Tim said, “We believe in our cause, as they do in theirs.”
Their host looked into the fire, then studied the faces of the prisoners. “You boys have had a trying time. It would grieve me sorely if I saw you come to an unhappy end. The people hereabouts hate Yankee uniforms. Twenty-two Confederate dead sleep in the churchyard down the road.”
A thumping came at a door at the back of the house. “That must be Kane,” MacNeil said.
The colored man came in again. “Mr. Kane has four guards outside. He asks would you like a word with him?”
“Tell Mr. Kane to send one of the guards to the second floor hall. I’ll see him shortly.”
MacNeil stood up, keeping his pistol in his hand. “I’ll take you to your rooms.”
MacNeil kept his prisoners ahead of him as he showed them the way. He directed Red to a door in the middle of the hall and Tim to a room that faced the front as well as the side. “Make yourselves comfortable. Would you like some tea and a bit of bread to tide you over till suppertime?”
“Don’t trouble, sir,” Tim said. “Sleep is what we need right now.”
A fresh-lit fire crackled on the hearth. Tim spread his blanket on the floor, stripped off his clothes and hung them over the fire screen to dry. He drew a ladder-back chair close to the hearth and turned out the contents of his haversack and arranged the clothes on the chair.
A pitcher and a tumbler stood on a table by the bed and a china basin steamed on a wooden stand. Tim reached for a sponge that hung with a towel at the side of the stand and washed and dried. He helped himself to a drink of water, raised a window a crack and slipped between the clean white sheets.