The Sutler's Tent

At the ragged edge of the War Camp, past the last drill yard and the last watchfire, stands a patched canvas tent with a lantern on a pole. The sutler who runs it sells hot stew, thin ale, needles, boot grease and, for a price, the latest rumor from command.

Off-duty soldiers crowd its benches every night, trading rations, swapping letters and saying the things they would never say within earshot of an officer. The sutler hears everything and repeats almost none of it.

One young soldier comes in every evening to ask the same question: whether any letters have come up from Rosewood. So far, the answer has always been no.