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.