“Halt!” I heard; and I literally almost tumbled off my horse, pleased to see the last of him.
“This way, sir,” said McLane. “Here is my tent. There is a flask under the pine-needles. I have no feather-bed to offer. Get an hour’s rest; it is all you can have just now. When I find out the headquarters, you must ride again.” And he was gone.
I found a jug of water and a towel; but my attempts to get the blood and mud out of my hair and neck were quite vain. I gave it up at last. Then I nearly emptied the flask which McLane had left me, set my sack under my head, pulled up a blanket, and in a minute was out of the world of war and sound asleep.
I do not know how long my slumber lasted on my fragrant bed of pine. I heard a voice say, “Are you dead, man?” And shaken roughly, I sat up, confused, and for a moment wondering where I was.
“Come,” said McLane. “Oh, leave your sack.”
“No,” I said, not caring to explain why.
In a moment I was in the saddle, as fresh as need be, the cool October night-wind in my face.
“Where are we bound?” I asked.
“Headquarters. I want you to tell your own news. Hang the man!” We had knocked down a lurching drunkard, but McLane stayed to ask no questions, and in a half-hour we pulled up in the glare of a huge fire, around which lay aides, some asleep and others smoking. A few yards away was a row of tents.
McLane looked about him. “Holloa, Hamilton!” he cried to a slight young man lying at the fire. “Tell his Excellency I am here. I have news of importance.”