of. This ruin is yours to claim. Look at them and recall it. Remember this, townspeople: you will not escape me for long. You may fool me for a minute or an hour or a day. But you will not forestall me long enough that I forget the path to your town. No, I will remember it, and at some good moment pull you from your beds and use an inch rope to put all you oppressors face-to-face with more truth than you can tolerate.
“ ‘You have placed your bets, now wait for the next turn of cards.’ ”
The paper trembled in my hand and my hand wobbled my arm to the shoulder. I could not look up and I longed for a brief spell of deafness.
“What shall I do with this note?” I asked.
“Pin it to the breast of one of the unfortunates, in clear sight.” Black John was calmed in a coiled sort of way. “We will dump them on the road tonight. It will get read, I am certain of that.”
Black John stared once more at the killing going on, his face flat with resolute anger. Then he stalked off without a word to me or a shout or a glob of spit coming from him.
The knot of men, crouched, half bent or standing, who encircled the unfortunates, parted for me. There were many heavy breaths being drawn, and Pitt Mackeson sucked on a sore knuckle.
“I have a letter,” I said. “A note. Black John wants it pinned on one of them.”
I looked down at the Federals. A violent rapture had caught up with them. I had seen harsh errands performed before, but not like this. Some dark appetites had been brought forth in this spectacle, and my comrades had revealed themselves to be near wizards at unpleasantries.
And yet one of the Federals breathed. It was an exercise he was about beyond performing, and he strained in the effort.
I was all confused up in my sensations. I just stood there.
Arch was knelt down going through pockets. He had a handful of letters he’d taken from the doomed. He jerked open the shirt of the live one and recovered a letter hidden there, then thumped his fist on the bare chest.
“Pin it on him,” he said. “We’ll set him up pretty. He lived longest.”
When I put my knees to ground and leaned over the Federal, he lurched up and I reared back.
“My wife,” he whispered. “Write my wife.”
Arch laughed and held in front of me the letter he had ransacked.
“This must be from her. I can’t read to tell.”
I pinned Black John’s sermon to the Federal’s tunic. He was flat again but breathing.
When I stood Arch said, “Read me this letter, Dutchy.”
“That’s his letter,” I said.
“Was,” said Arch. “I want to hear you read it.”
“I don’t think I care to.”
“Oh, is that so?” drawled Arch. His eyes sank behind his lids and his mouth hung open. “I think if you think a little more, Dutchy, that you’ll think you do want to read me it. Right now, too.”
“Yes,” said Pitt Mackeson. “Why, there might be secrets in it. Read it at us.”
I scented trouble with my comrades if I showed a dainty spirit here. The prospect was not delicious.
The script on the letter had bold girlish leaps and bounds to it, with circles above the I’s. It was addressed to Corporal Miller Eustis.
I began to read the letter aloud, and acted as if I enjoyed the process. The first many lines were without secrets, and mainly contained a young wife’s version of everyday events in Mount Vernon, Iowa. It seemed the Methodists wanted a school there to prosper, and the Cedar River had flooded, and old Ben Eustis had snapped a big toe kicking at a growling dog.
A new mood was then hove into the letter, and the wife said she loved this pink thing on the dirt before me with a devotion that would not wane.
The boys chuckled at this, as though the love of a Yankee woman had no merit. But I was envious in a way. There was a straight-ahead womanness to this author, and I found it admirable.
Eustis, the Federal, had lost where he was and spoke to people who were not nearby. He said friendly things to them. It was good that his soul had started aloft, for there was a secret in this letter that made me ashamed.
“ ‘Miller, Miller,’ ” I read, “ ‘I miss you so. I miss your cool