The Bloody Ground. Bernard Cornwell
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and lit it at the nearest candle. “And Mister Starbuck will have to learn it,” he finished when the cigar was lit.
Peel, a thin young man who seemed the best of this unprepossessing bunch, wiped peach juice from his clean-shaven chin then shook his head. “Why did they send us Starbuck?” he asked no one in particular. “They must be wanting us to fight. Otherwise why send him to us?”
“Because he’s an unwanted son of a bitch,” Dennison snapped, “and they want to be rid of him.”
“He’s got a reputation,” Starbuck said, enjoying himself, “sir.”
Dennison’s dark eyes inspected Starbuck through the flickering light of the guttering candles. “It don’t take much of a reputation to impress a drunkard,” he said dismissively, “and I don’t recall anyone here inviting you to speak, Lieutenant.”
“Sorry, sir,” Starbuck said.
Dennison went on inspecting Starbuck and finally prodded his cigar toward him. “I will say one thing for you, Potter, you’ve got a pretty wife.”
“Reckon I have, sir,” Starbuck agreed.
“Pretty, pretty, pretty,” Dennison said. “Pretty enough to turn a head or two. Too pretty for a lunkhead like you, don’t you agree?”
“She’s sure pretty,” Starbuck said, “sir.”
“And you’re a drunk,” Dennison observed, “and drunks ain’t no good where it counts with a lady. Know what I mean, Potter? Drunks ain’t up to it, are they?” Dennison, half drunk himself, laughed at his own wit. Starbuck held the Captain’s eyes, but said nothing and Dennison mistook his silence for fear. “You know where your pretty wife is tonight, Potter?”
“With her cousin Alice, sir,” Starbuck said.
“Or maybe she’s dining with Colonel Holborrow?” Dennison suggested. “The Colonel sure had his hopes up. Put on his best uniform coat, shined his boots, and oiled his hair. I reckon he thought your Emily might appreciate a little entertainment. Maybe a cockfight?” The other captains laughed at this jest while Dennison sucked on his cigar. “And maybe,” he went on, “your Emily’s so desperate after being married to you that she’d even say yes to Holborrow. You reckon she’s playing the mattress to Holborrow’s quilt, Potter?” Starbuck said nothing and Dennison shook his head scornfully. “You’re a weak passel of shit, Potter, you truly are. God knows what that girl sees in you, but I guess she needs her pretty little eyes fixing.” He drew on his cigar again as he stared at Starbuck. “Reckon I just might call on the little lady myself. Would you object, Lieutenant Potter, if I paid my respects to your lady wife? My skin might just benefit from a lady’s healing touch.”
Peel looked embarrassed, but the other two captains smiled. Both were weak men and were enjoying this chance to see an apparently weaker man being mercilessly bullied. Starbuck leaned back in his chair, making it creak. “What do you reckon your chances are with her, sir?” he asked Dennison.
Dennison seemed surprised that the question had been asked, but he pretended to consider it anyway. “A good-looking girl like that? And a handsome fellow like me? Oh, pretty fair chances, I’d say, Lieutenant.”
“Out of five,” Starbuck insisted, “what do you reckon, sir? Two chances out of five? One chance? Three?”
Dennison frowned, not entirely sure whether the conversation was going entirely to his liking. “Pretty fair, I’d say,” he repeated.
Starbuck shook his head ruefully. “Hell, sir, I know Emily, and Emily never did take overmuch to poxed sons of bitches like yourself, sir, begging your pardon, sir, and I can’t reckon you’ve got more than one chance in five. Pretty good odds, though, seeing as how pretty she is, but how lucky are you? That’s the question, sir, ain’t it?” He smiled at Dennison who was not smiling back. None of the captains was smiling; instead they were watching Starbuck, who had drawn out his Adams revolver while he was talking and had used a fingernail to lever four of the five percussion caps off the gun’s cones. He tipped the caps onto an empty plate then looked up at Dennison through the candle flames. “How lucky are you, sir?” Starbuck asked and leveled the revolver’s blued barrel at Dennison’s scared eyes as he thumbed the hammer to half cock so that the cylinder was free to turn. He spun the cylinder and not one of the captains moved as the gun sounded a series of tiny clicks that only stopped when the cylinder came to rest. Starbuck eased the cock all the way back. “One chance in five, Captain, sir,” he said, “so let’s see how good those odds are.” He pulled the trigger and Dennison gave a tiny jump of alarm as the hammer fell onto an empty cone. “You didn’t make it that time,” Starbuck said, “sir.”
“Potter!” Dennison shouted, then stilled his protest as Starbuck half cocked the gun and spun the cylinder a second time.
“Of course a gentleman like you wouldn’t be content with a lady’s first refusal, would you, sir?” Starbuck asked and eased the hammer all the way back once more. It made two tiny clicks as the pawl engaged. He could see that the cone under the hammer was empty, but none of the others around the table knew which of the chambers was primed. They would be able to see the bullets nestled inside the lower chambers, but not the cones at the cylinder’s rear. Starbuck smiled. “So my Emily’s refused you once, Captain,” he said, “but you’d surely ask her a second time, wouldn’t you? I mean you don’t have the manners of a goat, so you’re sure to ask her a second time.” He straightened his arm as though bracing himself for the gun’s recoil.
Cartwright fumbled for his own revolver, but Starbuck pointed the gun momentarily at the frightened face and Cartwright immediately subsided. Starbuck shifted the gun back to Dennison. “Second chance coming up, Captain, sir. Dear Emily, please lay yourself down and play mattress for me. Let’s see how lucky you are the second time of asking, Captain.” He pulled the trigger and once again Dennison shuddered as the dead click echoed loud in the room. Starbuck immediately spun the chamber a third time and straightened his arm.
“You’re mad, Potter,” Dennison said, suddenly seeming very sober.
“I’m sober too,” Starbuck said and reached out with his left hand for Cartwright’s brandy, which he drank in one go. “I’ll be madder still when I’m drunk,” he said, “so how many chances do you reckon you’ve got with my wife, Captain? Are you going to ask her three times for the favor of a ride?”
Dennison considered reaching for his own revolver, but it was buttoned in its holster and he knew he would have no chance to free the weapon before a bullet slashed through the candle flames and shattered his skull. He licked his lips. “I guess I don’t have any chance, Lieutenant,” he said.
“I guess you don’t, Captain,” Starbuck said, “and I guess you owe me an apology too.”
Dennison grimaced at the thought. “You can go to hell, Potter,” he said defiantly.
Starbuck pulled the trigger, then immediately half cocked the gun and spun the cylinder a fourth time. When it came to rest he pulled the cock back and this time he could see the single percussion cap was waiting under the hammer. He smiled. “Three times lucky, Captain, but how good is your luck? I’m waiting for that apology.”
“I apologize, Lieutenant Potter,” Dennison managed to say.
Starbuck eased the hammer down, thrust the Adams into its holster, and stood up. “Never start what you can’t finish, Captain,” he said, then leaned forward and picked up the half full bottle of brandy. “Reckon I can finish this, though, but in privacy. You all have a nice conversation now.” He walked out of the room.
It was a humid, rainy night in Washington with no wind to take away the thick stench of the garbage dump that lay at the southern end of Seventeenth Street just a few yards from the hospital tents pitched on the ellipse. The sewage in Murder Bay added its own fetid smell to the air above the Northern capital that was more than usually crowded with soldiers. They were men who should have been marching in John Pope’s army toward Richmond, but instead