had fulfilled that prophecy, and the realization imbued his voice with a terrible anguish. ‘I’m simply not worthy of the ministry, sir.’
‘Worthy?’ Washington Faulconer exclaimed. ‘Worthy! My God, Nate, if you could see the plug-uglies who shove themselves into our pulpits you wouldn’t say that! My God, we’ve got a fellow in Rosskill Church who preaches blind drunk most Sunday mornings. Ain’t that so, Ethan?’
‘Poor old fool toppled into a grave last year,’ Ridley added with amusement. ‘He was supposed to be burying someone and damn near buried himself instead.’
‘So I wouldn’t worry about being worthy,’ Faulconer said scornfully. ‘But I suppose Yale won’t be too happy to have you back, Nate, not if you walked out on them for some chickabiddy trollop? And I suppose you’re a wanted man too, eh? A thief no less!’ Faulconer evidently found this notion hugely entertaining. ‘Go back North and they’ll clap you in jail, is that it?’
‘I fear so, sir.’
Washington Faulconer hooted with amusement. ‘By God, Nate, but you are stuck in the tar patch. Both feet, both hands, ass, crop and privates! And what will your sacred father do if you go home? Give you a whipping before he turns you over to the constables?’
‘Like as not, sir, yes.’
‘So the Reverend Elial’s a whipper, is he? Likes to thrash?’
‘Yes, sir, he does.’
‘I can’t allow that.’ Washington Faulconer stood and walked to a window overlooking the street. A magnolia was in bloom in his narrow front garden, filling the window bay with its sweet scent. ‘I never was a believer in a thrashing. My father didn’t beat me and I’ve never beaten my children. Fact is, Nate, I’ve never laid a hand on any child or servant, only on my enemies.’ He spoke sententiously, as though he was accustomed to defending his strange behavior, as in truth he was, for, not ten years before, Washington Faulconer had made himself famous for freeing all his slaves. For a brief time the Northern newspapers had hailed Faulconer as a precursor of Southern enlightenment, a reputation that had made him bitterly unpopular in his native Virginia, but his neighbors’ animosity had died away when Faulconer had refused to encourage other Southerners to follow his example. He claimed the decision had been purely personal. Now, the furor long in his past, Faulconer smiled at Starbuck. ‘Just what are we going to do with you, Nate?’
‘You’ve done enough, sir,’ Starbuck said, though in reality he was hoping that far more might yet be done. ‘What I must do, sir, is find work. I have to repay Major Trabell.’
Faulconer smiled at Starbuck’s earnestness. ‘The only work around here, Nate, is common soldiering, and I don’t think that’s a trade to pay off debts in a hurry. No, I think you’d better raise your sights a little higher.’ Faulconer was taking an obvious enjoyment in solving Starbuck’s problem. He smiled, then gestured about the lavishly appointed room. ‘Maybe you’d consider staying here, Nate? With me? I’m in need of someone who can be my private secretary and do some purchasing as well.’
‘Sir!’ Ethan Ridley sat bolt upright on the sofa, his irate tone betraying that the job being offered to Starbuck was one Ridley considered his own.
‘Oh come, Ethan! You detest clerking for me! You can’t even spell!’ Faulconer chided his future son-in-law gently. ‘Besides, with the guns purchased, your main job’s done. At least for the moment.’ He sat thinking for a few seconds, then clicked his fingers. ‘I know, Ethan, go back to Faulconer County and start some proper recruiting. Beat the drum for me. If we don’t raise the county, someone else will, and I don’t want Faulconer County men fighting for other Virginia regiments. Besides, don’t you want to be with Anna?’
‘Of course I do, sir.’ Though Ridley, offered this chance to be close to his betrothed, seemed somewhat less than enthusiastic.
Washington Faulconer turned back to Starbuck. ‘I’m raising a regiment, Nate, a legion. The Faulconer Legion. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, I’d hoped common sense would prevail, but it seems the North wants a fight and, by God, we’ll have to give them one if they insist. Would it offend your loyalties to help me?’
‘No, sir.’ That seemed an entirely inadequate response, so Starbuck imbued his voice with more enthusiasm. ‘I’d be proud to help you, sir.’
‘We’ve made a beginning,’ Faulconer said modestly. ‘Ethan has been buying equipment and we’ve found our guns now, as you heard, but the paperwork is already overwhelming. Do you think you can handle some correspondence for me?’
Could Starbuck handle correspondence? Nathaniel Starbuck would have done all Washington Faulconer’s correspondence from that moment until the seas ran dry. Nathaniel Starbuck would do whatever this marvelous, kind, decent and carelessly generous man wanted him to do. ‘Of course I can help, sir. It would be a privilege.’
‘But, sir!’ Ethan Ridley tried one last patriotic protest. ‘You can’t trust military affairs to a Northerner.’
‘Nonsense, Ethan! Nate’s stateless! He’s an outlaw! He can’t go home, not unless he goes to jail, so he’ll just have to stay here. I’m making him an honorary Virginian.’ Faulconer bestowed a bow on Starbuck in recognition of this elevated status. ‘So welcome to the southland, Nate.’
Ethan Ridley looked astonished at his future father-in-law’s quixotic kindness, but Nathaniel Starbuck did not care. He had fallen on his feet, his luck had turned clean round, and he was safe in the land of his father’s enemies. Starbuck had come South.
STARBUCK’S FIRST DAYS in Richmond were spent accompanying Ethan Ridley to warehouses that held the stores and supplies that would equip the Faulconer Legion. Ridley had arranged for the purchase of the equipment and now, before he left to begin the major recruiting effort in Faulconer County, he made certain Starbuck was able to take over his responsibilities. ‘Not that you need bother with the finances, Reverend,’ Ridley told Starbuck, using the half-mocking and half-teasing nickname he had adopted for the Northerner, ‘I’ll just let you arrange the transport.’ Starbuck would then be left to kick his heels in big echoing warehouses or in dusty counting houses while Ridley talked business in the private inner office before emerging to toss another instruction Starbuck’s way. ‘Mister Williams will have six crates ready for collection next week. By Thursday, Johnny?’
‘Ready by Thursday, Mister Ridley.’ The Williams warehouse was selling the Faulconer Legion a thousand pairs of boots, while other merchants were selling the regiment rifles, uniforms, percussion caps, buttons, bayonets, powder, cartridges, revolvers, tents, skillets, haversacks, canteens, tin mugs, hemp line, webbing belts: all the mundane necessities of military paraphernalia, and all of it coming from private warehouses because Washington Faulconer refused to deal with the Virginian government. ‘You have to understand. Reverend,’ Ridley told Starbuck, ‘that Faulconer ain’t fond of the new governor, and the new governor ain’t fond of Faulconer. Faulconer thinks the governor will let him pay for the Legion, then steal it away from him, so we ain’t allowed to have anything to do with the state government. We’re not to encourage them, see? So we can’t buy goods out of the state armories, which makes life kind of difficult.’ Though plainly Ethan Ridley had
