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Mosby’s forgers had crafted. “It’s late, lieutenant,” he prodded.
    “Yes, sir. I’m certain the captain will understand that I have to proceed according to the fort commander’s standing orders, sir.” The lieutenant read the orders carefully, then examined the column behind Chamberlain as best he could in the dark. “Are there civilians back there, sir?”
    “A few prisoners,” Chamberlain explained as if bored.
    “Welcome to Fort Monroe, sir. Your men may enter, though I request they dismount and lead their horses. I will notify Colonel Lee of your arrival.”
    Longstreet had been right about that. “There’s no need to disturb the colonel’s sleep on our account,” Chamberlain suggested.
    “Thank you, sir, but I am required to notify him. Please rest your command in the courtyard inside the gate while I inform Colonel Lee and he provides direction for your billeting and the disposal of your prisoners.”
    As the lieutenant strode quickly away, Chamberlain turned to face his column. “Dismount! Follow in a column of threes!” If he hadn’t been so nervous, this military officer’s role would have been a pleasurable thing.
    Chamberlain led the way into the fort, noticing as they passed through the gate just how thick were the walls to either side of it. As Armistead had said, this was a fortress which could have held out as long as Troy. But like Troy, its guardians were allowing a disguised enemy to breach those walls.
    “My men need to water their mounts,” Chamberlain insisted to the guard sergeant once all of the supposed cavalry force was inside the fort. Mosby had assumed they might need an excuse to get some of the false cavalrymen out of sight of the gate sentries.
    The sergeant looked around, but there was no officer here to back him up, and Chamberlain’s request was perfectly reasonable. He nodded. “You can send them a few at a time to the troughs, sir.”
    Chamberlain faced his column, his eyes searching for Mosby. “Lieutenant, we’re to wait for Colonel Lee. Send the men in small groups to water their mounts.”
    They waited under the starlight, the men silent but the horses stamping and blowing occasionally. Mosby told off detachments to go water their horses, and none of the sentries noticed that in each group fewer men came back each time than had gone out. Chamberlain had to fight down a powerful urge to scan the darkness for those men, whom he knew would be moving stealthily to surprise the sentries on the walls and ensure there were no sentries at the other two gates which should be sealed for the night.
    Finally, Chamberlain saw the lieutenant returning with another officer. In the light of the lieutenant’s lantern, Chamberlain could see that Colonel Robert E. Lee was an older and courtly man, reminiscent of Captain Armistead but more elderly. His neatly trimmed hair and beard were a gray that stood out against Lee’s dark blue uniform. Even if Chamberlain hadn’t known that Lee was the product of generations of Southern aristocracy he would have guessed it from the man’s appearance and attitude of unquestioned superiority. From all he had been told Lee had the brains and skills to justify that attitude, but it bothered Chamberlain to realize that Lee would have acted the same even if he had no claim but ancestry to authority. For the first time, Chamberlain realized that aristocracy wasn’t simply a broad comparison, but a literally true description of how the upper class in the south saw themselves.
    Distracted by these thoughts, Chamberlain barely remembered to salute first as Lee approached. Lee returned the salute slowly and precisely, turning to view the column of soldiers. “Tenth Cavalry? I was not told you were coming here, Captain Green.”
    “The War Department knows that Mosby’s men intercept telegraphic messages, sir,” Chamberlain explained. “We wished to surprise him and his bandits.”
    “It appears you did so,” Lee agreed. He eyed