“Been here long, has he?” Starbuck asked her.

“So long I thought he’d take root. Likes his liquor, don’t he?”

“I hear he’s fond of it.”

The woman wiped her nose with a corner of her apron, then grinned. “He’s a nice boy, though. Speaks nice. Kind of took pity on him. Tried to feed him, even, but he didn’t want food, just his guzzle.”

“Sold you his shirt, did he?”

“And his coat, and his shoes. Just about every damned thing he had.”

“His revolver?” Starbuck asked.

“He wouldn’t have done that, sir. ’Gainst the law, isn’t it?” She grinned at Starbuck, who grinned back. “He says he’s from Georgia,” the woman said, peering at the prostrate lieutenant.

“He is.”

“A preacher’s son, see? They’re always the worst.” The woman laughed. “He was dancing for a time, and he even spoke poetry. Such nice poetry, I could have listened to him all night except that he fell over. Is that his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Born to trouble. I never did understand why good women marry bad men.”

“Lucky for us they do, eh?”

She smiled. “You going to take him away?”

“I reckon.”

“Well, he had a good time. He won’t remember it, but he did. Sad to think he’ll probably go down to a Yankee bullet, a nice boy like that.”

“He won’t wake up!” Martha wailed.

“He will,” Starbuck promised, then he pulled her away from her husband and made her go inside the shack. “Wait there,” he told her, and once he had shepherded her off the verandah and closed the door he put his hands under Potter’s armpits and hauled him first to a sitting position and then upright. It was not difficult, for Potter, though tall, was frailly built and as thin as a rail. Starbuck leaned the Lieutenant against the shack’s wall.

Potter stirred at last. “Time is it?” he asked. He was, as Martha had said, a good-looking man with fair lank hair and a week’s growth of pale beard. His face was long and thin and had a delicacy, almost a look of noble suffering that, when Potter was sober, might have suggested spirituality or some artistic sensitivity, but now, in the throes of his monumental hangover, the lieutenant simply looked like a whipped and sick puppy. A young puppy too, Starbuck guessed; certainly not more than nineteen. The Lieutenant tried to raise his head. He blinked slackly at Starbuck. “How do ye do,” he managed to say.

Starbuck thumped him in the belly. He thumped him real hard, grunting with the effort of the blow that made Potter open his eyes wide, then double over. He almost fell, but Starbuck shoved him back against the wall before stepping smartly to one side as Potter threw up. Starbuck skipped further aside to stop the stream of vomit from splashing onto his boots.

“Jesus,” Potter complained and cuffed at his mouth. He groaned. “You do that?”

“Stand up, Lieutenant.”

“Oh, Jesus. Sweet Jesus. Sweet Lord Jesus.” Potter tried to straighten. “Oh, suffering Jesus,” he moaned as a stab of pain rammed down from his head. He pushed a long hank of hair off his face. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Announce yourself.”