Blythe pulled on his gray coat. “Hell, Major,” he grumbled, “you have one hell of a way of making yourself known to your officers.”

“Coat’s too small for you, Billy,” Starbuck said with a grin. “When were you made a captain?”

Blythe paused to think as he buckled on his revolver. “Last year, Major. November, I guess, why?”

“Because that makes you senior to my other captains, which means you’re my second in command. If I’m killed, Billy, my heroes are all yours. You ready?”

Blythe collected his few belongings and stuffed them in a bag. “Ready enough,” he said.

Starbuck stood, walked to the door, and tipped his hat again to the girl. “Sorry to have disturbed you, ma’am. Come on, Billy. Let’s go.”

They caught up with the battalion three miles north of town. Starbuck marched the tired men another two miles, then swerved aside into a stretch of pastureland that edged a wood and a stream and had plainly been used many times before as a bivouac. The grass was strained where tents had stood too long, scorch marks showed where campfires had burned, while the margins of the woodland were nothing but ragged stumps where troops had cut their firewood. The railroad that led north from Winchester was a half mile away, its steel rails torn up and carried away by one side or the other while the turnpike that ran parallel to the ruined rail line had been deeply rutted by the marching and counter-marching of the armies that had fought for possession of the Shenandoah Valley ever since the war’s beginning. The pasture was a much-abused place, but it was still pleasant enough and just far enough from Winchester to deter any man who might have been tempted back to the town’s taverns.

Captain Potter had no need of the taverns. He had brought the ammunition to the encampment, but after that he had somehow found himself a jug of whiskey and by late afternoon he was wildly drunk. Starbuck was drawing up lists of the new companies, which now numbered five. He had begun to choose men for Potter’s skirmishing company and was writing their names when he became aware of a surge of raucous laughter. At first he thought it a good omen, maybe an upwelling of spirit among the resting men, but then Captain Dennison stooped under the crude cotton awning that served Starbuck as a tent. Dennison was picking his teeth with a wood splinter. “Nice desk, Major,” he said.

“It serves,” Starbuck said. He was using a tree stump as a crude writing desk.

“You might want to redo those lists,” Dennison said with amusement, “’cols I reckon you just lost yourself a captain.”

“Meaning what?”

“Potter boy’s drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Hell, drunk as ten skunks.” Dennison spat a shred of food. “Looks like he can’t be trusted after all.”

Starbuck swore, picked up his jacket and belt, and ducked outside.

Potter was playing the fool. A group of men who still had some energy after the day’s marching had started a game of baseball and Potter had insisted on being allowed to take part. Now, swaying slightly, he faced the pitcher and kept demanding that the ball be thrown at perfect hitting height. “Groin height!” he shouted, and the fielders egged him on by pretending not to know what he meant. Potter unbuttoned his pants to expose himself. “That’s the groin! There! See?”