Starbuck spent the next day in a torment of apprehension. He dared not tell Washington Faulconer what irked him, he dared not even tell Adam, but instead he kept a feverish silence as he accompanied father and son to the Mechanics Hall in Franklin Street where Robert Lee had his offices. Lee had now been promoted from head of Virginia’s forces to be the Confederate president’s chief military adviser, yet he still retained much of his state work and was, Faulconer was told, gone from the capital to inspect some fortifications that guarded the mouth of the James River. A harassed clerk, sweating in the outer office, said that the general was expected back that afternoon, or maybe next day, and no, it was not possible to make any appointment. All petitioners must wait. At least a score of men were already waiting on the landing or on the wide stairs. Washington Faulconer bristled at being lumped as a petitioner, but somehow kept his patience as the clock ticked and the clouds gathered dark over Richmond.

At a quarter to five Starbuck asked if he might leave. Faulconer turned angrily on his aide, as though about to refuse permission, but Starbuck blurted out an excuse of not feeling well. “My stomach, sir.”

“Go,” Faulconer said irritably, “go.” He waited until Starbuck had gone down the stairs, then turned on Adam. “What the hell is the matter with him? It isn’t his stomach, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“A woman? That’s what it looks like. He’s met an old friend? Who? And why doesn’t he introduce us? It’s a whore, I tell you, a whore.”

“Nate doesn’t have the money,” Adam said stiffly.

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” Washington Faulconer walked to the window at the end of the landing and stared gloomily into the street where a tobacco wagon had lost a wheel and a crowd of Negroes had gathered round to offer the teamster advice.

“Why wouldn’t you be certain, Father?” Adam asked.

Faulconer brooded for a moment, then turned on his son. “You remember the raid? You know why Nate disobeyed my orders? So that Truslow could steal from the passengers in the cars. Good Lord, Adam, that’s not warfare! That’s brigandry, pure and simple, and your friend condoned it. He risked the success of all we had achieved to become a thief.”

“Nate isn’t a thief!” Adam protested vigorously.

“And I trusted him with matters here in Richmond,” Washington Faulconer said, “and how am I to know if his accounting was fair?”

“Father!” Adam said angrily. “Nate is not a thief.”

“And what did he do to that Tom company fellow?”

“That was…,” Adam began, but then did not know how to continue, for it was certain that his friend had indeed stolen Major Trabell’s money. “No, Father.” Adam persisted in his stubborn denial, though a lot more weakly.