“The other side may think they're striking home; too,” said Warner, speaking according to the directness of his dry mathematical mind. “Then I suppose it will be a case of victory for the one that strikes the harder for home.”
“That's a fine old mind of yours. Don't you ever feel any enthusiasm?”
“I do, when the figures warrant it. But I must reckon everything with care before I permit myself to feel joy.”
“I'm glad I'm not like you, Mr. Arithmetic, Mr. Algebra, Mr. Geometry and Mr. Trigonometry.”
“You mustn't make fun of such serious matters, Dick. It would be a noble thing to be the greatest professor of mathematics in the world.”
“Of course, George, but we wouldn't need him at this minute. But here we are back at those cottages in which I saw the Southern officers sheltering themselves. Well, they're ours again and I take it as a good omen.”
“Yes, here we rest, as the French general said, but I don't know that I care about resting much more. I've had about all I want of it.”
Nevertheless they spent the day quietly at the Sulphur Springs, and lay down in peace that night. But the storm cloud, the blackest storm cloud of the whole war so far, was gathering.
Lee, knowing the danger of the junction between Pope and McClellan had resolved to hazard all on a single stroke. He would divide his army. Jackson, so well called “the striking arm,” would pass far around through the maze of hills and mountains and fall like a thunderbolt upon Pope's flank. At the sound of his guns Lee himself would attack in front.
As Dick and his young comrades lay down to sleep this march, the greatest of Stonewall Jackson's famous turning movements, had begun already. Jackson was on his horse, Little Sorrel, his old slouch hat drawn down over his eyes, his head bent forward a little, and the great brain thinking, always thinking. His face was turned to the North.