The officer shrugged. He wore a soiled, stiff-bosomed shirt and gray breeches. “No use, I’m most sorry to say. Dis aliter visum. It is dry, my deh felleh. The niggah had to fetch water from some place, God knows wheh. But he has managed to contrive some most excellent coffee, and I shall be most happy—” A smile slipped across his thin, sharp face. “This is most awkwahd—your own kitchen, eh? Do join me at breakfast!”

A black man came from beside the stove, and put another chair in place. Bale sat down. He thought, Doc won’t believe me if I tell him this has happened. Civilized warfare … he said, “I’m sorry. There are a number of officers here, and you came together—”

The Englishman’s coffee cup shook in his hand. “Captain Aubrey Campbell-Slaughter, A.D.C. to General Rice Duncan, Heth’s Division. Late Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards.” His pink eyes were steaming above the rim of his cup, and for all the frying meat you could sense a mist of whiskey around him.

More Confederates came into the kitchen. Dan heard himself murmuring banalities, accepting apologies which he did not want or value. Ruining your carpets with our spurs, sir. The burden of The Invaded. Somebody laughed. There was a face with prodigious waxed mustaches thrust out like knives beneath the broken nose. I always say, sir, that I’ve waited a long time to sleep in a Pennsylvania bed. No one laughed, then—only a whisper snapping toward Captain Campbell-Slaughter: I tell you, English, you’d better stiffen up before the general’s abroad …

A sheaf of swords stood in the corner, loose belts trailing. The clock ticked behind its painted glass pane. These men ate heartily, like boys on a spree beyond the authority of parents or schoolmasters. Only one of them was past thirty. In the haze by the hot stove, the silent negro toiled at his cookery. He had not touched any food from the larder; the coffee was better than that sold by Mr. Pock, the bacon not so good, and there was a crock of fresh butter on the table. A major said to Bale, yes, we’ve got expert foragers. Better than the Yanks, if you’ll excuse me.