Walter Taylor asked, “Mr. Rhoodie, what do you call this rifle of yours. Is it a Rhoodie, too? Most inventors name their products for themselves, do they not?”

“No, it’s not a Rhoodie.” The big stranger unslung the title, held it in both hands as gently as if it were a baby. “Give it its proper name, Major. It’s an AK-47.”

Lee returned to his tent to finish the delayed letter to President Davis, then went back outside to see how his staff officers were dealing with Andries Rhoodie. Rhoodie, for his part, seemed perfectly ready to wait to be proved right. Either from that commodious haversack of his or from the pack behind his horse’s saddle, he had taken out and erected a neat little one-man tent and was now building a fire in front of it.

Majors Taylor, Venable, and Marshall stood around watching him. Each of them kept a hand close to his side arm. It occurred to Lee, though, that with such a quick-firing repeater, Rhoodie might take advantage of a second’s inattention to take out all three men before they could shoot back…

The notion was unsettling. But the extraordinary repeater was inside the tent at the moment, and the big stranger showed not the slightest sign of hostility. He got his fire going on the first match, and proceeded to warm his hands over it. Lee smiled a little. Rhoodie did net have the air of a man about to attack everyone around him.

He ducked into the tent, but emerged with nothing more lethal than a pot and a folding metal stand. He dipped up some water from a little brook that ran eventually into the Rapidan, then returned to his fire and put the pot over it to boil.

Lee’s servant came up. “Supper be ready soon, Marse Robert.”