‘No, no, let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.' ''
''That's very interesting, sir,'' Jackson said. ''That must have been Stonewall Jackson, sir.''
The Colonel started to speak but he stopped while it hit him the third time and gripped him so he knew he could not live.
''Jackson,'' the Colonel said. ''Pull up at the side of the road and cut to your parking lights.
Do you know the way to Trieste from here?''
''Yes, sir, I have my map.''
''Good.
I'm now going to get into the large back seat of this god-damned, over-sized luxurious automobile.''
That was the last thing the Colonel ever said.
But he made the back seat all right and he shut the door.
He shut it carefully and well.
After a while Jackson drove the car down the ditch and willow lined road with the car's big lights on, looking for a place to turn.
He found one, finally, and turned carefully.
When he was on the right-hand side of the road, facing south toward the road juncture that would put him on the highway that led to Trieste, the one he was familiar with, he put his map light on and took out the order blank and read:
IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH THE WRAPPED PAINTING AND THE TWO SHOTGUNS IN THIS CAR WILL BE RETURNED TO THE HOTEL GRITTI VENICE WHERE THEY WILL BE CLAIMED BY THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNER SIGNED RICHARD CANTWELL, COL., INFANTRY, U.S.A.
''They'll return them all right, through channels,'' Jackson thought, and put the car in gear.