- Oh, Christ. I wish you was Henry. He promised to take me.

- Hush. We're almost there.

Watson supported the man to the edge of the bank and passed the frail figure over the bow of the nearest skiff. The man swayed on a thwart, turning his ruined eyes from side to side. Watson turned away, sickened for the first time in many months. He heard the patient voice calling.

- Henry? Where are you, Henry?

- Make him lie down!

Watson snatched a deep breath. He had not meant to shout. He stood with his back to the skiff. The men mewed and scratched, begging to be taken away. Watson spoke bewilderedly to the dark night flecked with pine-knot torches.

- Goddamn you! What do you do to them?

Intelligence jabbed at him accusingly. He was angry, sickened. He had not felt that during the afternoon. No, nor later. All his emotions had been inward, self-conscious. In war, on a night like this, it was only the outward emotions that mattered, what could be flung out into the darkness to damage others. Yes. That was it. He was sure of it.

John's type of man allowed this sort of thing to happen. What a fool he had been to think of his brother! So Charles was dead. What did it matter? His name had been crossed off a list. Already his cool body lay in the ground. What words had any meaning? What had he thought of, to go to John, grovel and beg understanding? To confess with a canvas chair as a prie-dieu, gouging at his heart until a rough and stupid hand bade him rise and go? Men were slaughtered every day, tumbled into eternity like so many torn parcels flung down a portable chute. What made him think John had a right to witness his brother's humiliation? What right had John to any special consideration? Was John better, more deserving? To hell with John. Let him chafe with impatience to see Charles, rip open the note with trembling hands and read the formal report in Hillman's beautiful, schoolmaster's hand. John would curse. He believed that brave boys didn't cry.