Despots’ heels or not, whatever kind of heels, they trudged doggedly all day on the 28th. It was sultry; the dun sky let its drizzle leak at them, but the roads weren’t bad. Then the sun again. A persistent rumor scouted up and down: old Joe Hooker had quit, old Joe Hooker had been busted square in two—Hooker was sick, or drunk, or both, and had gone to Washington. Tyler talked with the captain of Company D, and Lieutenants Eldridge and Oliver, when they halted early in the afternoon. Eldridge got out his little collapsible chessboard, and Oliver carefully rearranged the chessmen as they had been aligned that morning. The halt had overtaken the Philadelphia brigade at a decent spot, for once; they sprawled in chestnut shade, dozing the precious seconds away; the speckled grass was soft and cushiony as the soldiers lay in it. Ty came back to Company D, and found the captain sitting with his shoulders against a rock, eyeing his men reflectively and pasting a wrapper around a mashed cigar. He said, Fanning, how’s the inner man?… All right, Ty told him. What news? None, that I know of. Baxter’s got a notion that it’ll be somebody new … Probably McClellan again, Tyler suggested. Well, said the captain of Company D, I’d just as soon. I mean that, seriously. Do you believe the tale about Hooker’s being dazed when a shot struck the porch-post he was leaning against, at Chancellorsville? Drunk as anyone could ever be! I talked with a man who was at headquarters that day. No doubt whatever … Then Oliver and Eldridge began to chime in—

None of them was two hours older before he heard the truth. It was George Meade. The men caught the story from the air, as always, and chewed it back and forth. They were marching at ease, arms at will, and they felt like talking. No one knew much about General Meade except that he was wall-eyed, and some man insisted that he was a Spaniard. Meade. Now, isn’t that a hell of a Spanish name? It’s Dutch, somebody said. No, English. Well, the soldier insisted, he’s a Spaniard and come over here from Spain. Aw, shut up—he lived in Philadelphia before you was born. Tyler cried, All right, men! They went into a hushed mumbling.