The man grimaced, then managed to say a single word. “Punishment.”

“Then you are my business,” Starbuck said. He took his folding knife out of a pocket, unsnapped the blade, and sawed at the rope binding the prisoner’s ankles. The motion made the prisoner whimper, but it provoked Sergeant Case to leap forward threateningly.

Starbuck paused and looked up into Case’s eyes. “I’m an officer, Sergeant,” he said, “and if you lay a damned hand on me I’ll make sure you spend the rest of today on this horse. You won’t walk for a goddamn week. Maybe not for a goddamn month.”

Sergeant Case stepped back as Starbuck cut through the last strands of hemp and put a hand under one of the prisoner’s boots. “Ready?” he called, then heaved up hard, throwing the prisoner off the beam. The man thumped onto the damp ground where he lay still as Starbuck crouched and sliced through the rope about his wrists. “So what did he do?” Starbuck asked Sergeant Case.

“Son of a bitch!” Case said, though whether of Starbuck or the prisoner it was impossible to tell, then he turned abruptly and strode away with his companion.

The prisoner groaned and tried to stand, but the pain in his crotch was too savage. He crawled to one of the horse’s supporting trestles and dragged himself to a sitting position, then just clung to the timber. His eyes watered and his breath came in small, stuttering gasps. Even Sally flinched at his evident pain. “Guns,” he finally said.

“Guns?” Starbuck asked him. “What about them?”

“Son of a bitch is stealing guns,” the freed prisoner said, then was forced to stop because of the pain. He clutched his groin, held a deep breath, than shook his head in an effort to banish the dreadful agony. “You asked why I was on the horse? Because of guns. I was on a detail to unload rifles. We got twenty boxes of them. Good ones. But Holborrow made us put them in crates marked CONDEMNED and then gave us muskets instead. Richmond muskets. Hell,” he spat, then momentarily closed his eyes as a spasm of pain made him grimace. “I don’t want to go shooting no Yankees with buck and ball, not if they’ve got minie balls. That’s why I argued with that son of a bitch Sergeant Case.”

“So where are the rifles now?” Starbuck asked.

“Hell knows. Sold, probably. Holborrow don’t care so long as we never go to war. We’re not supposed to fight, see? Just get supplies that the son of a bitch sells.” The man frowned up at Starbuck. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Potter!” A new and angry voice yelled from the headquarters building. “Potter, you son of a bitch! You bastard! You lunkheaded piece of dog shit. You black-assed fool!” The speaker was a tall, lean officer in a braided gray coat who stumped toward Starbuck with the help of a silver-tipped cane. Sergeant Case marched behind the officer, who had a neat blond goatee beard and a narrow mustache that had been carefully waxed into stiff points. He shoved the cane hard into the turf to aid each step and in between he brandished it toward the astonished Starbuck. “Where the hell have you been, Potter?” the officer demanded. “Just where the hell have you been, boy?”