“We’re joining Old Jack’s men to attack Harper’s Ferry,” Starbuck said, “and they won’t be lollygagging in Charlestown, so nor will we. You want some coffee?” he asked Rothwell.

Rothwell hesitated, then nodded. “Kind of you, Major.”

Starbuck shouted for Lucifer, then gestured Rothwell to sit. “When I first met you, Sergeant,” he said, using Rothwell’s new rank for the first time, “you told me that your wife was in trouble, which was why you walked away from your old regiment. What was the trouble?”

It was a blunt question and Rothwell met it with a hostile stare. “Ain’t none of your business, Captain,” he finally said.

“It is my business if it happens again,” Starbuck answered just as curtly. His curiosity was not prompted by prurience, but rather because he suspected that Rothwell could be a leader in the battalion and he needed reassurance about the man’s dependability. “And it is if I need new officers, and Yankee bullets have a way of creating vacancies.”

Rothwell considered Starbuck’s words, then shrugged. “Won’t happen again,” he said grimly, and seemed content to leave it at that, but a moment later he spat into the fire. “Not unless the Yankees rape her again,” he added bitterly.

Tumlin, sitting next to Starbuck, hissed in evident disapproval.

Starbuck, embarrassed by the answer, did not know what to say and so said nothing.

“A Southron did it,” Rothwell said, “but he was riding with the Northern cavalry.” Now that he was launched on the story his reluctance to tell it had disappeared. He probed inside his top pocket to bring out a square of oilcloth that was tied with string. He carefully unknotted the string, then just as carefully unfolded the waterproof cloth to reveal another scrap of paper. He handled the paper as though it were a relic, which to him it was. “Bunch of Yankee cavalry raiders came to the farm, Major,” he told Starbuck, “and left her this. The Southron took my Becky to the barn that day, but he was stopped. He burned the barn though, and the next week he came back and burned the house and took my Becky out to the orchard. Beat her bloody.” There were glints in the corners of Rothwell’s eyes. He sniffed and held the paper out to Starbuck. “This man,” he said bleakly.

The paper was an official U.S. government form, printed in Washington, that promised payment for supplies taken by U.S. forces from Southern householders. The payment, which would be made at the war’s end, was dependent on the family being able to prove that none of its members had carried arms against the U.S. government. The paper, in brief, was a license for Northerners to steal whatever they liked, and this paper carried a penciled signature that Starbuck read aloud. “William Blythe,” he read, “Captain, U.S. Army.”

Tumlin did not move, did not speak, did not even seem to breathe.

Starbuck carefully folded the form and handed it back to Rothwell. “I know about Blythe,” he said.