It was mid-May now, and the leaves were full and their points were
drooping toward the earth. The woods were musical with the cries of
blackbirds as Crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was
sweet with the love-calls of larks. The sun was fast nearing the zenith,
and air and earth were lusty with life. Already the lane, lined with
locust-trees, brambles, wild rose-bushes, and young elders, was fragrant
with the promise of unborn flowers, and the turnpike, when he neared
town, was soft with the dust of many a hoof and wheel that had passed
over it toward the haze of smoke which rose over the first recruiting
camp in the State for the Spanish war. There was a big crowd in the
lovely woodland over which hung the haze, and the music of horn and drum
came forth to Crittenden's ears even that far away, and Raincrow raised
head and tail and quickened his pace proudly.
For a week he had drilled at Chickamauga. He had done the work of a
plain soldier, and he liked it--liked his temporary comrades, who were
frankly men to men with him, in spite of his friendship with their
superiors on top of the hill. To the big soldier, Abe Long, the wag of
the regiment, he had been drawn with genuine affection. He liked Abe's
bunkie, the boy Sanders, who was from Maine, while Abe was a
Westerner--the lineal descendant in frame, cast of mind, and character
of the border backwoodsman of the Revolution. Reynolds was a bully, and
Crittenden all but had trouble with him; for he bullied the boy Sanders
when Abe was not around, and bullied the "rookies." Abe seemed to have
little use for him, but as he had saved the big soldier's life once in
an Indian fight, Abe stuck to him, in consequence, loyally. But
Blackford, the man who had been an officer once, had interested him
most; perhaps, because Blackford showed peculiar friendliness for him at
once. From Washington, Crittenden had heard not a word; nor from General
Carter, who had left Chickamauga before he could see him again. If,
within two days more, no word came, Crittenden had made up his mind to
go to Tampa, where the little General was, and where Rivers's regiment
had been ordered, and drill again and, as Rivers advised, await his
chance.
The camp was like some great picnic or political barbecue, with the
smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton
left out. Everywhere country folks were gathering up fragments of lunch
on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or
stopping before the Colonel's pavilion to look upon the martial young
gentlemen who composed his staff, their beautiful horses, and the
Colonel's beautiful guests from the river city--the big town of the
State. Everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step,
to be sure, but with eyes anywhere but to the front; groups lying on the
ground, chewing blades of bluegrass, watching pretty girls pass, and
lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight,
throwing dice or playing "craps"--the game dear to the darkey's heart.
On the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitor, but not
very stern sentinels were they. As Crittenden drove in, he saw one
pacing a shady beat with a girl on his arm. And later, as he stood by
his buggy, looking around with an amused sense of the playful contrast
it all was to what he had seen at Chickamauga, he saw another sentinel
brought to a sudden halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was
being shown through the camp by a strutting lieutenant. The sentinel was
Basil and Phyllis was the girl.