As he plunged into the warm water and dried himself upon the fresh linen
she had left, he heard the sound of passing feet in the broad hall, and
from the outside kitchen there floated a savoury smell that reminded him of
Chericoke at the supper hour. With the bath and the clean clothes his old
instincts revived within him, and as he looked into the glass he caught
something of the likeness of his college days. Beau Montjoy was not starved
out after all, he thought with a laugh, he was only plastered over with
malaria and dirt.
For three days he remained in the big brick house lying at ease upon a sofa
in the library, or listening to the tragic voice of the mother who talked
of her only son. When she questioned him about Pickett's charge, he raised
himself on his pillows and talked excitedly, his face flushing as if from
fever.
"Your son was with Armistead," he said, "and they all went down like
heroes. I can see old Armistead now with his hat on his sword's point as he
waved to us through the smoke. 'Who will follow me, boys?' he cried, and
the next instant dashed straight on the defences. When he got to the second
line there were only six men with him, beside Colonel Martin, and your son
was one of them. My God! it was worth living to die like that."
"And it is worth living to have a son die like that," she added, and wept
softly in the stillness.
The next morning he went on again despite her prayers.
Pages:
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468