"We are a ravaged and blockaded country. It is with some difficulty that we feed and clothe our armies in the field. As for medicines with which to fight disease, you will not let them pass, not for our women and children and sick at home, and not for your own men in prison. And, for all our representations, you will not exchange prisoners. If there is undue suffering, I think you must share the blame."
"Yes, yes, it is all hellish enough!—Well, on one side of the dice, prisoner of war; on the other, death here under poor Caliph. Might escape from prison, no escape from death. By Jove, what a thunderclap! It's Stonewall Jackson pursuing us, eh?"
"Yes. I hear Pelham's guns—You are an Englishman?"
"Yes. Francis Marchmont, at your service; colonel of the Marchmont"—he laughed—"Invincibles."
"I am Maury Stafford, serving on General Ewell's staff.—Yes, that's Pelham."
He straightened himself. "I must be getting back to the front. It is hard to hear for the wind and rain and thunder, but I think the musketry is recommencing." He looked about him. "We came through these woods this morning. Stuart has patrols everywhere, but I think that dip between the hills may be clear. You are pretty pale yet. You had better keep the brandy flask. Are you sure that you can walk?"
"Walk beside you into your lines, you mean?"
"No. I mean try a way out between the hills."
"I am not your prisoner?"
"No."