There was another dark painted box under a second stack and so he climbed back into the boxcar and moved still more crates until he had excavated the second box which, like the first, bore a stenciled legend denoting that its contents were also cartridges. He added that box to the first, then climbed back inside to continue his laborious search.

“What in hell’s name are you doing, boy?” Truslow appeared at the boxcar door. He was carrying a heavy leather bag in his right hand and the guard’s pistol in his left.

“Those are cartridges”—Starbuck gestured at the two boxes beside Truslow—“and I think there might be more in here.”

Truslow kicked the lid off the nearest box, looked down, then spat tobacco juice over the cartridges. “No more use than tits on a bull.”

“What?”

“They’re point six nines like I used in Mexico. The rifles the Colonel bought in Richmond are five eights.”

“Oh.” Starbuck felt himself coloring with embarrassment.

“You could light a fire with these?” Truslow suggested.

“So they’re no use?”

“Not to us, boy.” Truslow shoved the revolver into his belt then picked up one of the cartridges and bit off its bullet. “Big son of a bitch, ain’t she?” He showed Starbuck the bullet. “Anything valuable in there?”

“I’ve only found the bullets so far.”

“Jesus wept, boy.” Truslow dropped the heavy leather bag which chinked ominously as it fell, then clambered into the boxcar and seized the bowie knife from Starbuck. “I’ve got to get our boys out of the cars before the passengers get ideas. I took as many guns as I could, but some of those sons of bitches will have kept them well hid. There’s always some bastard who wants to be a hero. I remember a young fellow on the Orange and Alexandria couple of years ago. Thought he would capture me.” He spat in derision.

“What happened?”

“He finished his journey in the caboose, boy. Flat on his back and covered with a tarpaulin.” As Truslow spoke he wrenched lids off crates, gave the contents a cursory glance, then hurled them out into the rain. A box of china plates decorated with painted lilies smashed itself on the railbed. A clothes mangle followed, then a crate of tin saucepans and a consignment of delicate gas mantles. It had begun to rain more heavily, the drops pattering loud on the boxcar’s wooden roof.

“Shouldn’t we be leaving?” Starbuck asked nervously.

“Why?”

“I told you. Colonel Faulconer’s ready to blow the bridge up.”

“Who cares about the bridge? How long do you think it will take to rebuild it?”

“The Colonel says months.”