“Sweet Jesus, but I enjoyed that,” Potter said.

Starbuck meant to tell him that he should have taken his skirmishers up against the gunners, but instead he vomited. He emptied his belly into the floor of the rifle pit. “Jesus,” he said when he had finished heaving. “Jesus.”

“Here,” Potter handed him a canteen, “it’s only water.”

Starbuck rinsed out his mouth, spat, then drank. “I’m sorry,” he said to Potter.

“Something you ate,” Potter suggested tactfully.

“Fear,” Starbuck said harshly.

A shell banged into the turf a few yards ahead of their pit. It did not explode, but instead tumbled end over end to embed itself in the spoil thrown up by the Yankee diggers. “I think we might seek other quarters,” Potter said, eyeing the shell. The air above the metal shimmered from the heat of the missile’s passage.

“Go on,” Starbuck said. “I’ll join you.” Once alone he squatted in the pit, pants about his ankles, and voided his body. He was sweating and shaking. The ground thumped softly from the fall of the shells. The sky above the pit was laced with smoke, but suddenly the fear drained away and Starbuck stood and clumsily pulled up his pants, belted them, then buttoned his fraying jacket and rebuckled his revolver belt and straightened his bedroll. He climbed out of the pit and, with shouldered rifle, walked among the other pits to congratulate his men. He told them they had done well, told them he was proud of them, and then he walked back down the slope to watch his stragglers climb sheepishly toward the crest. Captain Dennison was pretending to be busy as he chivvied the laggards, but he took care to avoid Starbuck, though Captain Tumlin walked eagerly across the slope with his hand outstretched.

“Hell, Starbuck, if you ain’t the bravest man I ever saw then my name’s not Tumlin,” Blythe said.

Starbuck ignored both the outstretched hand and the compliment. “What happened to your companies?” he asked coldly.

Tumlin seemed unconcerned by Starbuck’s brusqueness. “I managed to keep most of Cartwright’s boys moving, but A Company?” He spat. “They’re mules, Starbuck, mules. I got up here once, went back for the bastards and still they weren’t moving. Did my best. Hell, Starbuck, I know you’re disappointed, but I did my God honest best.”

“I’m sure.” Starbuck was convinced of Tumlin’s sincerity. “Sorry, Billy.”

“You look kind of washed up, Starbuck.”

“Something I ate, Billy, nothing worse.” Starbuck found a broken cigar in his pouch and lit the largest remnant. “You want to make me a list of the casualties, Billy?” he asked, then walked back to the crest as the Yankee cannon fire increased in intensity, but the shells were no longer aimed at the captured ridge, but toward a second rebel attack that was coming from their left flank. Swynyard’s men had cleared the ridge to prevent its defending Yankees from flanking that second attack, which was the real assault intended to take the high ground that formed the southern skyline of Harper’s Ferry. The sound of the battle thumped and snapped, filling the air with gray-white smoke.