And then the military organization of that army, so characteristic of the Southerner!  An officer who wanted to be more than a colonel, and couldn’t be a brigadier, would have a “legion”—­ a hybrid unit between a regiment and a brigade.  Sometimes there was a regiment whose roll-call was more than two thousand men, so popular was its colonel.  Companies would often refuse to designate themselves by letter, but by the thrilling titles they had given themselves.  How Morgan and Hunt had laughed over “The Yellow Jackets,” “The Dead Shots,” “The Earthquakes,” “The Chickasha Desperadoes,” and “The Hell Roarers”!  Regiments would bear the names of their commanders—­a singular instance of the Southerner’s passion for individuality, as a man, a company, a regiment, or a brigade.  And there was little or no discipline, as the word is understood among the military elect, and with no army that the world has ever seen, Richard Hunt always claimed, was there so little need of it.  For Southern soldiers, he argued, were, from the start, obedient, zealous, and tolerably patient, from good sense and a strong sense of duty.  They were born fighters; a spirit of emulation induced them to learn the drill; pride and patriotism kept them true and patient to the last, but they could not be made, by punishment or the fear of it, into machines.  They read their chance of success, not in opposing numbers, but in the character and reputation of their commanders, who, in turn, believed, as a rule, that “the unthinking automaton, formed by routine and punishment, could no more stand before the high-strung young soldier with brains and good blood, and some practice and knowledge of warfare, than a tree could resist a stroke of lightning.”  So that with Southern soldiers discipline came to mean “the pride which made soldiers learn their duties rather than incur disgrace; the subordination that came from self-respect and respect for the man whom they thought worthy to command them.”

Boots and saddles again at daybreak!  By noon the column reached Green River, over the Kentucky line, where Morgan, even on his way down to join Johnston, had begun the operations which were to make him famous.  No picket duty that infantry could do as well, for Morgan’s cavalry!  He wanted it kept out on the front or the flanks of an army, and as close as possible upon the enemy.  Right away, there had been thrilling times for Dan in the Green River country—­setting out at dark, chasing countrymen in Federal pay or sympathy, prowling all night around and among pickets and outposts; entrapping the unwary; taking a position on the line of retreat at daybreak, and turning leisurely back to camp with prisoners and information.  How memories thronged!  At this very turn of the road, Dan remembered, they had their first brush with the enemy.  No plan of battle had been adopted, other than to hide on both sides of the road and send their horses to the rear.

“I think we ought to charge ’em,” said Georgie Forbes, Chad’s old enemy.  Dan saw that his lip trembled, and, a moment later, Georgie, muttering something, disappeared.