The old man emptied the ammunition into his pockets. He leaned his rusty musket among the bushes. “I’ll git that later if it hain’t be stole,” he said. “Much obliged. I fit the British, must have been before your Pa was born. These rebels laid hands on me when they were here afore this, and hauled me around and tried to get gay,” he told Dan and the Irishman in his arms, and the man who sat in the weeds. This was an explanation which he was making to all the world. “I’d like to see ’em scorch for it … come fighting round our town, this way. Well.” He inserted his arm in the leather sling of the rifle. “Teamed awhile with the army down in Maryland,” he called back to them, “but they said I was too old. They made me come home, and I been constable ever since.” He walked on, head bent, the strap gleaming across his knobby shoulder.

Bale said to the man beside the path, “Come across the fence to that brick house. There’s a doctor there who’ll look after you.” He could hear the soldier stumbling through the grass after him as he went toward the fence. He put his burden on the ground and removed a whole section of the fence, so that others might come through. Then he lifted the unconscious man once more and went toward the house, with the other man staggering behind.

Already Duffey had entered the kitchen. He had brought out several pans, and a torn sheet which he was spreading like a carpet over the boards of the rear porch. “Here, Daniel. Lay him down, poor soul. And you got me another patient as well. But you’re not bad,” he diagnosed. “Not bad at all. Set down and await your turn.” He said to Bale, “Now you’ll see me for the butcher I am.” He began to unfasten the wet wad of bandage; his fingers went fast and assuredly about their business. The man sighed, and retched again. “Now, my boy,” reproved Duffey.

He squinted at the mass in his hands. It looked like veal. He poured a tin of water, and watched the red glue soaking away. The man chanted stupidly, “My-foot-hurts-it-God-damn-hurts-oh.” He began, his eyes tightly closed: Dominus nostri in—

“I’ll remove the articulating surface of the tibia and calcaneum,” the doctor said, “then bring the cut surfaces into apposition. Go fetch my other bag, Dan; I left it on the front stoop, not knowing where I’d go. I’ve got a bit of ether.” He wiped his juicy hands. “And bring some whiskey from inside the house, some of Pentland Bale’s whiskey. Praise Peter, and he didn’t live to see amputations in his dooryard.”