“I’m sorry for—hic—for that; for I wanted to appoint you a division chaplain, to preach against whiskey to the general officers. Some of them are—hic—drunken fellows, and no more fit for a command than the old topers in the streets of Richmond.”
“I am sorry I am not competent to fill the office; but I think, if you should lecture them yourself, it would have a better effect.”
“My words are—hic—powerless. They laugh when I talk to them about the error of their ways,” added he with a string of oaths, which seemed to exhibit a further necessity for a chaplain on the division staff.
“I beg your pardon, sir; but I am afraid your interest in the moral welfare of your officers——”
“That is it, young man!” interrupted the drunken general, catching at his idea with remarkable promptness. “My interest in the moral welfare of my—hic—of my officers! You are a trump, young man [big oath]. You are a major now?”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir; nothing but a private.”
“Then you shall be a captain. I haven’t heard any such—hic—sentiments as you expressed used in this division before. You ought to be a—hic—a brigadier-general.”
“Thank you, sir. You are very kind. I came to you for instructions in regard to my mission over to the enemy.”