repulse. Orders were obeyed with mechanical fidelity; no one did any more than his duty.
"The army is cowardly to-day," said General Cameron, the commander of a Federal brigade, to his adjutant-general.
"The army is cold," replied the officer addressed, "and—yes, it doesn't wish to be like that."
He pointed to one of the dead bodies, lying in a thin pool of yellow water, its face and clothing bespattered with mud from hoof and wheel.
The army's weapons seemed to share its military delinquency. The rattle of rifles sounded flat and contemptible. It had no meaning and scarcely roused to attention and expectancy the unengaged parts of the line-of-battle and the waiting reserves. Heard at a little distance, the reports of cannon were feeble in volume and timbre: they lacked sting and resonance. The guns seemed to be fired with light charges, unshotted. And so the futile day wore on to its dreary close, and then to a night of discomfort succeeded a day of apprehension.
An army has a personality. Beneath the individual thoughts and emotions of its component parts it thinks and feels as a unit. And
