“Far’well, Dad—you’ll nurver see me aga’in onless I hear you’ve beat little Dinah Mariah—then I’ll come back an’ forgit I urver had a mammy.” He shook his great fist at the man still standing immovable, then: “Come on, Mister-men—Bragg’s a good dog, but Holdfas’ is better.”
And that is how Solomon came into the camp of the Tenth.
He led them to the firing line, where the General suddenly found plenty to do. So much that he forgot Solomon until the brigade went into camp five miles further, on the trail of the retreating enemy. Then Solomon staggered in through the darkness to the camp fire carrying a half dead Confederate on his back. He laid the man down on a bed of leaves near the mess tent of the Tenth. He lifted the helpless head very tenderly and gave him water while the stricken one kept whispering, “Water—more water—for God’s sake—and death!”
The staff had been laughing and swearing before, with tin cups full of mountain whisky. For they were tired, and death had sprung up so often and so suddenly that day from batteries and trenches and mountain gorges; and from still, restful copses of silent woods, peaceful and inviting, until—Spit! Spit!—and the rattlesnake of sharp-shooting rifles spat out the virus which had put comrades and mess-mates to sleep. But now the silence and the night fell from the deep treetops together. That dying man in the camp, that strange, solemn giant of the woods—
The General, his tin cup half emptied, spoke first, in a voice strangely soft, the staff thought, for the old fighter:
“Any kin to you, Solomon—the man there?”
“He’s mighty nigh to me—mighty nigh.”
“Ah—sorry—sorry. And who is he?”
“Jes’ my brother, that’s all.”
“Oh, too bad—sorry—sorry”—and the staff muttered the echo.