I retired to rest, but at three in the morning felt a hand upon my shoulder.
“The general is going to move, colonel, and wishes to see you,” said the orderly.
I rose, made my brief toilet, and went toward Stuart’s tent where a light was shining. He was writing busily at his desk, as fresh and gay as on the preceding evening. His enormous constitution defied fatigue.
All at once I saw that there was another personage in the tent. He was a young man of about twenty, of slight figure, beardless face, and an expression so shy and retiring that he seemed ready to blush if you spoke to him. He wore, nevertheless, the uniform of a captain of artillery; and I remember wondering how this girlish and shrinking personage, with the large, sad eyes, had come to hold a commission.
“Captain Davenant, of my horse artillery, Colonel Surry,” said Stuart.
The youth colored, and then with an air of painful embarrassment took a step forward and pressed my hand. The grasp of the slender fingers was like the grip of a steel vice.
“Davenant has been on a scout across the Rappahannock, to keep his hand in,” said Stuart, busily writing. “My horse artillery boys do a little of every thing—and Davenant is a wild-cat, Surry, with a touch of the bull dog, in spite of his looks!”
The young officer drew back blushing more than ever at these words. His confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance.
“I’ll bet he’s blushing now!” said Stuart, laughing and continuing to write with his back turned, as he spoke. “He is blushing or sighing—for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!”
“You are laughing at me, general,” said the young man timidly. “Well, my laughter won’t hurt you, Davenant. I never joke with people I don’t like. But to business. The enemy are going to attack me, Surry. Get ready, I am going to move.”
“Ready, general.”
“All right!—Hagan!”
“General!”
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