sound of shattering glass came from across the street, and one of the lanterns outside Madam Russell’s went out. The sergeant glanced at Lida Toupelik and saw her flinch; her eyes seemed to double in size. Then he looked at the captain, who had turned his head with mild interest towards the gunshot. By then Cyril was holding the cripple by the shoulders, so the captain turned back, still glowing with infatuation like a pious convert.
Lida pulled herself together and tossed her golden curls confidently as Cyril said in English to the small crowd that had formed, “He’s had a few too many and he felt like firing a couple of shots in the air, that’s all.”
The crowd looked doubtful, but they’d had a bit too much to drink as well. They started to disperse while the one-legged man stood there, pale as death. Cyril picked up the pistol, stuck it in his belt, took the man by the shoulders, and turned him towards the steps leading to the white building.
From inside the brothel came a spirited version of
When Johnny comes marching home again.…
It was raining on the sycamores.
The cabriolet disappeared around some bushes. Linda Warren’s white veil fluttered in the breeze. The mist over the road was thinning out now, and the men of Mower’s division were marching under the plane trees, their filthy boots tracing regular arcs in the remaining wisps of rapidly dispersing fog as they sang:
The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah!
Down with the Traitor, Up with the Star
,
As we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again
,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom
.
Behind them came a squad of Kil’s cavalry, their banner riddled with bullet holes; then a battery of field artillery rattled by, the butt of a huge smoked ham sticking out of a caisson, the black cannon barrels glistening in the rain. Behind them came three scrawny young drummers followed by a solid file of bearded soldiers singing “The Battle Cry of Freedom”. Out of step, tin cups clanking against knapsacks, a frying-pan stuck handle down in the barrel of a rifle, came men from the mountains, men from the plains. Kapsa recalled an ancient, gloomy battalion, gloomy but polished, polished and gloomy, marching smartly in step down an alpine valley, with corseted Imperial officers on horseback. The Eighty-second Illinois began singing too, a terrible disharmony of wonderful voices, and he knew there had probably never been such an army, ever, since the days of Caesar.…
We will welcome to our numbers
The loyal, true, and brave
,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom.…
They moved — men, guns, horses — out of step, rolling on like the mighty Mississippi, Sherman’s great army rolling north to Atlanta.
“Look at him there!” he heard Shake say.
Reverend Mulroney was having trouble with his filly. Behind him the engineers were striking the wedding tent; the filly was prancing skittishly and the chaplain was struggling to control her. Shake chuckled and ran over to settle the filly, and the chaplain scrambled up into the saddle.
The rain kept pouring down on the sycamores.
“What struck you so funny?” the sergeant asked Shake later that evening, around the campfire. “The bride was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, that!” Shake chortled again. “You can’t have done much church-going, right, sarge?” He turned to rummage in his haversack. “Fact is, what he read the Holy Church won’t allow to be read on any Sunday after Pentecost, or any other time, for that matter.” He took out a well-thumbed Bible, and flipped through the pages. “Listen,” he said. “Here it is: the Book of Ezekiel the Prophet, chapter sixteen, verses thirteen to sixteen. He took a little piece of verse thirteen because he knows damn well you heathens never opened a Bible in your lives.”
The flames flickered across Shake’s moon-face, dancing in his blue eyes like cherubs in swaddling clothes.
“
‘Thou wast exceeding beautiful
,’ ” he intoned in
Lida pulled herself together and tossed her golden curls confidently as Cyril said in English to the small crowd that had formed, “He’s had a few too many and he felt like firing a couple of shots in the air, that’s all.”
The crowd looked doubtful, but they’d had a bit too much to drink as well. They started to disperse while the one-legged man stood there, pale as death. Cyril picked up the pistol, stuck it in his belt, took the man by the shoulders, and turned him towards the steps leading to the white building.
From inside the brothel came a spirited version of
When Johnny comes marching home again.…
It was raining on the sycamores.
The cabriolet disappeared around some bushes. Linda Warren’s white veil fluttered in the breeze. The mist over the road was thinning out now, and the men of Mower’s division were marching under the plane trees, their filthy boots tracing regular arcs in the remaining wisps of rapidly dispersing fog as they sang:
The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah!
Down with the Traitor, Up with the Star
,
As we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again
,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom
.
Behind them came a squad of Kil’s cavalry, their banner riddled with bullet holes; then a battery of field artillery rattled by, the butt of a huge smoked ham sticking out of a caisson, the black cannon barrels glistening in the rain. Behind them came three scrawny young drummers followed by a solid file of bearded soldiers singing “The Battle Cry of Freedom”. Out of step, tin cups clanking against knapsacks, a frying-pan stuck handle down in the barrel of a rifle, came men from the mountains, men from the plains. Kapsa recalled an ancient, gloomy battalion, gloomy but polished, polished and gloomy, marching smartly in step down an alpine valley, with corseted Imperial officers on horseback. The Eighty-second Illinois began singing too, a terrible disharmony of wonderful voices, and he knew there had probably never been such an army, ever, since the days of Caesar.…
We will welcome to our numbers
The loyal, true, and brave
,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom.…
They moved — men, guns, horses — out of step, rolling on like the mighty Mississippi, Sherman’s great army rolling north to Atlanta.
“Look at him there!” he heard Shake say.
Reverend Mulroney was having trouble with his filly. Behind him the engineers were striking the wedding tent; the filly was prancing skittishly and the chaplain was struggling to control her. Shake chuckled and ran over to settle the filly, and the chaplain scrambled up into the saddle.
The rain kept pouring down on the sycamores.
“What struck you so funny?” the sergeant asked Shake later that evening, around the campfire. “The bride was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, that!” Shake chortled again. “You can’t have done much church-going, right, sarge?” He turned to rummage in his haversack. “Fact is, what he read the Holy Church won’t allow to be read on any Sunday after Pentecost, or any other time, for that matter.” He took out a well-thumbed Bible, and flipped through the pages. “Listen,” he said. “Here it is: the Book of Ezekiel the Prophet, chapter sixteen, verses thirteen to sixteen. He took a little piece of verse thirteen because he knows damn well you heathens never opened a Bible in your lives.”
The flames flickered across Shake’s moon-face, dancing in his blue eyes like cherubs in swaddling clothes.
“
‘Thou wast exceeding beautiful
,’ ” he intoned in
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