Bart grunted, “Well, they would come.” He turned to the youth nearest him, and pointed through the bushes. “Look close, Amos. See them little shiny knobs right in front of the gate? Three-inch rifles—it’s a whole battery of them. If you notice over on the Pike you’ll see how the rebels have got Parrotts and rifles and twenty-four-pound howitzers all mixed up together. They’ve got lots of captured Union guns.” He nodded at Bale. “I guess this is more war than folks around here ever had a smell of. They say there’s two or three corps tangled up down around the Trostle place.”

Somewhere, closer than cannon and musket volleys, a thin wail was hinging up and down the scale. “That noise,” Dan said.

“I hear it.” McKosh spat into the calla lilies, and poked at the place with his crutch. “We thought it was a cat yowling, but I couldn’t see him nowhere around.”

“There’s Puss Gerber out by the road,” said one of the nephews. “Angwalds’ haven’t got a cat—it got froze last winter.”

His uncle nodded. “I like to got froze at Fredericksburg.” Dan looked down at the thin shoulders and stringy neck, the empty trouser-leg tacked up against his belt … The boys said, Still yowling.

There was a sudden wrenching of wood at the house ahead of them, and something pale fluttered among flowers beside the foundation. They all watched it. It wasn’t a cat.

McKosh drew a long breath. “Well,” he said, “somebody waving—”

Bale could see a thin hand flapping from the cellar window. He stood up and started out of the bushes. A branch flicked, leaves twinkled loose. “For the love of Jesus!” ejaculated McKosh. He fastened his hands on Bale’s pant-leg and hauled him back. “Mr. Bale, those National folks have got their eye on this yard! I heard the guns go off. Don’t go over there—they’ll take you for a Butternut and you’ll get shot on the way.” His nephews were squirming backward out of the honeysuckles. “Get behind that big sycamore,” he ordered them.

Dan said, “But somebody’s waving, over at the house—”

The veteran grunted, “Let ’em wave.” He wriggled a few inches forward, and cupped his hands. “Hey,” he called.

The hand ceased flapping. Wurr, a voice sobbed.

“What?”

“Water … Who’s there?”

“Bart McKosh and—and Daniel Bale. What you want?”

Still the cat was mourning … Mrs. Angwald had a shallow voice, wholly beaten and despairing. She quavered, and they could barely hear her: We’ve been down here since yesterday and the children just dying fresh drink-a-water.

McKosh scratched his head. “Well,” he hallooed, “where’ll I get water? Where’s a bucket?”