“They’re just like the ladies of Philadelphia,” Tim said, “who served us goodies two years ago.”
One of the women, dark haired and young, turned to him. “Need is need, wherever it may be,” she said with a sweet, sad smile.
Tim noticed how graceful she was in her starched white dress and pale blue shawl. She was so much like Kate that he felt his knees go weak. As she turned away he was filled with a yearning for home, a longing to sit on his horse and ride along the river road underneath the sunlit leaves until Kate’s house came into view.
When the women had disappeared into the building again the Rebel sergeant slapped the stock of his rifle. “Quiet,” he said. “Now we march to the railroad depot.”
They marched through the streets and alleys lined by houses, sometimes neat and tidy, sometimes deserted and forlorn. There were gardens filled with summer flowers still in bloom, palmetto trees along the sidewalk, dark green painted doors with knobs and knockers of polished brass. People leaned on their windowsills to watch the passing prisoners. Some of them hissed or spat. Others watched with expressions of compassion or concern. A scattering of ragged children ran ahead of the prisoners, spreading the word that they were on the way. They rounded a corner and walked along a wide cobbled street where most of the houses were of the “single style,” narrow at the front, with piazzas facing lawns and gardens at the sides.
People were gathering on the sidewalks, and as the prisoners approached St. Michael’s church the crowd grew thick, surged from under the portico and broke into catcalls and jeers. The soldiers of the Rebel guard flashed their bayonets and drove the people back. Most of the prisoners walked straight and proud. Tim set his jaw and stiffened his back but he couldn’t stop the trembling in his knees.
A gang of little boys dodged around the pillars of the church and one of them skittered through the crowd, made a face and flapped his hands like donkey ears. He reached into his pocket and brought out a tomato. Tim saw the boy’s arm arch back as he took deliberate aim. The love apple caught the Rebel sergeant just over his ear. The sergeant moved to catch the boy.
“I was aiming at a Yank,” the little fellow screamed as he dashed behind the skirts and capes that lined the street.
People in the crowd began to laugh, the women first, and then the men. The sergeant’s face turned red, and even Yankee snickers turned to laughs. Then there was silence. The laughter of the Yanks had made the joke go sour.
As they moved along the middle of the street, carriages and wagons pulled aside to let them pass. The drivers turned hostile faces on the men in blue.