“Are any men killed?” the Bishop asked before Jeffrey had time to speak as they met.
“Old Erskine Beasley was shot through the chest––we don’t know how bad it is,” said Jeffrey, stopping short. “Ten other men are wounded. I don’t think any of them are bad.”
“Call in your men,” said the Bishop briefly. “The soldiers are going back.”
At Jeffrey’s call the men came running from all sides as he and the Bishop reached the line. Haggard, ragged, powder-grimed they gathered round, staring in dull unbelief at this new appearance of the White Horse Chaplain, for so one and all they knew and remembered him. Men who had seen him years ago at Fort Fisher slipped back into the scene of that day and looked about blankly for the white horse. And young men who had heard that tale many times and had seen and heard of his coming through the fire to French Village stared round-eyed at him. What did this coming mean?
He told them shortly the terms that Clifford W. Stanton, their enemy, was willing to make with them. And in the end he added:
“You have only my word that these things will be done as I say. I believe. If you believe, you will take your horses and get back to your families at once.”
Then, in the weakness and reaction of relief, the men for the first time knew what they had been through. Their knees gave under them. They tried to cheer, but could raise only a croaking quaver. Many who had thought never to see loved ones again burst out sobbing and crying over the names of those they were saved to.
The Bishop, taking Jeffrey Whiting with him, walked slowly back down the roadbed. Suddenly Jeffrey remembered something that had gone completely out of his mind in these last hours.
“Bishop,” he stammered, “that day––that day in court. I––I said you lied. Now I know you didn’t. You told the truth, of course.”