Harry was awakened at the first shoot of dawn by the sound of trumpets. It was now approaching the last of May and the cold nights had long since passed. A warm sun was fast showing its edge in the east, and, bathing his face at a brook and snatching a little breakfast, he was ready. Stonewall Jackson was already up, and his colored servant was holding Little Sorrel for him.
The army was fast forming into line, the new men of Ewell resolved to become as famous foot cavalry as those who had been with Jackson all along. Ewell himself, full of enthusiasm and already devoted to his chief, was riding among them, and whenever he spoke to one of them he cocked his head on one side in the peculiar manner that was habitual with him. Now and then, as the sun grew warmer, he took off his hat and his bald head gleamed under the yellow rays.
“Which way do you think we're going?” said the young staff officer, George Dalton, to Harry—Dalton was a quiet youth with a good deal of the Puritan about him and Harry liked him.
“I'm not thinking about it at all,” replied Harry with a laugh. “I've quit trying to guess what our general is going to do, but I fancy that he means to lead us against the enemy. He has the numbers now.”
“I suppose you're right,” said Dalton. “I've been trying to guess all along, but I think I'll give it up now and merely follow where the general leads.”
The bugles blew, the troops rapidly fell into line and marched northward along the turnpike, the Creole band began to play again one of those lilting waltz tunes, and the speed of the men increased, their feet rising and falling swiftly to the rhythm of the galloping air. Jackson, who was near the head of the column, looked back and Harry saw a faint smile pass over his grim face. He saw the value of the music.
“I never heard such airs in our Presbyterian church,” said Dalton to Harry.
“But this isn't a church.”
“No, it isn't, but those Creole tunes suit here. They put fresh life into me.”
“Same here. And they help the men, too. Look how gay they are.”