He would have preferred to leave by the east door and go home across the field, now that Mr. Fanning was once more astir and accountable … He went back through the passageway: at least he would be compelled to stop for a moment. There would be no seeing Irene at this hour, and he was glad that he could not see her until he had established a waking equilibrium. The dreams, many of them, were about her and Tyler. They were wretched illusions of weeping and of death.

The kitchen seemed stuffed with uniforms, although only four men had come in to accept Mr. Fanning’s invitation. A short-necked officer with a wide brush of sandy mustache, sat beside the kitchen table; he wore the stars of a brigadier-general, and his inferior officers stood across the room, helping themselves to cream and sugar … The general nodded at Dan; his square hand stirred briskly the steaming cup before him. “General Buford,” said Fanning, “this is my neighbor, Mr. Bale.” He turned to the staff officers. “Are you gentlemen getting sufficient—?”

Their boots scraped on the white floor. “We’re coming first rate.”

Buford poured out a saucerful of coffee and lifted it to his lips. His parched eyelids closed momentarily over eyes strained by wakefulness, the eyes of one who was very tired. “Good coffee,” he murmured.

“I have been ill, and was making some for myself when you passed through the yard. I—”

“We shouldn’t levy off you,” the soldier said.

Mr. Fanning choked in his cup. “My pleasure, General. My only son is with the army. Captain Tyler Fanning, the Seventy-second Pennsylvania Volunteers. Perhaps you have met him?” he asked.

A young officer snickered, and Buford shot a hard glance at him. He put down his saucer and poured more coffee from the cup. “I don’t believe I recollect the name, Mr. Fanning.”

Outside, a horse plunged skittishly. “Hold on, Pretty,” droned a voice. A man in blue stood beside a gray mare, grasping a net of bridle reins in one hand, and in his other the pole of a brief flag which flashed crimson in the climbing sunlight. The folds twisted in and out, winding, unwinding against staff. A numeral: I.

Mr. Fanning nodded toward the door. “Your man outside—the standard-bearer or orderly or whatever he may be—will he—?”

“No, sir,” said a young captain. “He doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Morris?” asked a major in a checkered shirt. “Why, he has religious principles against it.”

No one spoke for a moment. You could hear them all sipping noisily at the hot liquid, tapping their spoons against the china cups as if they liked the sound. The captain belched.