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.