And so, half dazed and half dreaming, and yet half alive to its realization, they flocked around the old warrior, and they would not have been at all surprised had he told them he came from another world.
Some thought of Mars. Some thought of death and his white horse. Some felt of the animal's mane and touched his streaming flanks and cordy legs to see if it were really a horse and not an apparition, while “What is it?” and “Who is he?” was whispered down the lines.
Then the old rider spoke for the first time, and said simply:
“Men, I have come to lead you in.”
A mighty shout came up. “It's General Lee!—he has come to lead us in,” they shouted.
“No, no, men,”—said the old warrior quickly. “I am not General Lee. But I have led Southern troops before. I was at New Orleans. I was—”
“It's Ole Hick'ry—by the eternal!—Ole Hick'ry—and he's come back to life to lead us!” shouted a big fellow as he threw his hat in the air.
“Ole Hickory! Ole Hickory!” echoed and re-echoed down the lines, till it reached the ears of the dying soldiers in the ditch itself, and many a poor, brave fellow, as his heart strings snapped and the broken chord gurgled out into the dying moan, saw amid the blaze and light of the new life, the apparition turn into a reality and a smile of exquisite satisfaction was forever frozen on his face in the mould of death, as he whispered with his last breath:
“It's Old Hickory—my General—I have fought a good fight—I come!”
Then the old warrior smiled—a smile of simple beauty and grandeur, of keen satisfaction that such an honor should have been paid him, and he tried to speak to correct them. But they shouted the more, and drowned out his voice and would not have it otherwise. Despairing, he rode to the front and drew his long, heavy, old, revolutionary sword. It flashed in the air. It came to “attention”—and then a dead silence followed.