General Thomas Jackson paced the rocky crest of the Bolivar Heights west of the town from where he scowled at the valley mist as though it were a devilish device planted to thwart his victory. His cadet cap was pulled low over his brooding eyes, but those eyes missed nothing as he walked up and down, up and down, sometimes dragging a cheap watch from his pocket and peering at its slow-moving hands. The gunners tried not to catch his gaze. Instead they busied themselves with unnecessary tasks like greasing already lubricated elevating screws or straightening the friction primers that came bent from the factory so that they would not accidentally ignite and cause an explosion. Shirtsleeved infantry carried ammunition up the hill trails and stacked their loads beside the waiting guns.

Most of the rebel infantry would be spectators of this battle and the hills were crowded with lines of gray and butternut uniforms waiting for Old Jack’s firework display. Starbuck’s battalion was close to a mixed battery of ten- and twenty-pounder Parrott guns, their trails all burned with the initials USA, evidence that Jackson had equipped his batteries with cannon taken from the Yankees. Captain Billy Blythe carried a cup of coffee as he joined Starbuck. “That’s Old Jack?” he asked, nodding at the shabby, bearded figure who stumped in his huge square-toed boots up and down beside the guns.

“That’s Jackson,” Starbuck confirmed.

“Queer-looking fellow,” Blythe said.

“Frightening as hell,” Starbuck said.

“Specially to Yankees, eh?” Blythe said, then sipped at the coffee that was bitterly sour. He could not wait to get back to the North where the coffee was rich and fragrant, and not this adulterated dirt that the rebels drank. “You met him?”

“I met him.” Starbuck was never particularly communicative in the morning and spoke curtly.

Blythe did not mind. “You reckon he’d say howdy?” he asked Starbuck.

“No.”

“Hell, Starbuck, I’d like to shake the man’s hand.”

“Shake mine instead,” Starbuck said, but instead of offering it he stole Tumlin’s coffee and sipped it. “And if you swear in front of him, Tumlin, you’ll wish you’d never met him.”

“Keep the coffee, Starbuck,” Blythe said magnanimously, “ain’t nothing but goober pea shit anyhow. Morning, General!” he called aloud as Jackson’s pacing brought the general close to Starbuck’s men. “Fine one for a victory, sir!”

Jackson looked astonished at being addressed and stared at Blythe as though surprised to see a soldier on the hill, but he said nothing. Blythe, unfazed by this cold response, strode forward as if the general was his oldest friend. “Prayers are being answered, sir,” Blythe said vigorously, “and the enemy will be crushed in the very nest where John Brown defied our legitimate aspirations.”

“Amen,” Jackson said, “amen. And you are, sir?”

“Tumlin, General,” Blythe said, “Captain Billy Tumlin, and proud to meet you, sir. I prayed for you these many months and am grateful that the Lord has seen fit to hear me.”

“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” Jackson said, turning to look at the mist through which the topmost part of the town and the pinnacle of a church in the lower quarter was now showing. The vapor was thinning, promising to lay bare the Yankee defenses. “You’re saved in the Lord, Captain?” Jackson asked Blythe.