VIII

Out of war, Captain Catto fussed with odds, fumed with ends. This cleaning up, he informed Phelan, was woman’s work: tidying a number of privates and corporals, wiping their noses, pinning their nappies and sending them home to mama. “Peace, peace. All those generals are storekeepers to start with, but this sort of bookkeeping and inventory is not for me.”

“You mean you’d like to get back to killing.”

“Why yes. And I suppose you feel the same.”

“Go to hell. I plan to settle in Chicago and become the world’s foremost baby doctor. A million red-cheeked Americans scampering back to the nuptial couch and unoriginal sin. I will see to it that their creations survive. The maieutic function.”

“Don’t talk dirty.”

“That was a Greek one,” Phelan said comfortably. “I will minister to these viviparous drudges through term, swab the puling infant and slap it into voice, and guarantee one year of life or your money back. All for six bits. Think of it. Six bits times a million or two. I will do yours gratis.”

“Not for a while, old friend. Any little Cattos will be born into a house and not a tent. And I have my hands full now with other folks’ children.”

“The rude and licentious soldiery.” Phelan yawned, stretched, blinked. “After which you will go on to high deeds as a killer of redskins, is that it?”

“Now, now. After all, it is what I have been taught to do.” Catto executed a knee-bend, flapped his arms, breathed deeply. “The army held us together in a time of peril and so on. An honorable profession. Also the grub is always there, and the finest of medical attention, and there is plenty of company, and a pretty blue suit, and a country worth having is a country worth warding.”

“Hear, hear.”

“And as for killing …” Catto dropped to a chair and rubbed his thighs. “This is hard to say. But if I must tell the truth then I tell you there was a moment each time when I loved it. I put a ball through a man’s body, and in principle that was wrong but at the time—ah, God.” With a dismayed, embarrassed cluck he added, “That’s pretty awful, I know.”

“Yes,” Phelan said. “We are a pretty awful species. I won’t remind you of the perfections we ought to be imitating.”

“Thanks for that.”

“I will even go further.” Phelan tilted his chair back, smoothed his mustache, and sniffed loudly. “I have my moments too. When I have a man under the knife, every so often I think how odd it is that I could kill him instanter if I cared to, and no one the wiser.”

“But you never do.”

“Never. I was only trying to show you that we are all full of fell impulse and deadly wish. I once knew the desire to scar Silliman because his face is beautiful and his skin is like a peach.”

Catto said, “I learn something new every day, and sometimes it’s as if I’d always known it.”

Still the men hung about. The ponderous machinery of demobilization creaked, broke down, creaked again. Catto grew tired of the same questions and avoided his troops—save Haller, who fretted only about his lost stripes and his next post. The two of them walked the city, and on Wednesday—May 10th, an important date in Catto’s life—they betook themselves to McLean Barracks on a double errand: they would say hello to the boy, and Catto would confer with General Willich on matters of military importance—to wit, Catto’s future rank. His commission was temporary, and he fretted. “You won’t make it,” Haller said. “You’re brevet all the way. They’ll cut you down to sergeant.”

“Then they can’t have me,” Catto said briskly. “The pistol is at their head, not mine. Phelan says I can make a fortune on the outside. Silliman pleads with me to be a millionaire. Anyway, Hooker likes me.”

“I wish you luck. They may let you keep your epaulets and then hand you a bad assignment.”

“Like what?”

“Some Indian war in the cold country.”

“Won’t be cold for another six months. I’ll worry about it then.”

“Fair enough. You just get me my stripes back. Nothing brevet about them.”

“Damn,” Catto said, and at Haller’s look went on, “that fat fellow there. Did you see him?”

“No.”

“Reminded me of Routledge. Today’s the last day of the amnesty.”

“Sooner or later they’ll amnesty everybody.”

“I hope so. That poor fat fool.”

They walked on in silence beneath a clouding sky. Cincinnati bustled gently, shops, wagons, barrels, work gangs, elegant ladies crowding on sail. Catto thought of the boy who had shot him so long ago and how little it meant now; of Sands pounding into the ravine—what if his horse had pulled up lame a mile short!—and Phelan on the ride home from Deer Creek Valley, nervous, relieved, his tongue wagging: “You see, Marius. Man proposes, God disposes. There is some strange and lovely force at work. The Union wins, which is right and just. The killing is at an end, and your passenger pigeons are back, and the dogwood has flowered again. Redemption and resurrection.” Catto had kept silence, overwhelmed, rejoicing in clemency, shaken to his soul that the army, his army, had survived a peril greater by far than war; rejoicing not only in clemency but also in the luck that had placed him in that ravine at that moment.

He and Haller entered the barracks ceremoniously. General Willich was occupied but would be theirs in half an hour. Captain Booth bade them welcome and led them to Thomas Martin’s room, while Catto complained that the young fellow ought to be let loose. “We can’t,” Booth said. “It was a reprieve, not a pardon. The sentence stands. Got to wait for Hooker.”

“And where is that worthy? Tanking up all the way home? Lying under a table somewhere in Indiana?”

“I’ll tell him what you said,” Booth suggested. “He’ll be along some time today.”

“Booth, where’s the boy’s rifle? That Kentucky rifle.”

“I told you once, locked up right here. He’ll have it back.”

“Good. I promised him.”

The door swung wide; Thomas Martin chirruped at them. He was sitting Indian-fashion on his bunk, laying out a pack of tattered cards. He swept them into a heap and swung his feet to the floor. “Lieutenant!”

“Captain,” Catto said sternly. Haller said, “Hello, boy,” and the boy said, “Hello, Sergeant.”

“He’ll never learn,” Haller said.

“How they treating you?” Catto took a chair. “No more ball and chain, I see.”

Thomas Martin grimaced. “I hated that. Like I was a criminal.”

“That’s what you are, all right. No, I guess you’re not old enough. What are your plans now?”

“Plans.” The boy fell thoughtful and made a kissing sound. “Well, you’ll never guess.” Without waiting for guesses he smiled shyly and told them: “I’m going to join the army, if they’ll have me.”

“Hallelujah!” Catto crowed. “But if you’re not old enough to be a crimnial, you’re not old enough to be a soldier.”

“I don’t know how old I am,” the boy said. “I could swear I was eighteen. That’s all they want.”

“This will be one hell of an army,” Catto said. “The redskins will fling us back into the sea.”

“Then you’ll be staying in?”

“Can’t think of anything else to do.”

“Well, I will if you will,” the boy said.

“Why the hell not,” Catto said. “Maybe the three of us could serve together,” and they were silent until Catto said, “and we could see the Pacific,” and they all grew dreamy and ambitious, and passed half an hour in talk of California and the Rocky Mountains and squaws. It seemed to Catto that his life was rounding to an admirable shape.

General Willich approved. “Hooker and I will recommend jointly that you be permanently commissioned. He should be back today.” The general raised a hand to him, as if in blessing. “Why don’t I swear you in right now?”

“Right now!” Catto was unnerved, and looked to Booth.

“Technically your hitch is up at midnight,” Willich said.

Booth smiled, bland and neutral. Catto studied him briefly. Booth was self-assured, graceful, quiet but nothing of the milksop about him. He was perhaps too beautifully turned out, but between him and Dunglas there was a great difference: professional and amateur. Professional: the word pleased Catto inordinately. So did Booth, and Catto was immediately puzzled, almost ashamed, as if he had begun so soon to shift his loyalty and love from Phelan. He remembered the boy then, and Haller, and asked, “What about my assignment?”

Willich wagged a finger almost roguishly. “Nix, nix. The army can make no promises. I can recommend you for duty in the west, with Hooker’s endorsement. But nothing more.”

Catto looked again at Booth, who was still smiling faintly. Catto grinned at him and said, “Well, hell, why not? What do I say, and where do I sign?”

Booth’s smile broadened, and he winked.

Later Catto joined his civilian friends. “Gentlemen, I have gone and done it.”

“No.” That odd melancholy crossed Phelan’s face.

“Fact. I was carried away. And the general went all patriotic and solemn and I really couldn’t disappoint the man, so there I was with my right hand up, and Booth standing there like my best man, and I signed the papers.”

They meditated this heroism.

Silliman said, “Rank?”

“He thought that between him and Hooker they could keep the straps for me.”

“Second lieutenant. Like me.”

“Like you, hell. You’re a dirty civilian at heart.”

“This is a holy hour,” Phelan said. “A time to give thanks. The world reverting to its natural serenity. We are all alive, Catto has swindled the government out of a commission and Silliman can go home and run for president.”

“That reminds me, Ned. He said you’d be out by the twentieth.”

“This is also unbearably sad,” Phelan said. “I suppose surgeons will have to stay in until the last gleet is cleared up.”

“Time for a drink,” Catto said. The realization was striking him and he was a bit frightened.

“When is it not,” Phelan said, and dropped a heavy hand to Catto’s shoulder.

“You pay, Jack,” said Catto. “Peace makes all men equal.”

After supper he lay on his bunk studying a map of the western territories. He was at rest: older, thoughtful, settled, inviting repose. He would write again to Charlotte. Now the southwest fascinated him. He must lay in a few boxes of better cigars. He must see about attaching Haller to his future, and the boy if possible; a wry end to a tale of war. The desert, even the mountains, would be a happy contrast to these years of rainy bivouacs, muddy roads, rubbishy towns. He was almost asleep, the map fallen to his chest, when knocking roused him. “Come in,” he called.

This time it failed him, that sixth sense, that starry instinct; at this exotic social call there was no premonitory nudge, and when he saw Jacob’s grief he assumed that the poor man had mislaid his silver dollars, or had been choused by a woman. “Man, man,” he said, “it can’t be that bad.”

Jacob told him.

They were in the darkened street, arm in arm, Catto tugging Jacob along. “I heard him,” Jacob said. “I heard him myself.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“That judge.”

“Stallo?”

“The other one.”

“When was it?”

“Before dinner.”

“What did he say?”

“He wroth, and he yell a lot.”

“Wroth.” Yes. Why not wroth. “I wroth too. Have you seen Thomas?”

“The Cap’n say they ain’t lettin nobody in to see Thomas.”

Catto snarled, whimpered, as a wave of rage broke. “Ah, Jacob,” he said, and was instantly ambushed by one aching sob; tears disgraced him.

“Don’t cry now,” Jacob told him. “This ain’t your doing.”

“It’s not that. It’s just that he, he, he didn’t do anything except to me; and the army—the army, Jacob, the army, what do they want with him anyway?”

Jacob had no answer. Before the barracks they paused, as if gathering their forces. Catto looked into Jacob’s soft brown eyes and thought that he—officer, white man—ought to say something; but what? He set a hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

“A disgrace,” Jacob said. “Dishonor and disgrace to all.”

Catto’s tears had dried. He left Jacob sitting under the gas lamp and went in to Willich. He was rendered weak by a sense of repetition. His knock, his voice, his entrance, and there they were: Willich, Stallo, Dickson. No Booth. He closed the door and stood, impassive. No one spoke for many seconds, and the heart went out of him.

At last Willich said, “I’m afraid we have some bad news.”

“Yes sir.”

“General Hooker returned this afternoon.” Willich paused to realign his inkstand. “He has ordered—Catto, I have been transferred! I am to rejoin my command near Nashville next week! And now this!” With his good hand he rubbed his eyes.

“Jacob told me,” Catto said, calmly because he had already assimilated the worst. “I didn’t believe him at first.”

“Who is Jacob?”

“A handyman. The boy’s black friend. I suppose if you’ve been a slave you know these things right away. I was ashamed for all of us, as if I was naked in the street. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him.”

Willich gestured to Dickson like a teacher calling for a recitation. “Tell him.”

Dickson was standing at the window, beside Stallo’s chair, hand clenched about a lapel. All these men seemed sightless; they stared at furniture, at ghosts. “It was my purpose,” Dickson said, and cleared his throat, “to advise General Hooker, on his return, of last week’s events; but I first learned of his return, a few hours ago, from Captain Dunglas, who handed me a note from the general requesting my presence at his headquarters. I went to him immediately.”

“Have a drink,” Willich said.

Catto took up the small glass and listened.

“The moment I saw him,” Dickson said, “I knew that he was Tinder great excitement. He was trying to suppress it, and to some degree succeeding. He did not look me full in the face, but sat sideways, looking obliquely, now and then casting a furtive glance at me.”

“Like us tonight,” Catto said.

“Like us tonight. He spoke slowly, and said, ‘Judge Dickson, I was very angry at you on my return and ordered your arrest; but I have reconsidered it, and am now more composed.’

“I was shocked. ‘Why, you surprise me, General,’ I said. ‘What is the matter?’

“‘Why, sir,’ he said, ‘on my return to the city I found that my administration of this department had been interfered with; that Martin, whom I had ordered shot, had not been shot; that Mister Stanton had suspended my order. I immediately telegraphed him, demanding why he interfered. He replied that it was in response to the Gaither telegram—your work. I demanded of him to send me a copy of this telegram, which he did. Oh, yes, sir! I have got it! I know all you did.’”

Dickson sighed. “You know what General Hooker looks like. Florid. Well, he was a brighter red now, and his eyes were fierce, flashing. ‘Well, General,’ I said, ‘was it not all right?’

“‘No, sir,’ he said; ‘it was not all right. No, sir. Why, sir, when I was in command of the Army of the Potomac, Lincoln would not let me kill a man. Lee killed men every day, and Lee’s army was under discipline; and now, sir, Lincoln is dead, and I will kill this man. Yes, sir, I will. The order is given to shoot him tomorrow, and he will be shot, and don’t you interfere.’

“‘Did Stanton order you to shoot him?’ I asked.

“‘No, sir. He left the matter in my hands, and I demand that he be shot—and shot he will be.’”

Catto took a chair, and sipped at his caraway liquor. He was saying farewell to the boy. He knew that. Possibly he had died in his sleep and gone to Hell. Here we are in Hell. His calm amazed him and saddened him, and he remembered what Colonel Bardsley had said about laughing when it was the next fellow.

Dickson went on. “‘Well, General,’ I said, ‘this boy was only a guerrilla. The war—’”

“But he wasn’t,” Catto said.

Dickson shrugged. “He may have been. And there was the verdict, on paper. ‘The war,’ I went on, ‘is over. He belonged to Colonel Jessee’s command—’”

“Then he wasn’t a guerrilla,” Catto said.

“Catto, Catto, be silent. None of that matters to Hooker.” Dickson paced. “‘He belonged to Colonel Jessee’s command,’ I said. ‘This morning’s papers tell us that the government has given Jessee the same terms given Lee; that he is now in Louisville, where he has been feasted and fraternized with by Union officers. Will it not be shocking to shoot one of his deluded followers here?’”

This man is making a speech, Catto thought. He talks like a schoolbook. Will it not be shocking? Yes it will be shocking.

Dickson had both hands at his lapels now. “‘It makes no difference,’ replied the general. ‘Louisville is not in my department. I am not responsible for what is done there. I will do my duty in my own. Yes, sir, I will; and that tomorrow.’ And then he dismissed me.”

No one spoke for some time.

“His manner,” Dickson said, “as well as his words, told me that his mind was oppressed with the thought that Lincoln’s humanity had thwarted his career; that if the general had been permitted to shoot deserters and sleeping sentries when he had the Army of the Potomac, he would have won the war and become a national hero, instead of slipping down the ladder to Cincinnati. In some way it is a relief to him to sacrifice this boy.” Dickson bowed his head. “And not long ago this man held the fate of the whole country in his hands. The Army of the Potomac.”

But Catto was watching Willich. In time Willich looked up and said, “General Hooker has ordered that the boy be shot tomorrow between noon and two o’clock, and that you command the firing party.”

Catto nodded briskly, as if he had known this for years. He downed his liquor, wiped his mouth and said, “What will you do?”

“There is no choice,” Stallo said.

But Catto waited, still watching Willich.

“There is no choice,” Willich said.

“I see.”

“I have changed the site. To keep the crowds away. You know the country stone quarry? In Deer Creek Valley but over by that Short Line tunnel.”

“I know it.”

“There is a small field, with a steep hill behind. There.”

“I see.”

“I cannot argue the morality of command,” Willich said. “I am a general officer and not a private revolutionary. I am probably more horrified by this than you are, because I have seen it before. But I will obey orders. I expect you to do the same. You are a commissioned officer and a professional soldier.”

“Ah, yes,” Catto said.

“Ah, God,” Willich said, his voice at last breaking. “Here! Here! In Germany, yes, but here!”

“Alle menschen,” Catto said, in a foolish tone.

“Hooker!” Dickson said.

Catto thought that village idiots must feel this way: the frozen grin, the numb mind. “What happened to Prentice?”

“Prentice has gone home,” Willich said. “Hooker’s orders were specific. He seemed to find some poetic justice in it. It’s a bad assignment, Captain. All we can do is get it over with and do better next time. I’m sorry. I can offer no hope. You are to report here at eleven tomorrow morning.”

“No,” Catto said.

They all stared, and he nodded politely. They waited for him to speak, but he had nothing more to say.

Willich asked, “Do you mean to refuse the order?”

“That’s right,” Catto said.

Willich began to speak but stopped himself. Catto knew what the general had been about to say: the whole silly speech, the carrot and the stick, discipline, the greater war won, the small sacrifice, the worm in the rose. He felt again the beat of his own blood, the stretch of air in his lungs, the strength of his heavy thighs. He felt life. That was funny, was it not.

He rose, set the glass on Willich’s desk, and stood to attention.

Outside, he threw an arm around Jacob’s shoulder. “You were right.”

Jacob wept.

Catto looked up at the gas lamps, at the faint stars.

“You can’t do nothin?”

“I can’t do nothin,” Catto said. “Not only that, my friend, but I am under arrest and confined to quarters.”

“They arrest you,” Jacob said quietly.

Catto nodded.

“They crazy,” Jacob said. “They crazy men.”

Catto nodded again.

“All they have to do is not kill him,” Jacob said. “That’s all they have to do.”

Catto nodded yet again.

Phelan came to him next morning, haggard and deranged. “My God, boy, I just heard! I just got my orders! Dear Jesus!”

“Have a mug of coffee,” Catto said. “They treat prisoners well here. Come in, come in. Sit down. I believe it’s against regulations but we can always say I needed a maggot.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Fighting Joe Hooker,” Catto said. “Wants to be remembered for good hospitals, I think you said.”

Phelan sat on the bed. “I am struck dumb.”

Catto snorted. “What are your orders?”

“To go out there and declare the boy dead.”

“Nothing to it.”

“Hooker is demented.”

“He is made in the image of God,” Catto said in courteous and reasonable tones. “I don’t believe he’s demented at all. He’s only human. This has all happened before. In Germany. I have that on good authority. And I’ve seen boys still younger shot through the belly or the eye or their limbs off.”

“Stop that.”

“All right.”

“How can you sit there like that? Can’t we do something?”

“I’m under arrest,” Catto said. “What would you suggest?”

“They’ll break you down to private or worse,” Phelan said, “and it won’t help the boy.”

“I don’t give a god damn what they do,” Catto said.

“Ah, you’re too pure for it. Is that it? Let them dirty their hands, but not Catto. Is that it?”

“No, no.” Catto spoke gently. “It’s just not my line of work, that’s all. Though you’ve got a point there, about purity. Once they lie to you, there isn’t much sense in talking to them again.”

“It can’t be just that. There must be some purpose in this.” Phelan was begging. “There must be. There’ll be hell to pay when the story gets out.”

“Nonsense. It will be burked. And then what’s one boy more or less? Besides,” he burst out suddenly, “they shouldn’t even be told about it. Let them go on believing and raising their children and saluting the damn flag.”

Phelan said stubbornly, “Nothing is without a reason.”

“Now listen,” Catto said softly, remembering fifty bushels of Albemarle pippins. “The last victim of the great rebellion is about to die, and what I’ve learned today—it was like a vision from on high—is that there will always be a Thomas Martin. It has nothing to do with truth or justice or any of those pretties. If no Thomas Martin is available, then they will go out of their way to find one, or to make one up. So none of your silly comforts. You know better.”

“God help you,” Phelan said. “God help Silliman too. He’s vomiting.”

“Silliman?”

“They’ve put him in charge of the party.”

“Dear Ned,” Catto said. He stepped to the window. “Dear innocent Ned. The hope of the future. It’s raining.”

“Yes. It’s raining.”

“How’s Thomas? Have you heard?”

“Booth says he slept badly but ate a big breakfast. He’s calm.”

“Yes. He hasn’t much to be excited about Damn,” Catto said. “Silliman. I wish you hadn’t come here with your gossip.”

“Then I’ll go,” Phelan said. “You’re as mad as the rest of them. I don’t know why I bother to heal anybody.”

“We must talk about that soon,” Catto said. “Come around tonight, and bring a bottle.”

“Yes. The wake.”

“The wake.” Standing in the doorway he found a weary eloquence: “Do you know, Jack, I believe you must be right: there is a God. Man alone could not contrive this evil.”

“Be quiet, Marius,” Phelan muttered. “Watch your tongue.”

“Ah, go along,” Catto said, and turned away, and heard the surgeon’s fading footsteps.

He went to the window and looked out at nothing: a street, a city, the feeble rain. After a time he sat on his bed and trimmed a cigar, set a match to it, contemplated swirls of lazy smoke. He lay down, and wondered what was the use of anything. He tried to imagine death. It was unimaginable.

At last he rose, snubbed the cigar, donned his blouse, buckled his belt, inspected his buttons and shoulder straps, hung his sword properly and took up his hat. He walked to the main hallway, where he found Haller. “Fetch me a horse,” Catto said.

“You’re under arrest.”

“Let it be on my head. Fetch me a horse.”

Haller hesitated, but then nodded and left him. Catto waited. After a time he stepped outside and stood beneath the modest portico. Haller rode up, dismounted and held the reins as Catto swung to the saddle. “The leathers.” Haller looped them over the horse’s head into Catto’s waiting hands.

Haller said, “You have to.”

“I have to,” Catto said. “Silliman couldn’t live with it.”

On the cobbles he held his horse to a walk. Traffic was light. Soon he was away from the heart of the city and in a neighborhood of genteel shops. Hotels. A crew of roadmenders desisted and watched him pass by. He felt their envy. His eyes perceived, registered: the road, the city, a darting cat, umbrellas; his mind refrained from comment (DELAINE 50¢ YD. LADIES GLOVES 55¢) as some of his past dropped away from him for good, no more fun with Phelan, farewell Isaac M. Trout (SHOES $1 AND UP), only this road out of town and the steady rain. Free of pavement, he urged his horse to a gallop. No more what was I, no more what will I be; how could it matter? Fields of honor became swamps of shame even as you trod them.

He slowed to a trot and veered off toward the quarry. At the field he saw them all: the officers together on horseback; the firing party waiting; Silliman pacing; the boy before his coffin, blindfolded; Father Garesche murmuring and gesticulating; the undertaker and his carriage; the spectators; and the rain washing them all clean of color. Gray, black, hushed, they stood. They all turned toward him, and he saw them as animals, brutes, carnivores. The moment was a flensing: layers of moral blubber, of fatty hope, of sentimental lard were stripped hot from his bones. He pulled up and stared contemptuously at the crowd.

Hoofbeats: Dunglas trotted toward him.

“Go back,” Catto said.

Dunglas reined in. “A message?”

“No message. Go back.”

“You’ve broken arrest.”

Catto said nothing. Dunglas trotted back to his station. Catto walked his horse forward, toward Silliman. He searched the crowd and found Jacob, pleading; Catto shook his head and Jacob slumped in disbelief, anguish, despair. Catto wondered if he understood. It would be a small consolation if he understood.

“Marius.” Silliman was drained white, and not so pretty today.

“Are they loaded?”

“They’re ready. I was nerving myself.”

“Then get away,” Catto said.

Silliman stood perplexed.

“Get away,” Catto said. “Go over there with Phelan.”

Rain streamed off Silliman’s face. Catto squinted up at a leaden sky. Phelan had started forward and Catto waved him off impatiently.

“You can’t,” Silliman muttered.

“Of course I can,” Catto said. “Do you want me to be formal about it? Lieutenant Silliman, you will join Surgeon Phelan immediately.”

“No. I have my orders. You don’t have to do this, Marius.”

“Booth,” Catto called. Booth spurred forward. “Lieutenant Silliman is under arrest. Please take him in charge.”

Booth growled, “Come on, Silliman. Get out of it now.”

Silliman was ready for a good cry, and struggled with himself.

Catto dismounted. “Take my horse, Lieutenant.” Silliman accepted the reins. Thomas Martin was waiting there to be killed. Now Phelan joined them.

“What are you about?” the surgeon demanded in a schoolmaster’s tone, leaning down to grip Catto’s shoulder.

Catto shook him off. “I know what I’m about. Keep your hands off me. I’ve learned something, I have,” he said furiously, his words exploding through the drizzle. “All on a sudden it’s come down to me, what we are and what we’re up to, this whole race of pigs, and never mind your god damn God.” Phelan took his horse a step backward, retreating from this hot assault as if he were a boy private and Catto a foam-flecked colonel. Silliman stood huddled, clutching the hilt of his sword with both hands. Catto pushed by him and marched to Godwinson, marched to him and jostled him backward with one stride too many; Godwinson too retreated, stumbled, caught himself. “All right, Sergeant,” Catto said. “I’m in command.” He wiped his moist hands on his jacket.

“Hooker—”

“To hell with Hooker. Don’t you give me trouble now, Godwinson,” his voice rose, the rage returning, “or I’ll bust you down and stand you on a barrel for a week.”

Godwinson said, “Yes sir.” Beyond Godwinson he could see Thomas Martin.

“Git on with it,” someone shouted. “The boy’s gittin wet.” The crowd murmured, swayed. Mostly men, Catto saw. A few small boys and a couple of women. Hats and caps and cloaks and shawls. Their eyes, hooded in the rain.

“I’d like to be shooting them instead,” Catto said. Phelan had returned to his place, and Booth was leading Silliman off. Catto saw Dunglas again, the cold eyes, the plumed hat. Dunglas hated him. Or he hated Dunglas. But there was no one, at this moment, whom he did not hate. He hated the crow Garesche. He hated Thomas Martin; Hooker; Lincoln who had not acted and Johnson who had; Phelan who gibbered and healed, but not every ailment; Silliman who must be pampered. Catto sought Jacob’s eyes, but was denied them and knew that Jacob had not understood. He did not hate himself. He knew what he was doing, and knew that more than most men he had fashioned his own destiny, and that he might someday fashion another destiny, but not soon. He hawked and spat, on all of them.

Garesche had moved off. Catto called out “Ready!” He wondered if Thomas knew his voice. Of course he did. But the boy stood quite still, soaked, his blond hair plastered flat. Catto looked once more for Jacob; their eyes met briefly and for a moment Catto hoped again; it seemed to him now that only pain was wisdom, and of them all in that ravine probably Jacob knew pain best, but Jacob’s eyes said nothing of that, only poured upon him a look of molten accusation. Catto turned back to the boy. Quick. Out of his misery. “Aim!” Catto bowed his head; a runnel of rain splashed from his hat to his feet, and he raised his head abruptly and with no warning heard himself cry out, “Thomas! Thomas! You’ll be in heaven tonight! Remember that! You’ll be in heaven tonight!” He thought, hoped, that the boy’s chin rose a fraction, and then Catto said “Fire.” The rifles roared and Thomas Martin fell backward into the coffin. The edge of it caught him beneath the knees, so that his feet dangled.

Catto said to Godwinson, “Take over,” and trudged through the rain toward his horse. He stood with Booth, Dunglas and Silliman while Phelan examined the boy. Then Phelan came to them and said, “Major Phelan presents his respects to General Hooker and reports that the prisoner is indeed dead and will not rise again until Judgment Day, when the General will surely meet him again and I hope I am present.”

But Dunglas only said, “Thank you, Major.” And to Catto: “Thank you, Captain. That couldn’t have been easy, but I’m sure you’re back in General Hooker’s good graces.”

Catto contemplated this popinjay. There was absolutely nothing worth saying to such a man. But Dunglas was wheeling to ride off.

“Damn that man,” Phelan said. “Damn us all.”

A hand squeezed at Catto’s arm; it was Father Garesche. “I must thank you,” The priest said. “It was so good of you, what you said to him. That poor boy—”

“Go to hell,” Catto said, and to Phelan and Silliman, “Let’s get away from this place.” As he mounted he caught a glimpse of the priest’s outrage, of the toiling undertaker, of the dispersing crowd.

Halfway back to town Silliman said, “Oh my God, Marius, I am nothing. Nothing!”

“We are none of us much,” said Catto.