True to the colonel’s word, the Sargent in charge of the warehouse passed rations to all the Mississippi men, many of whom had not enjoyed coffee or tobacco for nearly a year.

Robert accompanied his men from the warehouse to the new billet. The road led straight to the quarry with a ramp descending to the bottom fifty feet below. He could see the vein of peculiarly hued granite that was the prized commodity of this island. At the far end of the quarry was the open mouth of a cave walled with logs, complete with a door that hung open. A ten-pace wide ramp led down to the quarry. Men crowded the ramp, sledging granite from the trimming area where masons cleaned the granite hewn from the rock face.

The doors led to branching caves where bunks, tables, and chairs constructed of rough wood were waiting for the new occupants. Amid the food and laughter filling the cavern, the union Sargent introduced himself to Robert as Colonel Beltran’s aid, Sergeant Burns, the same man who had carefully tended the colonel during the discussion at the fire. When he spoke, his accent was pure Irish. Robert assumed he had simply arrived in New York and then pressed into the union Army. He led Robert back to the cabins and where Robert’s own home sat.

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It was a small log shack with a low ceiling. The single room contained a bed, a chair, and a fireplace. It was more the Robert had enjoyed in several years.

The colonel’s steward excused himself, leaving Robert to sit on the bed and consider the events of the day.

Eventually, his thoughts drifted to home and to his wife, filling Robert with a great sadness. He fell asleep dreaming of Georgia and moss laden trees surrounding the farm he had called home.