The area rang with gunshots, but there was no way to tell if it was reanimants or unionists they were shooting. Somehow, through that rolling thunder, we heard the clatter of carriage wheels. A steamcoach was driving along one of the parallel streets. It slowed down with a wheeze of steam, paused, then rattled again as it picked up speed. It was a search pattern. The vehicle hesitated to examine alleys and open doorways, then hastened to the next building. “Stanny’s looking for us,” I said. “The coachman saw us go over the wall.” Phoebe knelt with her rifle pointed toward the clatter. I put my back against the bricks. A vague black shape sharked along the far end of the alley behind a curtain of gray smoke. We held our breath, but it didn’t stop. After a few minutes, the noise faded down the street. Their path was taking them away from us.
