Colonel Maitland was lying facedown close to the Smoketown Road. Starbuck did not recognize the man until he crouched beside him and tugged at Maitland’s pouch in hopes of finding some pistol cartridges. “I’m not dead,” Maitland’s muffled voice protested, “I’m praying.”

Starbuck touched the canteen at Maitland’s belt. “You got water?”

“It is not water, Starbuck,” Maitland said reprovingly, “it is cordial. Help yourself.”

It was neat rum. Starbuck coughed as the raw liquor hit his powder-abraded throat, then spat the rest onto the grass.

Maitland rolled over and retrieved the canteen. “Good things are wasted on you, Starbuck,” he said reprovingly. The colonel, having confiscated the Legion’s liquor, must have drunk most of it, for he was helplessly drunk. A bullet hit a nearby gun barrel with a great clang like a cracked bell struck. The gunners spiked their piece around and gave the Yankees in the East Woods a dose of canister. Maitland lay back on the grass and stared at the gunsmoke churning in the blue sky. “When you were a child,” he said dreamily, “did you find summer endless?”

“And winter,” Starbuck said, sitting beside the colonel.

“Of course. You’re a Yankee. Sleighbells and snow. I once rode in a sleigh. I was only a child, but I remember the snow was like a cloud around us. But our winter is slush and impassable roads.” Maitland fell silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I can stand,” he finally said in a pathetic voice.

“No need at the moment.”

“I have been sick,” Maitland said solemnly.

“No one knows,” Starbuck said, though in fact the front of the colonel’s elegant uniform was thick with vomit. It had caked in the yellow braid and lodged behind the glittering buttons.

“The truth is,” Maitland said very solemnly, “that I cannot abide the sight of blood.”

“Kind of a drawback for a soldier,” Starbuck said mildly.

Maitland closed his eyes for a moment. “So what’s happening?”

“We drove the bastards off again.”

“They’ll come back,” Maitland said darkly.

“They’ll come back.” Starbuck stood and took the canteen out of the colonel’s nerveless fingers and emptied the rum onto the ground. “I’ll get you some water, Colonel.”

“I’m very much obliged to you,” Maitland said, still staring at the sky.

Starbuck walked back to the ravaged battle line. Swynyard was staring across the cornfield with vacant eyes. His right cheek was twitching as it had done when he had been a drunkard. He looked up at Starbuck and it took him a moment to recognize the younger man. “Can’t do that again,” he said grimly. “One more attack and we’re done, Nate.”

“I know, sir.”

Swynyard took out his revolver and tried to reload it, but his right hand was shaking too much. He gave the gun to Starbuck. “Would you mind, Nate?”

“Are you hit, sir?”

Swynyard shook his head. “Just dazed.” He stood up slowly. “I stood too close to a shell burst, Nate, but God spared me. I wasn’t touched, just dizzied.” He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “I’ve sent for cartridges,” he said carefully, “and water’s coming. There are no more men. Haxall’s hurt bad. Got a lump of iron in his belly. He won’t last. I’m sorry about Haxall. I like him.”