you can carry.'
The boy sauntered into the sunlit doorway, where he stopped, plucked his disarrayed clothing into shape, then turned to look at Starbuck. 'Suppose I don't come back?' 'Just make sure you aren't sent down the river, Lucifer.' The boy stared at Starbuck, then nodded at the wisdom of that advice. 'Are you making me into a soldier?' he asked.
'I'm making you my cook.'
The boy grinned. 'How much are you paying me, Major?' 'I just saved your worthless life and that's all the wages you're getting from me.'
'You mean I'm your slave?' The boy sounded disgusted. 'I mean you're a goddamn servant to the best goddamn officer in this goddamn army, so get the goddamn out of here and stop wasting my goddamn time before I goddamn kick you out.'
The boy grinned. 'Do I get a goddamn gun?' 'You don't need a gun,' Starbuck said. 'In case I have to protect myself from the Yankees who want to make me into a free man,' Lucifer said, then laughed. 'Can't be a soldier without a gun.'
'You ain't a soldier,' Starbuck said. 'You're a cook.' 'You said I can be whatever I want to be,' the boy said, 'remember?' Then he ran off.
'That's one nigger you won't see again,' Truslow said from just outside the door.
'I don't really want to see him again.' 'Then you shouldn't have risked a fight for him,' Truslow said. 'That Captain would have murdered you.' 'So thank you,' Starbuck said.
'I didn't run him off to save your good looks,' Truslow said sarcastically, 'but because it don't do the boys no good to see their Major having the shit thumped out of him. You want a pickled oyster?' He held out a jar of the delicacies; then, as Starbuck helped himself, Truslow turned and watched as a disconsolate herd of blue-coated prisoners limped past. The men were smartly uniformed but looked utterly whipped. Some of their heads showed livid saber slashes, wounds that had cut so deep that the blood had soaked their tunics down to their waists. The Northerners limped past, going to their long imprisonment, and Truslow grinned. 'Just ain't their day, is it?' he said. 'Just ain't their goddamn day.'
Colonel Patrick Lassan of His French Majesty's Imperial Guard, who was officially a foreign military observer attached to the rebel army but who preferred to do his observing from the front ranks of the rebel cavalry, took a handful of his horse's mane and slowly drew his long straight sword through the coarse hair to scrub the blade clean of blood. He needed to clean the steel three times before it was fit to slide back into the scabbard; then, lighting a cigar, he trotted slowly back along the path of the cavalry charge.
A brigade of New Jersey troops had come from the defenses of Washington to evict what they believed was a band of rebel cavalry raiders from the depot at Manassas Junction. Only instead of encountering a handful of ragged cavalrymen, they had marched straight into the depot's old defensive earthworks manned by Stonewall Jackson's veteran infantry and artillery. Whipped by rifle fire and flayed by cannons, the New Jerseymen had retreated. It was then that Jackson had unleashed the cavalry, who had turned their retreat into a rout.
Dazed Northerners still reeled blindly about the field where the horsemen had charged. The Northerners were mostly wounded in the head or shoulders, the bloody wounds of men caught in the open by cavalrymen carrying sabers. Their comrades were either lying dead where the volleys of the entrenched defenders had ambushed them, or else were struggling to safety across the rain-swollen Bull Run, where, a year before, so many of their countrymen had drowned in the defeat of the first invasion of the Confederate States of America.
Lassan watched the rebels round up the living and loot the dead. The Confederates were joking about the ease of their victory, claiming it was further proof that a half-dozen Northerners were no match for a single Southerner, but Lassan was both more experienced and more sanguine and knew that the attack of the New Jersey brigade had been a blunder by an inexperienced general. The New Jersey officers had been so new to war that they had attacked with drawn swords, oblivious that they were thus making themselves targets for Southern marksmen. The Northern officers had led their men to horror, but Lassan knew that this slaughter of the innocents was an aberration and that soon the real fighting would begin. The North had been surprised by Jackson's march, but it would not be long before the Yankee veterans arrived to snap at the bait that hung so temptingly at Manassas Junction. For the North now had Stonewall Jackson outnumbered, they had him isolated, and, so they must surely believe, they had him doomed.
***
ALL DAY THE YANKEES tried to make sense of the storm that had broken behind their backs. The first confused reports merely spoke of bushwhackers, then it was claimed the raiding party was a large band of Jeb Stuart's horsemen, and finally there were worrying reports of rebel infantry and artillery inside the defenses of Manassas Junction, but no one could tell John Pope precisely what was happening at his supply depot. He knew that no trains were coming from Manassas and that the telegraph to Washington had been cut, but neither of these events was uncommon, and for much of the day Pope regarded all reports from Manassas as mere alarmist rumors spread by panicking men frightened by a handful of Confederate cavalry raiders. John Pope was unwilling to abandon his conviction that Lee must do what John Pope had planned for Lee to do, which was to launch a grand yet suicidal attack across the swirling Rappahannock, but slowly, grudgingly, like a man refusing to admit that the heavy clouds above his parade had begun to rain, Pope began to understand that the commotion at Manassas amounted to a great deal more than a raid. It was the opening move of a campaign he had not planned to fight but to which he was now forced to react.
'We'll be riding north tonight, you mark my words,' Major Galloway observed. 'Did you hear me, Adam?' But Adam Faulconer was not listening to his commanding officer. Instead he was staring at a recent copy of the
'Did you read this?' Adam suddenly demanded of Galloway.
Galloway did not need to be told what item in the newspaper had offended Adam. 'I read it,' the Major said, 'but I don't necessarily believe it.'
'Five women dead!' Adam protested.
'It's a rebel newspaper,' Galloway pointed out.
The story was headlined 'Outrage in Orange County.' Yankee raiders, the newspaper reported, seeking to emulate the exploits of Jeb Stuart, had crossed the Rapidan to raid Lee's forces, but had instead burned down a country tavern and killed everyone inside. There was no mention of the raid on the Faulconer Brigade, nor of the guns and wagons that Galloway's men had destroyed, but only a pitiful description of the innocent civilians dying inside the inferno that had engulfed what the newspaper described as 'McComb's Hotel,' presumably because a goodly number of the
'They're beating the patriotic drum,' Galloway said wearily, 'by telling half-truths and outright lies. There were soldiers in that so-called hotel, Adam, even the newspaper admits as much.'
'And it says here, sir, that those soldiers called on the enemy to cease fire.'
'What else would it say?' Galloway asked, and then, in grudging acknowledgment of Adam's anger, he went on, 'When Billy gets back we'll ask him the truth.'
'And you think he'll tell you the truth?' Adam asked hotly.
Galloway sighed. 'I think maybe Billy has an excess of zeal, Adam, but I don't reckon Billy murdered any woman that night. I ain't saying no woman died, but only that it was an accident. Tragedy happens in wartime, Adam. It's why we're trying to end the war quickly.'
Adam threw the newspaper down in disgust. His disgust was not so much with the
