The few visible homeless folks were miserable, as wet as if the rain had never ended, and given that he didn’t spot any of the tents that had been so prominent on recent visits, George could only figure the others had found refuge somewhere dry, or else returned to the farms they’d come from, resigned to what little work they could find. The tannery across from the Palace Tavern had put up a sign weeks ago that read, NO SQUATTERS, LOITERERS, OR BEGGARS IN FRONT OF THE STORE, which had, since George’s last trip to town, been given an addendum, a slip of paper under the original:…OR BEHIND THE STORE, OR TO ITS SIDES. Yet under its eaves, along the far side of the building, the shadows of bodies shifted and sounded off, forlorn noises that might as well have been the final utterances of the dying.
He was not oblivious to the squalor that lay a few steps from the public square, half hidden behind buildings that townsfolk frequented every day, yet he wished to face this reality as much as the rest of his fellow citizens did, which was not at all, and so it was that shame pummeled him as he walked through the doors of the Palace Tavern—at which point there was some relief in being overwhelmed by the sight of so many rowdy young men, the acrid smell of drink and the stench of sweat, the clanging of the piano.
That so many of the boys were home （many still in their grays and clearly ready to celebrate their freedom, notwithstanding their defeat） surprised him, but the true shock was the collection of Union soldiers clustered near the door, not a single drink in hand, ignored entirely by all the others. George had hardly processed the image when a hand was on his shoulder. He turned to face a squat man who was quick to introduce himself with a hand so slack it nearly slipped from George’s grip.
“Brigadier General Arnold Glass,” the man said. “And you are George Walker. A pleasure.”
The man had sparse, oily hair parted down the center and that particular style of wiry, unkempt mustache that reached so far from his face it seemed liable to attack passersby. He appeared to be George’s age, and equally weathered by time, although more graceful in his movement.
“Our dear leader,” George said. “An honor to make your acquaintance.”
“You do have that dry humor I was promised,” Glass said with a smile.
“I’d say you must have your own peculiar brand of it, coming to this bar knowing you’re amongst men who must be…less than fond of you.”
Glass’s smile failed to dissipate, and George recognized it as that of a statesman, unnerving in its perpetuation, guarding something calculated.
“I can’t say I share your concerns,” the general said. “I have given their mothers rations, clothed their younger siblings, and tonight I wish only to show them my goodwill by buying them a round of drinks.”
He raised an eyebrow, like a young rascal withholding a secret.
“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that in doing so I am allowed the opportunity to record who might be the rowdier individuals being reabsorbed by the community. Should trouble arise at a later date.”
“How wily,” George said. “I can only hope you have your rifles on hand once those drinks take effect.”
“I was actually on my way out,” Glass said, with apparent appreciation for George’s retort. “But since we’ve come upon one another, I’d love to ask you a favor in person. One that will save me a telegram.”
“I do have plans, but if you make it quick.”
Glass straightened, and George couldn’t help looking down to see if the man had tried to claim more height by standing on the tips of his toes （he had not）。 The general informed George that he was hoping to start a city council of sorts and had spoken of the matter to Wade Webler on numerous occasions.
“Allow me to stop you there,” George said. “I want nothing to do with that man. Gussying up with his cronies for a ball as others can’t afford so much as a sack of flour? What a hideous display.”
“I believe it was a gala, to be fair.”
“What would be the difference?”
“I—well—he assured me there was one. Although it does not make any difference. By all accounts the man has done right by Old Ox, raising money for this town. More importantly, he believes deeply in the rebuilding efforts.”
“I’m confused, General. Do you not know what side he stands for?”
Glass’s assignment, he said, was to maintain the peace. If necessary, politics had to be put aside for that cause. In his view, a council comprising the most esteemed individuals of Old Ox, united as one, would facilitate a clear charter that could help the town preserve its unanimity and renew its grandeur.