Somehow the halt while he had investigated the grim bayonet rusted with a dead man’s blood, and the hot afternoon, and the pattering footsteps of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte behind him, and the comfortable mother-face of the plump and gentle old lady trotting beside him—they all blurred together, and he knew that he was very tired and wanted to be taken care of.
For a second he was quite sure that he was going to faint with the heat, confessing all the burden of the reaction and his weariness; that he was going to lie down in the shade and just be a tired small boy nursed by a kindly old lady.
Then he straightened himself up and bit his lip till it stung and clutched her soft arm protectingly, while he mumbled:
“Yessum, I’m Jimmie—Battle Jimmie, they call me—and I’ll watch out for you, I will, if any of them blamed Rebs try to get funny with you, ma’am!”
“Oh, you dear boy!” she caroled in a voice that sounded to him like a running brook and a mother-song and a laughing girl, all at once.
And, without ever for a second ceasing her puffing little trot, she leaned over and kissed his tangle of soft red hair.
“I know your grandfather, my dear, and I’m sure you’ll take care of me, because he says you’re a chip of the old block—and I know it, now I’ve seen you.”
“You know—Dad?” he asked in wonder.
“Yes—and now I know Dad’s dear chum and grandson, too,” she answered, laughing. “I’m the Mrs. Sessions you were sent for. At least, I used to be when I knew your grandfather. But for the last month I’ve been Volunteer Nurse Sessions, of the Army of the Potomac. So, you see, we are all three soldiers together: you and I and—Dad!”