“I heard your voice, Brereton, so knew you were waking. Well, Billy, how does the patient?”
“Pohly, massa, pohly. De doctor say de ku’nel ’ud do fus-class ef he only would n’t wherrit so, but he do nothin’ but toss an’ act rambunctious, an’ dat keep de wound fretted an’ him feverish.”
“And fret I will,” came a voice from the bed, “till I’ve done with this feather-bed coddling and am allowed to take my share of the work and privation.”
“Nay, my boy,” said Washington, coming to the bedside and laying his hand kindly on Jack’s shoulder; “there is naught to be done, and you are well out of it. Give the wound its chance to heal.”
Brereton gave a flounce. “Do, in the name of mercy, Billy, get me a glass of water,” he begged querulously. Then, after the black had departed, he asked: “What has Congress done?”
“They have voted Gates president of the Board of War, with almost plenary powers.”
“A fit reward for his holding back until too late the troops that would have put us, and not the British, in Philadelphia this winter. You won’t let their ill-treatment force you into a resignation, sir?”
“I have put my hand to the plough and shall ne’er turn back. If I leave the cause, it will be by their act and not mine.
“Congress may hamper and slight you, sir, but will not dare to supersede you, for very fear of their own constituents. The people trust you, if the politicians don’t.”
“Set your mind on more quieting things, Brereton,” advised Washington, taking the young fellow’s hand affectionately. “May you have a restful night.”