“’Tis retreat; boom goes the avenin’ gun and down comes the flag,” explained Bugler Odell, as if Ned did not know.
But Ned did know, and he nodded to himself; for this was one of the army calls taught him by his father.
The long notes died amidst a dull “Boom!” by the evening gun; and Ned saw the flag slide down the tall pole.
“Faith, we’ll be locked out,” chuckled Odell, as a joke. “The general won’t like that; he’s wantin’ to be home with his wife.”
“Sound the trot,” bade the general, curtly, without turning head.
Bugler Odell did so; and through the clattering column rang the brisk voice of young Captain Hamilton: “Trot—march!” Away they trotted, all, canteens jingling, carbines jolting, saddles creaking, horses grunting. Close before was the sparse timber of the Republican River, flowing from the north; this river they evidently must cross, as the post was upon the other side.
“Give them Garryowen, Hamilton,” called the general. And he added, aside: “Then they’ll have supper hot.”
Captain Hamilton nodded at Bugler Odell; and now as the column was splashing into the ford Odell blew a lively lilt. It was one of the merriest, most stirring tunes that Ned ever had heard, and he resolved to learn it. It put life into the whole column.
“That’s a new wan to ye, I’ll wager,” remarked Odell, having paused as for breath. “’Tis an Irish song that the general likes, and it’s the march o’ the Sivinth Cavalry.”