None dared oppose him, not with Case retching into the grass. His face had gone red, the breath was hoarse in his constricted throat, and his eyes were wide with terror. Starbuck turned away. “Captain Dennison!”

“Sir?” Dennison was white-faced, appalled.

“Get a knife, Captain,” Starbuck said calmly, “and cut Case’s stripes off.”

Dennison obeyed while Starbuck retrieved his coat and revolver. “Anyone else here think they know better than me how to run this battalion?” he shouted at the men.

Someone began clapping. It was Caton Rothwell, and his applause spread among the many men who had hated their sergeants. Starbuck waved the clapping to silence, then looked at Captain Potter. “You come to me when you’re sober, Potter,” he said, then walked away. He felt that he must be shaking, but when he looked at his bruised right hand it seemed quite still. He ducked into his makeshift tent, then suddenly the tension flowed out of him and he shuddered like a man with fever.

Lucifer, without being asked, brought him a mug of coffee. “There’s some of Captain Potter’s whiskey in it,” he told Starbuck. “I rescued it from the bottle.” He stared at Starbuck’s left ear that was throbbing painfully. “He hit you hard.”

“I hit him harder.”

“Man won’t like you for it.”

“He didn’t like me anyway.”

Lucifer watched Starbuck warily. “He’ll be wanting you.”

“Meaning?”

Lucifer shrugged and touched his Colt revolver that Starbuck had restored. “Meaning,” the boy said, “you should take care of him properly.”

“Let the Yankees do it,” Starbuck said dismissively.

“Hell, they can’t do nothing proper! You want me to do it?”

“I want you to get me supper,” Starbuck said. His ear was hurting and he had work to do, even more work now that his new company lists had to be rewritten to accommodate the names of the newly chosen sergeants. Some of the old sergeants were reelected, and Starbuck suspected threats might have been used to ensure those choices, but Case’s name was not on the list. The last company to report was E, the half-formed company of skirmishers, and Caton Rothwell brought that list written in clumsy letters on the back of a tobacco wrapper. Rothwell’s own name was at the top of the page. Starbuck was seated outside his tent, close enough to a fire for the flames to illuminate the page that he first read and then handed to Billy Tumlin, who had come to share a late-night mug of coffee. “Good,” Starbuck said to Rothwell when he saw Rothwell’s name on the list. “Don’t make the mistake I did.”

“Which was what?” Rothwell asked.

“Being too easy on the men.”

Rothwell looked surprised. “Hell, I don’t reckon you’re easy,” he said. “Case don’t, either.”

“How is he?” Starbuck asked.

“He can walk in the morning.”

“Make sure the son of a bitch does.”

“Where are we going tomorrow?” Rothwell asked.

“North past Charlestown,” Starbuck said.

“Past Charlestown?” Billy Blythe asked, accenting past. “I kind of hoped we’d find billets there.”