Captain Hinton’s men crossed the bridge, Murphy’s went eastward while the Colonel’s party, which included Starbuck, struggled down to the bed of the gorge. The slope was slippery and the brush still soaked from the previous day’s rain so that by the time the six men reached the bank of the fast-flowing stream their already damp clothes were drenched through. Starbuck helped Sergeant Daniel Medlicott, a morose and uncommunicative man who was a miller by trade, maneuver a barrel of black powder down the steep slope. Washington Faulconer, watching them struggle with the cask, shouted a warning for Nate to beware of a patch of poison ivy, a warning that seemed to disappoint Medlicott. The other three barrels of powder were already at the bottom of the chasm. The Colonel had considered saving two of the gunpowder casks but had decided it was better to make certain that this one substantial bridge was utterly destroyed than to look for a second trestle later in the day. Medlicott stacked the fourth barrel with the others, then knocked its bung out so as to insert a length of quick-fuse. “Powder feels mighty damp to me, Colonel.”

“Sir.” Faulconer snapped the word. He was trying to persuade his erstwhile neighbors to use the military honorific.

“Still feels damp,” Medlicott insisted, obstinately refusing to humor Faulconer.

“We’ll try the fuse, and we’ll light a fire as well,” Faulconer said, “and if the one doesn’t work, the other will. So get on with it!” He walked a few paces upstream with Starbuck. “They’re good fellows,” he said morosely, “but with no idea of military discipline.”

“It’s a difficult transition, sir,” Starbuck said tactfully. He was feeling somewhat sorry for Faulconer, whose hopes for a jaunty and defiant raid had turned into this damp nightmare of delay and difficulty.

“Your fellow Truslow’s the worst,” the Colonel grumbled. “No respect there at all.” He sounded disappointed. He had so wanted Truslow in the Legion, thinking that the man’s character would give the regiment a fearsome reputation, yet now he found himself resenting Truslow’s truculent and independent manner. Washington Faulconer had corralled himself a tiger and did not know how to handle the beast. “And you’re not helping me, Nate,” the Colonel suddenly said.

“Me, sir?” Starbuck, who had been feeling sympathy for the Colonel, was taken aback by the accusation.