“It means we move to support Colonel Evans”—Bird had decided to stick to his decision—“and the next man to disobey my order will be shot!” Bird drew a Le Mat revolver, which he hefted in his thin right hand, then, as though unsure whether or not he could really carry out his threat, he passed the brutal-looking gun up to Starbuck. “You will shoot, Lieutenant Starbuck, and that is an order. You hear me?”

“Very clearly, sir!” Starbuck realized that the situation had gotten disastrously out of hand, but he did not know what he could do to restore sanity. The Legion was desperate for leadership, but the Colonel was missing and no one seemed adequate to step into his boots. Starbuck himself was a northerner, and a mere second lieutenant if he was anything at all, while Thaddeus Bird was a laughingstock, a country schoolmaster masquerading in a soldier’s gaudy uniform, yet only Bird and Starbuck understood what needed to be done, but neither man could impose his will on the regiment and Starbuck, holding the awkward pistol, knew he would never dare use it.

Major Bird took three formal paces forward. He appeared ludicrous as he paced the three giant steps, which he doubtless thought were solemn but which looked more like the gait of a clown clumping upstage on stilts. He turned and stood to attention. “The Legion will come to attention! On your feet!”

Gradually, reluctantly, the men stood. They pulled on their haversacks and lifted their rifles from the grass. Bird waited, then snapped his next orders. “The Legion will advance by column of companies. Company A! By the right! Quick march!”

Not one soldier moved. They had stood up, but they would not move away from their patch of hillside. Company A looked at Captain Hinton for a lead, but Hinton was clearly troubled by the order and made no attempt to enforce it. Thaddeus Bird swallowed hard, then looked up at Starbuck. The pistol felt hugely heavy in Starbuck’s hand.

“Lieutenant Starbuck?” Major Bird’s voice was a yelp.

“Oh, Uncle Thaddeus, please!” Adam appealed.

The men were on the edge of hysterical laughter, placed there by the ludicrous bathos of Adam’s homely appeal, and it would have taken just one more syllable to trigger that laughter when a hard voice, as sudden and grim as the ripsaw sound of the passing shells, turned the Legion’s mood into instant apprehension. “Company K! Shoulder arms!”

Truslow had paced back to the Legion’s left flank and now shouted the order. Company K snapped to obey him. “On my mark!” he shouted. “Forward march!”