Through Ziegler’s grove a few rifles were pattering, all porcelain sunrises forgotten … They must think I’m a straggler rejoining my regiment: keep away from officers, for they will call a provost guard … Naw, this is the Fourteenth Connecticut. (This man, too old to be in war. He is older than John Burns, but from his eyes you know that he has seen a lot of wars.) This is the twelfth New Jezzy. “I own property in New Jersey,” Dan said, and left the soldier staring after him, scratching his beard.

Again the odor of onions. Faces were more numerous, now, and more and more of them were waking faces with eyes in them. This, said a clear voice, is the First Delaware. He looked down into the satiny eyes. “You’re a girl!” he blurted, and the eyes were suddenly wide with an admitted terror. Afterward, he didn’t know how he was so certain. Her voice—so like a young boy’s voice … she ran, scooting over the rocks, lugging her drum with her. The pecking rifles were directly ahead.

Men lay flat here in the lower woods; even the officers crouched behind whatever cover offered. Dan heard the m-sounds, the same as yesterday, they would always be the same. This regiment was not sleeping; it lay behind boards and rails and was about a very serious business. Halt, came the command, and he knew enough to obey.

“Well, get down!” A big man rose up, resting on his elbow, and glared bitterly at Dan. Bale dropped to his knees. The m’s above. “I know,” he said, “sharp-shooters.”

“What’s your regiment?”

He told his story. The man still had the scowl between his eyes, but he nodded as Dan talked. “That’s Webb’s brigade you want. Got the California regiment in it. I know them well. Wait here.” Dan lay back and closed his eyes; the perpetual shooting moved far up into the freshening sky. He heard the officer go crawling away, pebbles scraping. “I’m sick of this, Gibson!” he ranted, some distance beyond. “Take skirmishers—a company, anyhow—and clean out that barn over there. Take Company D; that ought to be enough. I’ll answer for it.” Tired reply: Yes-sir. Orders began to click along the woods’ edge.

“That’ll stop ’em, perhaps,” growled the big man when he returned. Bale sat up. “What?” he asked. The officer wagged his swarthy head. “Rebs in a barn out there beyond that road—they’ve been raising sin with us.” His scornful gaze pried close. “Here,” he said, “have you breakfasted?”

Don’t know … ate something … when— The major told him: “I’m finished. You’re welcome to this.” He offered a handful of crackers, a chunk of cold sausage and a whiskey bottle in which muddy coffee splashed like tar. “If you can handle it,” he added.

“God,” Bale said.