The guards came to life with astonishing menace. They spun and flung their rifles up. Watson gesticulated wildly. One man dropped to his knee for better aim.

- Let me help him, for the love of God!

The guards lowered their rifles and their rifles and peered at Watson with sullen, puzzled faces. Watson pounded to the crawling man and stopped, panting heavily. He reached down and closed his fingers on the man's upper arm. Beneath his clutch, a flat strip of muscle surged on the bone. Watson bent awkwardly and lifted the man to his feet. Watson stared into a cadaverous face. Two clotted balls the color of mucus rolled between fiery lids. Light sticks of fingers, the tips gummy with dark earth, patted at Watson's throat. The man's voice was a sweet, patient whisper.

- Henry said that he'd take my arm and get me right there. But you ain't Henry.

- No.

- It don't matter. Is it far?

How far could it be, Watson thought bleakly, how far can a blind man crawl? Another body length or all the rest of his nighted life?

- Not far.

- You talk deep. Not like us fellas. It raises the voice, bein in camp. You Secesh?

- Yes. Come on, now. Can you walk?

- Why, course I can. I can walk real good.

Watson stumbled down the bank. The man leaned his frail body against Watson's shoulder. He was no heavier than a child. Watson paused for breath. The man wheezed weakly, his fetid breath beating softly against Watson's neck. His sweet whisper came after great effort.