There was another face that Rolf recognized -- hollow- cheeked,
flabby-jowled and purplish-gray. The man was one of the oldest of
the prisoners. He wore a white beard end moustache. He did not
recognize Rolf, but Rolf knew him, for this was Micky Kittering.
How he escaped from jail and joined the enemy was an episode of
the war's first year. Rolf was shocked to see what a miserable
wreck his uncle was. He could not do him any good. To identify
him would have resulted in his being treated as a renegade, so on
the plea that he was an old man, Rolf saw that the prisoner had
extra accommodation and out of his own pocket kept him abundantly
supplied with tobacco. Then in his heart he forgave him, and kept
away. They never met again.
The bulk of the militia had been disbanded after the great
battle. A few of the scouts and enough men to garrison the fort
and guard the prisoners were retained. Each day there were joyful
partings -- the men with homes, going home. And the thought that
ever waxed in Rolf came on in strength. He hobbled to headquarters.
"General, can I get leave -- to go -- he hesitated -- "home?"
"Why, Kittering, I didn't know you had a home.
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