Ethan Ridley looked astonished at his future father-in-law’s quixotic kindness, but Nathaniel Starbuck did not care. He had fallen on his feet, his luck had turned clean round, and he was safe in the land of his father’s enemies. Starbuck had come south.

Starbuck's First Days...

STARBUCK’S FIRST DAYS IN RICHMOND WERE SPENT ACCOMPANYING Ethan Ridley to warehouses that held the stores and supplies that would equip the Faulconer Legion. Ridley had arranged for the purchase of the equipment and now, before he left to begin the major recruiting effort in Faulconer County, he made certain Starbuck was able to take over his responsibilities. “Not that you need bother with the finances, Reverend,” Ridley told Starbuck, using the half-mocking and half-teasing nickname he had adopted for the northerner, “I’ll just let you arrange the transport.” Starbuck would then be left to kick his heels in big echoing warehouses or in dusty counting houses while Ridley talked business in the private inner office before emerging to toss another instruction Starbuck’s way. “Mister Williams will have six crates ready for collection next week. By Thursday, Johnny?”

“Ready by Thursday, Mister Ridley.” The Williams warehouse was selling the Faulconer Legion a thousand pairs of boots, while other merchants were selling the regiment rifles, uniforms, percussion caps, buttons, bayonets, powder, cartridges, revolvers, tents, skillets, haversacks, canteens, tin mugs, hemp line, webbing belts: all the mundane necessities of military paraphernalia, and all of it coming from private warehouses because Washington Faulconer refused to deal with the Virginian government. “You have to understand, Reverend,” Ridley told Starbuck, “that Faulconer ain’t fond of the new governor, and the new governor ain’t fond of Faulconer. Faulconer thinks the governor will let him pay for the Legion, then steal it away from him, so we ain’t allowed to have anything to do with the state government. We’re not to encourage them, see? So we can’t buy goods out of the state armories, which makes life kind of difficult.” Though plainly Ethan Ridley had overcome many of the difficulties, for Starbuck’s notebook was filling impressively with lists of crates, boxes, barrels and sacks that needed to be collected and delivered to the town of Faulconer Court House. “Money,” Ridley told him, “that’s the key, Reverend. There’s a thousand fellows trying to buy equipment, and there’s a shortage of every thing, so you need deep pockets. Let’s go get a drink.”