“And miss all the fun?”

His hand, hard and rough, settled on her shoulder. “Do what you can for him, daughter, but be prepared. He won’t last the day.”

“Da.” She grasped at his hand as he pulled it away. “Where’s Ben?”

Nathaniel looked over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as if he could see the battlefields just to the south. “He’s gone to work,” he said finally.

“I need to talk to him,” Hannah said, her voice catching.

“I’ll send him back to you,” her father said. “Soon as we have a free minute.”

Then he winked at her, and turning on his heel disappeared into the first featherings of a rising fog.

Dr. Rousseau’s hands and lower arms were bloody, and his expression said everything Hannah needed to know. She stood beside the table where Kit Wyndham lay.

The bullet had lodged in his upper abdomen and was there still. Dr. Rousseau had done what little could be done, but a bullet that pierced the peritoneum meant only one thing. Unless they were to open his torso there was no way to know exactly what damage it had done, but it was damage no man would survive.

He was heavily bandaged in linen that matched the pallor of his skin. He had lost so much blood, Hannah wondered how he could still be alive. If he still was alive, or if she was imagining the rise and fall of his chest. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Walks-Ahead.” His voice was easy and his tone light. As if she had come to tea.

She sat down on the stool beside him and touched his face. His fever was climbing, but it wouldn’t last long. Soon his body would recognize a battle lost.

“Stomach wounds,” Kit said. “You told me once how it’s the hardest way to die.”

“Not this time,” Hannah said, struggling to match his tone. “It looks as though the bullet did damage to an artery.”

“What good news.” Kit managed a smile.

It was still at least an hour to sunrise, but from far off came the sound of bugles calling men from sleep. Kit turned his head and listened. He said, “Their haversacks will be soaked with dew and rain. Fires forbidden. Cold breakfast.”

“You’re sorry to miss the battle.”

“I would have liked to fight under Thornton,” Kit said. “If Pakenham had a dozen more like him, Jackson would have no chance.”

“Then I’m glad there’s only one Thornton,” Hannah said.

He turned his face toward her. There were darkening shadows under his eyes. “If we take the city, no harm will come to you.”

It was an empty promise, and they both knew it.

Hannah said, “Would you like me to write to your family?”

His brow creased in confusion, as if he had forgot that he ever had a mother or sisters or a fiancée.

He said, “I failed him.” And: “Make no excuses for me.”

Hannah took Kit Wyndham’s hand and held it until he had gone.

When she went out of the cabin there was no sign of Dr. Rousseau, but there were soldiers milling about in the fog and dark, cooking breakfast over small fires. She hadn’t realized that the slaves had been turned out so that the militia could be housed here, and even stranger was the mood among the men as they fried bacon and ate it between slabs of corn bread. Her own stomach was grumbling but she moved on, thinking that she would find Dr. Rousseau somewhere close by.

Then Hannah realized what was so very odd about these men. They were unarmed. Many of the volunteers who had come from the north had expected to be supplied with weapons by the army, and had found themselves disappointed. They had been assigned to the rearmost lines, where they served as nothing more than window dressing.

As she passed she heard them speaking among themselves in tones that ranged from disappointment and agitation to outright indignation. Having put aside their farms and families and traveled so far, they were being denied the release of battle. No wonder, Hannah thought, that Dr. Rousseau didn’t show himself.

She passed a small group of men who stopped to look her over, openly suspicious. One of them, a man with few teeth and missing one ear, challenged her directly, and Hannah found herself lying without hesitation. This outlying field hospital had been established on Jackson’s direct order, and she and Dr. Rousseau were here at his command.

She left the idle men behind her and walked to the embankment. In the dark she climbed up to the Levee Road, but there was nothing to see in the fog, not the river itself or the ships on the river, not a flicker of fire anywhere. But in the darkened fields to the south, men were massing. One army ready to march forward and take by force, the other determined to stop them.

A drumming of hooves, and a patrol swept by on horseback, a half dozen men with cloaks fluttering behind them. Hannah stepped back, but not before she was seen. The lead rider pulled up abruptly and the others followed his lead, their horses dancing in place and kicking up mud. One of them held up a lantern, and Hannah found herself in the middle of a puddle of light.

“Mistress Bonner,” called Major General Jackson. “I wish I had a hundred more like your father and uncle.”

“So do I,” Hannah said.

His leathery face folded into a smile. “That’s a fine weapon you’ve got. Do you know how to use it?”

Hannah touched the sword her father had given her, hanging from her belt in its leather scabbard. “I do,” she called back. “But I’m far better with a scalpel.”