“It’s a long story, sir.” Starbuck rarely rode a horse and did it badly. He slouched in the saddle and jolted from side to side, making a horrid contrast to his two elegant companions, who rode their horses with careless mastery.

“I like long stories,” Washington Faulconer said happily, “but save it for when you’re cleaned up. Here we are.” He gestured with his riding crop at a lavish, four-storeyed, stone-faced house, evidently the place where his father had hung his hat. “No ladies staying here this week, so we can be free and easy. Ethan will get you some clothes. Show him to Adam’s room, will you, Ethan?”

Negro servants ran from the house’s stable yard to take the horses and suddenly, after weeks of uncertainty and danger and humiliation, Starbuck felt himself being surrounded by security and comfort and safety. He could almost have wept for the relief of it. America was collapsing in chaos, riot was loose on its streets, but Starbuck was safe.

“You’re looking a deal more human, Nate!” Washington Faulconer greeted Starbuck in his study, “and those clothes more or less fit. Are you feeling better?”

“Much better. Thank you, sir.”

“Bath hot enough?”

“Perfect, sir.”

“That eye looks sore. Maybe a poultice before you sleep? We had to call a doctor for your Philadelphia friend. They’re trying to unpeel the poor fellow in the stable yard. While my problem is whether to buy one thousand rifles at twelve bucks each.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Ethan Ridley, who had settled Starbuck into Adam’s room then arranged for his bath and a change of clothes, was now perched on a sofa at the window of Washington Faulconer’s study, where he was toying with a long-barreled revolver that he occasionally sighted at pedestrians in the street below.

“Because I don’t want to take the first available guns, Ethan,” Washington Faulconer said. “Something better may come along in a month or two.”

“There’s not much better than the Mississippi rifle.” Ridley silently picked off the driver of a scarlet barouche. “And the price won’t go down, sir. With respect, it won’t go down. Prices never do.”

“I guess that’s true.” Faulconer paused, but still seemed reluctant to make a decision.

A clock ticked heavily in a corner of the room. A wagon axle squealed in the street. Ridley lit a long thin cigar and sucked hungrily on its smoke. A brass tray beside him was littered with ash and cigar butts. He drew on the cigar again, making its tip glow fierce, then glanced at Starbuck. “Will the North fight?” he demanded, evidently expecting that a Yankee like Starbuck must have the answer pat.