Not now, Starbuck had told himself, not now. This was not the time to put Case right, and so he had merely put the musket in its box, meekly handed Case the key, and walked away.

Now, at the supper table, Starbuck was again the butt of bullies only this time it was Thomas Dennison and his cronies who had their sport with a man they believed was a weakling. Captain Lippincott rolled a peach to Starbuck. “Reckon you’d prefer a brandy, Potter,” Lippincott said.

“Reckon I would,” Starbuck said.

“Sir,” Dennison said immediately.

“Reckon I would, sir,” Starbuck said humbly. He had to play the fool so long as he decided against revealing his identity, but it went hard on him. He told himself to stay calm and to play the failure for a short while yet.

Lippincott edged his brandy glass toward Starbuck, daring him to take it, but Starbuck did not move. “Of course there’s one thing to be said for being a drunk,” Lippincott said, taking the glass back, “it means you’ll probably sleep away the days here. Better than sitting around doing nothing. Ain’t that right, Potter?”

“Right,” Starbuck agreed.

“Sir,” Dennison said, then hiccuped.

“Sir,” Starbuck said.

“I ain’t saying I’m not grateful for being here,” Lippincott went on gloomily, “but, hell, they could give us some entertainment.”

“Plenty in Richmond,” Dennison said airily.

“If you’ve got the money,” Lippincott acknowledged, “which I ain’t.”

Dennison stretched back in his chair. “You’d rather be in a fighting regiment?” he asked Lippincott. “They could always transfer you. If that’s what you want, Dan, I’ll tell Holborrow you’re eager to go.” Lippincott, a sallow man with a fringe of beard, said nothing. Most of the Yellowlegs officers had been transferred, either to garrison duty or to the provosts, but a few had been posted to fighting battalions, a fate that plainly worried these remaining captains, though not Dennison, whose skin disease was sufficient to keep him out of harm’s way. He gingerly touched one of the horrid sores on his face. “If the doctors could just cure this,” he said in a tone that suggested he was confident that the disease was incurable, “I’d volunteer for a transfer.”

“You are taking the medicine, Tom?” Lippincott asked.

“Of course I am,” Dennison snapped. “Can’t you smell it?”

Starbuck could indeed smell something medicinal, and the smell was oddly familiar; a thin rank odor that disturbed him, but which he could not quite place. “What medicine is it, sir?” he asked.

Dennison paused while he considered whether the question constituted impudence, then he shrugged. “Kerosene,” he answered after a while.

Starbuck frowned. “Is it ringworm?” he asked, then added, “sir.”

Dennison sneered. “One year at medical college and you know it all, is that it? You mind your own damn business, Potter, and I’ll mind the advice of a proper doctor.”

Lippincott looked back at the glistening sores and shuddered. “It’s all right for you, Tom,” he said resentfully, “but what if this Starbuck wants us to fight? Holborrow can’t keep us here forever.”