Up the hill beyond them mumbling wagons began to carry a deeper resonance, as if they transported drums eternally beaten in a muffled roll. “I can’t distribute these in the dark,” Dan told the surgeon. The officer swore again, pressed the wire handle into Bale’s hand, and went scrambling off toward the lights beside the barn door … Face. It was white and severe and somehow princely, and the eyes were closed. Dan said, “Here’s a bite to eat.” The face didn’t twitch or open its eyes. I’ll take his, sobbed another man, and reached up a perspiring hand … Face. It grinned softly; it was an ugly Scotch face, and you thought it was listening to bagpipes of enchantment, droning wickedly in a rainy world beyond. Scotch face couldn’t hold the hard-tack, it fell against his corrugated neck, but he grinned with inarticulate delight … Face. Sober and firm as steel; one eye stared without blinking, the other socket was a coagulating pool. “Thank you, friend,” the soldier whispered. “I think I hear artillery again.”

“Wagons,” Dan said.

The man smiled, his single eye clicked shut. “My error, sir. God’s cannon…”

Dan kept listening as he worked his way among the trees. Now he identified the deep murmur up above; it did not live with the wagons but far beyond them, enormous palpitations in the overcast sky. He could feel the sweat seeping in his armpits and through his crotch; the moisture was turning cold, even as he worked; the poison of heat was cooling away. Why, he thought, there’ll be nothing to cover them if it should rain.

A strip of lightning dashed overhead, and all around came the resigned trickle of leaves wavering in a sudden wind and falling quiet again. Bale found Tyler. Ty had his back propped against a tree trunk, and was swaddled in an old jacket. He grimaced into the lantern glow. Dan asked, “Do you feel like having a cracker?” and knelt beside him.

Feel like, Tyler said, feel like—

Bale put his hand on the wrapping of cloth around Fanning’s leg. The hemorrhage seemed stopped. There was some dampness, but the bandages were not soaked. “I can’t find any more brandy,” he said, “but here’s a cracker if you want one.”

Tyler’s eyes were puffing and angry. “No. Not now.”

Another light toiled up the ravine toward them. Silhouetted against it was a bulb of black which went up and down mechanically—a head thudding against the ground. “Here,” Adam Duffey’s voice cried out, “why can’t you—” A man interrupted in a fearful exclamation, “You can’t stop him, sir! He’s been banging himself that way for the last hour.”