“You do, Major?” Rothwell asked with surprise.

“I was with the Faulconer Legion when cavalry attacked us. Blythe trapped some of our officers in a tavern and shot them down like dogs. Women too. You say he’s a Southerner?”

“Speaks like one.”

Tumlin let out a long sigh. “Reckon there are bad apples in every basket,” he said, and his voice was so shaken that Starbuck looked at him with surprise. Somehow Tumlin had not struck Starbuck as a man easily moved by tales of hardship and Starbuck reckoned it was to Tumlin’s credit that he had taken Rothwell’s story so hard. Tumlin sighed. “Reckon I wouldn’t want to be Mister Blythe if you got your hands on him, Sergeant,” he said.

“I reckon not,” Rothwell said. He blinked. “Farm belonged to my father,” he went on, “but he weren’t there when this happened. He’s going to rebuild, he says, but how, I don’t know.” He stared into the fire that whirled a stream of sparks into the air. “Nothing left there now,” Rothwell said, “just ashes. And my Becky’s real hurt. And the children are scared it’ll happen again.” He carefully retied the string, then put the package back in his pocket. “Kind of hard,” he said to himself.

“And you were arrested,” Starbuck asked, “for trying to be with her?”

Rothwell nodded. “My Major wouldn’t give me furlough. Said no one gets furlough before the Yankees are beat, but hell, we’d just whipped the bastards at Manassas so I reckoned I’d take my own furlough. Ain’t sorry I did, either.” He swallowed the lukewarm coffee, then glanced at Starbuck. “You arresting Case?” he asked.

“He’s already in a punishment battalion,” Starbuck said, “what else can they do to him?”

“They can shoot the son of a bitch,” Rothwell said.

“We’ll let the Yankees do it,” Starbuck said, “and save the government the price of a bullet.”

Rothwell was unhappy. “I reckon he ain’t a safe man to keep around, Major.”

Starbuck agreed, but was unsure what else he could do. If he was to have Case arrested then he would need to send the man under escort to Winchester and he could not spare an officer to lead such a party, nor the time to write up the paperwork for a court-martial. He could hardly have Case shot on his own authority, for he had invited the fight, and so the best course seemed to let things lie, but to tread warily.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Tumlin promised.

Rothwell stood. “Grateful for the coffee, Major.”

Starbuck watched him walk away, then shook his head. “Poor man.”

“Poor woman,” Blythe said, then let out a long sigh. “I suspect that Mister Blythe will be long gone,” he added.

“Maybe,” Starbuck said. “But I was fond of one of the girls who died in that tavern and when this war is over, Billy, I might just go looking for Mister Blythe. Give me something to do in the piping time of peace. But for now, what the hell do I do with Potter?”