“He might have been in a better business, taking part in a common brawl with a common Yankee.”
“But, sir, while I may be common, I’m not a Yankee. I was born and grew up south of the Ohio River in Kentucky.”
“Then you’re a traitor. All you Kentuckians ought to be fighting with us.”
“Difference of opinion, but I hope your nephew is well.”
The deep eyes under the thick white thatch glared in a manner that Dick considered wholly unnecessary. But Colonel Woodville made no reply, merely turning his face to the wall as if he were weary.
Dick hurried into the hall, closing the door gently behind him. The others, not missing him, were already some yards away, and he quickly rejoined Pennington and Warner. The younger men would have been glad to leave the house, but Colonel Winchester’s blood was up, and he was resolved to stay. The little party was eight in number, and they were soon quartered in four rooms on the lower floor. Miss Woodville promptly disappeared, and one of the camp cooks arrived with supplies, which he took to the kitchen.
Dick and Warner were in one of the rooms, and, removing their belts and coats, they made themselves easy. It was a large bedroom with high ceilings and wicker furniture. There were several good paintings on the walls and a bookcase contained Walter Scott’s novels and many of the eighteenth century classics.
“I think this must have been a guest chamber,” said Dick, “but for us coming from the rain and mud it’s a real palace.”
“Then it’s fulfilling its true function,” said Warner, “because it has guests now. What a strange household! Did you ever see such a peppery pair as that swearing old colonel and his acid daughter?”
“I don’t know that I blame them. I think, sometimes, George, that you New Englanders are the most selfish of people. You’re too truly righteous. You’re always denouncing the faults of others, but you never see any of your own. Away back in the Revolution when Boston called, the Southern provinces came to her help, but Boston and New England have spent a large part of their time since then denouncing the South.”
“What’s struck you, Dick? Are you weakening in the good cause?”
“Not for a moment. But suppose Mississippi troops walked into your own father’s house in Vermont, and, as conquerors, demanded food and shelter! Would you rejoice over them, and ask them why they hadn’t come sooner?”
“I suppose not, Dick. But, stop it, and come back to your normal temperature. I won’t quarrel with you.”
“I won’t give you a chance, George. I’m through. But remember that while I’m red hot for the Union, I was born south of the Ohio River myself, and I have lots of sympathy for the people against whom I’m fighting.”
“For the matter of that, so’ve I, Dick, and I was born north of the Ohio River. But I’m getting tremendously hungry. I hope that cook will hurry.”
They were called soon, and eight officers sat at the table. The cook himself served them. Miss Woodville had vanished, and not a servant was visible about the great house. Despite their hunger and the good quality of the food the group felt constraint. The feeling that they were intruders, in a sense brigands, was forced upon them. Dick was sure that the old man with the great bald head was swearing fiercely and incessantly under his breath.
The dining-room was a large and splendid apartment, and the silver still lay upon the great mahogany sideboard. The little city, now the camp of an overwhelming army, had settled into silence, and the twilight was coming.
With the chill of unwelcome still upon them the officers said little. As the twilight deepened Warner lighted several candles. The silver glittered under the flame. Colonel Winchester presently ordered the cook to take a plate of the most delicate food to Colonel Woodville.
As the cook withdrew on his mission he left open the door of the dining-room and they heard the sound of a voice, uplifted in a thunderous roar. The cook hurried back, the untouched plate in his hand and his face a little pale.