“Sounds like you already know it, Captain,” Case said in a voice that was still hoarse from the terrible blow Starbuck had landed on his throat.

“I meant your Christian name, Sergeant,” Blythe said, deliberately restoring Case’s lost rank.

Case hesitated, then decided that Captain Tumlin’s friendly tone deserved an answer. “Robert,” he admitted.

“Hell, I got a brother called Bobby,” Blythe lied. “Real nice fellow. Maybe a bit too fond of his liquor, but Lord, can our Bobby tell tales.” He saw the sidelong look of resentful hatred that Case gave Starbuck. “You shoot him now, Sergeant,” Blythe said quietly, “and there’ll be a hundred witnesses and before you can spit on his grave you’ll be standing under the guns of a firing squad. Just ain’t the sensible thing to do, Bobby. Besides, you think he ain’t got his eye on you? Just keep moving, Sergeant, keep it brisk. Look like we’re trying to win the war, will you? That way he forgets you.” Case said nothing, but he did hurry his pace fractionally. A rebel shell that had been fired too low screeched just overhead, making some of the men duck. The shell exploded among the battalion’s skirmish line, making Captain Potter scurry long-legged for a patch of bushes. The battalion laughed. “Starbuck’s pet clown,” Billy Blythe said softly.

Case gave Blythe a long, hard look as it dawned on him that the battalion’s second in command might really be an ally. “If Starbuck dies,” Case broke his silence, “you get command, Captain.”

“I sure do thank you for pointing that out to me, Bobby,” Blythe said, “and if that ever did happen, why, I’d be looking for experienced men to be my officers. No glory boys, ain’t that the phrase? Just good experienced men. Proper soldiers. Know what I mean? Jesus!” This final imprecation was startled from Blythe by the sudden thunder of Yankee cannons. Enemy shells screamed into the valley to explode among the advancing infantry in eruptions of dirt, smoke, flame, and flesh.

The Yankees had kept some concealed artillery on the crest and now the gunners had hauled aside the screen of branches that had masked the cannon and opened fire on the advancing infantry. Their opening salvo was of shells, but they reloaded with canister so that every shot was now like a giant blast of buckshot fanning out from the muzzle. The canister broke apart at the cannon’s mouth to spread its charge of musket balls and Blythe, appalled, saw the grass ahead of the brigade flick as though a huge, invisible broom was whipping toward the attackers. There was a pattering noise like hard rain, then a sudden scream of wind as the cloud of musket balls slashed through the ranks. Men fell, spun, retched, or staggered. One man near Blythe had a rib sticking through the weave of his butternut coat. The man stared at the splintered white bone with a look of utter incomprehension, then bubbling pale blood welled at the rent in his coat and slopped down his belly. More blood flooded his gullet, he fell to his knees, tried to speak, then collapsed onto his face.