At first he thought he was back at war, his men trotting off to die as he lay sleeping. He leaped from the bed, forgetting it was merely a rough mattress placed on the floor of the room where Georgina Elliot had died. Misjudging the distance, he stumbled and smacked his knee against the wall. Cursing, he yanked open the door. Four curious, yet hostile, pairs of brown eyes met his. The explanation for his marching dream stood in the hall in various states of undress—the little girls still in their nightdresses, the younger boy in pants but no shirt. The elder boy had both. None of them possessed shoes, which explained the muted nature of the marching. “Uh, hello,” he began. “Ella says you’re our new keeper.” The oldest boy—Cal, Seth recalled—spoke for them all. “But I’m here t’ tell ya, we don’t need none.” Seth winced at the child’s choice of words.
