With a rasping sound followed by a sharp, metallic click, Rhoodie drew back a shiny steel lever on the right side of the rifle. “The first round from each magazine must be chambered manually,” he said.

“What about the others?” Venable whispered to Taylor.

“You’ll see,” Taylor whispered back.

Rhoodie reached into the haversack again. This time he drew out some folded papers. He unfolded one of them. It proved to be a target, a cutout roughly approximating the shape of a man’s head and body. He turned to Lee’s aides. “Will you gentlemen please put these up at different ranges out to, say, four or five hundred yards?”

“With pleasure,” Taylor said promptly. “I’ve seen how fast your rifle can shoot; I’d like to learn how accurate it is.” He took some of the targets; Rhoodie handed the rest to the other aides. They stuck low-hanging branches through some, leaned others against bushes, both in the upright position and sideways.

“Shall I have them straighten those, sir?” Lee asked, pointing. “They will make your shooting more difficult.”

“Never mind,” Rhoodie answered. “Soldiers don’t always stand up, either.” Lee nodded. The stranger did not lack for confidence.

When the aides were through, a ragged column of thirty targets straggled southeast toward Orange Court House a couple of miles off. The knot of tents that was Lee’s headquarters lay on a steep hillside, well away from encamped troops or any other human habitations. The young men laughed and joked as they came back to Rhoodie and Lee. “There’s General McClellan!” Charles Marshall said, stabbing a thumb in the direction of the nearest target. “Give him what he deserves!”

The others took up the cry: “There’s General Burnside!” “General Hooker!” “General Meade!” “Hancock!” “Warren!” “Stoneman!” “Howard!” “There’s Honest Abe! Give him his deserts, by God!”