It was a picturesque sight and one never to be forgotten. They were dressed in typical costume of their time, and yet there was a liveness and manliness about it which stirred the deeper emotions. Long hair above swarthy, sunburnt faces, heavy coon skin caps, hunting coats and buckskin trousers, ending in the top of rawhide boots. Powder horns, some of gourds, but nearly all of buffalo horns, hung over their shoulders by a thong of deer hide. In their hands they held, with butts on the ground, the tall Decherd rifle, often taller than the man behind it. In their belts was a weapon no other army since the days of Rome and Britain had ever carried into war. It was a heavy bear knife, often a foot or more long, some of them two-edged, enclosed in a holster of buckskin or calf. In the faces themselves there dwelt a strange mixture of fun and fight, of strange horse talk and stranger horse plays. And so they stood up, a grand and picturesque sight, under the glare of the lights, a more formidable and savage foe than any they had ever driven from the land. There was another yell and volley of huzzahs as General Jackson came forward. The line was now broken and they thronged around him. It was Bill, Tom and Jim to him as he clasped the hands that shook his. They were friends of his, they loved him and that was enough. The regiment had camped for the night not far off after their first day’s march. “We hurd you was ginnin’ a treat, Gin’ral,” shouted a long-haired, buckskin-clad fellow in the line, “and we ’lowed we’d gin you a s’prize party.” There was a roar at this hint and another yell from the crowd, and in the midst of it a negro came up with two buckets full of whiskey, and tin dippers, which General Jackson had ordered from the smokehouse near the kitchen. “Attention, there, men! Ground f’lock and get into line!” said their captain. The line surged back; the butts of the rifles rested on the ground. “Pass that whiskey down the line, there,” said General Jackson to his servants, and as the blacks started, one at each flank, there was a deep silence. They drank from the tin dippers as indifferently as if it were water. Jackson and Trevellian drank last, touching their dippers “to health and a good fight,” as the General said, at which there was a cry from the line from a swarthy sergeant: “And a quick one—b’ar or British! Lead us ag’in’ everything!” It was indeed the sentiment. Arms were now stacked and they broke into groups, thronging around their commanders as they talked to them, man to man and face to face.