“You’ll be a damned fool to carry expensive wine to war,” Starbuck said. “It’ll be stolen.”

“What a suspicious mind you do have,” Delaney said. He was hiding his fears, and so was pleased to have this evening’s distraction at Richmond’s dueling ground. Duels were supposedly illegal, but still the Richmond Anti-Dueling Society had its headquarters not two doors down from Belvedere Delaney’s expensive brothel and the society kept itself busy raising funds and prosecuting men known to have fought affairs of honor. But not all the pious efforts of a hundred such societies had succeeded in eliminating dueling from the Confederate states. Richmond’s dueling ground lay just beyond the city’s limits, beneath the Chimborazo Hill on which was built the sprawling military hospital. Starbuck led his companions up Elm Street, crossed a plank bridge that spanned the dirt and garbage through which the Bloody Run trickled down to the James, and so reached the patch of desolate land squeezed between the shoulder of the hill and the rusting rails of the York River Railroad. Scrubby, soot-darkened trees fringed the dueling ground, which was overshadowed by the tall, gaunt, and windowless facade of a sawmill.

Colonel Holborrow’s carriage was standing at the end of a track that led from the sawmill, while Holborrow and Dennison were pacing up and down the worn length of turf where the fights took place.

“Potter!” Holborrow limped forward as Starbuck walked into the slanting late sunlight. “You’re under arrest! You hear me, boy? You ain’t fighting no duel! You’re going back to Camp Lee, where I’m going to break you down to private unless you can explain yourself. Just where the hell have you been all day? Are you drunk, boy? Let me smell your breath!”

“I ain’t Potter, Holborrow,” Starbuck said. “That’s Potter.” He pointed to the half-clothed lieutenant, who was weakly leaning against the balustrade of the wooden bridge that crossed the Bloody Run. “Sorry son of a drunken bitch, ain’t he? And that’s his wife with him. You want to go talk to them while I teach Dennison some manners?”

The effect of Starbuck’s words was everything he could have wished. Holborrow’s confused face turned between Potter and Starbuck, but no words came, only a spluttering indignation. Starbuck patted the colonel’s shoulder and walked toward Dennison. “Ready, Captain?” he called.

“Who are you?” Holborrow shouted after him.

Starbuck looked into Dennison’s eyes while he answered. “Major Nathaniel Starbuck, Colonel, once of the Faulconer Legion, now commander of the Second Special Battalion. And, according to Captain Dennison, a goddamned Yankee who ain’t worth fighting for. Isn’t that what you said, Captain?”

Dennison blanched, but did not answer. Starbuck shrugged, unbuckled the sword belt, and took off his jacket. He drew the saber, tossed its scabbard onto the coat then gave the blade two hissing cuts through the evening air. “I kind of reckoned you’d have the Colonel arrest me, Captain,” he said to Dennison, “on account of your being a coward. I knew you wouldn’t want to fight me, but you ain’t got any choice now.” He gave another practice cut, then smiled into Dennison’s scarred face. “There was a fencing society at Yale,” he said in a conversational tone, “where we goddamned Yankees learned to fight.” Starbuck had never joined the society, but he did not need to make that plain to his opponent. “It was larded with European rubbish, of course. Derobement of the prise de fer.” He gave the naked blade an impressive twisting cut. “Bind from quarte to seconde.” He gave the sword another meaningless flourish before bringing it up into the salute. “Ready, Dennison?” he asked. “I got business to do tonight, so let’s get it over with.”