“And how far is it to Manassas?”

“A hundred miles, sir.”

“Then we shall go to war backward,” Starbuck said happily.

Washington Faulconer, when he led the Legion’s cavalry unit into the depot at midday, was furious. He had expected two trains to be waiting, one of them with the director’s private car attached, but instead there was just a mutinous engineer with a single backward-facing locomotive and tender that was attached to seventeen boxcars and two gondola cars, while the telegraph operator was attempting to explain to Lynchburg why the locomotive would not be arriving, and Reynolds was trying to clear the track northward past Charlottesville. “For God’s sake, Nate!” the Colonel exploded, “why is everything such a mess?”

“Wartime, sir?”

“Damn it! I gave you simple enough orders! Can’t you do the simplest thing?” He spurred off to abuse the grumbling engineer.

Adam looked at Starbuck and shrugged. “Sorry. Father’s not happy.”

“How was Miss Pelham?”

“Awful. Just awful.” Adam shook his head. “And soon, Nate, there’ll be scores of women getting that same news. Hundreds.” Adam turned to look down Rosskill’s Depot Street where the first of the Legion’s infantrymen had come into sight. The marching column was flanked by twin ragged processions of wives, mothers and children, some of whom were carrying knapsacks to relieve their men of their equipment’s weight. “Dear God, this is chaos,” Adam said. “We were supposed to have left three hours ago!”

“I’m told that in war nothing ever goes to plan,” Starbuck said happily, “and that if it does, you’re probably being whipped. We have to get used to chaos, and learn to make the best of it.”

“Father’s not good at that,” Adam confessed.

“Then it’s a good job he’s got me.” Starbuck smiled benignly at Ethan Ridley, who had ridden in with the approaching Legion. Starbuck had decided he would be very pleasant to Ridley from now until the end of Ridley’s life. Ridley ignored him.