Herrs’ farm, Minnighs’ farm, the Germels’ house, were swallowed by a popping, resounding fog. Out near the turnpike a battery of guns fired without a pause for breath, but all this roar could not drown the falsetto howl of human throats … the rebels, the whoooo of desolation that walked with them as they drilled their way closer.

Bale reached the crawling soldier and lifted him upright, thrusting an arm under his shoulders. The trooper grimaced painfully. “Well. Thought you was headed towards the war.” He leaned heavily against Dan, using him for a crutch; he exuded the rancid odor of one who was long unwashed. They moved across a flower bed where the pink geraniums were trodden to rags by a hundred boot-heels. “Here,” the soldier ordered, “set me down against a good brick wall. I don’t want a case shot in my hind end.” Dan lowered him to the ground in a corner near the seminary door; the sun scorched around them.

“Don’t you want to be in the shade?”

“Nope. Good, clean sunshine is the stuff for crawlers. Gray ramblers … prob’ly you never had any. I’ll wait right here until a beautiful lady comes with a dish of brandy-peaches, or something. Take care!” He saluted weakly, then took out a jack-knife and began to slit his shattered boot.

Through the door of the building, a slim youth came springing like a monkey out of a box. He sailed into the saddle of a little bay horse and went pounding up across the lawn, heedless of the wounded men who tumbled out of his way. “That’s a mighty hurry,” a cracked voice declared. “Old John must be getting his dander up…” The surf of firing slid higher, the reports were sharper, shorter, more metallic. “There go the Colts’,” remarked the same voice. “Ammunition’s going.” The owner of the voice racked past Dan Bale; he stared curiously at him, then lunged on, a wizened, long-armed man with two carbines for canes. High overhead, Dan heard a sudden cry: “That’s it, sir! First Corps guidon, or else—” He looked up at the cupola. An officer was leaning out, a telescope clamped against his eye and pointed toward the south. From inside the building sounded a trample of hurrying feet: General Buford came out on the steps, drawing on his ragged gloves, though the sun was cooking every grass-blade. The major with the checkered shirt limped behind him; he had a red-stained cloth wrapped around his groin and upper thighs, like an enormous diaper. “Here he comes,” said Buford.