Crittenden

Some days later a bugle blast started Crittenden from a soldier's cot,

when the flaps of his tent were yellow with the rising sun. Peeping

between them, he saw that only one tent was open. Rivers, as

acting-quartermaster, had been up long ago and gone. That blast was

meant for the private at the foot of the hill, and Crittenden went back

to his cot and slept on.

The day before he had swept out of the hills again--out through a

blossoming storm of dogwood--but this time southward bound.

Incidentally, he would see unveiled these statues that Kentucky was

going to dedicate to her Federal and Confederate dead. He would find his

father's old comrade--little Jerry Carter--and secure a commission, if

possible. Meanwhile, he would drill with Rivers's regiment, as a soldier

of the line.

At sunset he swept into the glory of a Southern spring and the hallowed

haze of an old battlefield where certain gallant Americans once fought

certain other gallant Americans fiercely forward and back over some six

thousand acres of creek-bottom and wooded hills, and where Uncle Sam was

pitching tents for his war-children--children, too--some of them--of

those old enemies, but ready to fight together now, and as near shoulder

to shoulder as the modern line of battle will allow.

Rivers, bronzed, quick-tempered, and of superb physique, met him at the

station.

"You'll come right out to camp with me."

The town was thronged. There were gray slouched hats everywhere with

little brass crosses pinned to them--tiny rifles, sabres,

cannon--crosses that were not symbols of religion, unless this was a

time when the Master's coming meant the sword. Under them were soldiers

with big pistols and belts of big, gleaming cartridges--soldiers, white

and black, everywhere--swaggering, ogling, and loud of voice, but all

good-natured, orderly.

Inside the hotel the lobby was full of officers in uniform, scanning the

yellow bulletin-boards, writing letters, chatting in groups; gray

veterans of horse, foot, and artillery; company officers in from Western

service--quiet young men with bronzed faces and keen eyes, like

Rivers's--renewing old friendships and swapping experiences on the

plains; subalterns down to the last graduating class from West Point

with slim waists, fresh faces, and nothing to swap yet but memories of

the old school on the Hudson. In there he saw Grafton again and

Lieutenant Sharpe, of the Tenth Colored Cavalry, whom he had seen in the

Bluegrass, and Rivers introduced him. He was surprised that Rivers,

though a Southerner, had so little feeling on the question of negro

soldiers; that many officers in the negro regiments were Southern; that

Southerners were preferred because they understood the black man, and,

for that reason, could better handle him. Sharpe presented both to his

father, Colonel Sharpe, of the infantry, who was taking credit to

himself, that, for the first time in his life, he allowed his band to

play "Dixie" in camp after the Southerners in Congress had risen up and

voted millions for the national defence. Colonel Sharpe spoke with some

bitterness and Crittenden wondered. He never dreamed that there was any

bitterness on the other side--why? How could a victor feel bitterness

for a fallen foe? It was the one word he heard or was to hear about the

old war from Federal or ex-Confederate. Indeed, he mistook a short,

stout, careless appointee, Major Billings, with his negro servant, his

Southern mustache and goatee and his pompous ways, for a genuine

Southerner, and the Major, though from Vermont, seemed pleased.