At the station a brass band was braying and a brazen-lunged crowd was still cheering, for this was the first of the several troop-trains, bearing drafts of recruits from Cincinnati to the training-camps outside of Washington.
The day was stiflingly hot. The wooden cars were packed to overflowing. When the windows were closed the air promptly became unbreathable. When they were open a whirlwind of soft-coal embers and soot from the gaudy locomotive gushed in.
The recruits, however, were as jubilant as though they were starting on a picnic.
Singly there were choking memories of dear ones left behind, and there was perhaps dread of what might lie before. But collectively all was noisy, even boisterous, gayety.
One car, whose occupants were largely recruited from Cincinnati water-front and similar purlieus, was deafeningly rackety. Songs, cheers, catcalls, horseplay, and the more or less surreptitious circulation of flat, brown flasks were the chief components of the fun.
The officers in charge, acting on a hint from headquarters not to press too heavily the lever of discipline until the recruits should reach the training-camps, did little to suppress the jolly riot in this particular car.
Yet as the racket swelled they exchanged many uneasy looks.
They themselves were for the most part civilians, still new to martial ways and to the handling of men. Wherefore, they had gathered in the officers’ compartment at the forward end of the troop-car, where there was at least breathing room, and left the men pretty much to themselves.
A new-made militia major went through the car, glaring sternly from side to side, at a loss for the exact words wherewith to restore quiet. As he passed there was but slight lessening of the din, and as he entered the officers’ compartment the horseplay broke out afresh.
A drillmaster, ranking as first lieutenant and veteran of the Mexican War, looked up as the major entered.