“You did well,” Swynyard insisted. He was watching an ammunition wagon stop on the track that led through the clearing. The wagon’s rifle ammunition was for his brigade, a sign that their fighting was not done this day.

“I did nothing, sir,” Starbuck answered, “except chase after my men.” The battle had been chaos almost from the first. Men had become detached from their companies, they had fought with whoever they found themselves, and few officers had kept control of their companies. The rebel defense had been made by men just standing and fighting, sometimes without orders, but always with vast pride and a huge determination that had finally been eroded by one heavy attack after another.

“Charmed,” Swynyard said sardonically.

“Sir?” Starbuck asked in puzzlement, then saw that Swynyard was staring at Lieutenant Colonel Maitland, who was strolling along the decimated ranks of the Legion. Maitland was grinning vacuously and spreading lavish compliments, but he was also having some trouble in keeping his footing. His men grinned, amused at the sight of their inebriated commander.

“He’s drunk, isn’t he?” Swynyard asked.

“He’s soberer than he was,” Starbuck said. “Much.”

Swynyard grimaced. “I watched him in the cornfield. He was strolling through fire like it was the garden of Eden and I thought he must be the bravest man I’d ever seen, but I suppose it wasn’t bravery at all. He must have drunk all that liquor he confiscated.”

“I guess.”

“He was telling me last night,” Swynyard went on, “just how scared he was of not doing his duty. I liked him for that. Poor man. I didn’t realize how scared he really was.”

“If Old Jack sees how scared he is now,” Starbuck said dryly, “he’ll be lucky to keep his rank.” He nodded to the left where Jackson was riding toward Swynyard’s Brigade along the reformed line.

“Colonel Maitland!” Swynyard shouted in voice worthy of a sergeant. “To attention, if you please! Now!”

Maitland, astonished by the peremptory order, snapped to attention. He was facing his men so only they could see the surprised look on his face. Jackson and his aides rode their horses behind the drunken colonel and so noticed nothing. The general reined in close to Swynyard. “Well?” he asked curtly.

“They can fight, sir,” Swynyard said, guessing what the curt question meant. He turned and pointed at the bullet-pocked wall of the Dunker church that was just visible through the leaves. “Yankees there, sir.”

“Not for long,” Jackson said. His left hand rose slowly into the air as he turned to gaze at Swynyard’s ranks. “A brigade?” he asked, “or a battalion?”

“Brigade, sir.”

Jackson nodded, then rode on down the line of exhausted men who he knew must soon fight again.

“Three cheers for Old Jack!” Maitland suddenly erupted and the Legion gave three rousing cheers that Jackson pointedly ignored as he spurred on toward the next brigade.

“What do you do with Maitland, sir?” Starbuck asked.

“Do?” Swynyard seemed surprised by the question. “Nothing, of course. He’s doing his duty, Nate. He ain’t running away. When this fight’s done I’ll have a word with him and suggest he might be better employed back in the War Department. But at least he’ll be able to say he fought the good fight at Sharpsburg. His pride will be intact.”