The pale eyes went around again. Had to tell you, Dan railed at him—it’s not true. You see, it’s not true. That letter … Tyler said, Bluhhh, and his lips went away from his teeth … that letter, Ty, it’s not true, not a word of it, it was all a fabrication, I was here and killed somebody—he was middle-aged—I shot a man, just to tell you—I tell you, I shot him—you God damn dirty son of a bitch, do you hear, do you hear, do you hear?

Fanning slid lower and began to vomit; his lips were fish-gills. He mourned, Tell me what’s not true … Bluhhh.

Your wife. Fanning opened his eyes, and closed them, and opened, and closed. Aw, he sighed with the yellow dripping from his chin. Aw, that.

Do you believe me? I killed a man just to—

What? Yes. O course, I— Leg … aw … aw, my Christ.

There were some officers bending over a man just ahead. National officers—one of them was spitting blood but he seemed strong enough; the other man was naked to the waist, but you could tell he was an officer. They lifted a limp, bald-headed figure in shabby gray, and their eyes met as they raised him up. Yes, one declared, we must take him back to the stretcher-bearers. Did you hear? Yes, said the other, I heard. He has called for help as the son of a widow.

The hospitals were back in the valley of Rock Creek. Darkness came on, stinking and thick. Dan found a surgeon kneeling in the middle of a moaning waste of straw and wet rags.

“Who?” the surgeon asked. “He was mainly bald, and had stars on his jacket collar? Ah, yes.” He nodded sadly. “You refer to General Armistead of Virginia. He was mortally wounded.”

Chapter 10

10.

In still another hospital Doctor Duffey worked among the awful population, and Dan worked with him all evening. Tyler Fanning had been carried here with most of the other wounded from the rock-oak copse; the chief surgeon and his assistants rigged a barn door on the rocks to serve as an operating table; between probings the surgeon petitioned shrilly for food—hard-tack, biscuits, anything to help hold the life inside the men. It was surprising how many of them had eaten nothing since they could remember. The evening groped on, and no crackers came.

Can’t do anything for our colonel, a young lieutenant continued his insistent delirium. I tell you, gentlemen, you can’t do anything. He’s killed, I tell you: killed. Send all the doctors you wish, but you can’t do anything for him. My name … tell you what my name is. My name. Walker. William H. Acting as adjutant. Twentieth Massachusetts.