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.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The shriek of a whistle brought Tim to his senses. He was steeped in sweat and he shook his head and blinked at the train as it backed slowly toward him, its bell clanging, its wheels singing and screeching.
Six freight cars and a caboose made up the train. Up forward the stack of the engine stood high above the cars, belching smoke and sparks. Along the tops of the cars the ragged men and boys of the Home Guard stood with their muskets held loosely in their hands. On the platform at the back of the caboose stood a grisled old man with a pistol thrust into his belt. Beside him was a man, apparently young, in a soiled Confederate uniform, a slouch hat shading his face. As the train stopped, Tim could see that the young Confederate’s face was nothing but an expressionless scar.
It wasn’t long before another column of men came into sight. They were all in Yankee uniform, and as they marched out of the shadow Tim’s heart skipped a beat. At the head of the column, hatless and with his blouse thrown open, marched Red. There was life in his stride. His hair blazed in the sun and he held his bearded chin at a jaunty angle. Alongside Red walked Kautz with a snappy military air.
Tim could feel the thumping of his heart. He got to his feet, dizzy with sleep and fatigue. He jumped off the platform and waved to Red. Red broke ranks as the column halted. “Timmy,” he said, “I knew you were alive but I didn’t know when we’d meet again.”
Captain Kautz smiled and held out his hand. “Good to see you, Lieutenant,” he said.
The platform was crowded with prisoners. The guards began to shout, “Form ranks, get back in line” but the men just stood and talked.
A shout like the bellow of a bull broke through the talk. There was sudden quiet, and with a broken-toothed smile showing through his snow-white beard the old man on the back platform of the caboose said, “Bluebellies, you’re in my charge now.” He took off his gray slouch hat and bowed his white head in mock respect. “When a prisoner steps out of line my men will shoot to kill. My sergeant here will stand by one car at a time and count thirty men into each. Now get to your feet.”