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had been transformed to a scent far more heavenly; and he could almost perceive, as ecstasy flooded him, that the eyes that looked up into his were the large, luminous, angelic eyes of his lost love, the lady Virginia.
    *
    Poe sat in his tent and tried to eat an omelette made of eggs scavenged from Starker chickens. Fried ham sat untouched on the plate. Around him, the reserve divisional artillery creaked and rattled as the guns were set up on the Starkers’ slight eminence. The ravens gobbled and cawed.
    Poe put down his fork. He was too agitated to eat.
    A drink, he thought. A soothing glass of sherry. The Starkers must have some; it would be easy to obtain.
    He took a gulp of boiled coffee, took his stick, and hobbled out of the tent. The sky had lightened, and the mist had receded from the Starker plantation; Poe could see parts of his own line, a flag here and there, the crowns of trees. His men were moving forward out of their trenches, forming up on the far side of the abatis beyond. Officers’ shouts carried faintly to his ear. The alignment was proceeding with difficulty. The battalions had become too confused as they marched to their places in the dark.
    He remembered the Ravens in the cemetery, shrouded by gray gunsmoke as they were now hidden by gray mist.
    Sherry, he thought again. The thought seemed to fill his mind with a fine, clear light. He could almost feel the welcome fire burning along his veins. A drink would steady him.
    A color sergeant came running up from the Ravens, saluted, and took the two birds away to march with their brigade. Limbers rattled as horses pulled them out of harm’s way down the reverse slope of the hill.
    Artillerymen lounged by their Napoleons and Whitworths, waiting for a target.
    My god, Poe thought, why am I doing this? Suddenly it seemed the most pointless thing in the world.
    An offensive would only make things worse.
    A horse trotted toward him from the Starker driveway. Poe recognized Moses, another of Anderson’s aides, an eagle-nosed miniature sheeny that Longstreet had unaccountably raised to the rank of major.
    One of Longstreet’s little lapses in taste, Poe thought; but unfortunately, as someone with pretensions to the title himself, he was honor-bound to treat the Hebrew as if his claim to the title of gentleman were genuine.
    Sextus took Major Moses’s horse, and Moses and Poe exchanged salutes. There weren’t many men shorter than Poe, but Moses was one of them− he was almost tiny, with hands and feet smaller than a woman’s. “General Anderson’s compliments, sir,” Moses said. “He wants to emphasize his desire for a diversionary attack.”
    “Look about you, Major,” Poe said. “What do you see?”
    Moses looked at the grayback soldiers rolling out of their entrenchments and shuffling into line, the artillerists waiting on the hilltop for a target, officers calling up and down the ranks.
    “I see that General Anderson has been anticipated, sir,” Moses said. “My mission has obviously been in vain.”
    “I would be obliged if you’d wait for a moment, Major,” Poe said. “I may have a message for General Anderson by and by.”
    “With permission, sir, I should withdraw. The general may need me.” Moses smiled. Dew dripped from his shoulder-length hair onto his blue riding cape. “Today promises to be busy, sir.”
    “I need you here , sir!” Poe snapped. “I want you to witness something.”
    Moses seemed startled. He recovered, a sly look entering his eyes, then he nodded. “Very well, sir.”
    In a motionless instant of perfect clarity, Poe understood the conspiracy of this calculating Jew. Moses would hang back, wait for confirmation of Poe’s madness, Poe’s error, then ride back to Anderson to try to have Poe removed from command. Moxley Sorrel might already have filled the staff tent with tales of Poe’s nerves about to crack. Perhaps, Poe thought furiously, the sheeny intended to replace Poe himself !
    Cold triumph rolled