“I was thinking,” said he, “of that time my horse was shot and pinned me by the leg in the fight on the Tombigbee. Do you recall how you sprang from your saddle and flung the dying horse aside as though you but hefted a rabbit?”
“When it comes to that,” I returned, “I supposed that you as well as your horse were shot down, and the fear gave me a flash of strength.”
The General was silent, his hand still on my shoulder. Then he began again, musingly.
“We must ever be together, Major,” said he; “we must stay together to the last. I shall die first; I am eighteen years nearer the grave than you and shall go on ahead. It is you—I look to you for this—it is you who must be by my side to close my eyes. We must never part; we are lonely men and lonesome men, and shall make no new friends. We must be for that the closer to each other.”
Now, even through my clouds, these words would strike me as lacking object or coherency. What should be the matter? Was there some wrong with him or with me? He had not spoken in this vein even when he lay in the vale of death.
“Why,” said I, “there is no present need to talk on death, thank God! Why should you talk on death?”
“It was not death but you, I had on my mind,” he replied. “I would never be parted from you.”
“Nor shall you,” I declared; “although I should count the absence of myself no loss to you or any one.”
This was not it; what would he be about?
“Well, let us put aside dole,” cried he, cheering himself with an effort; “now folk would call us two fortunate, I warrant you, to be looking from a White House window upon a world all ours. Come, we will have a brisker view; I have great news for you, and news to make you stare. Nor will I beat about the bush, but go to the heart at once. I am about to dissolve my cabinet.”