The General came unhurriedly over to the sink and leaned out of the window, while his commanders crowded behind him. I flattened myself beside the pots.

There was a lot of noise outside the street. It was a narrow street, but Smahil seemed to be having difficulty in dispelling the larger rabble.

“The trouble is, they’re mounted,” observed Clor.

“That they should dare to come right to our doorstep, though,” deplored another.

“Drunk, must be,” said Isad.

“Perhaps,” Zerd said indifferently. His scarlet shoulder brushed me as he drew himself in from the window. “Here, sink boy, run down to the courtyard and get my bird.”

“Zerd, you’re not going out,” protested Clor, but I was already running out.

The ground was wet. But it had stopped raining at last.

By the time I’d gasped to the General’s groom to saddle up, the General himself was in the stable and helped to hitch the girths. The other commanders trampled about on the straw. Suddenly the courtyard gate burst wide open and a horde of yelling Southerners surged in. There were still a few Northerners alive too. The General and I were opposite each other and for a moment our eyes met over the bird. Then he had swung into his saddle. His big hand was held down to me as his bird swung into the melee.

“Here, child, close at my side.”

I ran, keeping at his stirrup, as the yelling scum in their green Southern uniforms closed at at the stable.

The other commanders were now mounted and followed, but there were mounted Southerners as well as footscum. The General swung and slashed with his big, whistling, blue sword. Blood splashed over my jerkin. The hot smell began to clear my confusion. At first I had concentrated only on keeping at least one side of myself protected by the bird. Now I noticed that footsoldiers and riders alike were aiming cuts at me, and I drew my sharp carving-knife from my belt-sling and began to thrust with it, keeping it up to defend my face. The courtyard was soon a shambles, a carnage. We were amazingly outnumbered by the green uniforms. I kept wonderering how they dared to keep this going so long. They must by now have recognized their most important opponents—but they seemed even to be attempting to strike the General. They might be afraid of surrendering, but surely they knew that sooner or later reinforcements would arrive, and whether the reinforcements were Northern or Southern these insurgents would be court-martiailed and whipped. If they kept on much longer they’d be hanged. Perhaps they knew it was already too late and wanted to wreak as much havoc with us as they could while they could—but that was absurd. It looked almost as if this had been a deliberate project.