Jackson walked off erectly—not a waver, not a limp, between his second and his surgeon. Dickinson’s eyes followed him, and the agony of his failure entered with the agony of his fate.
“Are you wounded, General?” asked the surgeon.
“O, he pinked me a little,” said Jackson, walking rapidly on to his horse as he felt the blood rising in his boot leg. “But don’t let them know; don’t let them know,” he added fiercely.
Overton had walked back to Dickinson and now came up. He said quietly:
“We can retire now, General. He will not trouble you any more.”
They rode back to the Inn. A negro woman was churning in the yard beneath the cool trees. Loss of blood made Jackson thirsty.
“Can you give me a dipper of buttermilk?” he asked her.
She pushed back with her dasher the forming globules of butter and dipped for the milk. For the first time Jackson unbuttoned his top button and looked at his shirt. It was crimson. The woman glanced up.
“My God, marster, are you hurt?”
Jackson smiled and drank the milk at a quaff. Then he walked into his room with his surgeon.