"Different? Cherokee women are different? We're all different one way or the other, so what does that have to do with you doctoring on a senior general officer of this here army?" the major asked with slight irritation but more like friendly sparring with words.
Lou looked right and left, then down. "Miss Vann, Sir, she's like Cherokee women; she's strong, mighty strong. She acted like her way was the only way. She told me to doctor General Joe and I did Sir," was the only answer Lou could offer.
"OK, Boy, OK," the major said to Lou, as if to say, "I see, I understand some." He smiled again.
===
The major sat alone again under the sycamore tree on a fine north Georgia fall morning.
He pulled his notebook, again, from his haversack. Turning to where he'd remembered being in the journal, he thumbed through several pages to find the pages he wrote about the Sequatchie Valley raids in fall of last year.
He stopped at a May notation.
"May 1, 1863 - General now Major General. He's the youngest Major General ever commissioned in American history, so says General Whalton."
"May 5 - The new major general made me a major. Said no captain can be a two-star's chief-of-staff, now can they, Solon? More I'm with this man the more respect and regard I have for him. He fights like a hell-yun and has the lightest of hearts. I couldn't serve in this storm with a better man."
Then, "June 29, 1863 - Southeast of Shelbyville, Tenn. Lost thirty-seven men in Shelbyville two days ago. Forrest was the fault. General Joe, me, and 51 troopers with a few foot soldiers of the regiment were to hold Shelbyville bridge over Duck River. Forrest who was, 'he said', a few miles out of town needed it to get his command across. We gave and took the dickens from the Yankees who wanted that bridge. It got down to three choices: we could get killed, surrender or make a jump for it into the river. Had to be twenty feet down and the water was deep and running fast. We jumped. The general was the last in the river. He had to hold on to Augusta's pommel as he kicked and swam and as we bobbed and whirled. I somehow stayed on Carmago. The Yankees were shooting at us from the bank. I take it that 50 to 51 of us went into the Duck River in a jump. 13 made it."
That passage caused the major to pause. He listened for the bird's song. He needed to hear that song, he felt, to get his soul some relief from the hurt. He did not hear anything but the troopers across the way talking. He'd started to find his Sequatchie Valley notes but became engrossed in the Shelbyville scrape. He turned a few more pages and did find the valley notations.