The fire-alarm had stopped suddenly, shorn off; its cessation pained the empty air … Bart McKosh and Elijah were hurrying across the Diamond; even at a distance you could see the fever in Elijah’s cheeks. McKosh looked more dark and sallow and brow-beaten than ever. He hurled himself along with prodigious leaps of his single leg … The army officer walked forward to meet him.

Doctor Duffey’s mittened paw closed on Dan’s arm. “You’ve still got a grip,” Bale said … The old doctor was staring past him with glazed and squinting eyes. “Watch,” he kept saying, “over there by the corner. Watch! It’s Constable John Burns, and he’s a fire-eater if ever I see one. Look—the poor old relic is lugging his musket along—”

Burns began to chant before he had reached Major Haller: “I got military experience—fought in two wars, I have. Teamed with the army down in Maryland … ain’t so old as I might be—” The men could barely hear his words. He glared at the officer with bitter, Indian eyes; his loose jaw kept wiggling from side to side.

“My hands are coming back to me,” Duffey chuckled harshly. He pulled Dan toward the carryall. “Look how I can take hold … And do you know, this puts me in mind of when I was in Philadelphia and we had the plague. Cholera.”

“This is worse than cholera,” Bale said.

“It takes hold in the same way … Would you mind riding home with me? I want to see if I can drive old Salt without too much pain and trouble. Likely I’ll have to do my own driving from now on, if Elijah goes off to shoot at folks.”

Dan said, “According to that officer, it was only a raid. They’ve gone back south again.”

Doc climbed into the carryall and unwound the reins from the whipstock, working with slow and flabby gestures. “Devil a bit of satisfaction I can find in that. They’ll be back for a full meal … this is a terrible war, Dan. Tutchk,” he ordered old Salt. Sullenly, the white horse hobbled in a half circle; the wheels scraped against the body of the rig.

“He was treated shameful, poor horse. We’ll be taking it easy now, no matter who has pups. Tutchk.”

As they squeaked toward York street, they passed a bulky man who was walking rapidly away from the crowd beside the Zeigenfuss family. He lifted his head for a glance at Bale, then turned away again.

“Elmer Quagger,” nodded Adam Duffey. “Said to be a Copperhead.”

“Yes. He is one. That’s what people are whispering of me, no doubt.” He looked back over the seat; Quagger was staring malignantly after him.

Duffey cocked his head on one side. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Quagger—he reminded me of something…”

“Reminded you?”