Company B, in a new manner, admired its captain and the extraordinary correspondent, while they recited Brutus and Ca.s.sius with mellow mouthings, and after gave impromptu dialogues between a Dunker advocating the use of apples with Biblical extracts, and the general of division, explosive, impatient, dropping oaths like solid round shot.

Other men left their own camp-fires and crowded the road. Some officers sat on the fence and applauded. The distant crack of the pickets' rifles was sometimes heard, stabbing blindly at the night. The stars were brilliant and the slim moon was in the south.

Friday morning it was rumored that the enemy had slipped away in the night, and gone across the Potomac again; that the general of division had been heard putting violent terms to the name of his chief for committing all the sins of omission which man could commit, seeing his aides' enjoyment of which language he had reddened and set his grim mouth. The fields beyond the wood, at least, were empty, and the village among the hills. One could walk abroad without being shot at from the bushes where those scarlet berries grew.

The crippled Third, with its odds and ends of companies, moved as far as the village, now turned a bustling hospital, and heard big guns booming again south of the Potomac. There it was that Mavering wrote that sketch of red death and amputation which his paper expurgated before publishing, to Mavering's disgust. "As fine a bit of realism as was ever done! And look at it, butchered to make a civilian holiday!" He read the first draft to Gard.

"I'll trade my job for yours, Jack."

"Quite the contrary"--Mavering altered an adjective in his copy--"you will not."

A messenger rode into the camp of the crippled Third with a led horse.

"Captain Windham?"

"Here."

"Order of ----; relieved indefinitely. Will take this horse--report at division headquarters," and the messenger clattered away. Mavering jumped to his feet.

"I'll trade you."

"Quite the contrary, you will not."

Mavering grumbled and went back to his copy.

"It's that elegant comedy last night. Poor boy! Ruined! Ruined!"

Gard rode down the road that led from the village to the creek. The centre of Wednesday's fight had been here, but the fighting must have been mainly on the wings. There were signs of heavy artillery work, but little else. Beyond the bridge was a large house on the hill, with a white picket fence around it. From the hill he could look up the winding creek, and see the bluffs, the sloped fields and ploughed ground of Wednesday's charges and retreats, the Dunker church against the woods.

Some men in front of the house directed him to take the right fork of the road. The sun was low, the day-moon like a white scallop of cloud.

He found the headquarters a half-mile beyond, a small brick house, distinguished by the number of saddled horses fastened at the fence, and within the general, a familiar figure enough, with his red face and white whiskers, a hot-tempered man and well beloved, now puffing a cigar and quite self-controlled.

"Captain Windham."

"Gentlemen!" cried the general, "will you allow me--I want to see this man," and they were presently alone.

The general leaned back and looked at Gard critically. He began:

"Captain Windham--mm--these theatrical performances by officers for the entertainment of privates--umm--this disgraceful mimicry of--mm--myself--this disrespect leading to insubordination--"

"I beg your pardon, sir. It was not intended--"

"I was about to say," thundered the general, "when you interrupted me, that I don't believe the commander-in-chief would approve. Personally.

I'd have given something to be there. I have about me, I believe, another cigar. Sit down."

He spoke in a jerky way, coming down on selected words with emphasis.

"I have need of a particular kind of a man. It occurs to me you may be that kind--mm--a certain _variety_, perhaps, of talent. It's a bit of secret service. _Well_, now look here. It is this. The War Department wants private information about the actual effective _numbers_--if possible--and _condition_, of the enemy--at present. I will tell you more. The estimates that come to it from the commander-in-chief are--I quote the word--'_contradictory_.' It is _suspected_ that those estimates depend--I still quote--'on the _impression_ that gentleman wishes to make on the department or the public.' The suspicion may be wrong; or it may be that a change is going to be made in commanders; or, at _any rate_, 'before issuing a definite order to the present commander'--it needs information independent of the regular source.

_Do_ you understand?"

"So far as you've gone, sir."

"Oh--mm--exactly. That's right. No doubt it is procuring other sources.

That's no business of ours. I've been asked--_confidentially_--to furnish one source--mm--The impersonation of Dunker elders and generals of divisions implies--mm--also I know your record--mm--_Captain Windham_, I am at the present moment guilty of insubordination and treachery to my superior officer. I am also giving away what amounts perhaps to a state secret. I am doing so--for the reason--that your discretion must be relied on, anyway, and you cannot understand too clearly the point to be gained. This information must reach either _me_, or the _department_ directly--preferably the latter--and _no one else_.

You see the point?"

"Yes, sir."

"Preferably the latter. I needn't be connected with it hereafter--would rather not be."

"I see."

"Very good. This information should be had as soon as possible. In case you have to send a _message_, this paper contains a code, simple enough. The meaning depends on the position of the words. You can apparently mean anything you choose. Learn, and destroy paper. So much for _that_. Your name will be known at the department. You are at your own disposition till the thing is done. There are no directions.

Now--one moment--this map. Lee and Longstreet are probably here.

Somebody is, anyway. Jackson is G.o.d knows where--possibly there. If so, he'll be somewhere else to-morrow. Here's your pa.s.s. Any questions?"

"No, sir."

"That's all, then. You may go--mm--Captain Windham--some time I should like to see the impersonation of a general of division in a state of excitement. Hem! hem! Good-day, sir."

Gard galloped through the little village in the dusk, looking for Mavering, and found the fields beyond empty. The brigade was gone, the Third gone with it.

"I can't chase after him all night," he thought, impatiently. "Why doesn't he stay where he'd be useful?"

He caught sight of a horse fastened to a maple-tree up the road.

Mavering lay on his back under the maple, smoking.

"Get up. Come along."

"This cigar is the worst--"

"Get on your horse. I want you."

"What do I care what you want? I was about to say, this cigar is the--"

"Throw it away, then."

Mavering unfolded his legs and mounted, grumbling.

"You're the blankedest, most egotistic anchorite that ever petted his soul, not to say dosed it allopathically with wars and red rebellions.

One question: Is there any copy in this?"

"Not a word."

"Just what I thought. Wherever a man goes he finds selfishness."

They turned into the northern road, clattered past the cornfield and the church. Gard continued: "One of those Dunker farmers lives up here half a mile. I want his clothes, his expression, and his language, and his theology--the whole outfit."

"Going to steal his most intimate properties. Blanked immoral thing to do. All right, go on."