Kenan stood in the carriage barn behind the Wilmington Light Infantry Armory, smoking a Havana cigar. The barn had three bays, but only the center one was occupied. It held a sturdy quartermaster’s wagon: its chassis, box, and seat freshly painted French blue; its wheels, tongue, and doubletree painted cavalry yellow.

He unlaced the ropes holding the tarpaulin and yanked it down onto the sandy floor, then let down the tailgate and swung himself up into the box.

The Gatling gun’s steel tripod mount was bolted to the bed of the wagon, as it had been bolted to the deck of the tugboat. The gun was mobile and high enough to fire over the heads of friendly ranks. The wagon box could carry a crew of three, with two more on the seat. Plenty of room for extra hoppers of ammunition.

The boxes of .30-.40 Krag rounds, each bullet longer than his index finger, were stored in the powder magazine under the armory’s front stairs—behind marble walls two feet thick. Safe enough there till the time came to haul them out.

Cigar clamped in his teeth, he took up his place behind the gun and swiveled it back and forth, raking the walls with imaginary fire. Four hundred and eighty pounds, but it swung silently on greased bearings with just a nudge from his hand. The brass receiver felt cool. Absently, he studied the engraving scrolled across the brass housing: Gatling Patented, Colt’s Mfg. Co., Hartford, Ct. The brightwork gleamed—one of the boys must have been in to polish it this morning. He guessed they’d all be in here handling the gun every chance they got. He would, at that age. Hell, here he was now. But that was something else—or was it? Was it the dream scratching at his conscience, or was it just his old infatuation with the hard precision of firearms? He patted the brass. Already, Kenan could see his fingerprints coming up gray on the receiver. He scrubbed them off with his handkerchief.

“Lord, what a piece of ordnance,” he said out loud. He listened to his voice settle in the empty space, which smelled of horses, paint, grease, gun oil, and tobacco. Fired six hundred rounds per minute—per minute! During the War, it had been a novelty weapon. Confederate commanders couldn’t get it, and most Union commanders refused to use it. It violated their spirit of honor, of gentlemanly combat, their glorious frontal charges across fields glinting with bayonets, painted with staggered ranks of blue and gray troops, littered with the colorful dead.