"The Pennsylvanians are in force to-day—you and I and—"
"Oh, colonels don't count," laughed Penhallow; "but there are Meade,
Hancock, Gregg, Humphreys, Hays, Gibbon, Geary, Crawford—"
Hancock said, "We Pennsylvanians hold the lowest and weakest point of our line—all Pennsylvanians on their own soil."
"Yes, but they will not attack here," said Newton.
"Oh, do you think so?" said Hancock. "Wait a little."
The headquarters' ambulance drove up with further supplies. The chickens were of mature age, but every one was hungry. Cigars and pipes were lighted, and Newton chaffed Gibbon as the arrogant young brigadier in command for the time of Hancock's Corps. The talk soon fell again upon the probabilities of the day. Penhallow listened. Meade grave and silent sat on a cracker-box and ate in an absent way, or scribbled orders, and at last directed that the picked body of men, the provost's guards, should join their regimental commands. About a quarter to noon the generals one by one rode away.
Having no especial duty, Penhallow walked to where on the Crest the eighteen guns were drawn up. The sky was clear as yet, a windless, hot day. Gibbon joined him.
"What next?" said Gibbon, as Penhallow clambered up and stood a tall figure on the limber of one of Cushing's guns, his field glass searching the valley and the enemy's position. "Isn't it like a big chess-board?"
"Yes—their skirmishers look like grey posts, and our own blue. They seem uneasy."
"Aren't they just like pawns in the game!" remarked Captain Haskell of the Staff.