There was a sudden gust of wind and the rain sluiced down, blotting out the little scene. It streaked down the faces of the prisoners and ran down their collars. At first it seemed a blessed thing, but as it drenched the men on the deck Tim stared across the flat, gray water whipped by rain, and a cold apprehension took root in his heart. As the little steamer docked the rain stopped and the clouds blew away. The prisoners marched with their guards along the wharf, across a glistening cobbled street to a shedlike building that faced the waterfront. A short, sunny-faced woman came out and spoke to the sergeant of the guard. “We didn’t have much warning,” she said. “You’ll have to give us a minute or two.” The sergeant frowned and mumbled something. Then the woman raised her chin and looked down the line of men, wet and disconsolate in their dirty uniforms. “Well, you’ll have to wait,” she said. Without pausing for an answer she went inside. Tim stood on the cobbles and studied the row of fine brick houses that faced the river. This was the first time in months that he had stood on a street and looked at houses where people dined and slept, where children were born and raised. The sunny-faced woman came out again, followed by others carrying trays of coffee and slices of buttered bread on squares of white paper. As the women moved among the men Greene straightened up and lowered his chin and brushed his cheek with the back of his hand. “They’re just like the ladies of Philadelphia,” Tim said, “who served us goodies two years ago.” One of the women, dark haired and young, turned to him. “Need is need, wherever it may be,” she said with a sweet, sad smile. Tim noticed how graceful she was in her starched white dress and pale blue shawl. She was so much like Kate that he felt his knees go weak. As she turned away he was filled with a yearning for home, a longing to sit on his horse and ride along the river road underneath the sunlit leaves until Kate’s house came into view. When the women had disappeared into the building again the Rebel sergeant slapped the stock of his rifle. “Quiet,” he said. “Now we march to the railroad depot.” They marched through the streets and alleys lined by houses, sometimes neat and tidy, sometimes deserted and forlorn. There were gardens filled with summer flowers still in bloom, palmetto trees along the sidewalk, dark green painted doors with knobs and knockers of polished brass. People leaned on their windowsills to watch the passing prisoners. Some of them hissed or spat. Others watched with expressions of compassion or concern. A scattering of ragged children ran ahead of the prisoners, spreading the word that they were on the way. They rounded a corner and walked along a wide cobbled street where most of the houses were of the “single style,” narrow at the front, with piazzas facing lawns and gardens at the sides.