“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.