If Charlie White had turned out chow anything like what the Junipero Sena's cooks served up, the Ripple's crew would have lynched him and hung his body on T Wharf as a warning to others. Enos didn't care about that, either. He didn't think he'd starve to death before they got to New York.

The cigar a Spaniard gave him turned out to be nasty, too. He smoked it anyway, and went up on deck to look around. The Atlantic -what a surprise!-looked the same from the Junipero Serra as it had from the Mercy. In the west, the sun was going down toward the ocean. Most ships on most oceans these days showed no lights at night: people who noticed them were too likely to be enemies. But the Junipero Serra lit herself up like a Christmas tree. She wanted everyone on both sides of the war to know exactly what she was. The more obvious she made it, the less likely she'd become a target.

Enos looked around again. He changed his mind. The Atlantic did seem different after all. "I'm going home," he said.

Irving Morrell stared at the list Lieutenant Craddock had just handed him. "You know, Bill," he said mildly, "I don't have time for this." That made a pretty fair understatement. He'd been promoted to major after winkling the Rebs in south-eastern Kentucky out of their tough hilltop position, and was now heading up the battalion where he'd commanded a company till a couple of weeks before.

"Sir, I compiled this list on orders direct from the War Department." Craddock could have spoken no more reverently of the Book of Genesis.

"I understand that," Morrell said, trying for patience. "I handed on the orders myself, if you'll remember. But don't you think getting ready for our next move against the Rebs is more important than a witch hunt?"

Craddock looked stubborn, sticking out his chin. It was firm as granite, and about as hard. The same, unfortunately, held for the rest of his cranium.

"Sir, since you asked my opinion, I think rooting out disloyal elements has a very high priority. If our next move against the enemy should fail, it might be on account of"-he lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper-"subversion."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Morrell exploded. "All right, you hunted through the pay records. We have in this battalion"-he glanced down at the list Craddock had given him-"four, count them, four Mormons. Has any one of them ever given the slightest sign of disloyalty?"

"No, sir," Craddock said. "But you never can tell, not with these people you can't. They looked loyal to the USA, too, till this Deseret rebellion kicked up. They might be laying low."

"Lying," Morrell corrected absently.

"Yes, sir, they might be lying, too," Craddock agreed with earnest ignorance. Morrell heaved a silent sigh. The lieutenant said, "But the orders require that they be identified and interrogated. As you see, sir, I've identified them."

He was trained in military subordination. That meant he didn't yell, Now you've got to interrogate them. But he couldn't have shouted it any louder than he didn't say it. And he did have the orders, if not common sense, on his side.

Morrell sighed again, this time loud and long. "All right, Bill. Bring the Mormons to me and I'll have a talk with them." He didn't think a Kentucky forest the ideal spot for this sort of procedure, but this was where he happened to be.

"Yes, sir!" Now Craddock sounded happier. Things were going as they were supposed to on paper, which warmed the cockles of his heart. "I'll go get them. One at a time, of course, so they can't overpower the two of us, escape through the woods, and warn the Rebs of our plans."

Beyond arguing by then, Morrell said, "However you want to do it." Craddock hurried away, intent on his mission. If he'd used that much ingenuity figuring out the trouble real enemies could cause, he would have been a better soldier for it.

He soon returned with a young, towheaded private who looked confused and worried. Morrell would have looked the same way if he'd suddenly been hauled up before his commanding officer. The soldier came to stiff attention. "Dinwiddie, Brigham," he said, rattling off his pay number.

"At ease, Dinwiddie," Morrell said. "You're not in trouble." Lieutenant Craddock's face set in stern, disapproving lines. Morrell ignored him. Dinwiddie was from the company he'd commanded. He'd always thought of the youngster as too good to be true. Dinwiddie didn't drink, he didn't smoke, he didn't gamble, he wasn't out to lay every woman he set eyes on, and he obeyed every order promptly, cheerfully, and bravely. What little Morrell knew about Mormonism made him think it was a pretty silly religion, but it had to have something going for it if it turned out people like Dinwiddie. Picking his words with care, Morrell asked, "What do you think of what's going on in Utah these days, son?"

He'd never seen Dinwiddie's bright-blue eyes anything but open and candid. He did now. Shutters might have slammed down on the private's face. He spoke like a machine: "Sir, I don't know much about it."

Lieutenant Craddock stirred. Morrell glared him into continued silence and tried again: "Have you heard from your family? Are they all right?"

"I got one letter not long ago," Dinwiddie answered. "It was censored pretty bad, but they're well, yes, sir."

"Glad to hear it," Morrell said, on the whole sincerely. "With things the way they are, how do you feel about being a soldier in the United States Army?"

That hooded look stayed on Dinwiddie's face. "Sir, it doesn't have anything to do with me right now, does it? Provo 's a long way from here."

"So it is." Morrell cocked his head to one side and studied the young Mormon. "Rebel lines, though, they're only a few hundred yards off." He waved southwest. As if on cue, a rifle shot rang out, silencing the spring peepers for a moment.

Dinwiddie looked horrified. If he was an actor, he belonged on the stage. "Sir, what the Rebs do to Latter-Day Saints in the CSA- You hear stories about what the Russians do to Jews. It's like that, sir. They don't want any of us, and they don't make any bones about it."

Mof fell wondered what things were going to be like for Mormons in the USA after the Army finished crushing the Deseret revolt. They hadn't been easy before; they'd get harder now. It had been more suppression than persecution. What it was going to be… Well, if Brigham Dinwiddie hadn't thought of that for himself, no point doing the job for him. "All right, Dinwiddie-dismissed," Morrell said. "Go on back to your unit."

The Mormon saluted and left. Lieutenant Craddock said, "Sir, forgive me, but I didn't think that was a very thorough interrogation."

"Neither did I," Morrell said. "The way I see it is, if I rake these people over the coals when they haven't done anything, I'll give them a reason to be disloyal even if they didn't have one before. Now go fetch me Corporal"-he checked the list-"Corporal Thomas."

Corporal Orson Gregory Thomas-who made a point of asking to be called Gregory-echoed Brigham Dinwiddie's comments almost word for word. Lieutenant Craddock found that suspicious. Morrell found it natural- put two men of the same beliefs in the same awkward situation and you could expect to get the same kind of answers out of them.

Homer Benson, another private, again gave almost the same set of responses. Lieutenant Craddock's granite jaw stuck out like the Rock of Gibraltar as he listened, his face even more disapproving than it had been at the start of the interrogations. He didn't say anything when Morrell dismissed Benson back to his unit, but his stiff posture and even stiffer manner spoke volumes.

Dick Francis, still another private, was the last man on the list Craddock had so laboriously compiled. He looked enough like Dinwiddie to have been his first cousin, and shared his diffident manner. But when Morrell asked him what he thought about the Mormon uprising in Utah, he said, "I hope they kick the Army out of there, sir. That's our land. All the United States ever did was give us grief."