“Well, we could make up a band of men,” said Sergeant Talley, hesitating, “and go over to the examining officers at the station. A day’s march, maybe.”
“That’s the talk!” said Absalom. “We’ll all go out together. Davy, tell me,” and he turned to him suddenly, “who is it we’re a-fightin’ with?”
And David told him as well as he might, suiting what he said to the understanding of these who heard.
“Give us a day, Sergeant, to fix things up at home,” suggested Joslin now. “We’ll not keep you long.”
“Look at them old guys,” grumbled the smart sergeant to his corporal, aside. “We don’t want them along, but it don’t look like we could head them off.”
The color-bearer picked up his flag once more. The drummer pulled around his slings, and the fifer handled his instrument. The throb of the drum, the high note of the fife, passed down the street to yet another stand. And behind them, ragged, gaunt, unkempt, somewhat uncouth, fell in the band of the lost children, the men of the Cumberlands, now following the Flag, which had so long forgotten them.