Somewhere near the Alamo, a bugle brayed: either that or McCulloch’s men had found some reason to torture a poor, defenseless donkey. - Harry Turtledove

Caudell hadn't touched a firearm since he left the army. His hands, he discovered, still knew what to do. The smell of oil and metal and powder that came from the rifle, the sensuously mechanical glide of the charging handle as he pushed it back to expose the open chamber, made him see the army's old Virginia campground almost as vividly as he did the courthouse where he stood. By the murmurs that rose from his comrades, they also had memories flooding back.

What does not corrupt a man’s heart cannot corrupt his life, or do him any lasting harm.

Carpetbag in hand, Lee descended to the muddy ground out side the Virginia Central Railroad depot at the corner of Sixteenth and Broad. The depot was a plain wooden shed, much in need of paint. A banner on the door of the tavern across the street advertised fried oysters at half price in honor of George Washington's birthday.

The banner made Lee pause in mild bemusement: strange how the Confederacy still revered the founding fathers of the United States. Or perhaps it was not so strange. Surely Washington, were he somehow to whirl through time to the present, would find himself more at home on a Southern plantation than in a brawling Northern factory town like Pittsburgh or New York. And, of course, Washington was a Virginian, so where better to celebrate his birthday than Richmond?