Joab ambled Star down the dark street, pulling his jacket close for warmth. It was quiet in Oxford except for the wind that whistled and blew hard through the limbs of the oak trees. He turned his horse toward The University and slumped in the saddle while Star clopped along on the hard-packed dirt street. The lamps were turned up to a high flame, standing vigil over the few students who were still out making their way to the dormitories. He rode up on the hill, the little cemetery for Confederate soldiers killed at Shiloh and Corinth. Just when Joab thought that Shiloh held the Balm in Gilead, he found the bitter gall of the tomb, the burial grounds of those who gave a full measure—then and now. He remembered the day he walked the wood planked bridge over the Tishomingo Stream at Brice's Crossroads, the ride up the ridge to Shiloh Hill. And now he was in Oxford where Whiskey Smith under the Union flag had tried to melt down the city. Joab thought Shiloh was his place of peace