Inside the seminary cupola, men were moving about. Dan saw their heads waggling at the apertures, and sunlight dazzled for a moment on some brass about them. Across the barrier beyond the upper end of Fannings’ pasture, a group of soldiers gathered around something which lay on the ground. One by one, slowly, through the smoky shade and across the open green of the seminary lawn, dingy figures came hobbling.

Wounded men: they began to dot the whole expanse, dragging themselves close to the trees, and still in the west you could hear that windy, wailing sound. Bale thought, it must be the wounded; those who are hurt—they are making that vast crying. Christ, that there should be so many of them.

A soldier scrambled over the broken fence and ran down the slope. His face grew rapidly … now he was near, he was in his undershirt, and one of his arms seemed painted to the elbow. He whooped, “Let me have some water!” He trotted past the corner of the granary, his thin ribs puffing out against his soaked flannels. “For God’s sake—” he wailed.

There was a bucket beside the well. Dan wound the windlass furiously. The boy stood swinging his hands; his face was marked with fresh tears. “Ma said to look out for each other,” he kept repeating, “Ma said to look out. Jesus, hurry up with that water!” He snatched the full pail and darted off again. There would be more of them, Dan knew. He found a wooden bucket inside the open door of the carriage house. He emptied an accumulation of chaff and straw, drew the pail full of water, and went up the field toward the frosty, sliding smoke.