"I do not care," said the wounded boy, with a sigh. "Can't you suppress this somehow?"
"The bleeding?" asked Stark, anxiously. "Why, I thought I had."
"No,—the whole business. I don't want mother to know I'm hurt."
Stark scratched a match and looked at his watch. Just twenty-five minutes past eleven. In half an hour, as Upton said, the army would be astir and moving. There would be many another name added to the list before the setting of another sun. Already, North and South, the papers were ablaze with tidings of that misguided "reconnoissance in force" toward Blackburn's Ford, which had felled some sixty men on each side, sent Tyler's men back to Centreville disgusted, and inspired those of Longstreet and Ewell with a craze of undeserved triumph. By two o'clock in the morning the column of Hunter and Heintzelman would be crossing that guarded bridge on the way to the upper ford, but they would not wish to be burdened with wounded and prisoners when going into action. The battalion would undoubtedly be ordered to join its own regiment as it came tramping along. The general might extract from these prisoners information which would be of value. Stark's mind was made up quickly. A lieutenant and half a dozen men were selected as guards, another six to carry the mattress and wounded prisoner. Lieutenant Payne was given his choice of the captured horses while Stark wrote brief report of the affair. In ten minutes everybody was ready. Still bound with bed-cords, the three silent rebs were bidden to fall in, and then for the first time did Stark open his lips to his orderly since the brief words at the farm. In the hearing of half his little command, the major turned to where the latter stood, silent and a trifle awed and wearied.
"Lawton," said he, "I send you back to the general with this party for two reasons: first, because you know the way and can guide them; second, because you made to-night the most important capture of the campaign thus far, and I mean that you shall have full credit."
For a minute there wasn't a sound. Snipe felt dizzy with the sense of instant elation, following as it did the languor and depression of the moment before. Then some sympathetic soul among the listeners began a soft clapping of the hands. The example was contagious. Before a repressing word could be heard, the New-Englanders gave vent to their feelings in a volley of hearty, if suppressed applause. The major had to order silence and caution. Then handing a folded paper to his orderly, with a grim smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder, bade him mount and be off, and like a boy in some wild dream, incredulous, unrealizing, yet with a heart throbbing with thankfulness, George Lawton remounted and rode out into the starlight, over the echoing bridge, and took the front of the little detachment, his cheeks, so pale awhile ago, burning now with pride and hope, his thoughts drifting back to mother and the boys. What wouldn't Shorty give to be in his place this night?
An hour later a knot of newspaper correspondents, orderlies, stragglers, and servants clustered about the party as it rested in the starlight in front of an old Virginia homestead. On a bed in the rear room the surgeons had laid the wounded Confederate. In the main room, with two or three of his staff and half a dozen correspondents pencil-driving about him, sat the commanding general. Before him, silent and respectful, stood brown-eyed, long-legged Snipe. The camp lanterns burned brightly on mantel and table. The sound of many voices, low-toned but impatient, came from without. Something had blocked the road in front, and the march of the rear divisions was stayed. The general was vexed, as all could see,—impatient and indignant. But as he read the pencilled lines, handed him by the adjutant-general, something like pleasure shone on his florid, soldierly face.
"You chose the right man, Burnside," he suddenly exclaimed, as he turned to a stalwart, heavily whiskered officer who entered at the moment, clad in a pleated flannel blouse, with heavy riding-boots and breeches. "Look at this," he added, handing up the brief despatch. "I wish I could inject as much sense into some—generals." Then he turned on Snipe, his stern face relaxing:
"You have done admirably, my lad. How old are you?"
For a moment the light went out of Lawton's eyes, giving way to trouble and embarrassment. He twisted his forage-cap in his trembling fingers. At last, huskily, but with reviving hope, he answered.