Maitland took the cigar from his mouth, spat a speck of leaf from his lips, then shrugged as if the question were irrelevant. “General Faulconer’s been made Deputy Secretary of War, yes,” he answered. “Can’t let a good man idle away just because Tom Jackson took a dislike to him.”

“And General Faulconer made you the Legion’s commanding officer,” Swynyard said.

“I guess the general put in a good word for me,” Maitland said. “The Legion’s a Virginia regiment, Colonel, and the general reckoned it ought to be led by a Virginian. So here I am.” He smiled at Swynyard.

“Son of a bitch,” Starbuck said. “Faulconer. I should have known.” General Washington Faulconer had been the Legion’s founder and the brigade’s commander until Jackson had dismissed him for incompetence. Faulconer had fled the army convinced that Starbuck and Swynyard had been responsible for his disgrace, but instead of retreating to his country house and nursing his hurt, he had gone to Richmond and used his connection and wealth to gain a government appointment. Now, safe in the Confederate capital, Faulconer was reaching out to take his revenge on the two men he saw as his bitterest enemies. To Swynyard he had bequeathed a man of equal rank who would doubtless be an irritant, but Faulconer was trying to destroy Starbuck altogether.

“He’d have doubtless liked to get rid of me too,” Swynyard said. He had led Starbuck away from the tent and was walking him up and down out of Maitland’s hearing. “But Faulconer knows who my cousin is.” Swynyard’s cousin was the editor of Richmond’s Examiner, the most powerful of the five daily papers published in the Confederate capital, and that relationship had doubtless kept Washington Faulconer from trying to take an overt revenge on Swynyard, but Starbuck was much easier meat. “But there’s something else, Nate,” the colonel went on, “another reason why Maitland took your job.”

“Because he’s a Virginian,” Starbuck said bitterly.

Swynyard shook his heard. “I guess Maitland shook your hand, yes?”

“Yes. So?”

“He was trying to see if you’re a Freemason, Nate. And you’re not.”

“What the hell difference does that make?”

“A lot,” Swynyard said bluntly. “There are a lot of Masons in this army, and in the Yankee army too, and Masons look after each other. Faulconer’s a Mason, so’s Maitland, and so am I, for that matter. The Masons have served me well enough, but they’ve done for you, Nate. The Yellowlegs!” The colonel shook his head at the awful prospect.

“I ain’t good for much else, Colonel,” Starbuck admitted.

“What does that mean?” Swynyard demanded.

Starbuck hesitated, ashamed to admit a truth, but needing to tell someone about his fears. “I reckon I’m turning into a coward. It was all I could do to cross that cornfield yesterday and I’m not sure I could do it again. I guess I’ve used up what courage I ever had. Maybe a battalion of cowards deserve a coward as their commander.”