No. Just as Handel erased, obliterated and changed the line-up of notes in his perfect compositions, so a good general must have cooperation from his brigadiers, and from soldiers down to the lowest ensign…not as a matter of human rank or personal superiority, but as a question of life-giving symmetry. Without the fidelity of the lowest sixteenth-note, the whole symphony is lost in cacophony.

Harmonious alignment with the highest English principles is everything to me. It is why a man who elevates his personal appetite, one who cannot control his impatience, his loyalties or his morals, is beneath my concern and cannot expect protection under my care, as long as I remain a general.

Men have a talent for mocking the tilt of my nose and chin, but no inkling of the exquisite dance of choices I entertained. It is not true that I changed my mind. My mind, in a single moment of focused contemplation, contains more possibilities than other men might conceive in a thousand days if they changed their minds every hour.

I see combat’s game-pieces move in infinite combinations. This is not changing my mind. It is, rather, a consummate warrior’s steadfast meditation.

The warm-blooded marmot sits on the grass inches from where I lie. I ask, “Where’s the lad I saw lying here yesterday, that wraith in the bright afternoon?”

The animal regards me.

I name my Highlanders, starting with Ronnie, though I know this lad wasn’t Ronnie….

He’s the one you refuse to name.

Has the marmot said this? He is staring at me so quietly now. He regards me with an attitude I recognize: calm and disconcerting, challenging me.

“Sophie,” I ask again. “Did Sophie send you?”

Do I ask this aloud in the night? Or does the animal play with my thoughts the way Sophie did?

I check myself—Sophie has not sent the animal. The animal lives here all the time. If Sophie has sent anyone, it is myself. Hasn’t she said, over and over again, I need to face the plains?

On this turf where the unnamed Redcoat lad lay this afternoon—am I lying in his blood?

The marmot sits humble and apparently insignificant, but self-possessed as if he owns the plains, or at least holds great status here. He commands his place on this hill like a landowner disguised as a servant. He listens as I cast about to anchor myself in time and place.

I mistrust that moon’s soft edge: to me the moon-blade is the edge of time itself, and when that edge wants sharpening I cannot know where I’m moored.

“Who was that lad? I half recognized him….”

The marmot looks at me with what feels like considerable pity.