"Colors begin to run on you," whispered the colonel. "It's gotten hazy. I see soldiers with me, but a long time ago I stopped seeing color in their coats or caps. I was born in Illinois, raised in Virginia, married in New York, built a house in Tennessee and now, very late, here I am, good Lord, back in Green Town. So you see why the colors run and blend. . . ."
"But you remember which side of hills you fought on?" Charlie did not raise his voice. "Did the sun rise on your left or right? Did you march toward Canada or Mexico?"
"Seems some mornings the sun rose on my good right hand, some mornings over my left shoulder. We marched all directions. It's most seventy years since. You forget suns and mornings that long past."
"You remember winning, don't you? A battle won, somewhere?"
"No," said the old man, deep under. "I don't remember anyone winning anywhere any time. War's never a winning thing, Charlie. You just lose all the time, and the one who loses last asks for terms. All I remember is a lot of losing and sadness and nothing good but the end of it. The end of it, Charles, that was a winning all to itself, having nothing to do with guns. But I don't suppose that's the kind of victory you boys mean for me to talk on."
"Antietam," said John Huff. "Ask about Antietam."
"I was there."
The boys' eyes grew bright. "Bull Run, ask him Bull Run . . ."
"I was there." Softly.
"What about Shiloh?"
"There's never been a year in my life I haven't thought, what a lovely name and what a shame to see it only on battle records."
"Shiloh, then. Fort Sumter?"
"I saw the first puffs of powder smoke." A dreaming voice. "So many things come back, oh, so many things. I remember songs. 'All's quiet along the Potomac tonight, where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, or the light of the watchfire, are gleaming.' Remember, remember. . . 'All quiet along the Potomac tonight; no sound save the rush of the river; while soft falls the dew on the face of the dead - the picket's off duty forever!' . . . After the surrender, Mr. Lincoln, on the White House balcony asked the band to play, 'Look away, look away, look away, Dixie land . . .' And then there was the Boston lady who one night wrote a song will last a thousand years: 'Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.' Late nights I feel my mouth move singing back in another time. Te Cavaliers of Dixie! Who guard the Southern shores. . .' 'When the boys come home in triumph, brother, with the laurels they shall gain . . .' So many songs, sung on both sides, blowing north, blowing south on the night winds. 'We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more. . .' Tenting tonight, tenting tonight, tenting on the old camp ground.' 'Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the Jubilee, hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes us free . . .'"
The old man's voice faded.
The boys sat for a long while without moving. Then Charlie turned and looked at Douglas and said, "Well, is he or isn't he?"
Douglas breathed twice and said, "He sure is."
The colonel opened his eyes.
"I sure am what?" he asked.
"A Time Machine," murmured Douglas. "A Time Machine."
The colonel looked at the boys for a full five seconds. Now it was his voice that was full of awe.
"Is that what you boys call me?"
"Yes, sir, Colonel."
"Yes, sir."
The colonel sat slowly back in his chair and looked at the boys and looked at his hands and then looked at the blank wall beyond them steadily.
Charlie arose. "Well, I guess we better go. So long and thanks, Colonel."
"What? Oh, so long, boys."
Douglas and John and Charlie went on tiptoe out the door.
Colonel Freeleigh, though they crossed his line of vision, did not see them go.
In the street, the boys were startled when someone shouted from a first-floor window above, "Hey!"
They looked up.