rifted gently into slumber,
into a deep dreamless sleep.

The old negro looked at him, aged face wrinkled in compassion.

"Po' li'l sodger boy," he muttered. "Done gib me fo' dollahs.
Lor' Gor' a'mighty! Spec' Mars Linkum's men is all richer'n ole
Miss."

He cast another glance at the sleeping man, then picked up the
worn, muddy boots, threw the soiled jacket and breeches over his
arm, and shuffled off, shaking his grizzled head.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was still dark when he awoke with a violent start, dreaming of
loud trumpets, and found himself sitting upright on his cot,
staring into obscurity.

Outside on the veranda a multitude of heavy steps echoed and
re-echoed over the creaking boards; spurs clinked, sabres dragged
and clanked; a man's harsh, nasal voice sounded irritably at
intervals:

"We're not an army--we're not yet an army; that's what's the
matter. You can't erect an army by uniforming and drilling a few
hundred thousand clerks and farmers. You can't manufacture an army
by brigading regiments--by creating divisions and forming army
corps. There is only one thing on God's long-enduring earth that
can transform this mob of State troops into a National
army--discipline!--and that takes time; and we've got to take it
and let experience kick us out of one battle into another. And
some day we'll wake up to find ourselves a real army, with real
departments, really controlled and in actual and practical working
order. Now it's every department for itself and God help General
McClellan! He has my sympathy! He has a dirty job on his hands
half done, and they won't let him finish it!"

And again the same impatient voice broke out contemptuously:

"War? These two years haven't been two years of war! They've been
two years of a noisy, gaudy, rough and tumble! Bull Run was _opera
bouffe_! The rest of it has been one fantastic and bloody
carnival! Did anybody ever before see such a grandmother's rag bag
of uniforms in an American army! What in hell do we want of
zouaves in French uniforms, cavalry, armed with Austrian lances,
ridiculous rocket-batteries, Polish riders, Hungarian hussars,
grenadiers, mounted rifles, militia and volunteers in every garb,
carrying every arm ever created by foreign armourers and military
tailors! . . . But I rather guess that the fancy-dress-ball era is
just about over. I've a notion that we're coming down to the
old-fashioned army blue again. And the sooner