If you want to get into
the fun for sure--wait. Go to Tampa and wait. You might come here, or go
there, and drill and watch for your chance." Which was the conclusion
Crittenden had already reached for himself.
The sun sank rapidly now. Dusk fell swiftly, and the pines began their
nightly dirge for the many dead who died under them five and thirty
years ago. They had a new and ominous chant now to Crittenden--a chant
of premonition for the strong men about him who were soon to follow
them. Camp-fires began to glow out of the darkness far and near over
the old battlefield.
Around a little fire on top of the hill, and in front of the Colonel's
tent, sat the Colonel, with kind Irish face, Irish eye, and Irish wit of
tongue. Near him the old Indian-fighter, Chaffee, with strong brow, deep
eyes, long jaw, firm mouth, strong chin--the long, lean face of a
thirteenth century monk who was quick to doff cowl for helmet. While
they told war-stories, Crittenden sat in silence with the majors three,
and Willings, the surgeon (whom he was to know better in Cuba), and
listened.
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