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.