“Who said God is for the big battalions?” Rhoodie asked.

“Voltaire, wasn’t it?” Charles Venable said. He had been a professor of mathematics before the war, and was widely read.

“A freethinker if ever there was one,” Marshall added disapprovingly.

“Oh, indeed,” Rhoodie said, “but far from a fool. When you are weaker than your foes, should you not take the best advantage of what you do have?”

“That is but plain sense,” Lee said. “No one could disagree.”

Now Rhoodie smiled, or his mouth did; the expression stopped just short of his eyes. “Thank you, General Lee. You have just given much of my sales talk for me.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, sir, you have. You see, my rifle will let you conserve your most precious resource of all-your men.”

Walter Taylor, who had seen the gun in action, sucked in a long, deep breath. “It could be so,” he said quietly.

“I await the demonstration, Mr. Rhoodie,” Lee said. “You will have it.” Rhoodie unslung the weapon. Lee had already noted it was of carbine length, stubby next to an infantry musket. Because it was so short, its socket bayonet seemed the longer. Rhoodie reached over his shoulder into his haversack. That was made of mottled cloth like his trousers and coat, and looked to be of finer manufacture than even a Union man carried. Most of Lee’s soldiers made do with a rolled-up blanket.

The tall stranger produced a curved metal object, perhaps eight inches long and an inch and a half or two inches wide. He clicked it into place in front of the carbine’s trigger. “This is the magazine,” he said. “When it’s full, it holds thirty rounds.”

“In fine, the rifle now has bullets in it,” Taylor said.” As all of you will no doubt have noticed, it is a breechloader.” The other aides nodded. Lee kept his own counsel.