- Yes, sir.

He had acknowledged the man. It was easier to think now, Watson decided. The stiff figure in the corner no longer blocked his thoughts. He paced slowly, stooping, staring at the damp, slippery floor. He tried to order the words of the three Union officers, seeking to create some coherent portrait of the dead boy. But he groped blindly. His lack of success steadily eroded his interest. He stopped pacing, leaned against the dank, timbered wall and let his mind drift. A feeling of futility, an enervation of mind greater than any fatigue he had ever known, seeped through him. What in the name of God was he doing, crouched in a timbered pit on the wrong bank of the river? Why had he crossed the dark water, to bring back a group of reclaimed soldiers or to skulk in a foul-smelling hole?

He grew annoyed and at the same time surprised at that emotion. He was conscious of a growing sense of absurdity. Hillman had written it all out, hadn't he? Wasn't the report official enough? What did he hope to accomplish here? Hillman had ordered him not to leave the far bank. Prompted by a guilty urge, he had disobeyed the order of a man he respected. For what? To tell John something he would find out for himself.

The figure in the corner belched loudly, a deep, liquid eruption. Watson snorted and then laughed aloud. Exactly!

The soldier's voice was muffled again, stricken with chagrin. He clutched the staff, and his dark eyes blinked apologetically.