Crittenden

There was little perceptible change in the American officer and

soldier, now that the work was about actually to begin. A little more

soberness was apparent. Everyone was still simple, natural,

matter-of-fact. But that night, doubtless, each man dreamed his dream.

The West Point stripling saw in his empty shoulder-straps a single bar,

as the man above him saw two tiny bars where he had been so proud of

one. The Captain led a battalion, the Major charged at the head of a

thousand strong; the Colonel plucked a star, and the Brigadier heard the

tramp of hosts behind him. And who knows how many bold spirits leaped at

once that night from acorns to stars; and if there was not more than one

who saw himself the war-god of the anxious nation behind--saw, maybe,

even the doors of the White House swing open at the conquering sound of

his coming feet. And, through the dreams of all, waved aimlessly the

mighty wand of the blind master--Fate--giving death to a passion for

glory here; disappointment bitter as death to a noble ambition there;

and there giving unsought fame where was indifference to death; and

then, to lend substance to the phantom of just deserts, giving a mortal

here and there the exact fulfilment of his dream.

Two toasts were drunk that night--one by the men who were to lead the

Rough Riders of the West.

"May the war last till each man meets death, wears a wound, or wins

himself better spurs."

And, in the hold of the same ship, another in whiskey from a tin cup

between two comrades: "Bunkie," said Blackford, to a dare-devil like himself, "welcome to the

Spanish bullet that knocks for entrance here"--tapping his heart. Basil

struck the cup from his hand, and Blackford swore, laughed, and put his

arm around the boy.