A messenger rode into the camp of the crippled Third with a led horse.
"Captain Windham?"
"Here."
"Order of ——; relieved indefinitely. Will take this horse—report at division headquarters," and the messenger clattered away. Mavering jumped to his feet.
"I'll trade you."
"Quite the contrary, you will not."
Mavering grumbled and went back to his copy.
"It's that elegant comedy last night. Poor boy! Ruined! Ruined!"
Gard rode down the road that led from the village to the creek. The centre of Wednesday's fight had been here, but the fighting must have been mainly on the wings. There were signs of heavy artillery work, but little else. Beyond the bridge was a large house on the hill, with a white picket fence around it. From the hill he could look up the winding creek, and see the bluffs, the sloped fields and ploughed ground of Wednesday's charges and retreats, the Dunker church against the woods. Some men in front of the house directed him to take the right fork of the road. The sun was low, the day-moon like a white scallop of cloud. He found the headquarters a half-mile beyond, a small brick house, distinguished by the number of saddled horses fastened at the fence, and within the general, a familiar figure enough, with his red face and white whiskers, a hot-tempered man and well beloved, now puffing a cigar and quite self-controlled.
"Captain Windham."