“Look,” the doctor murmured, “they’re all a-wearing black hats. It must be a new style.” The long, dark row sagged back, evened again. Clean ’em out, Michigan, a vast voice roared—here we go. Twenty-fourth! The line seemed beaten flat, much thinner than when it had rushed forward in a column, as if those fields which it had crossed were an anvil where it was pounded to a narrow toughness. Reynolds and his staff slapped on along the summit of the ridge; the bouncing riders kept turning dusty faces, looking back.

A drone went up: foorwooord. They yapped it, back past the Schmucker house, all the way to the steaming road. Foorwooord. The rope of men edged into the smoky shade; the hill kept wiggling, and there was a new swarm crawling up out of the southeast valley behind them. Now you could look past the northern boundary of the grove and see the infantry stringing through the shallow valley, past the dry run, and up the gentle slope to the next stockade of trees. Again they vanished. Beyond McPherson’s ridge the wail of the Confederates rose more shrilly; fresh reports spanked out, applauding buffets from end to end of the confusion. The infantry let its first volley go, a racking gash which whipped high above the heads of the stubborn, dismounted troopers who lay crouched in their path.

Duffey drew a long breath. “Here we stand,” he said, “when folks are needing me to see after them.”

“Are you going to amputate that man’s foot?”

“Not in the flower bed, I can tell you. I left my carryall in your yard, and maybe poor Salt will be killed, though I tied him in your old stable. But I was thinking we might take some of these unfortunates down to your back porch: it’s a handy place, and nobody is turning a finger for them. And plenty of water close by, at the well.” He unrolled his shirt sleeves, nodding briskly at his own decision. “I’ll be starting down there, Dan. You might bring that man with the foot. I’m never one to let an honest Irishman catch the gangrene if I can help it.”