“We have been discussing the matter, and have reached a decision,” Kendlehart said. “One moment—until I affix my signature.” The pen-point grated sharply. Doctor Kendlehart lifted his letter and slanted it close to the lamp, although the room was not wholly dark. He read, deliberately and gravely. Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, June twenty-six, eighteen hundred and sixty-three. General Early. Sir. The authorities of the borough of Gettysburg, in answer to the demand made by you upon the said borough and county, say that their authority extends but to the borough. That the requisition cannot be given, as it is utterly impossible to comply.

“Well enough,” Orcutt declared. He imagined that he could feel a warm strength of muscles, flooding suddenly across his chest and into his shoulders and hips—why, he was thinking, even I could shoulder a gun if— “But I decry the abject humility of your tone, sir.”

Kendlehart motioned for silence, and went on reading.

The quantities required are far beyond that in our possession. In compliance, however, to the demands, we will request the stores to be opened and the citizens to furnish whatever they can of such provisions, et cetera, as may be asked. Further we cannot promise. By authority of the Council of the borough of Gettysburg, I hereunto, as President of said Council, attach my name.

Orcutt was aware of their defensive glare, the whole tribe … oh you burgesses with fat buttocks, he snarled in his heart: you goat-beards! “Is that unanimous, sir?” he heard a counselor-at-law demanding, coolly and very far away.

“Practically, Mr. Orcutt. We feel that—”

“Orally, I hereby tender my resignation as a member of the council. My written resignation shall be in your hands at the next meeting.” He could not see; his eyes were coated with tears. He turned away, trying to find the door.

There was a ghostly whispering, whispering behind him. “You have nothing to lose,” Pock whined. “Look at my position! They’ll strip my shelves and cellar, and a pretty time I’ll have trying to collect from the government.”

Orcutt turned. “I would not give them one onion.” He was throwing a death’s-head grin squarely at them. “Not one onion—do you hear me? Not a pinch of salt or a boot-strap or a rotten potato. Let them kill us, if they dare, and take them. That is my opinion, my friends … Feeding the men who have killed, the men who are trying to kill—our sons. The union—” he groped in the well of his chest, tried to find words, they were not easily marshaled now. He wanted to say something about the flag, about forefathers who had died at Bunker Hill and Valley Forge, but all he could think of was Benjy: Benjy had the croup, and he was heating turpentine and lard in a pan over the wood-range, making it tingling and aromatic to drive the croup out of Benjy’s chest.