“Starbuck, sir, Special Battalion.”

“Special?” The colonel, who had introduced himself to Starbuck, but so quickly that Starbuck had never caught his name, sounded surprised. “Special,” he said again in a puzzled tone, then he remembered. “You’re the Yellowlegs!” He shuddered slightly, as though Starbuck might be contagious. “Then I do have orders for you, indeed I do. But aren’t you called Maitland?”

“Starbuck, sir.”

“Orders are addressed to Maitland,” the colonel said, feverishly searching again among the papers on the shop’s counter. All the doors and windows were propped open, but the ventilation scarcely alleviated the day’s oppressive heat. The colonel was sweating as he searched. “Is Maitland coming?” he asked.

“I replaced Maitland,” Starbuck said patiently.

“Someone has to get the short straw, I suppose,” the colonel said. “Can’t say I envy you. It’s bad enough taking willing men to war, let alone a bunch of skulkers. How many did you lose between here and Strasburg?”

“Not one.”

“No?” The colonel drew the word out to show his incredulity.

“I marched at the back,” Starbuck said, and touched the Adams revolver at his side.

“Quite right, quite right,” the colonel said and went back to his search.

Starbuck had shaded the truth. Some men had dropped out, and those men he had collected and forced back onto the road, though by the time they had finished the short march the stragglers were near beat and had feet with blisters so bad that blood was seeping out of the ill-sewn shoes they had been issued at Camp Lee. Most of the shoes, Starbuck guessed, would not last a week, which meant they would need to take some off the Yankees. Other men had fallen out of the column with diarrhea, yet despite their sickness and frail feet, all the men were now present in Winchester, but still the march had been a bad augury. The battalion was simply unfit.

“You know what’s happening here?” the colonel asked.

“No, sir.”

“We’re about to throttle the Yankees out of Harper’s Ferry. After that, God only knows. You need ammunition?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We do have that, but no wagons.” The colonel scribbled on a chit of paper that he gave to Starbuck. “Authorization to draw cartridges. You’ll find them stored in a barn at the top end of Main Street, but if you ain’t got a wagon, Major, you’ll be hard put to carry a proper supply, and I can’t find you a wagon.” He gave Starbuck another piece of paper. “That’s a War Department form entitling a civilian to be paid for any wagon you commandeer, but I doubt you’ll find one. Too many other regiments have plowed this town. Ah, and you should go to the Taylor Hotel, Major.”

“Taylor Hotel?”

“Down the street, just a few steps. Place with a big porch and not much paint. Not much left to eat there either, but it’s still the most comfortable place in town. Your fellow’s waiting there.”

Starbuck, completely confused, shook his head. “My fellow?”