Three massive clusters of oaks, like three invincible and immobile guards, set the scene. The union camp is grounded, warm, and secure. Old Glory’s entourage ambles quietly to her night’s retirement. They have crossed the water; they have washed off the inhumanity of the day, all that is, save one. Ironically, it is the horse, not the man, who can not make the transition. The campfire’s warmth can not undo his shattered sensibilities. The cannon’s fire and smoke, the battle field’s call of “fire!” remain in his primitive brain.