In the kitchen, Bale dipped a basin of water from the big wooden bucket on its corner shelf. The last time, he thought—the last time a wound was dressed in this room … oh, thin red wound, and never made by a war … When he turned, Major Titus Glenn had removed his blouse. He unloosed his suspenders and pushed the wad of trousers and drawers down from his hip joint, though he kept a tail of ragged shirt shielding his nakedness. He said, calmly, as if he had said the same thing in many other kitchens: “’Scuse me.” He rolled his shirt high.

There was a deep-drawn, brownish hole at the left side of his lower abdomen, and another opposite it in the back. Through the wounds a single linen thread had been pulled from front to rear, and was tied in a limp bow-knot at the side of his body. Dan made a sound. The officer nodded quickly. “First,” he explained, “they used what is called a tent. Then a seton of oakum, then a seton of candlewick, and finally this linen string. I was lucky and escaped peritonitis.” The flesh around each wound was rubbed raw in an irregular and scabby circle. He had opened the leather pouch, it was filled with clean rags; he moistened a scrap of cloth in the water basin, and dabbed it lightly over the sores.

“God,” Bale said.

The deep eyes peered at him. “It was a musket-ball, fired in the dark. I had no business where I was, wandering outside our lines.” He bent once more to his task.

“Do you think there’ll be a battle here?”

Major Glenn tossed the soiled wad of cloth into the wood basket beside the stove, and took up a second piece. “That is hard to say, Mr.—what is your name, once more?”

“Bale.”

“Mr. Bale. No, there’s no telling. I heard that some rebel cavalry was in the vicinity. We’ve got men out to the north and west, now; if they raise any of the enemy’s pickets we might have some fighting. It’s hard to—” The last word blurred on his lips; he had trouble holding the saliva in his mouth, bending down as he was.

“What troops are these?”

“This is the First Division of the Cavalry Corps, commanded by John Buford. Keep an eye out on the road; you’re apt to see the General. He’s a smart figure of a soldier: still a young man. Watch for a trim man with a yellowish mustache. A clever soldier—”