The slow carts hitched along toward the place of exchange Through a bleak wind. It was not a long wagon train, Wagons and horses were too important to waste On prisoners for exchange, if the men could march. Many did march and some few died on the way But more died up in the wagons, which was not odd. If a man was too sick to walk, he was pretty sick.

They had been two days on the road. Jack Ellyat lay Between a perishing giant from Illinois Who raved that he was bailing a leaky boat Out on the Lakes, and a slight, tubercular Jew Who muttered like a sick duck when the wagon jounced. Bailey marched. He still was able to march But his skin hung on him. He hummed to the Weaver’s tune.