“Yes, Major.” Lucifer grinned and ran off.

“Dennison!” Starbuck shouted. Dennison was the senior captain and thus, whether Starbuck liked it or not, the second in command of the battalion. “Get ’em up, get ’em moving,” Starbuck said. “Straight up the road. Just keep going and I’ll catch up with you.” There was no point in waiting. The men might be tired, but the more they marched the fitter they would be, and the longer they rested in Winchester the more reluctant they would ever be to leave the town’s dubious comforts.

“You staying to enjoy the town, Major?” Dennison asked cattily.

“I’m staying to collect some more men. I’ll be ten minutes behind you. Now move.”

The men climbed reluctantly to their feet. It was promising to be another day of terrible heat, no day for a march, but Starbuck had no intention of traveling all day. He planned to take a few miles off the journey, then find a field in which the battalion could have an afternoon of rest, then finish the journey in the next day’s cool dawn.

He walked down the sidewalk and found the Taylor Hotel, which proved to be three impressive stories of pillared balconies dominating the street. Captain Tumlin’s room was on the third floor and, because the captain was nowhere to be found in the public rooms, Starbuck climbed the wooden stairs and knocked on the room’s door.

“Go away,” a voice said. Starbuck turned the handle and found the door locked. “And don’t come back!” the voice added.

“Tumlin!”

“God away!” the man called. “I’m at my prayers.”

A woman giggled. “Tumlin!” Starbuck shouted again.

“I’ll meet you downstairs. Give me a half hour!” Tumlin answered.

The door’s lock splintered at a simple push and Starbuck stepped inside to see a plump, sweating man rolling out of a disordered bed to reach for his holstered revolver. The man checked as he saw Starbuck’s uniform. “Who the hell are you?” Tumlin asked.

“Your new commanding officer, Billy,” Starbuck said, then tipped his hat to the girl who was clawing the grubby sheet to cover her breasts. She was a pretty black girl with a fine head of curls and sad, dark eyes. “Morning, ma’am,” Starbuck said, “sure is a hot one.”

“You’re who?” Billy Blythe asked as he settled back under the sheet.

“Your new commanding officer, Billy,” Starbuck said again. He walked to the louvered doors that opened onto the hotel’s top balcony and pushed them open. From the balcony he could see the battalion forming its ranks, ready to march away, but the job was being done with pathetic slowness. Dozens of men were resting in the shade of verandahs and the sergeants were doing nothing to stir them. “Sergeant Case!” Starbuck shouted. “Show me how a proper soldier gets a battalion moving. Snap to it! The name’s Starbuck,” he called over his shoulder to Tumlin, “Major Nathaniel Starbuck.”

“Jesus,” Billy Blythe said. “You the son of the Reverend Starbuck?”