"Not a damn thing." Eyes enlarged and darkened by the hollowness of his face, Billy looked at Charles, who was silently crying out, Don't say anything.

Billy's mouth hung open a moment. "Bison?" His face showed that he instantly recognized his mistake.

The guard was watching Charles, suspicious. "What'd he call you?"

"Nothing you'd want to repeat to your mother." He grabbed Billy's dirty sleeve. "Don't you say one damn word, or I'll deliver you to the provost in little pieces. I lost a brother at Malvern Hill to you Yankee scum."

Reassured, the guard said, "Don't know why we coddle 'em so. Ought to burn the whole place down-with them inside."

"My sentiments, too." Charles pushed Billy's shoulder too hard. Billy almost fell. He propped himself up with the crutch and a hand against the wall, giving Charles a searching, wary stare. Good, Charles thought. He motioned the prisoner forward.

The guard lingered at the door of his room, watching Charles prod Billy down the first few steps. Billy was slow, much to Charles's annoyance. He was unsteady, too, obviously needing the crutch. The descent to the ground floor would take a hell of a long time. The longer they stayed inside Libby, the greater the risk of discovery.

"Bison?" Billy whispered, leaning against the stained wall beneath a guttering gaslight. "Is it really-?"

"For God's sake shut up," Charles whispered. "If you want to get out of here, act like we don't know each other." Two guards appeared on the landing below, coming up. Charles nudged Billy, said loudly, "Keep moving, bluebelly."

Down they went, one labored step at a time. Billy held fast to the crutch and now and then uttered a little groan. What in hell had they done to him? Charles's anger rapidly grew as strong as his fear of discovery.

The second floor. Billy sweated and breathed hard. More men watching. Charles yanked his revolver from under the poncho. "Step lively, or I'll blow your sonofabitching head off." He shoved he muzzle in Billy's back, almost tumbling Billy down the stairs headfirst.

Ground floor. The duty corporal stood. Held out his hand. "I'll take back the release order, if you please."

Charles fished it from his pocket, hoping the forged signature would pass muster. They were so close now, just steps away from the doors leading out to Cary, where dust and rubbish rushed on winds of near gale force. The corporal shut the order in the drawer and remained standing, regarding Charles and his prisoner with an unreadable expression.

Six steps to the bottom and the doors.

Four.

Two.

Billy rested his head against the bilious wall. "Give me a minute-"

Hurry, Charles shouted in silence, darting down to the doors so he could turn and observe the duty corporal. The corporal was frowning, sensing something amiss- "Hurry it up, or I'll drag you by the heels."

Billy gulped, pushed away from the wall, struggled down the next step. Charles thrust the door open, feeling the wind's force on the other side. From under his hat brim he continued to watch the corporal, counting the seconds till they escaped his scrutiny. The corporal represented the maximum threat, Charles felt-discovering his error when he turned in the doorway. There stood the blond guard, musket raised, blue eyes glaring.

"Where are you taking that prisoner?"

"Does everyone have to answer to you, Vesey?" Billy mumbled, immediately conveying to Charles some special animosity between himself and the guard.

"I don't answer to any pissant private," Charles said. "One side."

"Hey, Bull, where are they taking this Yank?" Vesey shouted to the duty corporal.

"Provost's office. For questioning."

"Provost?" Vesey repeated, while Charles took Billy's elbow to help him down the first step. "Mr. Quincy was here not an hour ago, while you were at supper. He didn't say anything about springing a prisoner."

The pale eyes widened. "You!" He aimed the musket at Charles. "Hold it right there. I know every one of General Winder's boys, and you aren't one of them. Something's fish-"

Charles smashed the barrel of his Colt against Vesey's head.

102.

VESEY YELLED AND RECOILED against the building. His musket tumbled over the stair rail. Inside, the corporal shouted to raise the alarm. "Go on, around the corner," Charles told Billy, an instant before Vesey lunged at him with both hands.

Charles thrust the hands away, flung Vesey against the doors so the corporal, pushing from inside, had trouble opening them. Charles started down the steps. Again Vesey tried to grab him. Two fingernails ripped a bloody track down Charles's cheek. Pain, anger, desperation brought instant response; Charles jammed the Colt into Vesey's stomach and shot him.

Vesey screamed and died toppling. That noise of the shot went rushing away on the wind. Charles saw that Billy had fallen on hands and knees at the foot of the steps. Charles ran down to him. The corporal inside didn't open the doors, though now he could have. He resumed his shouting instead.

"Come on," Charles said, jerking Billy to his feet too roughly; Billy uttered a low cry. Inside Libby, Charles heard more and more voices, a whole baying chorus. At the corner of Twenty-second and Cary, a picket appeared, musket raised. He was young, inexperienced, hesitant. That was worth a few more seconds. Charles forced Billy rapidly to the opposite corner, Twenty-first, where they nearly collided with another picket, who appeared suddenly. Charles pointed the Colt at the boy's face.

"Run or you're dead, youngster."

The picket dropped his musket and ran.

But one more was dashing up the slope of Twenty-first from the river side of the building. Charles hastily untied Sport, shoved his boot in the stirrup, mounted, and fired a shot across his saddle to turn back the running guard. Tightly reining the nervous gray, he pulled his left foot back and thrust his free hand downward.

"Grab hold and use the stirrup. Quick!"

Billy groaned at the exertion, and so did Charles. He fired again to keep the guard cowering. When he felt Billy settle into place behind him, he shouted, "Hang on, Bunk," and spurred the gray the short distance up to Cary. His friend's Academy nickname had come back without thought.

Three pickets gathered on the corner to fire at them as Sport carried them by. Billy wrapped his arms around Charles's poncho and held fast. One shot boomed, then two more. All three missed. The gray galloped away into howling wind.

In an alley a mile from the prison, Billy donned the butternut pants and corduroy shirt unpacked from a blanket roll on the saddle.

"Jesus," Charles said as he handed Billy the gray jacket.

"What's wrong?"

"I killed that guard. Didn't even stop to think about it."

"You deserve a medal."

"For shooting a boy?"

"You did every man in Libby Prison a service. That guard is the bastard who put me in this condition."

"That right? Then I feel better. Glad I did it." Charles smiled in a way that made Billy shiver. He gave Billy the last article from the blanket roll, a kepi. "Let's go."

Billy waited in the darkness with Sport while Charles entered the stable where he had previously arranged to hire a mule for the night. "Get him back by eight in the morning," the sleepy liveryman said. "I got another customer."

"Guaranteed," Charles said, leading the balking animal into the dark.

He had his pass, and Billy had the one Orry had forged, so they traveled north through the defense lines without incident. They dismounted in an orchard, and Charles gave his friend a second smaller, bundle.

"That's a little hardtack and sliced ham Madeline fixed up. I wish I had a gun for you, or more gear, so you'd look more like a furloughed soldier."

"I'll make it the way I am," Billy promised. "What I wish for is more time for the two of us to catch up on things." Once past the last picket post, they had hardly stopped talking, covering the whereabouts and fortunes of most of the members of both families. Charles learned why the guard at the prison entrance had taken special interest in Billy; the story of the ride on the caisson wheel disgusted him and, as a Southerner, shamed him, too.

Now he said, "I'd like to take you to see Orry and Madeline, but it's better if you put some miles between yourself and Richmond before daylight. With a spot of luck, you should be all right even if you're stopped and questioned. The pass will take you through. When you reach your own lines, don't forget to ditch the cap and jacket."

"I won't-and I'll approach with my hands high in the air, believe me."

Both were trying to minimize what lay ahead for him: hours of riding, patrols on the road, hunger, anxiety. And all of it made worse by his weakened condition. There was plenty to contend with, and Billy knew it. But there was also hope now. A goal. The safety of his own side.

The chance to write Brett with miraculous news.

The wind tore petals from the trees and whirled them around the two friends in the spring dark, each a little awkward with the other because the intervening years had made them near-strangers.

"Bison."

Eyes fixed on the Richmond road, Charles said, "Um?"

"You saved me once before. Now I'll never get out of your debt."

"Just get out of the Confederacy; that's good enough. That'll make me happy."

"My worst problem's liable to be my accent. If I have to answer questions-"

"Speak slowly. Like-this-here. Drop some of your g's and tell 'em you're from out West. Nobody in Virginia really knows how a Missouri reb talks."

Billy smiled. "Good idea. I was stationed in St. Louis-I can pass." More soberly: "You told me about Orry's marriage and a lot of other things, but you haven't said a word about yourself. How have you been getting along? What command are you with?"

"I'm a scout for General Wade Hampton's cavalry, and I'm getting along fine," Charles lied. "I'd be getting along a hell of a lot better if this war was over. I guess it will be soon."

He thought of saying something about Gus. But why mention a relationship that had to end? "I'd like to talk all night, but you ought to go."

"Yes, I guess I should." Billy patted his pocket to be sure he had the pass. Then, with slow, pained movements, he mounted the mule. Charles didn't help him; Billy had to do it himself.

Once Billy was in the saddle, Charles stepped forward. They clasped hands.

"Safe journey. My love to Cousin Brett when you see her."

"Mine to Madeline and Orry. I know what he risked to help me. You, too."

The laugh was dry and forced. "West Point looks after its own, doesn't it?"

"Don't joke, Bison. I'll never be able to repay you."

"I don't expect it. Just stay away from our bullets for the next eight or ten months, and then we can have a good, long visit in Pennsylvania or South Carolina. Now get going."

"God bless you, Bison."

In a surprisingly strong voice, Billy hawed to the mule and rode rapidly out of the orchard. He was soon gone in the darkness.

Petals blew around Charles, a light, sweet cloud, as he thought, He'll either make it or he won't. I did all I could. He was unable to forget the dead guard, but it had nothing to do with regrets about killing him.

He felt drained. He wanted whiskey. "Come on," he said to the gray, and mounted.

The clock chimed four. Bare feet stretched to a hassock, Charles swirled the last of the bourbon in the bottom of the glass, then swallowed it.

"I got scared and shot him. Panic-that's the only word for it."

Madeline said, "I imagine killing someone, even an enemy, isn't easy."

"Oh, you get used to it," Charles said. She and Orry exchanged swift looks that he didn't see. "Anyway, the guard was the one who tortured Billy. The reason it bothers me is, I lost control. I've seen the elephant often enough. I thought I could handle tight spots."

"But how many prison escapes have you staged?" Orry asked.

"Yes, there's that." Charles nodded, but he remained unconvinced.

"How did Billy look?" Madeline asked.

"White and sickly. Feeble as the devil. I don't know if he can make it even halfway to the Rapidan."

"How is Brett? Did he say?"

Charles answered her with a shake of his head. "He hasn't heard from Brett in months. That guard, Vesey, destroyed every letter Billy wrote, so I'd guess he destroyed any that came in, too. Orry, can you spare some cash for the liveryman? He'll never see his mule again."

"I'll take care of it," Orry promised.

Charles yawned. He was worn out, ashamed of his loss of self-control, and most of all saddened by the reunion with Billy. It seemed to him their talk had been trivial and difficult to carry on. Years of separation, their service on different sides-everything took its toll. They were friends and foes at the same time, and every halting sentence they had spoken expressed that without words.

"One more drink, and I'm going to get some sleep," he announced. "I'd like to be out of Richmond early in the morning. We'll be in the field soon-" He extended his glass to Orry; the liquor trickled noisily from the brown bottle. "Have you heard Grant's bringing a new cavalry commander from the West? Phil Sheridan. I knew him at West Point. Tough little Irishman. Greatest man with a cussword I ever met. I hate to see him in Virginia. Still-"

He tossed off the two inches with a speed that made Madeline frown. "It just means things will wind up that much faster."

Orry watched him a moment. "You don't think we can win?"

"Do you?"

Orry sat still, his gaze wandering through the pattern of the carpet.

Presently Charles stretched and yawned again. "Hell," he said, "I'm not even sure we can sue for peace on favorable terms. Not with Unconditional Surrender Grant turning the screw."

"I knew him," Orry mused. "We drank beer together in Mexico."

"What's he like?"