et, every blackberry bush and apple tree upon the road
gathered recruits. The halts for no purpose were interminable, the
perpetual _Close up, close up, men!_ of the exasperated officers as
unavailing as the droning in the heat of the burnished June-bugs. The
brigade had no intention of not making known its reluctance to leave
Patterson. It took an hour to make a mile from Winchester. General
Jackson rode down the column on Little Sorrel and said something to the
colonel of each regiment, which something the colonels passed on to the
captains. The next mile was made in half an hour.

The July dust rose from the pike in clouds, hot, choking, thick as the
rain of ash from a volcano. It lay heavy upon coat, cap, haversack, and
knapsack, upon the muskets and upon the colours, drooping in the heat,
drooping at the idea of turning back upon Patterson and going off,
Heaven and Old Joe knew where! Tramp, tramp over the hot pike, sullenly
southward, hot without and hot within! The knapsack was heavy, the
haversack was heavy, the musket was heavy. Sweat ran down from under cap
or felt hat, and made grimy trenches down cheek and chin. The men had
too thick underwear. They carried overcoat and blanket--it was hot, hot,
and every pound like ten! _To keep--to throw away? To keep--to throw
away?_ The beat of feet kept time to that pressing question, and to
_Just marching to be marching!--reckon Old Joe thinks it's fun_, and to
_Where in hell are we going, anyway?_

Through the enormous dust cloud that the army raised the trees of the
valley appeared as brown smudges against an ochreish sky. The farther
hills and the mountains were not seen at all. The stone fences on either
side the road, the blackberry bushes, the elder, the occasional apple or
cherry tree were all but dun lines and blotches. Oh, hot, hot! A man
swung his arm and a rolled overcoat landed in the middle of a briar
patch. A second followed suit--a third, a fourth. A great, raw-boned
fellow from some mountain clearing jerked at the lacing of his shoes and
in a moment was marching barefoot, the offending leather swinging from
his arm. To right and left he found imitators. A corpulent man, a
merchant used to a big chair set in the shady front of a village store,
suffered greatly, pale about the lips, and with his breath coming in
wheezing gasps. His overcoat went first, then his roll of blanket.
Finally he gazed a moment, sorrowfully enough, at his knapsack, then
dropped