the man asked. His soft voice had an accent, but not like the German or Irish people in Augusta. “You are in First Presbyterian Church in Augusta, Georgia,” Tommy said. “I’m Thomas McKnight, but they call me Tommy. This is Samson. He’s a greyhound.” Samson came out from under the cot at the sound of his name. He looked the man directly in the face, then stepped forward to accept a pat. Tommy smiled. “Samson likes you. My father says a dog can tell a man’s character.” “I think your father’s right.” Turning to Henry, the man asked, “Who are you?” “Henry.” “I’m pleased to meet you, Henry.” Henry smiled and looked down. “Thank you, sir,” he said. Tommy had never heard a white man use a formal greeting with a slave. “What is your name, sir?” Tommy asked. “Redmon. Redmon Porter. Most people call me Red.” Red scanned the room. Samson did the same. Tommy looked too, but all he saw was a hospital full of Confederate soldiers. “Are you looking for someone?”
