“Entirely manufactured in America, Colonel, at our West Point foundry in Cold Spring, New York, and designed by the foundry’s superintendent, Mister Robert Parrott.” James thought he heard one of the newspapermen making a birdlike noise behind him, but managed to ignore the sound. “The gun can fire common shell, case shot, and bolts. It has a range of two thousand two hundred yards at five degrees of elevation.” Much of James’s service had so far consisted of learning just such details so he could keep foreign attachés properly informed. “We would of course be happy to arrange an escorted tour of the foundry for you.”

“Ah! So.” The Frenchman, a colonel called Lassan, had one eye, a horribly scarred face, and a magnificently ornate uniform. He watched as the huge gun fired a third time, then nodded his approval as the rest of the federal artillery, which had been waiting for the third shot as their signal, opened fire in unison. The green fields to the east of the stream blossomed with smoke as gun after gun crashed back on its trail. A teamhorse, inadequately picketed, bolted in panic from the sky-battering noise, dispersing a group of black-berrying infantrymen behind the gun line. “I never enjoyed artillery fire,” Colonel Lassan remarked mildly, then touched a nicotine-stained finger to the patch over his missing eye. “This went to a Russian shell.”

“We trust the rebels are sharing your distaste, sir,” James said with heavy humor. The strike of the gunshots was now visible beyond the stream where trees shook from the impact of shells and the soil of the farther hillsides was being flecked by ricocheting and exploding missiles. James had to raise his voice to be heard above the loud cannonade. “Once the flanking column reveals itself, sir, I think we can anticipate swift victory.”

“Ah, indeed?” Lassan enquired politely, then leaned forward to pat his horse’s neck.

“Two bucks says we’ll have the bastards on the skedaddle by ten o’clock,” a reporter from the Chicago Tribune offered the assembled company, though no one took up the wager. A Spanish colonel, magnificent in a red and white dragoon’s uniform, unscrewed the cap from a flask and sipped whiskey.

Colonel Lassan suddenly frowned. “Was that a train whistle?” he asked Captain Starbuck.

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” James said.

“Did you hear a train whistle?” the Frenchman asked his companions, who shook their heads.

“Is it important, sir?” James asked.

Lassan shrugged. “General Johnston’s forces from the Shenandoah Army, surely, would travel here by train, would they not?”

James assured Colonel Lassan that the rebel troops in the Shenandoah Valley were fully occupied by a contingent of northern soldiers and could not possibly have arrived at Manassas Junction.