Evans had been frowning toward the mist of smoke that hung above the stone bridge. He turned bad-temperedly back to announce his decision about Starbuck, but was interrupted before he could speak. “A message, sir.” The speaker was the lieutenant who had accompanied Evans on his abortive visit to Faulconer’s tent that morning. The lieutenant was mounted on a gaunt gray horse and carried a pair of field glasses with which he had been watching the semaphore station on the hill. “From the wig-wag, sir. Our left is turned.” The lieutenant spoke without a trace of emotion.

There was a moment’s stillness as one of the enemy’s monstrous shells ripped overhead. The injured man beside the road was trying to stand, but seemed too feeble to rise. “Say that again, Meadows,” Evans demanded.

Lieutenant Meadows consulted his notebook. “‘Look out on your left, you are turned.’ Those are the exact words, sir.”

Evans swiveled fast to stare north, though nothing showed there except the heavy summer trees and a high hawk soaring. Then he turned back to Starbuck, his small eyes wide with shock. “I owe you an apology, boy. By God I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, so I am, sorry!” Evans blurted out the last word, then twisted again, this time to stare toward the stone bridge. His left hand twitched spasmodically at his side, the only evidence of the strain he was enduring. “This is a pretense. They ain’t attacking here, they’re just stroking our bellies, fooling us, keeping us still while the real attack comes up our backsides. Jesus!” He had been speaking to himself, but suddenly he snapped into a much louder voice. “Horse! Bring my horse! Get on your horse, boy!” This last was to Starbuck.

“Sir!” Starbuck yelped.

“Boy?”

“I’m tied up.”

“Release the boy! Otto?”

“Ja, Colonel?”

“Give Boston some barrelito. One cup.” It seemed that Evans had chosen the name “Boston” for Starbuck’s nickname, just as the curious stone barrel on the German orderly’s back was called “barrelito.”

The big German rode his piebald horse close to Starbuck while another man, hurrying to obey Evans’s orders, cut the rope at Starbuck’s wrists. Starbuck began massaging the rope burns, then saw that the impassive German orderly had reached behind his back to manipulate a small wooden tap that was let into the base of the stoneware barrel. The German drew a tin cup of liquid from the barrel, then solemnly handed the cup down to Starbuck. “Trink! Come now, quick! I need the cup again. Trink!”

Starbuck accepted the cup that was filled with what appeared to be cold tea. He was thirsty as a dog and eagerly tipped the cup to his lips, then half choked for the liquid was not tea, but whiskey; raw, hard, undiluted whiskey.

“Trink up!” Otto sounded bad-tempered.