Up in the attic, Doug and Tom set up headquarters. A turned–over box became the general’s desk; his aide–de–camp stood by, awaiting orders.

‘Get out your pad, Tom.’

‘It’s out.’

‘Ticonderoga pencil?’

‘Ready.’

‘I got a list, Tom, for the Great Army of the Republic. Write this down. There’s Will and Sam and Charlie and Bo and Pete and Henry and Ralph. Oh, and you, Tom.’

‘How do we use the list, Doug?’

‘We gotta find things for them to do. Time’s running out. Right now we’ve gotta figure how many captains, how many lieutenants. One general. That’s me.’

‘Make it good, Doug. Keep ’em busy.’

‘First three names, captains. The next three, lieutenants. Everybody else, spies.’

‘Spies, Doug?’

‘I think that’s the greatest thing. Guys like to creep around, watch things, and then come back and tell.’

‘Heck, I want to be one of those.’

‘Hold on. We’ll make them all captains and lieutenants, make everyone happy, or we’ll lose the war before it gets started. Some will do double-duty as spies.’

‘Okay, Doug, here’s the list.’

Doug scanned it. ‘Now we gotta figure the first sock-dolager thing to do.’

‘Get the spies to tell you.’

‘Okay, Tom. But you’re the most important spy. After the ravine meeting tonight …’ Tom frowned, shook his head. ‘What?’

‘Heck, Doug, the ravine’s nice but I know a better place. The graveyard. The sun’ll be gone. It’ll remind ’em if they’re not careful, that’s where we’ll all wind up.’

‘Good thinking, Tom.’

‘Well, I’m gonna go spy and round up the guys. First the bridge, then the graveyard, yup?’

‘Tom, you’re really somethin’.’

‘Always was,’ said Tom. ‘Always was.’

He jammed his pencil in his shirt pocket, stashed his nickel tablet in the waistband of his dungarees, and saluted his commander.

‘Dismissed!’

And Tom ran.

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

The green acreage of the old cemetery was filled with stones and names on stones. Not only the names of the people earthed over with sod and flowers, but the names of seasons. Spring rain had written soft, unseen messages here. Summer sun had bleached granite. Autumn wind had softened the lettering. And snow had laid its cold hand on winter marble. But now what the seasons had to say was only a cool whisper in the trembling shade, the message of names: ‘TYSON! BOWMAN! STEVENS!’

Douglas leap–frogged TYSON, danced on BOWMAN, and circled STEVENS.

The graveyard was cool with old deaths, old stones grown in far Italian mountains to be shipped here to this green tunnel, under skies too bright in summer, too sad in winter.