His uniform, creased and stained,
and now silvery with dew, flapped about a gaunt ironlike frame; and
from under the leather peak of his kepi, even in his fever, his eyes
burned steady and compelling.
Scattered houses, seemingly as unsubstantial as shadows, gathered about
him; they grew more frequent, joined shoulder to shoulder, and he was
in a city street. On the left he caught a glimpse of the river, solid
and smooth and unshining; a knot of men passed shouting hoarsely, and a
wave of heat swept over him like a choking cloth. Like the morning, his
mind partially cleared, people and scenes grew coherent. The former
were a disheveled and rioting rabble; the conflagration spread in lurid
waves.
The great stores of the tobacco warehouses had been set on fire, and
the spanning flames threatened the entire city. The rich odor of the
burning tobacco leaves rolled over the streets in drifting showers of
ruby sparks. The groups on the streets resolved into individuals. Elim
saw a hulking woman, with her waist torn from grimy shoulders, cursing
the retreating Confederate troops with uplifted quivering fists; he saw
soldiers in gray joined to shifty town characters furtively bearing
away swollen sacks; carriages with plunging frenzied horses, a man with
white-faced and despairingly calm women. He stopped hurrying in the
opposite direction and demanded:
"Two, Linden Row?"
The other waved a vague arm toward the right and broke away.
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