In that moment of vision Adam heard the voice within himself saying: I must not hate him, I must not hate him or I shall die.

His heart suddenly opened to joy.

He thought that if once, only once, he could talk with Simms Purdew, something about his own life, and all life, would be clear and simple. If Simms Purdew would turn to him and say: ``Adam, you know when I was a boy, it was a funny thing happened. Lemme tell you now'' --

If only Simms Purdew could do that, whatever the thing he remembered and told. It would be a sign for the untellable, and he, Adam, would understand.

Now, Adam, in the gray light of afternoon, stared across at the hut opposite his tent, and thought of Simms Purdew lying in there in the gloom, snoring on his bunk, with the fumes of whisky choking the air. He saw the sign above the door of the hut: Home Sweet Home. He saw the figure of a man in a poncho coming up the company street, with an armful of wood.

It was Pullen James, the campmate of Simms Purdew. He carried the wood, carried the water, did the cooking, cleaning and mending, and occasionally got a kick in the butt for his pains. Adam watched the moisture flow from the poncho. It gave the rubberized fabric a dull gleam, like metal. Pullen James humbly lowered his head, pushed aside the hardtack box door of the hut, and was gone from sight.

Adam stared at the door and remembered that Simms Purdew had been awarded the Medal of Honor for gallantry at Antietam.