“That’s Potter?” Colonel Holborrow had hurried back to Starbuck’s side, even forgetting to limp in his haste. “Are you telling me that’s Potter?”

“Don’t shout so!” Starbuck said chidingly. “Lieutenant Potter is badly hung over, Holborrow, I found the sorry son of a bitch down in the Hells.”

“Hell,” Holborrow said, still thoroughly confused. “Then what in hell’s name were you doing at Camp Lee?”

Starbuck smiled. “Looking you over, Holborrow, so I could report back to the War Department. See that short, plump fellow there? That’s Major Belvedere Delaney from the Legal Department. He’s my second tonight, but he also wants a word with you.” Starbuck looked back to Dennison. “I decided against bringing a surgeon, Captain. I know it’s against the rules printed in Wilson’s Code of Honor, but I never did think that a duel was proper unless it ends in death, don’t you agree?”

“He’s from the Legal Department?” Holborrow rapped Starbuck’s arm with his cane and gestured toward Delaney.

“He heads the department,” Starbuck said, then turned back to the aghast Dennison. “Ready, Captain?”

Holborrow again demanded Starbuck’s attention with a tap of his cane. “Are you really Starbuck?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a slippery son of a bitch,” Holborrow said, but not without some admiration.

“It takes one to recognize another,” Starbuck said.

“Inside the carriage, Colonel?” Delaney had joined them and gestured at the vehicle. “I find our sort of business is best done in privacy. Let’s leave Starbuck to his slaughter, shall we? He enjoys slaughter,” Delaney smiled at Dennison, “but I find the sight of blood upsetting before supper.”

Holborrow clambered inside the coach, Delaney followed, and the carriage door slammed shut. The Negro driver watched impassively from the high box as Starbuck gave his saber another practice cut. “You ready, Captain?” he asked Dennison.

“You’re Starbuck?” Dennison asked in a faint voice.

Starbuck frowned, looked left and right as though for inspiration, then gazed back into Dennison’s face. “Sir,” he said, “I’m a major and you’re a captain, so that makes you a shad-bellied piece of ordure, otherwise known as a captain. Isn’t that right?”

“Sir,” Dennison said miserably.

“Yes,” Starbuck answered the original question, “I’m Starbuck.”

“I ain’t got a quarrel with you,” Dennison said, then, after a pause, “sir.”

“But you do, Dennison, you do. Would it matter whose wife you insulted? As it happens, that lady is not my wife,” he gestured toward Sally, who watched from the ground’s far end, “but she is a dear friend.”

“I didn’t mean to give offense, sir,” Dennison said, desperate to escape the wicked curved blade in Starbuck’s hand.

“The offense you gave me, Dennison,” Starbuck said, hardening his voice, “was by thinking you could bully a man of lower rank. Do that again in my battalion, Captain, and I’ll whip your backside bloody and break you down to private. You understand me?”

Dennison stared into Starbuck’s eyes for a second, then nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Now let’s discuss your disease, Captain,” Starbuck said.