“I’ll bet he’s blushing now!” said Stuart, laughing and continuing to write with his back turned, as he spoke. “He is blushing or sighing—for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!”
“You are laughing at me, general,” said the young man timidly. “Well, my laughter won’t hurt you, Davenant. I never joke with people I don’t like. But to business. The enemy are going to attack me, Surry. Get ready, I am going to move.”
“Ready, general.”
“All right!—Hagan!”
“General!”
The voice came like an echo. Then at the door appeared the gigantic, black-bearded Lieutenant Hagan, chief of the general’s escort. Have you forgotten him, my dear reader?—his huge figure, his mighty beard, the deep thunder of his tones? I showed you the brave soldier in 1861 and ‘62. In 1863 his beard was heavier, his voice more like thunder—when the giant walked along he seemed to shake the ground.
“I am going to move in half an hour, Hagan,” said Stuart, still writing busily. “Head-quarters will be established on Fleetwood Hill, beyond Brandy; my horse!”
Hagan saluted and vanished without uttering a word. In five minutes the camp was buzzing, and “Lady Margaret” was led up.
“Come on, Surry! Come on, Davenant! I will beat you to the Court-House!”
And Stuart buckled on his sword, drew on his gauntlets, and mounted his horse. I was beside him. Not to be ready when Stuart was—was to be left behind. He waited for nobody. His staff soon learned that.