Daybreak, and the broad expanse of valley opening away to the south is just lighting up in chill, half-reluctant fashion, as though the night had been far too short or the revels of yester-even far too long.  There is a swish and plash of rapid running waters close at hand, and here and there, where the stream is dammed by rocky ridge, the wisps of fog rise slowly into air, mingling with and adding to the prevailing tone of chilly gray.  Through these fog-wreaths there stands revealed a massive barrier of wooded and rock-ribbed heights, towering aloft and shutting out the eastern sky, all their crests a-swim in floating cloud, all their rugged foothills dotted with the tentage of a sleeping army.  Here, close at hand on the banks of the rushing river, a sentry paces slowly to and fro, the dew dripping from his shouldered musket and beading on his cartridge-box.  The collar of his light-blue overcoat is muffled up about his ears, and his forage cap is pulled far down over his blinking eyes.  As he paces southward he can see along the stream-bed camps and pale-blue ghosts of sentries pacing as wearily as himself in the wan and cheerless light.  Trees are dripping with heavy charge of moisture that the faintest whiff of morning air sends showering on the bank beneath; and a little deluge of the kind coming suddenly down upon this particular sentry as he strolls under the spreading branches serves to augment the expression of general weariness and disgust, which by no means distinguishes him from his more distant fellows, but evokes no further comment than a momentary huddling of head and shoulders into the depths of the blue collar, and the briefest possible mention of the last place of all others one would be apt to connect with cooling showers.  Facing about and slouching along the other way the sentry sees a picture that, had he poetry or love of the grand and beautiful in his soul, would a thousand-fold compensate him for his enforced vigil.  Every moment, as the timid light grows bolder with its reinforcement from the east, there opens a vista before his eyes that few men could look upon unmoved.  To his right the brawling Shenandoah, swift and swirling, goes rushing through its last rapids, as though bent on having one final “hurrah” on its own account before losing its identity in the welcoming waters of the Potomac.  Hemming it in to the right ­the east ­and shutting out the crimson dawn are the massive bulwarks of the Loudon Heights climbing towards the changing heavens.  Westward, less bold and jagged, but still a mighty barrier in almost any other companionship, are the sister heights of Bolivar, scarred and seamed with earth-work and rifle-pit, and bristling with abattis and battery.  Down the intervening valley plunges the Shenandoah and winds the macadam of the highway, its dust subdued for the time being; while, straight away to the front, mist-wreathed at their base from the sleeping waters of the winding canal, cloud-capped at their lofty summit from the bank of vapor that hovers along the entire range, rock-ribbed, precipitous, magnificent in silent, stubborn strength, the towering heights of Maryland span the scene from east to west, and stand superb, the background to the picture.  All as yet is sombre in tone, black, dark green, and brown and gray.  The mist hangs heavy over everything, and the twinkle of an occasional camp-fire is but the sodden glow of ember whose life is long since burned out.  But, see!  Through the deep, jagged rift where runs the Potomac, along the rock-bound gorge through which in ages past the torrent burst its way, there creeps a host of tiny shafts of color ­the skirmishers, the eclaireurs, of the irresistible array of which they form but the foremost line ­the coming army of the God of Day.  Here behind the frowning Loudon no such light troops venture; but, skilled riders as they are,

  “Spurring the winds of the morning,”

they pour through the rocky gap, and now they find their lodgment on every salient of the grim old wall beyond the broad Potomac.  Here, there, everywhere along the southern face are glinting shafts or points on rocks or ridge.  Seam and shadow take on a purplish tinge.  The hanging mass of cloud beams with answering smile upon its earthward face as gold and crimson and royal purple mantle the billowy cheeks.  Now the rocks light up with warmer glow, and long, horizontal shadows are thrown across the hoary curtain, and slowly the gorgeous cloud-crests lift away and more and more the heights come gleaming into view.  Now there are breaks and caverns here and there through the shifting vapors, and hurried little glimpses of the cliffs beyond, and these cloud-caves grow and widen, and broad sheets of yellow light seem warming up the dripping wall and changing into mist the clinging beads of dew.  And now, far aloft, the fringe of firs and stunted oaks is seen upon the summit as the sun breaks through the shimmering veil, and there, fluttering against the blue of heaven, circled in fleecy frame of vapor, glowing, waving in the sky, all aflame with tingeing sunshine, there leaps into view the “Flag of the Free,” crowning the Maryland heights and shining far up the guarded valley of the Shenandoah.  A puff of smoke juts out from the very summit across the stream; the sentry eyes it with a sigh of reviving interest in life; five, ten, twenty seconds he counts before the boom of the salute follows the sudden flash and wakes the echoes of the opposite cliffs.

Listen!  Up on the westward heights, somewhere among those frowning batteries, a bugle rings out upon the air ­

  “I can’t get ’em up, I can’t get ’em up,
  I can’t get ’em up in the mo ­orning,”

it merrily sings, and the rocks of Loudon echo back the spirited notes.  Farther up the valley a distant drum rattles, and then, shrill and piercing, with hoarse, rolling accompaniment, the fifes of some infantry regiment burst into the lively trills of the reveille.  Another camp takes up the strain, off to the left.  Then the soft notes of the cavalry trumpets come floating up from the water-side, and soon, regiment after regiment, the field-music is all astir and the melody of the initial effort becomes one ringing, blaring, but most effectually waking discord.  Loud in the nearest camp the little drummers and fifers are thumping away at “Bonnie Lass o’ Gawrie.”  Over by the turnpike the rival corps of the ­th Connecticut are pounding out the cheerful strains in which Ireland’s favored bard declared he would “Mourn the hopes that leave,” little dreaming that British fifes and drums would make it soldier music ­“two-four time” ­all the world over.  Halfway across the valley, where the Bolivars narrow it, an Ohio regiment is announcing to the rest of the army, within earshot, that it wakes to the realization that its “Name it is Joe Bowers,” tooted and hammered in “six-eight time” through the lines of “A” tents; and a New York Zouave organization turns out of its dew-dripping blankets and cordially blasphemes the musicians who are expressing as their conception of the regimental sentiment, “Oh, Willie, we have missed you.”  And so the chorus goes up and down the Shenandoah, and the time-worn melodies of the earliest war-days ­the days before we had “Tramp, tramp,” and “Marching through Georgia” (which we never did have in Virginia), and even lackadaisical “When this crew-el war is o-ver,” are the matins of the soldiers of the Union Army.

At last the uproar dies away.  Here in the neighboring camp the sergeants are rapidly calling the rolls, and some companies are so reduced in number that no call over is necessary ­a simple glance at the baker’s dozen of war-worn, grisly looking men is sufficient to assure the sergeant of the presence of every one left to be accounted for.  In this brigade they are not turning out under arms just now, as is the custom farther to the front.  It has been cruelly punished in the late battle, and is accorded a resting-spell pending the arrival of recruits from home.  One first sergeant, who still wears the chevrons of a corporal, in making his report to his company commander briefly says: 

“Rix came back last night, sir; returned to duty with his company.”

“Hello, Hunnewell!” sings out the officer addressed, calling to the new adjutant, who is hurriedly passing by.  “What does this mean?  Are the wagons back?”

“No,” says the adjutant, halting short with the willingness of a man who has news to tell.  “Some of the provost-marshal’s men came up last night from Point of Rocks and fetched Rix with them, and letters from the colonel.  Both he and Abbot made complaint of the man’s conduct, and had him relieved and sent up here under guard.  Heard about Abbot?”

“No ­what?”

“He’s appointed major and assistant adjutant-general, and goes to staff duty; and the colonel will be back this week.”

“Does he say who’s to be quartermaster?” asks the lieutenant with eager interest, and forgetting to record his congratulations on the good-fortune that has befallen his regimental comrade.

“No,” says Mr. Hunnewell, with some hesitancy.  “There’s a hitch there.  To begin with, does anybody know that a vacancy exists?”

“Why, Hollins has been missing now ever since the 18th of September, and he must be either dead or taken prisoner.”

The adjutant looks around him, and, seeing other officers and men within earshot, though generally occupied with their morning ablutions, he comes closer to his comrade of the line and the two who have joined him, and speaks with lowered voice.

“There is some investigation going on.  The colonel sent for such books and papers of Hollins’s as could be found about camp, and an order came last night for Captain Dodge to report at once at Frederick.  He was better acquainted with Hollins than any one else ­among the officers anyway ­and he knew something about his whereabouts the other times he was missing.  This makes the third.”

“Three times and out, say I,” answers one of the party.  “I heard some talk at division headquarters when I was up there last night:  the general has a letter that Colonel Raymond wrote soon after he was exchanged, but if it be anything to Hollins’s discredit I wonder he did not write to Putnam.  He wouldn’t want his successor to be burdened with a quartermaster whom he knew to be ­well ­shady, so to speak.”

“That’s the one thing I never understood about Abbot,” says the captain, sipping the cup of coffee that a negro servant had just brought to him.  “Some more of that, Belshazzar; these gentlemen will join me.  How he, who is so blue-blooded, seems to be on such terms of intimacy with Hollins is what I mean,” he explains.  “It was through him that Hollins was taken into companionship from the very start.  He really is responsible for him.  They were class-mates, and no one else knew anything of him ­except vaguely.”

“Now there’s just where you wrong Abbot, captain,” answers Mr. Hunnewell, very promptly, “and I want to hit that nail on the head right here.  I thought just as you did, for a while; but got an inkling as to the real state of the case some time ago.  It wasn’t Abbot who endorsed him at all, except by silence and sufferance, you may say.  Hollins was at his tent day and night ­always following him up and actually forcing himself upon him; and one night, after Hollins had that first scrape, and came back under a cloud and went to Abbot first thing to intercede with the colonel, I happened to overhear a piece of conversation between them.  Abbot was just as cold and distant as man could possibly be.  He told him plainly that he considered his course discreditable to the whole regiment, and especially annoying to him, because, said Abbot, ’You have virtually made me your sponsor with every man who showed a disposition to repel you.’  Then Hollins made some reply which I did not fully catch, but Abbot was angry, and anybody could have heard his answer.  He told Hollins that if it had not been for the relationship to which he alluded he could not have tolerated him at all, but that he must not draw on it too often.  Then Hollins came out, and I heard him muttering to himself.  He fawned on Abbot while he was in the tent, but he was scowling and gritting his teeth when he left; and I heard him cursing sotto voce, until he suddenly caught sight of me.  Then he was all joviality, and took me by the arms to tell me how ’Paul, old boy, has been raking me over the coals.  We were chums, you know, and he thinks a heap of me, and don’t want the home people to know of my getting on a spree,’ was the way he explained it.  Now, if you remember, it was Hollins who was perpetually alluding to his intimacy with the Abbots.  Paul himself never spoke of it.  What Palfrey once told me in Washington may explain it; he said that Hollins was distantly related to the Winthrops, and that there was a time when he and Miss Winthrop were quite inseparable ­you know what a handsome fellow he was when he first joined us?”

“Well,” answers the captain, with the half-way and reluctant withdrawal of the average man who has made an unjust statement, “it may be as you say, but all the same it was Abbot’s tacit endorsement or tolerance that enabled Hollins to hold a place among us as long as he has.  If he has been sheltered under the shadow of Abbot’s wing, and turns out to be a vagabond, so much the worse for the wing.  All the same, I’m glad of Abbot’s promotion.  Wonder whose staff he goes on?”

“Lieutenant,” says a corporal, saluting the group and addressing his company commander, “Rix says he would like to speak with the major before breakfast.  He was for going to headquarters alone just now, but I told him he must wait until I had seen you.”

The lieutenant glances quickly around.  There, not ten paces away ­his forage cap on the back of his head, his hulking shoulders more bent than ever, hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face ­stands, or rather slouches, Rix.  He looks unkempt, dirty, determinedly ugly, and very much as though he had been in liquor most of the week, and was sober now only through adverse circumstances over which he had no control.

“What do you want of the major, Rix?” demands the lieutenant, with military directness.

“Well, I want him ­’n that’s enough,” says the ex-teamster, with surly, defiant manner, and never changing his attitude.  “I want t’ know what I’m sent back here for, like a criminal.”

“Because you look most damnably like one,” says the officer, impulsively, and then, ashamed of having said such a thing to one who is powerless to resent, he tempers the wrath with which he would rebuke the man’s insubordination, and, after an instant’s pause, speaks more gently.

“Come here, Rix.  Stand up like a man and tell me your trouble.  If you have been wronged in any way I’ll see that you are righted; but recollect what and where you are.”

“I’m a man, by God!  Good as any of you a year ago; better’n most of you five years ago; an’ now I’m ordered about by boys just out of their teens.  I’m not under Abbot’s orders.  Lieutenant Hollins is my officer; he’ll fix me all right.  Where’s he, lieutenant?  He’s the man I want.”

“Rix, you will only get into more trouble if you don’t mend your manners,” says the lieutenant, half agreeing with the muttered comment of a comrade, that the man had better be gagged forthwith, but determined to control his own temper.  “As to Lieutenant Hollins, he has not been heard of since Antietam.  Nobody knows what’s become of him.”

The effect of this announcement is startling.  Rix turns ghastly white; his bloodshot eyes stare fearfully at his informant, then blink savagely around on one after another of the party.  His fingers twitch nervously, and he clutches at his throat.

“Are ­are you sure, lieutenant?” he gasps, all his insolence of manner gone.

“Sure, sir.  He hasn’t been seen or heard of since ­”

“Why, my God!  He told me back there at Boonsboro’ that he would ride right over to camp ­time I was going back with the colonel through the Gap.”

“Boonsboro’!  Why, man, that was several days after the battle that you went back with the colonel’s ambulance!  Then you’ve seen him since we have.  Where was it?”

But Rix has recovered his wits, such as they are.  He has made a damaging admission, and one that places him in a compromising position.  He quickly blurts forth a denial.

“No, no!  It wasn’t then.  I misremembered.  ’Twas when we went over the first time.  He says to me right there at Boonsboro’ ­”

“You’re lying, Rix,” interposed the senior officer of the party, who has been an absorbed listener.  “You didn’t go through Boonsboro’ at all, first time over.  We followed the other road, and you followed us.  It must have been when you went back.  Now what did the quartermaster say?”

But Rix sets his jaws firmly, and will tell no more.  Twice he is importuned, but to no purpose.  Then the captain speaks again.

“We need not disturb the commanding officer until breakfast-time, but there is no doubt in my mind this man can give important evidence.  I will take the responsibility.  Have Rix placed in charge of the guard at once.”

And when the corporal reappears it is with a file of men, armed with their Springfields.  Between them Rix is marched away, a scared and haggard-looking man.

For a moment the officers stand in silence, gazing after him.  Then the captain speaks.

“That man could tell a story, without deviating a hair’s-breadth from the truth, that would astonish the commonwealth of Massachusetts, or I am vastly mistaken in him.  Does anybody know his antecedents?”

“He was our first quartermaster-sergeant, that’s all I know of him,” answers Mr. Hunnewell; “but he was in bad odor with the colonel, I heard, long before Cedar Mountain.  He would have ‘broken’ him if it had not been for Hollins’s intercessions.”

“I mean his antecedents, before the outbreak of the war, not in the regiment.  Where did Hollins get him? Why did he get him, and have him made quartermaster-sergeant, and stick to him as he did for months, after everybody else was convinced of his worthlessness?  There is something I do not understand in their relations.  Do you remember, when we were first camped at Meridian Hill, Hollins and Rix occupied the same tent a few days, and the colonel put a stop to it?  Hollins was furious, and tried to raise a point against the colonel.  He pointed to the fact that in half the regiments around us the quartermaster was allowed to have his sergeant for a tent-mate if he wanted to; and if Colonel Raymond had any objections, why didn’t he say so before they left the state?  He had lived with him a whole month in camp there, and the colonel never said a word.  I confess that some of us thought that Rix was badly treated when he was ordered to pitch his tent elsewhere, but the colonel never permitted any argument.  I heard him tell Hollins that what was permissible while we were simply state troops was not to be considered precedent for his action when they were mustered into the national service.  In his regiment, as in the well-disciplined regiments of any state, the officers and enlisted men must live apart.”

“But Hollins claimed that Rix was a man of good birth and education, and that he was coaching him for a commission,” interposes one of the group.

“That was an afterthought, and had no bearing on the case anyway.  I know that in this, as in some other matters, there were many of us who chafed a little at the idea of regular army discipline among us, but we know now the colonel was right.  As for Rix, he turned out to be a drunkard before we got within rifle-range of Virginia.”

“Yet he was retained as quartermaster-sergeant.”

“Because Hollins shielded him and kept him out of the way.  I tell you,” puts in the captain, testily, “Colonel Raymond would have ‘broken’ him if he had not been taken at Ball’s Bluff.  Putnam didn’t like to overthrow Raymond’s appointee without his full knowledge and consent, and so he hung on till after we got back to Alexandria.  Even then Hollins had him detailed as driver on plea that his lame foot would prevent his marching.  But Hollins is gone now and Mr. ex-Q.  M. Sergeant Rix is safely jugged.  Mark my words, gentlemen, he’ll be needed when Hollins’s papers are overhauled.”

“Hullo!  What’s up now?” suddenly demands the adjutant.  “Look at headquarters.”

From where they stand the broad highway up the valley is plainly visible for a mile or more, and to the right of the turnpike, on a little rising ground, are pitched the tents of the division commander and his staff.  Farther away, among some substantial farm-buildings, are to be seen the cavalrymen of the regular service who are attached, as escort and orderlies, to the headquarters of the Second Corps, and a dozen of these gentry are plainly visible scurrying about between their little tents and the picket-line, where their horses are tethered.  It is evident that the whole troop is hurriedly saddling and that orderlies are riding off beyond the buildings, each with one or more led horses ­the “mounts” of the staff.  Here, close at hand, among the tents of the Massachusetts men, the soldiers have risen to their feet, and with coffee steaming from the battered tin cup in one hand and bread or bacon clutched in the other they are gazing with interest, but no sign of excitement, at the scene of evident action farther to the front.  A year ago such signs of preparation at headquarters would have sent the whole regiment in eager rush for its arms and equipments, but it has learned wisdom with its twelve-month of campaigning.  Not a shot has been heard up the valley.  It can be no attack there.  Yet something unquestionably has happened.  Yes, the escort is “leading out.”  See! far up on the heights, to the west, the men are thronging on the parapets.  They have a better view from there of what is going on at Sumner’s headquarters.  Next, shooting around the building on the low rise to the right front, there comes a staff-officer at rapid gallop.  Down the slope he rides, over the low stone wall his charger bears him, and down the turnpike he speeds, heedless of the shouts of inquiry that seem to greet him from the camps that flank the road.  Sharp to his right he turns, at a little lane a quarter-mile away, and disappears among the trees.  “Going to the cavalry camps,” hazards the adjutant, and determines that he had better get over to the major’s tent ­their temporary commander ­and warn him “something’s coming.”  Another minute, quick, pealing, spirited, there rings on the air the sound of a trumpet, and the stirring call of “Boots and saddles!” startles the ear of many a late sleeper among the officers.  The sun is not yet shining in the valley; the dew is sparkling on every blade and leaf:  but the Second Corps is all astir, and there is a cheer in the cavalry camp that tells of soldierly doings close at hand.  A light battery is parked just across the highway, and as the aide reappears, spurring from the lane out into the pike again, the officers see how its young commander has vaulted into saddle and is riding down to intercept him so that not a minute be lost if the guns are needed.  They are.  For though the aide comes by like a shot, he has shouted some quick words to the captain of the battery, and the latter waves his jaunty forage cap to his expectant bugler, standing, clarion in hand, by the guard-fire.  “Boots and saddles!” again; and ­drivers and cannoneers ­the men drop their tin cups and plates, and leap for the lines of harness.  Down comes the aide full tilt as before.  Captain Lee runs to the roadside and hails him with familiar shout: 

“What’s up, Win?”

And gets no further answer than

“Tell you as I come back.”

Meantime other aides have been scurrying to and fro; and far and near, up and down the Shenandoah and out across the valley, where the morning sunshine triumphs over the barring Loudon, the same stirring call rings out upon the air.  “Boots and saddles!” everywhere, and nowhere the long-roll or the infantry assembly.

“Back to your breakfast, boys,” says a tall and bearded sergeant.  “Whatever it is, it don’t amount to shucks.  The infantry isn’t called for.”

But that it amounts to more than “shucks,” despite the footman’s epigram, is presently apparent when the staff-officer comes more slowly back, easing his panting horse.  The major has by this time turned out, and in boots and overcoat is striding over to the stone wall to get the news.

“What is it, Win?” he asks.

And the aide-de-camp, bending low from the saddle and with grave face, replies,

“Stuart again, by Heaven!  He whipped around our right, somewhere near Martinsburg, last night, and is crossing at Williamsport now.”

“What! Why, we’ve got three corps over there about Antietam yet.”

“Yes; and he’ll go around them, just as he did round us, and be up in Pennsylvania to-morrow.  Where are your wounded?”

“Some over near Keedysville; the others, those we lost at South Mountain, somewhere near Frederick.  The colonel and Abbot were there at last accounts.  Why?”

“Because it will be just like him to go clean around us and come down the Monocacy.  If he should, they are gone, sure.”