“And your mother taught you magic?” Starbuck asked.

“It ain’t magic,” Lucifer insisted, still angry. “It’s a way of staying alive. And it ain’t for you.”

“Because I’m white?”

“Alice Whittaker,” Lucifer said suddenly, not looking at Starbuck. “That’s her name. Ain’t he a fine puppy?”

“He’s fine,” Starbuck said. He wondered if he should ask more, but suspected that Lucifer had already revealed more than he wanted to. He leaned over and fondled Imp’s ears and received a lick as a reward. “He’s fine,” he said again, “and so are you.” He holstered his reloaded revolver and stood up. There was still sporadic firing higher up the wood, but he wanted to see what had happened to the formed troops who had been waiting on the Smoketown Road and so, warning Lucifer to stay where he was, he crept cautiously through the trees. He expected to find Yankee stragglers, but this part of the wood was almost empty. Two rebels limped past on their way to the doctors and a dead Pennsylvanian Bucktail lay against a tree with a look of surprise on his face, but otherwise the trees were deserted.

Sergeant Rothwell was lying down at the edge of the wood where Starbuck had left him. There was blood on his back and Starbuck’s first thought was that the man was dead, then he saw an arm move. He ran to the sergeant’s side and carefully rolled him over. Rothwell moaned. His teeth were chattering, his face was yellow, and his eyes closed. There was blood on his chest. “Rothwell!” Starbuck said.

“In the back,” Rothwell managed to say, then he stiffened and his body shook in a terrifying spasm. Another moan escaped his throat. “In the back,” he said again, “but I never turned my back. Honest to God, I didn’t turn.” He was desperate to deny that his wound denoted cowardice. “Oh, Jesus, sweet Jesus,” he said. He was crying from the pain. “Sweet Jesus.”

“You’re going to be all right,” Starbuck said.

Rothwell caught hold of Starbuck’s hand and gripped it hard. His breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. His teeth chattered again. “They shot me,” he said.

“I’ll get you back to the doctor.” Starbuck looked around for help. A dozen rebels were running north through the trees, but the deafening sound of the battle in the cornfield drowned out Starbuck’s shout. The men ran on.

“In the back,” Rothwell said, then suddenly he screamed as the pain whipped through his body. The scream faded to a pathetic moan. He gulped in air and the breath scraped in his throat. “Becky,” he said, and the tears rolled down the dirt and sweat on his face, “poor Becky.”

“Becky will be fine,” Starbuck said helplessly, “so will you.” He used his free hand to wipe the tears away. Rothwell’s body heaved in a spasm and the tears came more freely. “It hurts,” he said, “it hurts.” He was a strong man, but now wept like a child and each breath came harder and harder. “Oh, Becky,” he finally managed to say in a voice so feeble that Starbuck scarcely heard it. Rothwell was still alive, for his fingers were pressing on Starbuck’s hand. “Pray,” he said, then whimpered again.