“Forward!” Major Bird called, and he walked into the sunlight with his sword held shoulder high and pointing forward. He somewhat spoilt the heroic posture by stumbling as he crossed the fence rails, but he recovered and walked on. Adam had taken command of Company E whose captain, Elisha Burroughs, was dead. Burroughs had been a senior clerk in the Faulconer County Bank who had not really wanted to volunteer for the Legion, but had feared he might jeopardize his advancement in Washington Faulconer’s bank if he had refused. Now he was a corpse, his skin darkening and thick with flies, and Adam had taken his place. Adam walked five paces ahead of E Company with his revolver in his right hand and his saber scabbard in his left. He needed to hold the scabbard away from his legs to stop it tripping him. Starbuck, walking alongside Bird, was having the same trouble with his own scabbard.

“I’m not sure it’s worth wearing a sword,” Bird commented. “I knew the horses were a bad idea, but it seems that swords are an equal encumbrance. My brother-in-law will be disappointed! I sometimes think his dream is to carry a lance into battle.” Bird snuffled with laughter at the thought. “Sir Washington Faulconer, Lord of Seven Springs. He’d like that. I never did understand why our Founding Fathers abolished titles. They cost nothing and give fools a great deal of satisfaction. My sister would dearly love to be the Lady Faulconer. Is your revolver loaded?”

“Yes.” Though Starbuck had yet to fire a single shot.

“Mine isn’t. I keep forgetting.” Bird slashed at a dandelion with his sword. To his right Company E was advancing in good order. At least two of the company’s men had slung their rifles and were carrying their long bowie knives instead. Butchers’ knives, Thaddeus Bird liked to call them, but the long ungainly blades seemed appropriate enough for this desperate venture. Northern bullets made their odd whistle as they whipped past in the warm air. The Legion’s colors twitched as bullets slapped and tugged at the cloth. “Notice how the Yankees are still firing high?” Bird commented.

“Thank God for that,” Starbuck said.

The bugle sounded again, urging the rebel line on, and Bird gestured with his sword to encourage the Legion to go faster. The men half-ran and half-walked. Starbuck skirted a patch of smoking earth littered with shell fragments where a mutilated skirmisher lay dead. The shell had ripped out most of the man’s belly and half his rib cage, and what was left of him was thick with flies. The corpse had prominent teeth in a face that was already turning black in the heat. “I think that was George Musgrave,” Bird said conversationally.

“How could you tell?” Starbuck managed to ask.