“Sir.”
“The greatest enemy—hic—that the Confederate army has to contend against is whiskey. Yes, sir! whiskey. If the Confederate States of—hic—of America ever win their independence, it will be when the whiskey’s all gone.”
“I am very glad to hear officers of your high rank condemning the practice,” said Somers, alive to the joke of the general’s proceedings, but prudently looking as serious as though it had been a solemn tragedy instead of an awful farce.
“Yes, sir! I’m opposed with all my might to the practice. Yes, sir! Whiskey is the greatest enemy I have on the face of the footstool, young man.”
Somers believed him.
“Always be temperate, young man. You are in the sunshine of—hic—of life. Never drink whiskey. It will ruin your body and soul. Don’t touch it, young man,” added he, as he sank back on the camp-stool, whose center of gravity was nearly destroyed by the shock, and closed his eyes, as if overcome by the potency of his great enemy, which was just then beginning to have its full effect, and which produced a tendency to sleep.
“I will endeavor to profit by your good advice, sir,” said Somers.
“That’s right; do so,” added the general, as he jerked up his head to banish the drowsy god, who was struggling for the possession of his senses. “That will do, young man. You may go now.”
The general, in his drunken stupor, had certainly forgotten the business for which Major Platner had brought him to the division headquarters; and Somers began to fear that he should have no errand that day.
“I beg your pardon, general; but Major Platner was kind enough to say that you had some service for me to perform.”