Tim stepped off the platform and leaned down to pick up the oranges. The other prisoners sat along the wall of the building. Tim stuffed the oranges into the bulging pockets of his blouse and settled himself on the heavy, splintering planks of the baggage platform. He watched the wagon disappear into the dusty distance and then stared down at the backs of his hands, tanned and moist and heavily veined. He thought of Greene and his other men. With a flash of fear he thought of Red. He studied the row of prisoners, looking for a familiar face, and there--turning toward him as if at a signal--was Dawson’s. The eyes of the two men met and Dawson turned away. Tim looked along the length of track. The ribbons of steel reflected the blinding sun as they converged in the shimmering distance. He nodded sleepily but his ear caught a sound. A column of men moved along the street, thinly veiled by a cloud of dust. As they came closer Tim could see that their clothes were in tatters and they were pitifully thin. Some of them wore slouch hats and some of them straws. On poles that rested on their shoulders they carried their belongings: rusty pots and pans and bits of clothing, a three-legged chair and a couple of homemade tables. When the column halted Tim looked closely. He was shocked to see that two of the scarecrows wore dark blue forage caps and that a barefooted man had a tattered Federal blouse tucked into his belt at the back. They must be Yankee soldiers captured many months ago. Their faces were sunken and vacant. They put down their rattling, tinkling poles and settled against the wall near the far corner of the building. Tim felt a little sick. He turned his eyes away and rested his head in the flats of his hands and went to sleep. CHAPTER SEVEN The shriek of a whistle brought Tim to his senses. He was steeped in sweat and he shook his head and blinked at the train as it backed slowly toward him, its bell clanging, its wheels singing and screeching. Six freight cars and a caboose made up the train. Up forward the stack of the engine stood high above the cars, belching smoke and sparks. Along the tops of the cars the ragged men and boys of the Home Guard stood with their muskets held loosely in their hands. On the platform at the back of the caboose stood a grisled old man with a pistol thrust into his belt. Beside him was a man, apparently young, in a soiled Confederate uniform, a slouch hat shading his face. As the train stopped, Tim could see that the young Confederate’s face was nothing but an expressionless scar. It wasn’t long before another column of men came into sight. They were all in Yankee uniform, and as they marched out of the shadow Tim’s heart skipped a beat. At the head of the column, hatless and with his blouse thrown open, marched Red. There was life in his stride. His hair blazed in the sun and he held his bearded chin at a jaunty angle. Alongside Red walked Kautz with a snappy military air.