STARBUCK NEVER DID LEARN the Colonel's name. He was a tall, wispy-haired man in his late fifties who was plainly overwhelmed by the responsibilities that had been thrust on him. "The town," he told Starbuck, "isn't fit to be a depot. Isn't fit, you hear me? The Yankees have been here more than once and what they didn't steal our own skulkers took. You need boots?" ' "No."

"You can't have any. General Lee demands boots. What boots?" He gestured about his cluttered office that had once been a dry goods store as if to demonstrate the obvious absence of any footwear. "You don't need any?" The Colonel suddenly understood Starbuck's reply.

"No, sir."

"Do you have any to spare?" the Colonel asked eagerly.

"Not a pair, sir. But I do need axes, tents, wagons. Especially a wagon." The battalion's only transport was a handcart that had proved a brute on the short marches the Yellowlegs had so far completed. The cart carried the precious rifles and as much spare ammunition as could be piled on top, but Starbuck doubted whether the rickety vehicle would last another ten miles.

"No good asking me for wagons," the Colonel said. "You can try commandeering from the local farms, but I doubt you'll have any luck. Too many troops have been through this place. They've stripped it bare." The Colonel was in charge of the town of Winchester, which lay at

the northern end of the Shenandoah Valley and was now the supply base for Lee's army across the Potomac. Starbuck's battalion had abandoned its train at Strasburg and marched north through a glorious summer dawn. Now, as the sun's heat grew stifling, the exhausted men waited in Winchester's main street as Starbuck reported for his orders. "I don't have any orders," the Colonel said as he finished searching among his disordered papers. "None for you, anyway. Who do you say you are?"

"Starbuck, sir, Special Battalion."

"Special?" the Colonel, who had introduced himself to Starbuck, but so quickly that Starbuck had never caught his name, sounded surprised. "Special," he said again in a puzzled tone, then he remembered. "You're the Yellowlegs!" He shuddered slightly, as though Starbuck might be contagious. "Then I do have orders for you, indeed I do. But aren't you called Maitland?"

"Starbuck, sir."

"Orders are addressed to Maitland," the Colonel said, feverishly searching again among the papers on the shop's counter. All the doors and windows were propped open, but the ventilation scarcely alleviated the day's oppressive heat. The Colonel was sweating as he searched. "Is Maitland coming?" he asked.

"I replaced Maitland," Starbuck said patiently.

"Someone has to get the short straw, I suppose," the Colonel said. "Can't say I envy you. It's bad enough taking willing men to war, let alone a bunch of skulkers. How many did you lose between here and Strasburg?"

"Not one."

"No?" The Colonel drew the word out to show his incredulity.

"I marched at the back," Starbuck said, and touched the Adams revolver at his side.

"Quite right, quite right," the Colonel said and went back to his search.

Starbuck had shaded the truth. Some men had dropped out, and those men he had collected and forced back onto the road, though by the time they had finished the short march the stragglers were near beat and had feet with blisters so bad that blood was seeping out of the ill-sewn shoes they had been issued at Camp Lee. Most of the shoes, Starbuck guessed, would not last a week, which meant they would need to take some off the Yankees. Other men had fallen out of the column with diarrhea, yet despite their sickness and frail feet, all the men were now present in Winchester, but still the march had been a bad augury. The battalion was simply unfit.

"You know what's happening here?" the Colonel asked.

"No, sir."

"We're about to throttle the Yankees out of Harper's Ferry. After that, God only knows. You need ammunition?"

"Yes, sir."

"We do have that, but no wagons." The Colonel scribbled on a chit of paper that he gave to Starbuck. "Authorization to draw cartridges. You'll find them stored in a barn at the top end of Main Street, but if you ain't got a wagon, Major, you'll be hard put to carry a proper supply, and I can't find you a wagon." He gave Starbuck another piece of paper. "That's a War Department form entitling a civilian to be paid for any wagon you commandeer, but I doubt you'll find one. Too many other regiments have plowed this town. Ah, and you should go to the Taylor Hotel, Major."

"Taylor Hotel?"

"Down the street, just a few steps. Place with a big porch and not much paint. Not much left to eat there either, but it's still the most comfortable place in town. Your fellow's waiting there."

Starbuck, completely confused, shook his head. "My fellow?"

"Officer! Didn't you know? Fellow called Captain Tumlin. A good one, too! First-class fellow. Got captured at New Orleans and has been in Yankee jails ever since, but he managed to escape and reach our lines. Capital fellow! Richmond assigned him to your battalion for the duration of the campaign, so I kept him here. Seemed pointless to send him all the way to Richmond while you were coming here. He's even got some men for you! Skulkers and coffee-chasers, of course, every last one of them, but you must be used to that kind of scum. I shall be sorry to lose Billy Tumlin. He's an amusing fellow, capital company. Here we are." He found Starbuck's orders and tossed them up the counter. "I hope to God you're not staying in the town," he added anxiously. "I'm hard put to feed the men I've got without feeding more."

Starbuck slit open the orders and scanned them. He smiled, cracking the sweaty dust that was caked onto his face. "Good," he said, then, in response to the Colonel's raised eyebrow, explained his pleasure. "We're assigned to Swynyard's Brigade."

The name meant nothing to the Colonel. "You're leaving today, I trust?" the Colonel inquired anxiously.

"We're either to wait here or at Charlestown, whichever's convenient, for more orders."

"You'll want to be in Charlestown then," the Colonel said emphatically. "That's a very pleasant town. A long day's march from here, but you'll have to make it sooner or later."

"We will?"

"You will if you're going north. Charlestown is just this side of Harper's Ferry. Get there early, Major, and you'll have first pick of the bivouacs before the rest of the army arrives. And first pick of the girls. If there are any girls left, of course, which there might not be. Place has been picked over by both sides, but it's still very fair, very fair." "Any Yankees there?"

The Colonel pursed his lips and shrugged. "Maybe a few. Doubtless the Harper's Ferry garrison scavenge for corn thereabouts."

In other words, Starbuck thought, the very pleasant Charlestown was Yankee-haunted, stripped clean of supplies, and half deserted. "We'll march this morning," Starbuck said, much to the Colonel's relief. "You can give us someone to show us the way out of town?"

"No need, my dear fellow. Straight up the road. Straight up. Can't miss your way."

Starbuck pocketed the orders and went out to the sidewalk and called Potter to him. "You're a rogue, Potter."

"Yes, sir."

"So be a rogue now and find a wagon. Any wagon. You're allowed to commandeer civilian vehicles, but you must sign for it so the owner can get reimbursement from Richmond, understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you collect ammunition and follow us north. Take a dozen of your men to load and haul." He gave Potter the two pieces of paper. "Lucifer!"

"Major?" The boy ran up to Starbuck.

"Captain Potter is on a looting expedition, and you're good at that so you can help him. I want a wagon, anything on wheels that we can fill with cartridges. If the townspeople see soldiers combing the streets they'll hide anything valuable, but they won't notice you, so go and spy on them."

"Yes, Major," Lucifer grinned and ran off.

"Dennison!" Starbuck shouted. Dennison was the senior captain and thus, whether Starbuck liked it or not, the second in command of the battalion. "Get 'em up, get 'em moving," Starbuck said. "Straight up the road. Just keep going and I'll catch up with you." There was no point in waiting. The men might be tired, but the more they marched the fitter they would be, and the longer they rested in Winchester the more reluctant they would ever be to leave the town's dubious comforts.

"You staying to enjoy the town, Major?" Dennison asked cattily.

"I'm staying to collect some more men. I'll be ten minutes behind you. Now move."

The men climbed reluctantly to their feet. It was promising to be another day of terrible heat, no day for a march, but Starbuck had no intention of traveling all day. He planned to take a few miles off the journey, then find a field in which the battalion could have an afternoon of rest, then finish the journey in the next day's cool dawn.

He walked down the sidewalk and found the Taylor Hotel, which proved to be three impressive storys of pillared balconies dominating the street. Captain Tumlin's room was on the third floor and, because the Captain was nowhere to be found in the public rooms, Starbuck climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on the room's door.

"Go away," a voice said. Starbuck turned the handle and found the door locked. "And don't come back!" the voice added.

"Tumlin!"

"Go away!" the man called. "I'm at my prayers." A woman giggled. "Tumlin!" Starbuck shouted again. "I'll meet you downstairs. Give me a half hour!" Tumlin answered.

The door's lock splintered at a simple push and Starbuck stepped inside to see a plump, sweating man rolling out of a disordered bed to reach for his holstered revolver. The man checked as he saw Starbuck's uniform. "Who the hell are your' Tumlin asked.

"Your new commanding officer, Billy," Starbuck said, then tipped his hat to the girl who was clawing the grubby sheet to cover her breasts. She was a pretty black girl with a fine head of curls and sad, dark eyes. "Morning, ma'am," Starbuck said, "sure is a hot one."

"You're who?" Billy Blythe asked as he settled back under the sheet.

"Your new commanding officer, Billy," Starbuck said again. He walked to the louvered doors that opened onto the hotel's top balcony and pushed them open. From the balcony he could see the battalion forming its ranks, ready to march away, but the job was being done with pathetic slowness. Dozens of men were resting in the shade of verandahs and the sergeants were doing nothing to stir them. "Sergeant Case!" Starbuck shouted. "Show me how a proper soldier gets a battalion moving. Snap to it! The name's Starbuck," he called over his shoulder to Tumlin, "Major Nathaniel Starbuck."

"Jesus," Billy Blythe said. "You the son of the Reverend Starbuck?"

"Sure am. That worry you?"

"Hell, no," Billy Blythe said. "Just seems strange, you being a Yankee and all."

"No stranger than a man being in bed on a fine morning when there are Yankees to be killed," Starbuck said cheer-fully. The street beneath him was at last showing some signs of vigor, so he turned back into the room. "Now get the hell up, Billy. I hear you've got some men for me. Where are they?"

Billy Blythe flapped a hand. "In camp, Major."

"Then get your boots on, Billy, and let's go fetch them.

You know where I might find a wagon in this town?"

"Lucky if you can find a wheelbarrow," Tumlin said. "Hell, there ain't nothing here but bad soldiers and good women." He slapped the black girl's rump.

Starbuck saw some cigars on the washstand and helped himself to one. "You don't mind?"

"Hell, no, help yourself," Billy Blythe said. "There's a flint and steel on the mantel." He waited until Starbuck's back was turned, then swung himself out from under the yellowing bedsheet.

Starbuck turned. "Billy," he said reprovingly. "You go to bed dressed?" The pinkly naked Tumlin had a pouch belted round his stomach. "That's no way to treat a lady," Starbuck added.

"Just keeping it safe, Major," Tumlin said, scrambling into a pair of long underpants. He blushed, felt in the pouch, and took out two silver coins. "You'll forgive me, Major?" he asked and tossed the coins onto the bed. "Sorry about the interruption, honey."

The girl snatched the money as Starbuck lowered himself into a cane chair and put his dusty boots up on the washstand. "You were in a Yankee jail, I hear?" he asked Tumlin.

"Most of this year," Blythe said.

"They fed you well," Starbuck said as Tumlin buttoned a shirt round his plump belly, which was distended by the money pouch.

"I was four times this size when I got took," Blythe said.

"Where were you held?" Starbuck asked.

"Union, Massachusetts."

"Union?" Starbuck asked. "Where the hell's Union?"

"Out west," Blythe said. He had met Starbuck's father and knew the family came from Boston, so placing his mythical town of Union in the west of the state seemed a safe bet.

"In the Berkshires?" Starbuck asked.

"I guess," Blythe said, sitting on the bed to tug on his boots. "What are they? Hills? Not that we saw any hills, Major. Just big walls."

"So how many men have you got for me, Billy?"

"A dozen."

"Stragglers?"

"Lost sheep, Major," Blythe said, offering Starbuck a lazy grin, "just little lost sheep looking for a shepherd. Hell, I'm looking for a comb."

"Here," Starbuck saw the comb on the washstand and tossed it across the room. "So you escaped?"

Blythe winced as the comb caught in a tangle of his long hair. "Walked south, Major."

"Then you'll have good hard feet, Billy, all ready for some marching."

"And where the hell are we marching, Major?" Blythe asked.

"My guess," Starbuck said, "is Harper's Ferry. And once we've bagged the Yankees there, over the river and keep going north till the Yankees beg us to stop."

Blythe pulled on his gray coat. "Hell, Major," he grumbled, "you have one hell of a way of making yourself known to your officers."

"Coat's too small for you, Billy," Starbuck said with a grin. "When were you made a Captain?"

Blythe paused to think as he buckled on his revolver. "Last year, Major. November, I guess, why?"

"Because that makes you senior to my other captains, which means you're my second in command. If I'm killed, Billy, my heroes are all yours. You ready?"

Blythe collected his few belongings and stuffed them in a bag. "Ready enough," he said.

Starbuck stood, walked to the door, and tipped his hat again to the girl. "Sorry to have disturbed you, ma'am. Come on, Billy. Let's go."

They caught up with the battalion three miles north of town. Starbuck marched the tired men another two miles, then swerved aside into a stretch of pastureland that edged a wood and a stream and had plainly been used many times before as a bivouac. The grass was stained where tents had stood too long, scorch marks showed where campfires had burned, while the margins of the woodland were nothing but ragged stumps where troops had cut their firewood. The railroad that led north from Winchester was a half mile away, its steel rails torn up and carried away by one side or the other while the turnpike that ran parallel to the ruined rail line had been deeply rutted by the march-ing and countermarching of the armies that had fought for possession of the Shenandoah Valley ever since the war's beginning. The pasture was a much-abused place, but it was still pleasant enough and just far enough from Winchester to deter any man who might have been tempted back to the town's taverns.

Captain Potter had no need of the taverns. He had brought the ammunition to the encampment, but after that he had somehow found himself a jug of whiskey and by late afternoon he was wildly drunk. Starbuck was drawing up lists of the new companies, which now numbered five. He had begun to choose men for Potter's skirmishing company and was writing their names when he became aware of a surge of raucous laughter. At first he thought it a good omen, maybe an upwelling of spirit among the resting men, but then Captain Dennison stooped under the crude cotton awning that served Starbuck as a tent. Dennison was picking his teeth with a wood splinter. "Nice desk, Major," he said.

"It serves," Starbuck said. He was using a tree stump as a crude writing desk.

"You might want to redo those lists," Dennison said with amusement, "'cos I reckon you just lost yourself a captain."

"Meaning what?"

"Potter boy's drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Hell, drunk as ten skunks." Dennison spat a shred of food. "Looks like he can't be trusted after all."

Starbuck swore, picked up his jacket and belt, and ducked outside.

Potter was playing the fool. A group of men who still had some energy after the day's marching had started a game of baseball and Potter had insisted on being allowed to take part. Now, swaying slightly, he faced the pitcher and kept demanding that the ball be thrown at perfect hitting height. "Groin height!" he shouted, and the fielders egged him on by pretending not to know what he meant. Potter unbuttoned his pants to expose himself. "That's the groin! There! See?"

The pitcher, hardly able to throw for laughing, tossed an underhand lob that went wide. Potter swung madly, staggered, and recovered. "Try it closer, closer." He paused, stooped to pick up his stone jug, and took a swig. He saw Starbuck as he lowered the jug. "Captain Ahab, sir!"

"Are you drunk?" Starbuck said when he was close to Potter.

Potter grinned, shrugged and thought about the question, but could not come up with anything witty. "I guess," he said.

"Button yourself, Captain."

Potter shook his head, not in refusal, but in perplexity. "Just a bit of horseplay, Captain Ahab." "Button yourself," Starbuck said quietly.

"You're going all stern on me, ain't you? Just like my father—" Potter stopped abruptly as Starbuck hit him in the belly. The younger man folded over, retching just as he had when Starbuck had first found him in the Hells.

"Stand up straight," Starbuck said, kicking over the stone bottle, "and button yourself."

"Let him play!" a voice shouted sullenly. It was Sergeant Case. "Nothing wrong with a game," the Sergeant insisted. "Let him play." A few men muttered their sup-port. Starbuck, they reckoned, was spoiling their day's one small moment of enjoyment.

"Good Sergeant Case," Potter said, cuffing spittle away from his chin. "My supplier of whiskey." He stooped to the fallen bottle, but Starbuck kicked it away before crossing to face Case.

"You gave Potter the whiskey?"

Case hesitated, then nodded. "Ain't against the law, Major."

"It's against my law," Starbuck said, "and you knew it."

Case rocked back and forward on his heels. He had drunk some of the whiskey himself, and maybe that gave him the courage to convert his hostility toward Starbuck into open defiance. He spat close to Starbuck's boots. "Your law?" he jeered. "What law is that, Major?"

"The rules of this battalion, Case."

"This battalion, Major," Case exploded in fury, "is the sorriest damn collection of bloody bastards ever put under a flag. This ain't a battalion, Major, it's a rabble of skulkers who weren't wanted in any proper regiment. This ain't a battalion, Major! This ain't nothing! We ain't got nothing. No wagons, no axes, no tents, no doctor, no nothing! We weren't sent here to fight, Major, but to get ourselves killed."

There were louder murmurs of agreement. Men who had been resting had come to see the confrontation, so that nearly all of the battalion was now grouped around the makeshift playing diamond.

"A month ago," Starbuck raised his voice, "I was in a battalion that got raided by Yankees. They killed half our officers, burned our wagons, destroyed all our spare ammunition, but we still fought a week later and won. This battalion can do the same."

"The hell it can," Case said. His fellow sergeants had come to his support, a phalanx of tough, grim-faced men who stared with blank hatred at Starbuck. "The hell it can," Case said again. "It might be good for guarding prisoners, or fetching and carrying supplies, but it ain't any good for fighting."

Starbuck turned slowly, looking at the worried faces of the men. "I think they can fight, Sergeant." He turned all the way round to face Case again. "But can you?"

"I've been there," Case said curtly, "and I know what it takes for men to fight. Not this!" He waved a scornful hand at the battalion. "No proper officer would take this rabble to war."

Starbuck stepped closer to Case. "Do I take that to mean that you won't lead them into battle, Sergeant?"

Case sensed he might have gone too far, but he was unwilling to back down in the face of his supporters. "Lead them into battle?" He scoffed Starbuck by crudely imitating his Boston accent. "Sounds like a fine Yankee phrase to me, Major."

"I asked you a question, Case."

"I ain't afraid to fight!" Case blustered and, by refusing to answer the question, implicitly backed away from the confrontation.

Starbuck could have let Case off the hook, but chose not to. "I asked you a question," he said again.

"Hell," Case said, cornered, "these men ain't fit to fight!"

"They're fit enough," Starbuck said, "it's you that ain't fit." He could have left it there, but sheer devilment made him rack the tension higher. "Take your stripes off," he said.

Case, faced with losing his rank, accepted the show-down. "You take 'em, Major," he said, "if you can." His fellow sergeants greeted the defiance with hand-clapping.

Starbuck turned away and walked to the vacated pitcher's spot. From the very first he had worried about imposing his authority on this despised battalion, and he had never done it. He had assumed that if he led they would follow, not because he inspired them, but because men usually do what is expected of them. In time, he had hoped, battle would wipe out the regiment's past history and unite it in purpose, but instead the crisis had come now, which meant that the solution could not wait for battle, but would have to be imposed now. He would exhaust the formal route first, but he knew it was doomed even as he turned back to the group of sergeants who slowly ended their clapping as he stared at them. "Sergeant Webber? Cowper?" he said. "Arrest Case."

The two sergeants spat, but neither made any other movement.

"Captain Dennison?" Starbuck turned.

"Ain't my business," Dennison said. "Finish what you started, Starbuck, ain't that what you once told me?"

Starbuck nodded. "When I've finished here," he raised his voice, "every company will elect new sergeants. Case!" he snapped. "Bring me your coat."

Case, driven to mutiny, brazened out the moment. "Come and get it, Major."

There was a moment's silence as the men watched Starbuck; then he took off his coat and revolver. He was apprehensive, though he took care not to show it. Case was a tall man, probably stronger than Starbuck, and probably no stranger to casual violence—any man who had survived fourteen years in a European army had to be tough—while Starbuck had been reared in the gentler world of respectable Boston, which eschewed violence as a means of resolving argument. Respectable Boston believed in reason leavened by Godliness, while Starbuck's career now depended on beating down a bullying thug who had probably not lost a fight in a dozen years, but he was also a thug who was more than slightly drunk and that, Starbuck reckoned, should help him. "The trouble with you, Case," he said as he walked slowly toward the taller man, "is that you've spent too long wearing a red coat. You ain't a fusilier now, you're a rebel, and if you don't like the way we do things then you ought to get the hell out of here and go back to Queen Victoria's petticoats. You probably ain't man enough to fight Yankees." He was hoping to provoke Case into a rushed attack, but the big man had the sense to hold his ground and let Starbuck come to him. Starbuck broke into a jog, then aimed a massive kick at Case's groin, but a heartbeat later he jarred his left foot forward to stop his forward momentum.

Case half turned away from the kick and flicked out a hard punch with his left hand, only Starbuck did not run onto the punch, but instead rammed his right boot forward into Case's knee. It was a brutally hard kick and Starbuck recoiled from it, safe out of Case's reach. Starbuck had hoped to do more damage, but the big man's quick left hand had stalled him.

Case stumbled as pain buckled his leg. The pain made him grimace, but he forced himself upright. "Yankee," he spat at Starbuck.

Starbuck knew this had to be quick. If the fight dragged on then his authority would be abraded with every blow exchanged. Victory had to be swift and total, and that meant taking some punishment. Case's tactics were obvious. He intended to stand like a rock and let Starbuck come to him, and every time Starbuck was in range he would inflict pain until Starbuck could take no more. So take the pain, Starbuck told himself, and put the son of a bitch down.

He walked forward with his eyes on Case's hard eyes. He saw the right hand coming and half raised his left hand to block the blow, but his head still rang as the fist crashed home on the side of his skull. Starbuck kept going forward, forcing himself into the stink of Case's unwashed wool uniform and the stench of tobacco and whiskey on the big man's breath, and the big man smelled victory as he reached to grab Starbuck's hair and pulled his head down onto his left fist.

Then Case gagged, choked, and his eyes widened as he tried to breathe.

Starbuck had hit the Sergeant in the Adam's apple. He had rammed his right hand up and forward, knuckles outward, and as much by luck as judgment had slammed the blow under the Sergeant's jutting beard to land dead on the inviting target of Case's unnaturally long neck. It was a wicked blow, taught him long before by Captain Truslow, who knew every nasty trick in the devil's book.

Case was staggering now, his hands at his throat where a terrible pain was threatening to cut off his airway. Starbuck, his own head ringing from the Sergeant's blow, stepped back to watch the big man totter, then stepped forward again and gave Case's left knee another hard kick. The big man buckled. Starbuck waited again. He waited until Case was half down, then he brought his knee up into the man's face. Blood splashed out of the broken nose as Starbuck grabbed Case's hair and rammed his head back onto the knee. He let go of the greasy hair and this time Case dropped to all fours and Starbuck kicked him in the belly, then put his foot on Case's back and pushed him down into the grass. The breath rasped and rattled in Case's throat. He twitched as he tried to subdue the gagging pain, but nothing could stop the pitiful whimpering that sounded between each desperate attempt to breathe. Starbuck spat on him, then looked up at the other sergeants. "All of you," he said, "take your stripes off. Now!"

None dared oppose him, not with Case retching into the grass. His face had gone red, the breath was hoarse in his constricted throat, and his eyes were wide with terror. Starbuck turned away. "Captain Dennison!"

"Sir?" Dennison was white-faced, appalled.

"Get a knife, Captain," Starbuck said calmly, "and cut Case's stripes off."

Dennison obeyed while Starbuck retrieved his coat and revolver. "Anyone else here think they know better than me how to run this battalion?" he shouted at the men.

Someone began clapping. It was Caton Rothwell, and his applause spread among the many men who had hated their sergeants. Starbuck waved the clapping to silence, then looked at Captain Potter. "You come to me when you're sober, Potter," he said, then walked away. He felt that he must be shaking, but when he looked at his bruised right hand it seemed quite still. He ducked into his makeshift tent, then suddenly the tension flowed out of him and he shuddered like a man with fever.

Lucifer, without being asked, brought him a mug of coffee. "There's some of Captain Potter's whiskey in it," he told Starbuck. "I rescued it from the bottle." He stared at Starbuck's left ear that was throbbing painfully. "He hit you hard."

"I hit him harder."

"Man won't like you for it."

"He didn't like me anyway."

Lucifer watched Starbuck warily. "He'll be wanting you." "Meaning?"

Lucifer shrugged and touched his Colt revolver that Starbuck had restored. "Meaning," the boy said, "you should take care of him properly."

"Let the Yankees do it," Starbuck said dismissively.

"Hell, they can't do nothing proper! You want me to do it?"

"I want you to get me supper," Starbuck said. His ear was hurting and he had work to do, even more work now that his new company lists had to be rewritten to accommodate the names of the newly chosen sergeants. Some of the old sergeants were re-elected, and Starbuck suspected threats might have been used to ensure those choices, but Case's name was not on the list. The last company to report was E, the half-formed company of skirmishers, and Caton Rothwell brought that list written in clumsy letters on the back of a tobacco wrapper. Rothwell’s own name was at the top of the page. Starbuck was seated outside his tent, close enough to a fire for the flames to illuminate the page that he first read and then handed to Billy Tumlin, who had come to share a late-night mug of coffee. "Good," Starbuck said to Rothwell when he saw Rothwell’s name on the list. "Don't make the mistake I did."

"Which was what?" Rothwell asked.

"Being too easy on the men."

Rothwell looked surprised. "Hell, I don't reckon you're easy," he said. "Case don't, either." "How is he?" Starbuck asked. "He can walk in the morning." "Make sure the son of a bitch does."

"Where are we going tomorrow?" Rothwell asked.

"North past Charlestown," Starbuck said.

"Past Charlestown?" Billy Blythe asked, accenting past. "I kind of hoped we'd find billets there."

"We're joining Old Jack's men to attack Harper's Ferry," Starbuck said, "and they won't be lollygagging in Charlestown, so nor will we. You want some coffee?" he asked Rothwell.

Rothwell hesitated, then nodded. "Kind of you, Major."

Starbuck shouted for Lucifer, then gestured Rothwell to sit. "When I first met you, Sergeant," he said, using Rothwell’s new rank for the first time, "you told me that your wife was in trouble, which was why you walked away from your old regiment. What was the trouble?"

It was a blunt question and Rothwell met it with a hostile stare. "Ain't none of your business, Major," he finally said.

"It is my business if it happens again," Starbuck answered just as curtly. His curiosity was not prompted by prurience, but rather because he suspected that Rothwell could be a leader in the battalion and he needed reassurance about the man's dependability. "And it is if I need new officers, and Yankee bullets have a way of creating vacancies."

Rothwell considered Starbuck's words, then shrugged. "Won't happen again," he said grimly, and seemed content to leave it at that, but a moment later he spat into the fire. "Not unless the Yankees rape her again," he added bitterly.

Tumlin, sitting next to Starbuck, hissed in evident disapproval.

Starbuck, embarrassed by the answer, did not know what to say and so said nothing.

"A Southron did it," Rothwell said, "but he was riding with the Northern cavalry." Now that he was launched on the story his reluctance to tell it had disappeared. He probed inside his top pocket to bring out a square of oilcloth that was tied with string. He carefully unknotted the string, then just as carefully unfolded the waterproof cloth to reveal another scrap of paper. He handled the paper as though it were a relic, which to him it was. "Bunch of Yankee cavalry raiders came to the farm, Major," he told Starbuck, "and left her this. The Southron took my Becky to the barn that day, but he was stopped. He burned the barn though, and the next week he came back and burned the house and took my Becky out to the orchard. Beat her bloody." There were glints in the corner of Rothwell's eyes. He sniffed and held the paper out to Starbuck. "This man," he said bleakly.

The paper was an official US government form, printed in Washington, that promised payment for supplies taken by US forces from Southern householders. The payment, which would be made at the war's end, was dependent on the family being able to prove that none of its members had carried arms against the US government. The paper, in brief, was a license for Northerners to steal whatever they liked, and this paper carried a penciled signature that Starbuck read aloud. "William Blythe," he read, "Captain, US Army."

Tumlin did not move, did not speak, did not even seem to breathe.

Starbuck carefully folded the form and handed it back to Rothwell. "I know about Blythe," he said.

"You do, Major?" Rothwell asked with surprise.

"I was with the Faulconer Legion when cavalry attacked us. Blythe trapped some of our officers in a tavern and shot them down like dogs. Women too. You say he's a Southerner?"

"Speaks like one."

Tumlin let out a long sigh. "Reckon there are bad apples in every basket," he said, and his voice was so shaken that Starbuck looked at him with surprise. Somehow Tumlin had not struck Starbuck as a man easily moved by tales of hardship and Starbuck reckoned it was to Tumlin's credit that he had taken Rothwell's story so hard. Tumlin sighed. "Reckon I wouldn't want to be Mister Blythe if you got your hands on him, Sergeant," he said.

"I reckon not," Rothwell said. He blinked. "Farm belonged to my father," he went on, "but he weren't there when this happened. He's going to rebuild, he says, but how, I don't know." He stared into the fire that whirled a stream of sparks into the air. "Nothing left there now," Rothwell said, "just ashes. And my Becky's real hurt. And the children are scared it'll happen again." He carefully retied the string, then put the package back in his pocket. "Kind of hard," he said to himself.

"And you were arrested," Starbuck asked, "for trying to be with her?"

Rothwell nodded. "My Major wouldn't give me furlough. Said no one gets furlough before the Yankees are beat, but hell, we'd just whipped the bastards at Manassas so I reckoned I'd take my own furlough. Ain't sorry I did, either." He swallowed the lukewarm coffee, then glanced at Starbuck. "You arresting Case?" he asked.

"He's already in a punishment battalion," Starbuck said, "what else can they do to him?"

"They can shoot the son of a bitch," Rothwell said.

"We'll let the Yankees do it," Starbuck said, "and save the government the price of a bullet."

Rothwell was unhappy. "I reckon he ain't a safe man to keep around, Major."

Starbuck agreed, but was unsure what else he could do.

If he was to have Case arrested then he would need to send the man under escort to Winchester and he could not spare an officer to lead such a party, nor the time to write up the paperwork for a court-martial. He could hardly have Case shot on his own authority, for he had invited the fight, and so the best course seemed to let things lie, but to tread warily.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Tumlin promised.

Rothwell stood. "Grateful for the coffee, Major."

Starbuck watched him walk away, then shook his head. "Poor man."

"Poor woman," Blythe said, then let out a long sigh. "I suspect that Mister Blythe will be long gone," he added.

"Maybe," Starbuck said. "But I was fond of one of the girls who died in that tavern and when this war is over, Billy, I might just go looking for Mister Blythe. Give me something to do in the piping time of peace. But for now, what the hell do I do with Potter?"

"Nothing," Blythe said.

"Nothing? Hell, I make him up to captain and he rewards me by getting blind drunk."

Blythe stretched out a cramped leg. Then he leaned forward and snatched a burning stick from the fire and used it to light a pair of cigars. He handed one to Starbuck. "I guess I'm going to have to tell you the truth, Major."

"What truth?"

Blythe waved his cigar toward the flickering camp fires. "These men here, they ain't an ordinary battalion any more than you're an ordinary major. They don't know much about you, but what they do know, they like. I don't say they like you, because they don't even know you, but they sure as hell are intrigued by you. You're a Yankee for a start, and you ain't inclined to follow the rules. You make your own rules and you fight your own fights. They like that. They don't want you to be ordinary."

"What the hell has this got to do with Potter?" Starbuck interrupted.

"Because men going into battle," Blythe went on as though Starbuck had never spoken, "don't want their leaders to be ordinary. Men have to believe in something, Major, and when God chooses to stay in heaven they're forced to believe in their officers instead. In you," he prodded the cigar toward Starbuck, "and if you show you're just an ordinary officer then, hell, they'll lose their faith."

"Tumlin," Starbuck said, "you're babbling."

"No, sir, I am not. I'm telling you that an ordinary officer would fall back on army regulations. An ordinary officer would humiliate Potter and that, sir, would be a mistake. Hell, give Potter a scare, put the fear of God in the bastard, but don't bust him back to lieutenant. The men like him."

"Let him off?" Starbuck asked dubiously. "That's weakness."

"Hell, Major, no one thinks you're weak after what you did to Case. Besides, Potter did you real proud with the wagon."

"He did that, right enough." Or rather Lucifer had done the battalion proud for, on his exploration of Winchester's side streets, the boy had glimpsed a magnificent hearse parked inside a shed. The shed had been locked tight by the time Potter's detail arrived and the owner swore there was nothing inside but baled hay, but Potter had forced the lock and revealed the black-painted vehicle with its etched glass windows, velvet curtains, and high black plumes in their silver holders. He had filled the hearse with ammunition, then, lacking horses, his men had dragged the quaint vehicle northward. "He sure did us proud," Starbuck admitted again, then pulled on his cigar. In truth he did not want to punish Potter, but he feared to send the battalion a signal of lenience. "I'll give him hell," he said after a while, "but if the bastard does it again I'll break him down to cookboy. You want to go find the son of a bitch and send him to me?"

"I'll do that," Tumlin said and shambled into the night.

Starbuck prepared himself for Potter's tongue-lashing. In truth, he thought, it had not been a bad day. Not a good day, but not bad either. The battalion had lost no one to straggling, he had faced down his enemies, but he had not made those enemies into friends. Perhaps that would never happen, but if it did, he thought, it would be in the fierce crucible of battle. And the sooner, the better, Starbuck thought, then he remembered the cornfield at Chantilly and recalled his gut-loosening fear. Oh God, he thought, let me not be a coward.

Late that night Starbuck toured the picket line that was not set against the incursion of enemies, but against the possibility of his own men deserting, then, wrapped in his dirty blanket, he slept.

Lucifer sat nearby. The boy was tired, but he was determined not to sleep. Instead he sat just outside the glow of the dying fire and he watched the makeshift tent where Starbuck slept and he watched the fire-dotted field where the battalion rested, and every now and then he would caress the long barrel of the Colt revolver that lay across his knees. Lucifer liked Starbuck, and if Starbuck would take no precautions, then Lucifer would guard him against the demons. For that, Lucifer knew, was what they were; white demons, bad as they came, just waiting to take revenge.