“Naw, I can’t hear nothin’.”
“There, it soundin’ off again!” he cried. “Hear it? Boom! . . . Boom! . . . Boom! . . .”
The sound was real to the soldier. For him it was beating regularly, like the bass in a band, faint and traveling slowly on the breeze, long drawn out, as though too heavy a load to be carried on the wind. To him it was like a big drum somewhere in the valley. He did not know that the drum had stopped beating months ago. He would always hear a drum.
“What I’m supposed to be listenin’ for?” asked Chinatown. “The train drown out ever’thin’.”
“Guns,” he said. “It’s guns.”
“Who be shootin’ off guns round here?”
“Them guns is far away. Maybe a hundred miles.”
“Can’t no gun sound that far.”
“Them is cannon guns, bigger ’n a smokestack.”
“Damn, not a mill stack!”
“Yeah.”
Chinatown strained his ears. They had become very good ears since his eyes had gone. He strained so hard that he heard the guns. Their noise came over the rumble of the train.
“Sound like somethin’ big an’ important that a fella’s missin’, don’t it?” asked the soldier.
Chinatown nodded.
Melody watched the nod. He looked at the two blind men closely. Their heads cocked to one side, listening for sounds that didn’t exist. They were twins.
Blood on the Forge Page 22
