Starbuck wondered if that was a threat, then decided it was simple bravado. Case was doing his duty, which suggested that the awkward conversation in the dusk had done its work. “Then just keep killing them,” Starbuck said, then waited until a sudden rattle of shots suggested that the nearest Yankees might be reloading before he sprinted back through the trees. He ran for three or four seconds, then twisted sideways and dropped behind a tree just a heart’s beat before a rattle of shots whipped the air where he had been running. He crawled a few yards and rolled into cover, waited a few seconds, then ran back to the wood’s edge.

The firefight in the pasture still raged, though now both sides were lying down rather than standing up to the killing volleys. Swynyard was crouching, an anxious look on his face. “Pray it’s good news,” he greeted Starbuck.

Starbuck shook his head. “Bastards have taken most of the wood. We’ve only got this corner. But they ain’t there in force. Just skirmishers.” A shell dropped just behind the two men, struck a limestone outcrop and, instead of exploding, bounced up to tumble through the air. It made a weird screeching noise that faded quickly away. “What’s happening here?” Starbuck asked.

“Stalemate,” Swynyard said. “They ain’t coming forward, we ain’t going forward, so we’re just killing each other. The last man alive wins.”

“That bad, eh?” Starbuck asked, trying to sound lighthearted.

“But it’s going to get worse,” Swynyard promised, “it’s going to get one whole lot worse.”

When the sun rose above the Red Hill it offered a slanting light to give the watchers at the Pry Farm a marvelous view of the battle, or at least of the battle’s smoke. To General McClellan, ensconced in his armchair, it seemed as though the woods on the creek’s far side were alight, so much smoke was hanging in and above the trees. That smoke, of course, denoted that the enemy was dying, but the General was still in an irritable mood, for none of his aides had thought to cover the armchairs in the night and consequently the upholstery was damp from the dew that now had seeped through his pants. He decided to make no complaint, mainly because a small crowd of civilians had gathered beside the house to stare at him in admiration, but he petulantly refused the first cup of coffee because it was too weak. The second was better, and came in a fine bone china cup and saucer. “A table would be useful,” the general observed.

A side table was fetched from the house and somehow balanced on the sloping lawn behind the barricade. The general sipped the coffee, placed it on the table, then put an eye to the telescope that was conveniently mounted on its tripod beside him. “All goes well,” he announced loudly enough for his civilian admirers to hear, “Hooker is driving them.” A shadow fell over the telescope and he looked up to see that Colonel Thorne had come to stand behind his chair. “Still here, Thorne?” McClellan asked testily.