When she looked again, Tyler was waiting near the roadway in front of the pile of ties, his haversack on the ground beside him. Mr. Fanning stood there; he bent down to remove a cinder from his slipper; he was talking to Ty, but she could not hear what he said. Scampering ahead of the deliberate engine came a group of boys, bright-faced, their hair slicked down in Sabbath baptism. Among them trotted a taller youth in army blue, his jacket open, his cap far back on his head. Vaguely, Irene remembered him as the Vandercook boy who had brought spring fries to Mrs. Fanning, the year before. Now he was a returned hero, his shoulders square and his lips wise with fledging assurance … He’s the greatest person they ever saw, she thought. Greater than God or officers or Tom Thumb or anybody. He’s a soldier, home from the wars, home from the wars.

Tyler shrieked, “Halt!” The boy stopped, a stiffening quiver of blue, his hands slapping against his thighs. The children fell away from him, scattering as Ty came toward them.

“Don’t they teach you to salute, Private?”

The Vandercook boy muttered something. His hand cracked up, down again.

“What is your regiment?”

“Eighty-seventh Pennsylvania—” Then their voices vanished under the whistle’s screech; the engineer leaned out of the cab, switching his hand back and forth. Tyler grasped the boy’s arm and jerked him from the track. Brown steel came sliding across in front of them, wet with oil, wreathed in drifting smoke.

She could see Tyler lifting himself up on the tool car as it rolled past. A knot of workmen rode there, swaying with the train’s motion, or squatting on the pile of rusty rails. Ty’s hat coming up, then the knapsack lifted high, then his sword glitter. He was on the car, going to Virginia, going off to Owen’s brigade. He saluted his father, then he took off his hat and bowed toward the carriage. Demon waved the whip, and hooted.

Mr. Fanning stood beside the track, flapping his gaunt hand, staring after the cars. The wheels clicked faster, there were yellow flakes in the smoke. The boy soldier stood sheepishly; his friends whinnied and giggled on the depot platform. They began to call: you could hear their voices as the engine went grouching off into hazy distances. “Haw-haw, Milo.” “Hey, Milo, you just about got put in the guardhouse.” “I bet once if I was a soldier by the army, I would salute a colonel.” “He is not a colonel; he’s a captain.” “He’s a—” “Ask Mr. Fanning. Mr. Fanning, he’s a captain, ain’t he? Ain’t he a captain, sir?”