They were wholly unlike Virginians and Kentuckians. They had black eyes and hair, and their naturally dark faces were burned yet darker by the sun of the Gulf. Yet the dark eyes were bright and gay, sparkling with kindliness and the love of pleasure. The guitars and banjos were playing some wailing tune, with a note of sadness in the core of it so keen and penetrating that it made the water come to Harry’s eyes. But it changed suddenly to something that had all the sway and lilt of the rosy South. Men sprang to their feet and clasping arms about one another began to sway back and forth in the waltz and the polka.
Harry watched with mingled amazement and pleasure. Most of the South was religious and devout. The Virginians of the valley were nearly all staunch Presbyterians, and Stonewall Jackson, staunchest of them all, never wanted to fight on Sunday. The boy himself had been reared in a stern Methodist faith, and the lightness in this French blood of the South was new to him. But it pleased him to see them sing and dance, and he found no wrong in it, although he could not have done it himself.
Captain Morton noticed Harry’s close attention and he read his mind.
“They surprised me, too, at first,” he said, “but they’re fine soldiers, and they’ve put cheer into this army many a time when it needed it most. Taylor, their commander, is a West Pointer and he’s got them into wonderful trim. They’re well clothed and well shod. They never straggle and they’re just about the best marchers we have. They’ll soon be rated high among Jackson’s foot cavalry.”
Harry left the Acadians with reluctance, and when he made the round of the camp General Ewell, who had finished the conference, told him that he would have no message to send that night to Jackson. He might go to sleep, but the whole division would march early in the morning. Harry wrapped himself again in his cloak, found a place soft with moss under a tree, and slept with the soft May wind playing over his face and lulling him to deeper slumber.
He rode the next morning with General Ewell and the whole division to join Jackson’s army. It was a trim body of men, well clad, fresh and strong, and they marched swiftly along the turnpike, on both sides of which Jackson was encamped further on.
Harry felt a personal pride in being with Ewell when the junction was to be made. He felt that, in a sense, he was leading in this great reinforcement himself, and he looked back with intense satisfaction at the powerful column marching so swiftly along the turnpike.
They came late in the day to Jackson’s pickets, and then they saw his army, scattered through the fields on either side of the road.
Harry rejoiced once more in the grand appearance of the new division. Every coat or tunic sat straight. Every shoe-lace was tied, and they marched with the beautiful, even step of soldiers on parade. They were to encamp beyond Jackson’s old army, and as they passed along the turnpike it was lined on either side by Jackson’s own men, cheering with vigor.
The colonel who was in immediate charge of the encampment, a man who had never seen General Jackson, asked Harry where he might find him. Harry pointed to a man sitting on the top rail of a fence beside the road.
“But I asked for General Jackson,” said the colonel.
“That’s General Jackson.”
The colonel approached and saluted. General Jackson’s clothes were soiled and dusty. His feet, encased in cavalry boots that reached beyond the knees, rested upon a lower rail of the fence. A worn cap with a dented visor almost covered his eyes. The rest of his face was concealed by a heavy, dark beard.
“General Jackson, I believe,” said the officer, saluting.
“Yes. How far have those men marched?” The voice was kindly and approving.
“We’ve come twenty-six miles, sir.”
“Good. And I see no stragglers.”
“We allow no stragglers.”
“Better still. I haven’t been able to keep my own men from straggling, and you’ll have to teach them.”