It was a beautiful ardor that filled the young hosts that waited in leash on the green hills of the Potomac those months of turmoil, when Scott and McDowell were straining the crude machinery of war to get ready for the vital lunge.  Jack and his Acredale squad, as the college fellows were called, lived in a perpetual dream, from which the hard realities of drill, now six hours a day, could not waken them.  In days of release they scoured the Maryland hills, secretly hoping that an adventurous rebel picket might appear and give them occasion to return to camp decked with preluding laurels.  Mile after mile of the charming woodland country they scoured, their hearts beating at the appearance of any animate thing that for a brief, intoxicating moment they could conjure into a rebel advance post.  But, beyond wan and reticent yokels, engaged in the primitive husbandry of this slave section, they never encountered any one that could be counted overt enemies of the cause.  Money was plenty among these excursive groups, and they were welcomed in Company K with effusive outbreaks by their less restive comrades.

As July wore on, the signs of movement grew.  Regiments were moved away mysteriously, and soon the Caribees were almost alone on Meridian Hill.  Jack was filled with dire fears that the commanding officer, having discovered the incompetency of Oswald, feared to take the Caribees to the front.  Something of the rumor spread through the regiment, and if, as reputed, “Old Sauerkraut” (this was the name he got behind his back) had spies in all the companies, the adage about listeners was abundantly confirmed.  In the secrecy of Jack’s tent, however, the subject was freely discussed.  Nick Marsh, the poet of the class, as became the mystic tendencies of his tribe, was for poisoning the detested Pomeranian—­Oswald was a compatriot of Bismarck, often boasting, as the then slowly emerging statesman became more widely known, that he lived in his near neighborhood.  Marsh’s suggestion fell upon fruitful perceptions.  Bernard Moore—­Barney, for short—­was to be a physician, and had already passed an apprenticeship in a pharmacy, coincident with his college term in Jack’s class.

“By the powers of mud and blood, Nick, dear, I have it!”

“Have what, Barney, me b’y?” Nick asked, mimicking Barney’s quaintly displaced vowels.

“Why, the way to get rid of Old Schnapps and Blitzen—­more power to me!”

“All the power you want, if you’ll only do that; and your voice will be as sweet as ‘the harp that once in Tara’s halls—­’”

“Never moind the harp—­Sassenach—­here’s what we can do.  Tim Hussey is Oswald’s orderly; he and I are good friends.  I know a preparation that will turn the sauerkraut and sausages, that Oswald eats so much of, into degluted fire and brimstone, warranted to keep him on the broad of his back for ten days or a fortnight.  Will ye all swear secrecy?”

“We will!  We will!”