The old man was bullying up and down the ranks. “Stay in line, you devils,” he shouted. “Keep them in line, you lazy trash.” He stood in a circle of gaslight at the end of the platform with his hands on his hips and greeted a detachment of men in Confederate uniform. “Where in hell have you been?” he howled to the lieutenant in command of the guard. “You were supposed to be here when the train came in.”
The lieutenant was an even-tempered man. “I’ll take the gentlemen now,” he said.
The old captain made a vulgar sound. “Gentlemen!” he exploded. “These men are the lowest of Yankee scum.”
The lieutenant looked along the line. “Any trouble to report?”
“One escape from the long bridge trestle on the Congaree. I got him with my second shot.”
“You know his name, so I can put it in the report?”
The old man’s voice was rising again. “Now how the devil would I know his name?”
The lieutenant gave a command to his men and they came down the line, ordering the prisoners to march.
The column moved along the platform, past the silent cars into the pool of gaslight, out of the stationyard and along a lamplit street lined with white wooden houses, cool and dark under the cover of stately trees.
The guards spoke to the prisoners now and then, and the prisoners talked quietly among themselves. “How did you get through the battle alive?”