The prisoners were shouted to a halt beside a two-story depot with
a turreted top and moss-covered walls. An old man poked his head
out of one of the upper windows and glared at the sergeant through
steel-rimmed spectacles. “Sit them down,” he squawked. “The train won’t
be here for quite a spell. Just got it over the telegraph.”
“Where’s the Home Guard, granddaddy? We want to get back to the
barracks for dinner.”
“They’re with the train,” the old man said and shut the window.
In front of the building three Negro women had set up shop. They sat on
the steps, their bright cotton dresses, straw hats and shawls gleaming
in the sun, oranges and yams and figs and shrimp in baskets and wooden
bowls ranged around their feet. “Gentlemen, buy here!” one of them
called. “Fruits and vegetables, molasses cakes. We still have tobacco
and a few cigars.”
The Rebel sergeant loosened his collar and slung his rifle over his
shoulder. “Buy if you have money,” he said to the prisoners, “but stay
on the platform. We’ll shoot the first man who wanders. We’ve had
enough running for today.”
The sergeant walked past the colored women, up the steps and through
the depot door.
Greene looked at the food. “I could eat it all,” he gulped.
“We’d better buy what we can and save what we can,” Tim said. “We may
have to make it last a while.”
The prisoners clustered around the women. Tim noticed Dawson eating and
stuffing his pockets with food. The woman in the center was big and
fat. She was wreathed in smiles. “We give you good exchange,” she said,
“five Confederate dollars to one greenback for Yankee gentlemen.”
Tim bought some yams and molasses cakes, and Greene cradled five big
oranges in the crook of his arm.
The mean-faced Confederate corporal yelled, “Fall in at the center of
the platform where I can keep my eyes on you.”
The prisoners drifted away from the bright little island of smiling,
brown-skinned women and did as they were told.
Greene fumbled for his money and paid for his oranges. As he slipped
his wallet into his pocket one of the oranges fell to the platform and
rolled toward the track. He chased the orange, clutching the others
against his blouse. Tim had pocketed his food and he started toward
the orange as it rolled to the edge of the platform. The Confederate
corporal watched the orange with cold indifference as it bumped onto
the track. Greene scrambled after it. Suddenly the corporal swung
his rifle around and caught Greene in the side with the point of his
bayonet.
The wounded boy cried out in pain, the other oranges dropped from his
grasp and bumped and rolled onto the roadbed, bright spots against the
stones.
Greene crumpled to the ground, holding his side, gasping and sucking
for breath.
Tim’s eyes blazed fury. “Why, you damned fool,” he said. He turned his
back to the corporal and knelt beside Greene.
The sergeant appeared from the shadow of the doorway. “Corporal,” he
rasped, “we’ve had enough trouble today without you doing a thing like
that.”
The color drained from the corporal’s face. “Just doing what you told
us,” he choked, “getting the Yankees back in line.”
The fat woman dropped to her knees and wailed, “Lord have mercy on us
all. That boy didn’t mean no harm.”
The sergeant turned on the woman. “Shut your face. You better do your
selling some place else.”
Tim loosened the boy’s clothing, exposing the white flesh and the ugly
mouth-shaped wound.
The sergeant squatted. “That’s nothing to worry about.” He reached into
his haversack. “We’ll bandage it and they’ll dress it proper when you
get to your jail.”
“Where are we going, Sergeant?” Tim asked.
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“How long a ride is it?” Tim asked evenly.
“Three or four hours I guess.”
Tim stood up slowly. “This man needs a doctor now.”
“My commanding officer would give me the devil if he knew about this.”
Tim clenched his fists. “Greene needs care. He needs it now.”
The sergeant wavered. “The train ...” he said.
“The train be damned, Sergeant. Stabbing this boy was an act of
cruelty. If you send him to a prison in the shape he’s in, I’ll find a
way to let your commanding general know.”
Greene was breathing heavily. He had lost a lot of blood. It had soaked
his trousers and formed a little pool on the ground. “Don’t bother,
Lieutenant,” he whispered. “I can make the trip.”
Tim looked coldly into the Sergeant’s eyes. “Well, Sergeant?”
The sergeant turned to the corporal. “Leave your rifle with me,” he
said. “Bring a baggage wagon around from the back. You can drive the
Yankee to the hospital. If he dies, it’s on your head.”
“But ...” the Rebel corporal whined.
“But nothing. I’ve had enough of you.”
Greene looked up at Tim. “I’d rather stay with you, Lieutenant.”
“You can’t do that. You’ll be better off in a hospital. If your wound
had been higher, you might have been killed, but it’s just in the flesh
of the hip. If it’s properly dressed, you’ll be well in a week or two.”
The colored women were gathering up their bowls and baskets and getting
ready to move away. The prisoners watched in silent anger as the
corporal brought the wagon around and reined the horse to a stop.
Tim and the sergeant lifted Greene gently to the wagon floor, and
Tim touched the boy’s sleeve. “You’re a brave lad, Greene,” he said
quietly. Greene smiled and turned his face away.
As the wagon squeaked and rattled off, the sergeant turned to Tim.
“Gather up the boy’s oranges, if you’re a mind to,” he said.
Tim stepped off the platform and leaned down to pick up the oranges.
The other prisoners sat along the wall of the building. Tim stuffed the
oranges into the bulging pockets of his blouse and settled himself on
the heavy, splintering planks of the baggage platform. He watched the
wagon disappear into the dusty distance and then stared down at the
backs of his hands, tanned and moist and heavily veined.
He thought of Greene and his other men. With a flash of fear he thought
of Red. He studied the row of prisoners, looking for a familiar face,
and there--turning toward him as if at a signal--was Dawson’s. The eyes
of the two men met and Dawson turned away.
Tim looked along the length of track. The ribbons of steel reflected
the blinding sun as they converged in the shimmering distance. He
nodded sleepily but his ear caught a sound. A column of men moved along
the street, thinly veiled by a cloud of dust. As they came closer Tim
could see that their clothes were in tatters and they were pitifully
thin. Some of them wore slouch hats and some of them straws. On poles
that rested on their shoulders they carried their belongings: rusty
pots and pans and bits of clothing, a three-legged chair and a couple
of homemade tables. When the column halted Tim looked closely. He was
shocked to see that two of the scarecrows wore dark blue forage caps
and that a barefooted man had a tattered Federal blouse tucked into his
belt at the back. They must be Yankee soldiers captured many months ago.
Their faces were sunken and vacant. They put down their rattling,
tinkling poles and settled against the wall near the far corner of the
building.
Tim felt a little sick. He turned his eyes away and rested his head in
the flats of his hands and went to sleep.