The sunpricked canvas silhouette is Joachim Porszchulis wending up Slag Hill, meteoric clods of tar igniting stands of rye around him. Amidst burning .44 slugs and needling ice rain, he splits a Pinkerton’s brow with chain tongs and rends the zinc Socony sandwich board with bare mitt.

Peeling sackcloth from ghost white and black lumps of blood, I implore, “Swear to—”

But before I finish, Joachim scoops the infant from the clotted brine, wipes its marbled pate with a final gesture, and reenters the storm, his pillar-like form obscured by the sun setting ‘neath clouds ignited by the approaching blaze.