As the boy rode from the camp and crossed the river into the forest he
looked back, and he could not fail to notice to what an extent it was
yet a citizen army, and not one of trained soldiers. The veteran
sergeant had already called his attention to what he deemed grave
omissions. In the three weeks that they had been lying there they had
thrown up no earthworks. Not a spade had touched the earth. Nor was
there any other defense of any kind. The high forest circled close
about them, dense now with foliage and underbrush, hiding even at a
distance of a few hundred yards anything that might lie within. The
cavalry in these three weeks had made one scouting expedition, but it
was slight and superficial, resulting in nothing. The generals of
divisions posted their own pickets separately, leaving numerous wide
breaks in the line, and the farmer lads, at the change of guard,
invariably fired their rifles in the air, to signify the joy of living,
and because it was good to hear the sound.
Now that he was riding away from them, these things impressed Dick more
than when he was among them. Sergeant Whitley's warning and pessimistic
words came back to him with new force, but, as he rode into the depths
of the forest, he shook off all depression. Those words, "Seventy
thousand strong!" continually recurred to him. Yes, they would be
seventy thousand strong when Buell came up, and the boys were right.
Certainly there was no Confederate force in the west that could resist
seventy thousand troops, splendidly armed, flushed with victory and led
by a man like Grant.
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