Truslow had stopped dead in the darkness. For a second Starbuck thought the sergeant was weeping, but then he realized it was just the sound of Truslow clearing his throat. The sergeant began walking again, saying nothing, but just gripping the silver ring as if it was a talisman for all his future life. He did not speak again until they were a few yards from the fires of A Company, and then he put a hand on the blood-hardened cloth of Starbuck’s sleeve. His voice, when he spoke, was unwontedly meek. “So how is she, Captain?”

“She’s happy. Surprisingly happy. She was treated badly, but she came through it and she’s happy. But she wanted you to have the ring, and she wanted me to take it from Ridley.”

Truslow thought about that answer for a few seconds, then frowned. “I should have killed that bastard myself, shouldn’t I?”

“Sally wanted me to do it,” Starbuck said, “so I did. And with much pleasure.” He could not keep himself from smiling.

Truslow was still for a long, long time, then he thrust the ring into a pocket. “It’s going to rain tomorrow,” he said. “I can smell it in the air. Most of these bastards have lost their groundsheets and blankets so I reckon in the morning you should let us scavenge a while.” He led Starbuck into the light of his company’s fires. “New captain” was Truslow’s only introduction. “Robert? We’ll have some of that fat bacon. John? Break that bread you’re hiding. Pearce? That whiskey you found. We’ll take some. Sit down, Captain, sit.”

Starbuck sat and ate. The food was the most wonderful he had ever tasted, nor could he have asked for better company. Above him the stars shimmered in a sky of dissipating smoke. A fox called from the distant woods and a wounded horse screamed. Somewhere a man sang a sad song, and then a gunshot sounded in the lost darkness like a final echo of this day of battle in which a preacher’s son, far from home, had made himself a rebel.

HISTORICAL NOTE