He smiled. “Unity, I was thinking.... I have not been a very fortunate soldier. And I used—long ago—to think that I would be.”
“Is there such a thing as a fortunate soldier?”
He smiled again. “That depends.—Is there such a thing as a fortunate war? I don’t know.”
His mother entered the room. “It’s Cousin William, Richard. He wants to come in and talk a little while.”
Cousin William appeared—seventy, and ruddy yet, with a gouty limb and an indomitable spirit. “Ha, Richard! that’s more like! You’re getting colour, and some flesh on your bones! When are you going back to the front?”
“Next week, sir.”
Cousin William laughed. “Well, call it the week after that!” He sat by the couch in the winged chair. The firelight played through the room, lit the two women sitting by the hearth, and the two or three old pictures on the walls. Outside the snow fell slowly, in large, quiet flakes. “Have you had any letters?” asked Cousin William.
Unity answered. “One from Fauquier yesterday. None from Edward for some days. The last was just a line from Columbia written before the troops left the place and Sherman came and burned it. We can’t but feel very anxious.”
But Cousin William could not endure to see Greenwood downcast. “I think you may be certain they are safe.—What did Fauquier say?”
“Just that since Hatcher’s Run there had been comparative inaction. He said that the misery in the trenches was very great, and that day by day the army was dwindling. He said we must be prepared now for the worst.”