him call out,
"Volunteers is what we are. That means we serve at our own pleasure.
Well, I'm not volunteering for any more."

A chorus--"Right!" "Yeah!" "Me neither!" "That's telling 'em!"--rose all
around Raoul, maddening him as a swarm of biting flies would madden a
horse.

He saw a familiar stoop-shouldered back in the crowd--Justus Bennett.
Ever since Old Man's Creek, Bennett had been whining about the fine suit
of clothes and the two expensive law books he'd lost, demanding that the
state of Illinois pay for them. Now he was standing here, encouraging
would-be deserters just by listening to them.

Raoul grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around. "You're a lawyer. You
know damned well this meeting is illegal. Get over there with Pope and
Hode, or you're no more a lieutenant in my battalion."

Bennett stared back at him with beady eyes. "That's immaterial, seeing
as we're all going home."

"No one's going home," said Raoul, loud enough to make the men around
him turn to look. "Get the hell back to your outfit."

He gave Bennett a shove. The lawyer glowered at him, but slunk away.

Raoul pushed his way to the front of the crowd. The men fell back,
making way for his blue jacket with its officer's gold stripes. But the
sun beat down on his head. He realized that he had forgotten to put on
his hat, and he wasn't shaved and his jacket was unbuttoned.

And, nothing. Hell, he could handle men. He didn't have to dress up for
that. He drew his knife and faced the man on the barrel.

"Get down off there."

"Now listen, Colonel, this is a public meeting."

Raoul waved the knife. "You've had your say. Jump."

The man stared defiantly at Raoul. Raoul thought he might have to cut
him up a little, and wondered if he was up to it. The man's eyes wavered
from Raoul's down to the thirteen-inch blade. And he jumped.

But he wasn't quite done talking. "It's a free country, Colonel. Man's
got a right to speak his mind."

Raoul said, "Tell that to Black Hawk."

He wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, but he heard several
chuckles and was encouraged.

He scrambled up on the three-foot-high barrel. It rocked under him, and
the dregs of whiskey sloshing around in his body made him feel dizzy. He
decided, after he got his feet set near the rim of the barrel, that he
would be safer if he sheathed his knife.

"You men's term of enlistment is not up. Any man who won't cross that
river is a coward and a deserter, and I'