“Glad?” cried Solt. “Man, man—listen to me—” He looked at the long body; it seemed twice as long as it had seemed a moment before; a thin, giant height pressed flat among old ashes and chick-weed. He began to cry. “Oh, Lord,” he sobbed, “our Father, our Heavenly Guardian and Redeemer of all, we—we come to Thee in a—midnight of sorrow and loneliness—beseech Thee to shew us that our way is not Thy way—that—” His tears seeped into his beard … two little girls, two little girls, and he could see them fairly. The Confederate was staring grimly at him, as if Reverend Solt had brought this about and should be held solely accountable.

Chapter 5

5.

Dan saw a little group of men crouching amid bushes on the south side of Breckenridge street in front of the old Angwald place. None of them was fat enough to be the man he wanted, but in hours of searching he had exhausted the few clues available. His temples rattled in the earthquake of artillery … At the Frielings’ he could arouse no one, though he tried in the faint hope that they would have some knowledge of the tenant whom they had driven away.

He slid behind fences as rapidly as he could, and welcomed each breadth of wall. A thousand phlegmatic Georgians waited along Middle street and they hadn’t wished to let him pass. The yard fences were demolished to make a barricade. The rebel skirmishers lay scattered far ahead, and there was a right smart of bullets coming out of the cemetery. But if you ain’t got sense enough to stay to home … go ’long, they said, and mind them Yankee sha’p-shooters.

He minded them as well as he could. Balls droned, clattering among the shuttered houses. A black-and-white cat sat out on the Gerbers’ horse-block and washed its face. Dan came from behind a wall opposite the Angwald house, and started across the road toward the men who hid in a nest of honeysuckle.

“Look out!” came a yell.

The dust fluffed beside him … he was in the bushes, and looking down at two pale boys of twelve or fourteen, and a moss-bearded man who squatted with a crutch in his hands.

Bart McKosh told him, “They almost got you that time, Bale.”

“Have you seen Elmer Quagger?”

“Quagger?” repeated McKosh. He turned the word over, and examined it, and did not like it. “No, I hain’t seen him. Nor want to.” His sour eyes came up and hung on Dan’s. “He’s a Copperhead. You ought to know that.”

“Yes. I want to see him…”

McKosh jerked his elbow toward the two boys beside him. “Showing my nevvies what wars looks like.”

“They ought not to be here.”