Spencer was taken through the rain by the chagrined Captain to the headquarters, where he caused a little embarrassment.  No damning evidence was discovered on his person, for the pistol had long since ceased to be a firearm.  And so after a stiff lecture from the Colonel he was finally given back into the custody of his father.  Despite the pickets, the young men filtered through daily,—­or rather nightly.  Presently some of them began to come back, gaunt and worn and tattered, among the grim cargoes that were landed by the thousands and tens of thousands on the levee.  And they took them (oh, the pity of it!) they took them to Mr. Lynch’s slave pen, turned into a Union prison of detention, where their fathers and grandfathers had been wont to send their disorderly and insubordinate niggers.  They were packed away, as the miserable slaves had been, to taste something of the bitterness of the negro’s lot.  So came Bert Russell to welter in a low room whose walls gave out the stench of years.  How you cooked for them, and schemed for them, and cried for them, you devoted women of the South!  You spent the long hot summer in town, and every day you went with your baskets to Gratiot Street, where the infected old house stands, until—­until one morning a lady walked out past the guard, and down the street.  She was civilly detained at the corner, because she wore army boots.  After that permits were issued.  If you were a young lady of the proper principles in those days, you climbed a steep pair of stairs in the heat, and stood in line until it became your turn to be catechised by an indifferent young officer in blue who sat behind a table and smoked a horrid cigar.  He had little time to be courteous.  He was not to be dazzled by a bright gown or a pretty face; he was indifferent to a smile which would have won a savage.  His duty was to look down into your heart, and extract therefrom the nefarious scheme you had made to set free the man you loved ere he could be sent north to Alton or Columbus.  My dear, you wish to rescue him, to disguise him, send him south by way of Colonel Carvel’s house at Glencoe.  Then he will be killed.  At least, he will have died for the South.

First politics, and then war, and then more politics, in this our country.  Your masterful politician obtains a regiment, and goes to war, sword in hand.  He fights well, but he is still the politician.  It was not a case merely of fighting for the Union, but first of getting permission to fight.  Camp Jackson taken, and the prisoners exchanged south, Captain Lyon; who moved like a whirlwind, who loved the Union beyond his own life, was thrust down again.  A mutual agreement was entered into between the Governor and the old Indian fighter in command of the Western Department, to respect each other.  A trick for the Rebels.  How Lyon chafed, and paced the Arsenal walks while he might have saved the state.  Then two gentlemen went to Washington, and the next thing that happened was Brigadier General Lyon, Commander of the Department of the West.