Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [75]
Mira stood back, smiled through red eyes, said, “Gentlemen, we have a great deal more wine.”
The men began to loosen again, and Armistead raised his free hand, said, “No, wait. I have a special presentation to make.” The men quieted again, and Armistead turned to Hancock and held out the hanger. Hancock took the cloth bag, slid it from around the contents, saw: Armistead’s uniform.
“Captain Hancock, it is the sincerest wish and boldest prediction of those present that you will not remain a captain forever. In anticipation of the army’s wisdom, and in the interest of eliminating the normal administrative delays, I present you with the uniform of a major. Congratulations in advance.”
There was applause, and Hancock ran his hand over the blue cloth, saw the gold oak leaf on the shoulder, looked at Armistead, who held up a glass of wine and nodded slightly. Hancock smiled and looked at Mira, who applauded as well, and he moved forward, closer to the men, and joined the party.
IT WAS close to midnight.
“Gentlemen, another toast, to our hostess.” “Yes! Hear! Hear!”
Mira had finished her work, had let the empty platters and used glasses gather in the kitchen. Her only distraction now was the children, and she slipped away, back to their room, checking, astonished at the soundness of their sleep, what with the noise from the front of the house. She watched the angelic faces, thought, We will pay for this in the morning, probably very early in the morning.
She went back to the front room, saw the door opened, men saluting with a drunken stagger, laughing and good humor, and the party grew smaller, then smaller again.
There had been piano playing earlier, lively songs and bad singing, and Mira had been right, the men had taken over, some reminiscing about old drinking halls and indiscreet women, brought to life again with poor examples of musical skill.
There were only a few remaining. Johnston sat in the corner, propped up by a firm grip on an empty wineglass, nodding peacefully to the conversation of the others, betrayed only when he could not rise to salute departing guests.
Hancock was closing the door, moved toward the wine bottle, and now Mira saw Armistead across the room, watching him. They had not spoken, had not been together all night, and she knew it would come, that it was too close, too deep to share with the others. Then she remembered, turned quickly and went back to the kitchen. She reached behind the cloth curtain of a high cupboard, brought out a straw basket, white linen, a soft cradle for the batch of cookies. She carried them gently, moved back toward the party, and Armistead was waiting for her.
“I wondered how long it would take.”
“You knew I made these?”
“I smelled them the minute I entered the house. You live around soldiers as long as I have, the smell of anything else is a piece of heaven.” She pulled back the flap of linen, and he reached in,
grabbed one, stuffed it in his mouth, then grabbed a handful, counted the remainder.
“Hmm, there’s . . . six more. Two for Win, two for you . . .” He glanced over his shoulder, saw no one else worthy. “I guess the last two are for me.” He reached for a cloth napkin, wrapped his treasure gently, pulled a small parcel from his coat pocket, making room for the feast. He held the parcel up, stared at it, said slowly, serious now, “My dear Mrs. Hancock, I have something for you. I would be honored if you would be the caretaker of this. . . .” He handed her the parcel, wrapped in layers of white tissue, tied with a small string. “There are some things I wish you to keep. Please . . . would you see to it that this be given to my family . . . in the event I do not survive this war?”
“Certainly, Lewis.” She took the parcel, looked at him, thought, He is not drunk. She had watched him sip from a single glass of wine for over an hour.
“Lewis . . . when are you two going to talk?