Case half turned away from the kick and flicked out a hard punch with his left hand, only Starbuck did not run into the punch, but instead rammed his right boot forward into Case’s knee. It was a brutally hard kick and Starbuck recoiled from it, safe out of Case’s reach. Starbuck had hoped to do more damage, but the big man’s quick left hand had stalled him.

Case stumbled as pain buckled his leg. The pain made him grimace, but he forced himself upright. “Yankee,” he spat at Starbuck.

Starbuck knew this had to be quick. If the fight dragged on then his authority would be abraded with every blow exchanged. Victory had to be swift and total, and that meant taking some punishment. Case’s tactics were obvious. He intended to stand like a rock and let Starbuck come to him, and every time Starbuck was in range he would inflict pain until Starbuck could take no more. So take the pain, Starbuck told himself, and put the son of a bitch down.

He walked forward with his eyes on Case’s hard eyes. He saw the right hand coming and half raised his left hand to block the blow, but his head still rang as the fist crashed home on the side of his skull. Starbuck kept going forward, forcing himself into the stink of Case’s unwashed wool uniform and the stench of tobacco and whiskey on the big man’s breath, and the big man smelled victory as he reached to grab Starbuck’s hair and pulled his head down onto his left fist.

Then Case gagged, choked, and his eyes widened as he tried to breathe.

Starbuck had hit the sergeant in the Adam’s apple. He had rammed his right hand up and forward, knuckles outward, and as much by luck as judgment had slammed the blow under the sergeant’s jutting beard to land dead on the inviting target of Case’s unnaturally long neck. It was a wicked blow, taught him long before by Captain Truslow, who knew every nasty trick in the devil’s book.

Case was staggering now, his hands at his throat where a terrible pain was threatening to cut off his airway. Starbuck, his own head ringing from the sergeant’s blow, stepped back to watch the big man totter, then stepped forward again and gave Case’s left knee another hard kick. The big man buckled. Starbuck waited again. He waited until Case was half down, then he brought his knee up into the man’s face. Blood splashed out of the broken nose as Starbuck grabbed Case’s hair and rammed his head back onto the knee. He let go of the greasy hair and this time Case dropped to all fours and Starbuck kicked him in the belly, then put his foot on Case’s back and pushed him down into the grass. The breath rasped and rattled in Case’s throat. He twitched as he tried to subdue the gagging pain, but nothing could stop the pitiful whimpering that sounded between each desperate attempt to breathe. Starbuck spat on him, then looked up at the other sergeants. “All of you,” he said, “take your stripes off. Now!”