Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephen threaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in his very soul. He went past the house where the strange flag hung against its staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged. The house was thrown wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men of honored families. And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankee cowardice they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult to the strange banner that they had set up. In the hall, through the open doorway, the mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen. The guardians were the Minute Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of the state of Missouri.
Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people, and among these Stephen paused. Two young men were standing on the steps, and one was Clarence Colfax. His hands were in his pockets, and a careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into the street. Stephen caught that smile. Anger swept over him in a hot flame, as at the slave auction years agone. That was the unquenchable fire of the war. The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,—and yet he stopped.
What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement before that house?
CHAPTER XVII
CAMP JACKSON
What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861! Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is gathering there. Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction.
Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the strange flag leaps wildly in the wind this day.
On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands are playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited chargers. One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies often in their Sunday clothes. But they walk with heads erect and chests out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them. Here are the aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington Guards and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and Davis Guards. Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday. And the colors are the Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed.
What are they waiting for? Why don't they move? Hark! A clatter and a cloud of dust by the market place, an ecstasy of cheers running in waves the length of the crowd. Make way for the dragoons! Here they come at last, four and four, the horses prancing and dancing and pointing quivering ears at the tossing sea of hats and parasols and ribbons. Maude Catherwood squeezes Virginia's arm. There, riding in front, erect and firm in the saddle, is Captain Clarence Colfax. Virginia is red and white, and red again,—true colors of the Confederacy. How proud she was of him now! How ashamed that she even doubted him! Oh, that was his true calling, a soldier's life. In that moment she saw him at the head of armies, from the South, driving the Yankee hordes northward and still northward until the roar of the lakes warns them of annihilation. She saw his chivalry sparing them. Yes, this is Secession Monday.
Down to a trot they slow, Clarence's black thorough-bred arching his long neck, proud as his master of the squadron which follows, four and four. The square young man of bone and sinew in the first four, whose horse is built like a Crusader's, is George Catherwood. And Eugenie gives a cry and points to the rear where Maurice is riding.