“But you didn’t?”

“No. God saw to that.” Swynyard took his hand away. “And this morning,” he went on, “Maitland searched the Legion’s packs. Confiscated their liquor.”

“He did what?” Starbuck asked, laughing.

“Took every last drop he found. Says he won’t have them fighting drunk.”

“So long as they fight,” Starbuck said, “what does it matter?” The neighboring battalion was fixing bayonets and some of Starbuck’s men followed suit, but he shouted at them to put the blades away. “You’ll need to kill a few with bullets first,” he called to them. He could not see any enemy because the tall corn hid everything to the north. The field was a screen to hide a nightmare. He could hear gunfire in the woods and guessed that Potter had opened fire.

The neighboring battalion stood ready to give fire. “Get ’em up, Nate,” Swynyard said.

“Stand!” Starbuck shouted and the two left-hand companies struggled to their feet. They were thin companies, still missing many of their stragglers, but the remaining men looked confident enough as they waited. The battalion’s battle flag was at the center of the two companies, where it hung lifeless in the still air. “I wish I could see the bastards,” Starbuck growled. His stomach was churning and the muscles of his right leg involuntarily twitching. He had been constipated for two days, but was suddenly scared that his bowels would void. He had been spared the worst of the cannon fire, for the East Woods served to hide his men from the Yankee guns across the creek and the guns to the north were firing overhead, but still the fear was sapping him. Somewhere ahead of him, somewhere beyond the mist-shrouded stalks of tall corn, there was a Yankee infantry attack coming and he could not see it, though now, dimly, he could hear the sound of boots and drums and men shouting. He looked for the enemy’s flags, but could not see them and he guessed this opening attack had not yet reached the cornfield. The skirmishers’ rifles cracked and every now and then a rifle bullet would flick a corncob aside and whistle just over the battalion’s head. One such bullet came close to Swynyard, startling the Colonel.

“Ahab,” Swynyard said.

“Sir?” Starbuck asked, thinking that Swynyard had joined in Potter’s fancy about Captain Ahab, the Pequod, and Moby Dick.

“He was slain, remember, by a bow drawn at a venture. I always think it would be a pity to be killed by an unaimed bullet, but I suppose it’s how most men die in battle.”

“King Ahab,” Starbuck said, realizing what Swynyard meant. “I don’t suppose there’s much difference between an aimed and an unaimed bullet.” He was forcing himself to sound calm.

“So long as it’s quick,” Swynyard said, then gasped with surprise.

New Yankee guns had opened fire. The gunners had seen the rebel skirmishers in the corn and now, before their own infantry marched into the tall stalks, the gunners tried to weed the crop of enemy riflemen. The artillery was loaded with canister that scythed through the corn. Barrel after barrel fired, and patch by patch the corn was blasted aside. Each shot bent great swathes of corn that tossed as though they were caught in a hurricane. The bullets flicked up from the hard ground to twitch skirmishers aside and some kept going right through the crop to thud into the infantry waiting in the pasture. Two of Starbuck’s men reeled backward, one with brains welling out from a shattered patch of skull. The other man screamed, clutching his belly. “There’s a doctor in the graveyard,” Swynyard said.