Swynyard had to think for a second to place Tumlin, then remembered the man from Louisiana who claimed to have been a prisoner in the North since the fall of New Orleans. “You wanted him?” he asked, surprised.

“He seemed a decent fellow,” Maitland said. “Eager to serve.”

“You think so?” Swynyard asked. “I thought he was a bit plump for a fellow who’d spent five months in a Yankee prison, but maybe our erstwhile brethren can afford to feed their captives well. And I have to say I thought young Tumlin was a bit glib.”

“He had confidence, yes,” Maitland said. “I suppose you sent him back to Richmond?”

“Winchester,” Swynyard said. Winchester, in the Shenandoah Valley, was the campaign’s supply base and all unattached men were now being sent there to be reappointed. “At least he won’t get wished onto poor Nate Starbuck,” Swynyard added.

“Starbuck could count himself lucky if he had been,” Maitland said, raising the glasses again toward the far riverbank. That bank was heavily wooded, but beyond the trees Maitland could see enemy farmland basking in the strong sunlight.

“If Starbuck’s lucky,” Swynyard said, “he’ll be back with this brigade. I requested that his battalion be given to us if it’s ordered to the army. No one else will want them, that’s for sure.”

Maitland shuddered at the thought of seeing the Yellowlegs again. His appointment to its command had been the nadir of his career and only the most energetic string-pulling had rescued him. “I doubt we’ll see them,” he said, unable to hide his relief. “They aren’t ready to march and won’t be ready for months.” Not ever, he reflected, if Colonel Holborrow had his way. “And why would we want them anyway?” he added.

“Because we’re Christians, Maitland, and turn away no man.”

“Except Tumlin,” Maitland retorted tartly. “Looks as if they’re ready for us, Swynyard.”

A messenger was spurring toward the brigade. A horse-drawn ambulance had just splashed into the ford accompanied by a cheer from the closest troops. Robert Lee was inside the vehicle, put there by injuries to his hands when he tried to quiet his frightened horse. A wounded commander, Swynyard thought, was not a good omen, but he put that pagan thought behind him as the messenger rode to Maitland under the assumption that the elegant lieutenant-colonel was the brigade commander. “He’s the fellow you want,” Maitland said, indicating Swynyard.

The messenger brought orders for Swynyard’s brigade to cross the river and Swynyard, in turn, gave the Legion the honor of leading the brigade onto Northern soil. The colonel walked down the Legion’s column of companies. “Remember boys,” he shouted again and again, “no looting! No roguery! Pay in scrip for whatever you want! Show them we’re a Christian country! Go now!”

Truslow’s A Company waited until a battery of South Carolinian guns had splashed into the ford, then followed onto the road and down the muddy ramp into the water. The color party followed with the Legion’s single flag held aloft by young Lieutenant Coffman, who found it a struggle to hold the big battle flag high against the wind while his slight body was buffeted by the Potomac’s swirling current, which rose above his waist. He pushed on gamely, almost as though the whole war’s outcome depended on him keeping the fringed silk out of the water. Many of the men were limping, not through wounds but because their ill-booted feet were blistered and to those men the river’s cool water was like the balm of Gilead. Some men, though, refused to cross. Swynyard paused to talk with half a dozen such men who were led by a gaunt young corporal from D Company. The corporal’s name was Burridge and he was a good soldier and a regular worshipper at the colonel’s prayer meetings, but now, as respectful and stubborn as ever, Burridge insisted he must disobey Swynyard’s orders. “Ain’t our task to go north, Colonel,” he said firmly.