Poor Jack!  He gave no heed to supper that dreadful night.  He threw himself on the ground, too exhausted to think and too disheartened to talk.  He couldn’t understand the shameful panic.  The Caribees were not cowards; every man in the regiment had longed for the battle.  When under fire at Mitchell’s Ford, an hour earlier than the disaster at Blackburn, all had stood firmly in place, fought with coolness, and gave no sign of fear.  The volume of fire when they broke was not much greater than the Mitchell’s Ford volleys.  During the night Grandison came to camp and assembled the officers.  He expressed his sorrow at the sudden shadow that had fallen on the fair fame of the regiment, but since the panic had not been followed, as such outbreaks often are, by the total destruction of the men, there would be abundant chance to redeem the disgrace of the day.  He had himself begged the division commander to give the men another trial, and he had staked his commission on their doing such duty as would remove the tarnish of the afternoon from their banners.

The officers had been dispirited.  Major Mike had raged over the field, through the woods, a very angry man indeed, belaboring the fleeing men with his sword and imploring those he couldn’t reach to “come to me here.  Dress on me.  There’s no call to be afeard.  We’ve more men than they have, and we’ll soon wallop them.”

But the resounding blows on the backs of those near the officer did not give the encouraging emphasis to his appeal that captivates men whose reasoning faculties are almost gone for the moment.  Before daylight on the next morning—­Saturday, the 20th—­the companies were called together and little addresses were made to the men by the officers.  The substance of Colonel Grandison’s words was imparted, and the hope expressed that when, in the course of that or the next day the regiment was again under fire, they would show that the panic of yesterday had not been cowardice.  The men said nothing, and every one was glad that the light was so dim that the officers could not look in their faces, though, as a matter of fact, the shoulder-straps had shown as little fortitude as the muskets in the dispersion.  All that day the forces rested, the Caribees providing themselves with new arms and equipments, or the two or three hundred who had flung their own away.  During the afternoon an incident happened in the division that lessened the mortification of the Caribees.  A splendid regiment and a battery of bronze guns came into the highway from the extreme of the line that was expected to take part in the battle which all knew would be opened the next morning.  Every one was surprised to see the men moving without muskets and the colors wrapped in their cases.  “Where you bound for?” some one at the roadside yelled curiously.

“Our time is out; we’re going home.”

Then a derisive howl followed the line as it passed through the masses of the army, and remarks of an acrid nature were made that were not gratifying to the departing patriots: