Confederate States of America. Army -- Fiction; Historical fiction; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
They had what she called “tisane” for dinner—“tisane” with hard-tack
crumbled in. A drummer-boy, straying by, was given his share. They sat
on billets of wood underneath the hop-vine, ate and drank and were
happy. The boy was fourteen and small for his age. He had a shock of
sunburnt hair and a happy, freckled face, and he said that he hoped
the war would never stop. When every crumb and drop was gone, he
volunteered to “wash up,” and went whistling down to Little
Pumpkin-Vine with the tin cups and spoons and small, black kettle.
Other soldiers strayed past the cabin. An orderly appeared, sent by
officers’ mess of the ——th Virginia. He bore, together with enquiries
and messages, to-morrow’s rations. A picket detail went marching over
the hilltop. About three o’clock came a clattering of horses’ hoofs.
The hill was a fair post of observation, and here was the commanding
general with his staff. All stopped beneath the pine; Johnston pointed
with his hand, now here, now there; his chief of staff beside him
nodding comprehension.
Then the General, dismounting, came over to the cabin. “No, no! don’t
stand!” he said to Edward. “I only want to ask Mrs. Cary for a cup of
water. How is the wound to-day?”
“Very much better, sir. I’ll report for duty presently.”
“Don’t hurry,” said Johnston, with kindness. “It’s a mistake to get
well too quickly.” He had much warm magnetism, tenderness with
illness, an affectionate deference always toward women. He took the
cup of water from Désirée, thanked her, and said that evidently the
campaign had not harmed her. “Women always were the best soldiers.”
General Mackall had ridden up. “There’s many a true word said in
jest,” he remarked.
“I didn’t say it in jest, sir,” said Johnston. He mounted and gathered
up the reins, an erect and soldierly figure. “General Hood,” he said,
“is moving from Allatoona, and I have ordered Hardee’s corps back from
the Dallas and Atlanta road. There may come a general battle on this
ground. If it arrives, my dear,”—he spoke to Désirée,—“you apply for
an ambulance and leave this cabin!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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