Dawson nodded almost gratefully. “But you can leave me out of your plans,” he said, looking down at Mills who had fallen asleep with the orange in his hand, “and these poor wretches couldn’t walk as far as the city limits.” Dawson stared out the window again. “You’d have to have wings to get away from here,” he said with a bitter laugh. Red turned away impatiently and sat down on the floor. Tim moved to the other window, and reached through the bars and raised the creaking sash, propping it up with a stick he found on the sill. Just across the way Tim saw a white building that seemed to be a school. It was closed now, but a scattering of children romped in the yard. Four little girls were playing tag on a patch of grass, and two boys laughed and wrestled under a tree. Beside the school was a one-story house, neat and clean, with a garden in front. A woman with a basket over her arm was just coming out of the house. In the vacant lot the guards were ordering the prisoners into ranks. Tim watched as they moved along the street toward the east. The river glistened like a sheet of polished steel in the citron light of the summer sun. Tim could see the shapes of islands where the Congaree joined the Saluda and the Broad. Columbia Canal followed the near shore of the Congaree and disappeared behind trees near the edge of town. The city was laid out in squares, their pattern broken by a handsome park just across the way. He heard a train whistle, and an engine and a line of cars--much like the ones that had brought them to Columbia--came into view. The train was heading north. Tim watched until it disappeared among the trees at the edge of the city and the last bit of smoke blew away. As he turned from the window the whistle sounded again, this time far away. He sat on the floor below the window, reached into the inside pocket of his blouse and pulled out his billfold and a couple of dog-eared pieces of paper. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out the stub of a pencil. The other men were all asleep. Red was slumped in a corner of the room, sleeping peacefully with a ghost of a smile across his face. Tim smoothed out a piece of paper against the surface of his billfold. Red must be dreaming of home, he thought. He sharpened his pencil against a brick, licked the point and began to write: RICHLAND JAIL COLUMBIA, S. C. July 12, 1863 DEAR MOTHER AND FATHER, Yesterday I was taken prisoner and today I find myself in jail. It seems I will be here for a spell.