And the dirty Rebs!” “ We’ll hang Jeff Davis on a sour-apple tree! ”

Jack Ellyat, marching, saw between blue shoulders A blur of faces. They all were faces he knew, Old Mrs. Cobb with her wart and her Paisley shawl, Little George Freeman, the slim Tucker girls, All of them cheering and shouting⁠—and all of them strange Suddenly, different, faces he’d never seen. Faces somehow turned into one crowd-face. His legs went marching along all right but they felt Like somebody else’s legs, his mind was sucked dry. It was real, they were going away, the town was cheering them. Henry Fairfield was marching ahead with his sword. Just as he’d thought about it a thousand times, These months⁠—but it wasn’t the way that he’d thought about it. “On to Richmond! On to Richmond! On to Richmond!”