DAD subconsciously recalled what the captain had said about his company taking their noon rest a half-mile beyond.
A cavalry company at that, from the captain’s uniform and saber. Probably one of the many small bodies of horse thrown out to guard the rear of Lee’s army and to forage.
At any moment some of the men in search of their leader might come down the winding path that led from their temporary bivouac to the hillock.
Yet Dad hated to leave temporarily helpless a man whom he himself had crippled. He hesitated.
“I—I suppose I am your prisoner, suh?” muttered the captain.
“You surrender?”
“I’m afraid I’ve no alternative. You have me at your mercy. And this confounded hand and arm are torturing me. They’re useless. I surrender.”
“Good,” sighed Dad, in genuine relief.
He was very tired. He wanted to sit down somewhere and get back his breath and his sorely overtaxed strength.
“There is my sword, on the grass yonder,” went on the Southerner. “It is yours by right of war.”