Starbuck wished his friend good luck, then saddled Pocahontas and trotted her out of the chaotic encampment, through the town and down the Rosskill road. The town, which held the nearest railroad depot to Faulconer County, was twice the size of Faulconer Court House and had been built where the foothills finally gave way to the wide plain that stretched to the distant sea. It was an easy downhill ride. The day was hot and the cows in the meadows were either standing under shade trees or else up to their bellies in the deep cool streams. The roadside was bright with flowers, the trees heavy with leaf, and Starbuck was happy.

He had a letter to Sally in his saddlebag. She had wanted him to send her letters and he had promised to write as often as he could. This first letter told of the last days of training and of how the Colonel had given him the mare, Pocahontas. He had kept the letter simple, the words short and the letters big and round. He had told Sally how he loved her, and he guessed that was true, but it was a strange kind of love, more like a friendship than the destructive passion he had felt for Dominique. Starbuck was still jealous of the men Sally would lie with, as any man surely should be jealous, but Sally would have none of his jealousy. She needed his friendship as he needed hers, for they had come together in the thunder-riven night like two lonely children needing comfort, and afterward, lying happily in the bed where they had smoked cigars and listened to the dawn rain, they had agreed to write, or rather Starbuck had agreed to write and Sally had promised she would try to read his letters and one day she would even try to write back so long as Starbuck promised on his honor not to laugh at her efforts.

He stopped at the Rosskill post office and sent the letter, then rode on to the depot, where the manager was a plump, sweating man named Reynolds. “There are no trains,” Reynolds greeted Starbuck in his small office next to the telegraph room.

“But Mister Faulconer, Colonel Faulconer, specifically requested two sets of cars, both with locomotives—”

“I don’t care if God Almighty ordered the cars!” Reynolds was a plump man, sweating in his woolen railroad uniform, who was clearly tired of the exigencies that wartime had imposed upon his careful timetable. “The whole railroad’s only got sixteen locomotives and ten of those have gone north to move troops. We’re supposed to do things railroad fashion, but how can I keep order if everyone wants locomotives? I can’t help you! I don’t care if Mister Faulconer is a director, I don’t care if all the directors were here begging for cars, I can’t do anything!”

“You have to help,” Starbuck said.