“Yes, doctor,” Starbuck mumbled.

In the afternoon Starbuck dug Lucifer’s grave beneath an elm tree while Potter carved the words “A brave soldier” into the elm’s trunk. Potter went to remove the revolver from Lucifer’s body before they put it in the shallow grave, but Starbuck stopped him. “Leave it with him,” he said. “God knows he might need it where he’s going.” Potter nodded, but unbuckled the pouch to take out the remaining cartridges. Inside the pouch he found a carefully wrapped oilcloth package that he took out and showed to Starbuck. Starbuck took it, untied the string, and found the piece of paper that Caton Rothwell had shown him on the night after the fight with Case. He read the signature aloud. “Billy Blythe,” he mumbled. “Son of a bitch.”

“Who?”

Starbuck showed him the paper. “That was Tumlin’s revolver,” he said, pointing to the gun that Potter had placed in Lucifer’s right hand, “and this paper belonged to Sergeant Rothwell. Jesus.” He stopped, realizing that Tumlin must have killed Rothwell. “Now why the hell would Tumlin take it off Rothwell’s body?”

“God knows,” Potter said.

“I’d like to meet Mister Tumlin again,” Starbuck said. He spat blood. “God,” he went on vengefully, “but I would like that.” He put the paper in his pocket, then helped lift Lucifer into his grave. They covered him with soil.

“You want to say a prayer?” Potter asked.

“I already have.” Starbuck picked up Imp’s lead and led the dog to the wood’s edge. He bit down on the pad, almost relishing the pain as he stared at the field, which was thronged with soldiers of both sides. They were exchanging stories and swapping Northern newspapers for Southern journals. Some had cloths tied about their faces to keep away the stink of the dead.

Potter came and stood beside Starbuck. “I never did get my whiskey,” he said wistfully.

Starbuck took the bloody pad from his mouth. “When we’re back south,” he promised, “you and I will get drunk together.”

“I guess we are going back south,” Potter said.

“I guess,” Starbuck said, then spat a dribble of bloody spittle. Lee’s army was in no state to stay, no state to fight. It had taken one hell of a beating and, though it had given one as well, it had no choice but to retreat.

Gunners limbered up the cannon that Starbuck’s men had captured and towed it away toward Sharpsburg. Swynyard had insisted that the legend Potter had begun carving on the trail be finished so that the gunners would know that the despised Yellowlegs had captured the gun, and so Truslow had burned the words into the wood with the red-hot tip of a bayonet. Swynyard now crossed to Starbuck. “How’s the mouth?”

“Painful, sir.”

Swynyard drew Starbuck out of Potter’s earshot. “Mister Maitland,” the colonel said, “confessed to me that he can’t abide the sight of blood.”

Starbuck, despite the pain in his jaw, smiled. “He said as much to me,” he said.