“But more to come,” Potter said.

“Yes.” Starbuck spat a shred of tobacco under the train wheels. “And still there are some sons of bitches who think I can’t be trusted because I’m a Yankee.”

“So why are you fighting for the South?” Potter asked.

“That, Potter,” Starbuck said, “is a question I don’t need to answer.”

The two men fell silent as the train wheels screeched on a curve. The stink of a hot axle-box’s grease soured the woodsmoke aroma of the locomotive. They had climbed high enough now for the eastern land to lie revealed beneath the moon. A scatter of tiny lights showed faraway villages or farms, while the livid glow of small grass fires betrayed the double-curving path the train had followed up the gentle slope. “You ever done any skirmishing?” Starbuck asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Reckon you could handle it?” Starbuck asked.

Potter, faced with a serious question, seemed nonplussed. “Why me?” he finally asked.

“Because the captain in charge of skirmishers has to be an independent son of a bitch who ain’t afraid to take risks, that’s why.”

“A captain?” Potter asked.

“You heard me.”

Potter drew on his cigar. “Sure,” he said, “I guess.”

“You get your own company,” Starbuck said. “Forty men. You get the thirty rifles, too.” He had been thinking about this all day and finally decided to take the plunge. None of the four existing captains struck him as men willing to take on responsibility, but Potter had an impudent nature that might fit him for the skirmish line. “You know what skirmishers do?”

“Crudely,” Potter said.

“You go out ahead of the battalion. Spread out, use cover, and shoot the damn Yankee skirmishers. You fight those sons of bitches hard to push them back so you can start killing their main battle line before the rest of us arrive. Win the skirmisher’s battle, Potter, and you’re halfway to winning the real thing.” He paused to suck smoke into his lungs. “We won’t announce it till we’ve done a day’s real marching. Let’s see which men can take the pace and which can’t. There’s no point in putting weaklings into the skirmish line.”

“I assume,” Potter said, “that you were a skirmisher?”

“For a time, yes.”

“Then I shall be honored.”

“Damn the honor,” Starbuck said. “Just stay sober and shoot straight.”

“Yes, sir.” Potter grinned. “Martha will be pleased to be a captain’s wife.”

“So don’t disappoint her.”

“I fear my darling Martha is doomed to disappointment. She believes it is possible, even essential, for all of us to be Sunday school good. Honesty is the best policy, she tells me, a stitch in time saves nine, neither a borrower nor a lender be, be honest as the day is long, do unto others, and all that noble stuff, but I’m not sure any of that’s possible if you have a thirst and a little imagination.” He tossed the stub of his cigar off the platform. “Do you ever wish the war would last forever?”