“We’d just taken the hill,” answered Jimmie, seeking to marshal his facts in correct order. “They were shelling us from a couple of batteries to the left. Some shells burst over us. A piece of one hit you in the head and over you went. Say, but I wished ’most a hundred times that it had been me instead.”
Dad lifted a fractiously unsteady hand to his head. It was swathed in cold, wet cloths.
Jimmie went on:
“They didn’t send us support and we couldn’t hold the hill, but we toted you back with us.”
“The battle?” asked Dad in sudden anxiety.
“It lasted till after dark. We didn’t know who had won. Nobody did.
“But next morning Lee was gone. Helter-skelter back across the Potomac into Virginia again. Invasion busted up for good.
“Some of the fellers say the folks in Washington are giving Little Mac blazes for letting Lee get back safe into Virginia instead of catching him before he could get to the Potomac. But I kind of guess it would have been just a little bit like catching a rattlesnake by the tail.
“Anyhow, campaign’s over, and Johnnie Reb won’t stable his horses in Faneuil Hall this trip. Say, Dad, they’re talking a whole lot about you everywhere—about how you—”
The boy checked himself. Through sheer weakness Dad had fallen asleep.