Some of the soldiers gathered wood from heaps nearby and fires were
kindled in the kitchen, and also on the hearths in the slave quarters.
Colonel Winchester had been truly called the father of his regiment.
He was invariably particular about its health and comfort, and, as he
always led it in person in battle, there was no finer body of men in the
Union service.

Now he meant for his men to have coffee, and warm food after this long
and trying ride and soon savory odors arose, although the cooking was not
begun until after dark, lest the smoke carry a signal to a lurking enemy.
The cavalrymen cut the thick grass which grew everywhere, and fed it to
their horses, eight hundred massive jaws munching in content. The beasts
stirred but little after their long ride and now and then one uttered a
satisfied groan.

The officers drank their coffee and ate their food on the eastern piazza,
which overlooked a sharp dip toward a creek three or four hundred yards
away. The night had rushed down suddenly after the fashion of the far
South, and from the creek they heard faintly the hoarse frogs calling.
Beyond the grounds a close ring of sentinels watched, because Colonel
Winchester had no mind to be surprised again by Forrest or by Fighting
Joe Wheeler or anybody else.

The night was thick and dark and moist with clouds. Dick, despite the
peace that seemed to hang over everything, was oppressed. The desolate
house, even more than the sight of the field after the battle was over,
brought home to him the meaning of war. It was not alone the death
of men but the uprooting of a country for their children and their
children's children as well. Then his mind traveled back to his uncle,