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"Tell him to come here." Deaderick came. The gold in this open place, before the clear west, was very light and fine. It illuminated. Also the place was a little withdrawn, no one very near, and by comparison with the tornado which had raged, the stillness seemed complete. The gunner stood before the general, quiet, steady-eyed, broad-browed.
The aureate light, streaming on, beat full upon the howitzer and on the living and unwounded of its men. Stonewall Jackson spoke to an aide. "Tell the captain of the battery that I should like to speak to him." The captain came. "Captain, what is the name of the gunner there? The one by the limber with his head turned away." The captain looked. "Deaderick, sir. Philip Deaderick."
"I've been right sick for a year or more, sir. I got a blow on the head in a saw mill on Briony Creek and it made me just as useless as a bit of pith. The doctor says I am all right now, sir. I got tired of staying on Briony " "Do you know anything about guns?" "I know all about a shotgun. I could learn the other." "What's your name?" "Philip Deaderick."
He learned that gun same as though they grew artillery wherever he came from. Briery Creek No, Briony Creek hey, Deaderick?" "Briony Creek." Stafford dropped his hand. "Who spoke?" The question had been breathed, not loudly uttered. No one answered. The gunners continued their movements about the guns, stooping, handling, lifting themselves upright.
"Philip Deaderick. When did he volunteer?" The other considered. "I think, general, it was just before Sharpsburg. It was just after the battle of Groveton, sir." "Sharpsburg! I remember now. So he rejoined at Manassas." "He hadn't been in earlier, sir. He had an accident, he said. He's a fine soldier, but he's a silent kind of a man. He keeps to himself. He won't take promotion."
In one of the latter times he said there was something he was trying to remember. There followed a half-hour of broken sleep and wandering, in the course of which he twice spoke a name, "Deaderick." Once he said "Horse Artillery," and once "White Oak Swamp."
He felt that the eyes of the gunner with the sponge staff were on him, had been on him for some time. Quite involuntarily he moved, with a sudden gesture, as though he evaded a blow. A sergeant's voice came through the twilight, the wind and the rain. "Deaderick!" The man by the gun moved, took up the sponge staff that had rested beside him, turned in the darkness and went away.
In the east were red streaks, one above another. The day was coming up, clear and cold. Pelham's guns, crowning a little eminence, showed distinct against the colour. Stonewall Jackson rode by, and, with a face that was a study, a gunner named Deaderick watched him pass. All this day these two armies stood and faced each other. There was sharpshooting, there was skirmishing, but no full attack.
This was the lone tree hill above Greenwood, and a November day, though gold-touched, and Philip Deaderick must get back to the section of Pelham's artillery refitting at Gordonsville. "What do you mean? You are a soldier you are back in the army? but you have another name? Oh, Richard, I see, I see! Oh, I might have known! A gunner with Pelham.
The flames leaped and made the place ruddy as a jewel. Jackson entered, an aide behind him. "Find out if a soldier named Deaderick is here." The soldier named Deaderick appeared. Jackson nodded to the aide who withdrew, then crossing to the fire, he seated himself upon a log. It was late; far and wide the troops lay sleeping. A pale moon looked down; somewhere off in the distance an owl hooted.
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