“I was married, sir.”
“A widower? You have children?”
“One son, sir—and one grandson.”
“Grandson!”
“I married at nineteen,” answered Brinton, sorely puzzled at this odd trend of the queries. “My son married at twenty. His son was born since I left Ideala.”
“Colonel Brinton,” resumed Scott, “for the sake of your son, and for the grandson you have never yet seen, I am inclined to be merciful in dealing with you. For insubordination, for insulting the general commanding, for malicious substitution of a verbal dispatch, a court martial would unquestionably condemn you to a long term of imprisonment, if not to death. Are you content to waive court martial and to leave your punishment to my discretion?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Brinton, the reaction and nausea from his recent spree once more dulling his mind almost to coma.
“I—I understand the idea,” he went on sleepily. “You don’t want to make a martyr of me and have the story told all over America. You prefer to kick me out of the army with no fuss and feathers.”
He spoke almost subconsciously, not realizing in his momentary numbness of brain that he was thinking aloud.
Scott’s carefully repressed rage broke its bounds at hearing his motives so mercilessly voiced. Nor did Brinton’s unlucky use of the phrase “fuss and feathers”—Scott’s favorite nickname among his swarm of enemies—soften matters.