by a new victim. A man of middle age, in civilian clothes, came riding slowly on a fat horse. He was a well-known sutler named Williams and the wild lads did not confine themselves to hidden cries, but rushed from the shelter of trees and bushes, and held up worn articles of apparel, shouting in his ears:
“Hey, Mr. Williams! The soles of these shoes are made of paper, not leather. I bought leather, not paper.”
“What’s the price of blue silk neckties? I’ve got a Yankee sweetheart in New York, and I want to look well when our conquering army marches into that city!”
“A pair of blankets for me, Mr. Williams, to be paid for when we loot the Yankee treasury!”
But Williams was not disconcerted. He was used to such badinage. He spread out his large hands soothingly.
“Boys,” he said, “those shoes wore out so fast because you chased the Yankees so hard. They were made for walking, not for foot races. Why do you want to buy blankets on time when you can get them more cheaply by capturing them from the enemy?”
His answers pleased them, and some one called for three cheers for Williams, which were given with a will, and he rode on, unmolested. But in a few minutes another and greater roar arose. Now it was swelling, continuous, and there was in it no note whatever of criticism or derision. It was made up wholly of affection and admiration, and it rolled in unceasing volume along the stream and through the forest.
The four lads and Sherburne sprang to their feet, shading their eyes with their hands as they looked.