What had that man, that other young Jew, felt as he stood in the twilight and heard other men, far away, singing together? .

Adam thought of the hutments, regiment after regiment, row after row, the thousands of huts, stretching away into the night. He thought of the men, the nameless thousands, huddling in them. He thought of Simms Purdew snoring on his bunk while Pullen James crouched by the hearth, skirmishing an undershirt for lice, and a wet log sizzled. He thought of Simms Purdew, who once had risen at the edge of a cornfield, a maniacal scream on his lips, and swung a clubbed musket like a flail to beat down the swirl of Rebel bayonets about him.

He thought of Simms Purdew rising up, fearless in glory. He felt the sweetness of pity flood through him, veining his very flesh. Those men, lying in the huts, they did not know. They did not know who they were or know their own worth. In the pity for them his loneliness was gone.

Then he thought of Aaron Blaustein standing in his rich house saying: ``God is tired of taking the blame. He is going to let History take the blame for a while.''

He thought of the old man laughing under the glitter of the great chandelier.

He thought: Only in my heart can I make the world hang together.

Adam rose from the crouch necessary to enter the hut. He saw Mose squatting by the hearth, breaking up hardtack into a pan. A pot was boiling on the coals. ``Done give Ole Buckra all his money?'' Mose asked softly.