But now the train was at rest, and the officers--who had not been seen during the journey--turned out in resplendent plumery. The station--in those days a tumble-down barrack--was already crowded with soldiery. The Caribees were aligned along the track, the officers so bewildered by the confusion that it was by a miracle some of the groups of moving men were not run over by the backing engines. After an interminable delay, the band set up "We're coming down to Washington to fight for Abraham's daughter!" and with exuberant joy a thousand pairs of legs kept brisk step and elastic movement to the inspiriting strain. Now the longing eyes see the circumstance and even some of the pomp of war. The regiment debouches into Pennsylvania Avenue, under the very shadow of the Capitol, which looks sadly shabby and disproportioned to the eyes that had an hour or two before opened in such admiration at the first view. But there is no time for architectural criticism. They are moving down the avenue toward the White House, toward the home of that patient, kindly, sorely-tried ruler--the Democritus of his grisly epoch. The Caribees excite none of the sensation here they have been accustomed to. The streets are not crowded, and the few civilians passing hardly turn their heads. Mounted orderlies dash hurriedly, with hideous clatter of sabre and equipments, across the line of march, through the very regiment's ranks, answering with a disdainful oath or mocking gibe when an outraged shoulder-strap raised a remonstrating voice. At Fourteenth Street the Caribees were halted until the colonel could take his bearings from headquarters, just around the corner. The wide sidewalks were dense with bestarred and epauleted personages in various keys of discussion. Jack and his crony, Barney Moore, studied the scene in wonder. Their company was halted exactly at the corner of Fourteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, and the two were standing at Willard's corner. "I wonder if the President just stands and throws the stars down from that balcony?" Jack said, as the crowd of brigadiers thickened before the hotel door. "What on earth are they all doing here?" "Oh, they come to make requisition on General Bacchus; he's the commissary-general of the brigadiers--don't you know?" Barney said, innocently. "General Bacchus? Barney, you're crazy--there's no such officer in the army--I know all the names--you mean General Banks, don't you?" "Oh, no, I'm not mistaken--General Bacchus has been selected to deal out the _esprit de corps!_" "_L'esprit de corps_? Barney, you're certainly tipsy. I'm ashamed of you!" "Yes, the spirit of that corps, as you can tell from the whiffs that come this way, is the whisky-bottle. Bacchus presides over that spirit. One would think you'd never read an eclogue of Virgil--you're duller than a doctor of divinity's after-dinner speech! A tutor's joke is the utmost wit you ought to bear." "And so you call that a joke?"