Stephen stood among the angry, jeering crowd that lined the streets as the regiments marched past.  Here were the ‘Black Jaegers.’  No wonder the crowd laughed.  Their step was not as steady, nor their files as straight as Company A. There was Richter, his head high, his blue eyes defiant.  And there was little Tiefel marching in that place of second lieutenant that Stephen himself should have filled.  Here was another company, and at the end of the first four, big Tom Catherwood.  His father had disowned him the day before, His two brothers, George and little Spencer, were in a house not far away—­a house from which a strange flag drooped.

Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephen threaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in his very soul.  He went past the house where the strange flag hung against its staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged.  The house was thrown wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men of honored families.  And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankee cowardice they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult to the strange banner that they had set up.  In the hall, through the open doorway, the mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen.  The guardians were the Minute Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of the state of Missouri.

Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people, and among these Stephen paused.  Two young men were standing on the steps, and one was Clarence Colfax.  His hands were in his pockets, and a careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into the street.  Stephen caught that smile.  Anger swept over him in a hot flame, as at the slave auction years agone.  That was the unquenchable fire of the war.  The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,—­and yet he stopped.

What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement before that house?

CHAPTER XVII

CAMP JACKSON

What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861!  Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is gathering there.  Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction.

Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the strange flag leaps wildly in the wind this day.

On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands are playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited chargers.  One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies often in their Sunday clothes.  But they walk with heads erect and chests out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them.  Here are the aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington Guards and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and Davis Guards.  Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday.  And the colors are the Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed.