Demon huddled on the kitchen step, sullenly watching the soldiers who ringed about the well. He stood up, blinking at Dan as if he too were suddenly become a stranger. “Mist Fanning he sick, Mist Dan,” he mumbled.

“Sick?”

“A bad misery in the head, and now he got pain heh.” The old negro patted his stomach.

“Did you get hold of a doctor?”

“Miss Duffey she say Doc gone out to Culps’, wheh somebody sick. And maybe he stop see bout Miss Wade baby.”

Dan echoed, “Wade—”

“She got boy baby, Mist Dan. Huh man, he soldier.”

He meant the elder of the Wade girls; Dan remembered; she had married a man named McClellan. There was a baby, born the day the Confederates marched through … out by the well, an old Irishman with a pleasing baritone was singing Lula, Lula, Lula is gone.

Irene called from the kitchen, “Come inside, Mr. Bale.” The windlass crunched, wrapping its links tight on the wooden drum of the well. Dan entered the house; Gretel was rattling dishes in the pantry … Irene, I cannot even take your hand, he wanted to say. The noise of the encampment stuttered through all bounds of hearing. It seemed that this was a bizarre picnic, a male nation loosed amid the austere woods, and frightening all the birds away.

“How are you people standing all this?” Dan asked.

The woman’s eyes were holding pain and weariness. “Very well, except for Mr. Fanning. He is ill.”

“Demon told me. Do you want me to go and find the doctor?”

“It’s inflammation of the—abdomen. He’s had attacks before, and the strain of this week has brought it on again. Mrs. Fanning is with him upstairs … No,” she said, “he seems better within the last hour, and perhaps he won’t need any medicine. I think he’d be better without too many drugs to upset him.” Her eyes fell away from his; mechanically, she motioned him on into the sitting room.

He said, “You and Mrs. Fanning must not be alone with—”

“There’s Demon, and Gretel. We’re—”

Tyler’s mother called down through the hallway: “Daughter. Who’s there?” Her voice was droning, lifeless. I am greatly abused by all, she was saying.

“It’s Mr. Bale, mother.”

“Oh.” She ordered, with sudden energy, “Have him make those soldiers go away from the well. They bother father—” (A wraith of Mr. Fanning began to expostulate weakly in the distance beyond her: no, no, mother—they need the water, they must—)

In the yard, Dan approached the circle of perspiring men. He said, “If you can make as little noise as possible, it will be appreciated. A man is sick, in this house.” Their tanned faces turned on him. The bucket plunged down again. “Is that a fact?” a young man sneered. “We wear out our butts all day to try and keep the rebs outa his precious farm, and now he—”