He stopped stock still, molten, volcanic beneath his stonelike exterior. For a minute she wasn't sure she'd succeeded, so she decided to add: "Of course, if your men were of a mind to work for their suppers... felling trees, pulling stumps, splitting winter wood. There's always a place at a Rapture Valley table for a pair of diligent hands."

"Dammit!" His reflexes were as quick as lightning and his lean, muscular hands closing on her upper arms had the same nerve-burning electrical jolt. A wave of shocking mutterings wenf through the spectators. "No horses, no blankets, no bloody bartering... my men have work to do, you understand?!"

"Wait!" Whitney braced in his hands, rocked by the galvanic impact of his touch and scrambling to maintain her margin of advantage. "Maybe there is something..."

Her continuing gambits in the face of his physical threat stunned him, and he halted for an instant. Just what in hell did he have to do to daunt the little witch?!

"Your buttons." She brought her hands up, braced, and with one finger plinked an elegant gold button so that it rattled back and forth on his hard chest. "If they're real gold-"

Inside that staid military coat, inside that hard, military body, the vibrations of that rattling button were suddenly echoing through his flesh, and descending. In pure horror he watched that slender finger reach out again and felt the same devastating reverberations reaching deep into his loins. Oh, God. That molten heat was draining from his head, his shoulders, his coiled arms... right into his wretched loins! Here, in front of- "They are real, aren't they?" she stared up into his heat-bronzed face, glimpsing a flicker of uncertainty that the "trader" in her read fluently.

His tongue seemed bolted to the roof of his mouth again as he fought the excruciating waves of feeling. She was saying something... those clear forest green eyes littered with flecks of gold, those soft velvety lips bending in a coquette's curve... then she was bending her head, coming toward his chest... her lips parting...

Whitney's teeth closed on one gold button and she felt the soft metal give gratifyingly as she clamped down hard, purposefully distorting and flattening the hollow fastening. She drew back with a deep flush in her cheeks and a challenging gleam in her eyes.

"Now those," for some reason she had to swallow to finish it, "might be worth a week's provender. Mighty nice buttons, Major."

Townsend looked down his chest to the squashed button and froze, choked and suspended between disbelief and eruption. His button! The little witch bit his blasted button!!

Peals of laughter erupted all around, setting off the impending explosion inside him. He clamped down on her arms savagely, giving her a nasty shake.

"You little witch!" He released her with a snarl and a shove so that she stumbled back two steps. "And you-" he whirled, shouting, just short of a full bellow, "all of you-don't think you've won anything with this absurd display-except enmity!"

The jovial taunt of an instant past now stuck fast in every throat and a quivering silence reigned. The tall major towered above them, black with wrath and deadly potent. He turned on Uncle Harvey's paling face with molten-silver eyes and a determination that was chilling.

"You'll supply my men with food and myself and my lieutenant with quarters-" he stabbed a burning glare back at Whitney and shook the crumpled parchment in his hand, "and for 'paper promises,' or I'll shut down your miserable establishment altogether! And the rest of you," his arm swept over the stunned crowd with searing contempt, "will cooperate fully with our searches and investigations. We'll find the illegal liquor you have hidden amongst you and we'll find your secreted stills, one way or the other. And if you interfere," he turned, white-eyed, on Whitney, "you'll find yourselves in chains, the lot of you!"

Whitney stiffened, her face aflame, her fists trembling. She'd never seen such deep, pulsating hostility in a human being in her life. He meant it-he'd put them in ch- "Chains?!" she dragged it in on a breath, remembering, and lifted an angry chin to the major. "You've already got Charlie Dunbar in chains somewhere... and he's done nothing-nothing at all!"

"If you're referring to your little playmate of yesterday," he towered over her, his face radiating heat like an iron forge, "he's exactly where he deserves to be. And he'll stay there until we're through questioning him. By the time we're through," his voice lowered to a menacing rasp, "he'll tell us everything he knows."

"Charlie?!" she snorted contemptuously. "Charlie doesn't know anything about stills or secreted liquor! He's just a plain farmer... and sole support of his ma, Aunt Sarah, and his six younger brothers and sisters! She's worried sick about him and will likely starve this winter unless he finishes corn harvest."

"Oh please, yer honor," came a choked voice from behind the jostling crowd. Aunt Sarah Dunbar shoved through to the front, clutching her heaving bosom with one hand and reaching for the major's impeccable sleeve with the other. "Please, let me see m'boy! He's all I got, yer honor!"

Townsend positively quivered with rage as he shook off Aunt Sarah's entreating hand. "He's a prisoner and he'll stay a prisoner for as long as illegal stills continue to produce that gut-rotting swill in this valley." Then he turned on Rapture's horrified inhabitants. "The sooner you deliver up the criminals amongst you, the sooner we'll be gone and you can get back to... whatever it is you do in this godforsaken sty. And you-" he jabbed a finger at Whitney, "you'd better stay out of my way!"

When he whirled to make for the tavern, he found himself facing half a dozen of his own men, their faces dark as they took in Aunt Sarah's motherly crumple and her dramatic opening tears.

"What are you gawking at?!" the major demanded, jerking his coat down into place as though straightening his rumpled dignity as well. His thundering order snapped their fascination with Aunt Sarah and sent them lumbering to obey.

"Back to your posts!"

Chapter Five.

Rapture's citizens suffered the major's parting blast, then turned from the confrontation in front of the tavern in shock. They watched Whitney spin on her heels and head for the far end of the clearing, and followed instinctively. They always looked to a Daniels in times of trouble and, Lord knew, they certainly had a passle of trouble now. Their minds were full of the lean, hardened faces of the scruffy soldiers, and of the startling angry force of the soldiers' aristocratic commander. The full impact of their stubborn opposition to the tax on their stills and whiskey was finally brought home to them.

When they neared the edge of the clearing, Whitney paused and turned aside sharply, heading for the side yard of buxom May Donner's cabin. With nervous glances back over their shoulders, Rapture's folk followed, reading in her destination a very sensible desire to be out of sight of the tavern. She sought out one of several tree stumps in the grassy yard and plopped down on it, her cheeks flushed like blushing apples and her eyes stormy. Just now she was feeling a jumble of strange, new feelings; anger, frustration and not a little humiliation at the way the major had overridden her clever manipulations with raw anger at the end. He'd effectively nullified all the embarrassment of the mortifying little exchanges she'd put him through. Nobody had ever turned the tables so effectively on her before, even if it had been done with brute force.

Aunt Sarah and the others wandered about, their minds buzzing, and slowly settled themselves, uncles and aunts, bucks, gals, and children, so they could all watch Whitney.

"Whaddo we do, Whit?" old Uncle Ferrel Dobson finally raised his shrunken chin and age-faded eyes from a nearby stump in bewilderment.

What indeed? Whitney thought, taking a long breath and drumming her fingertips on her thigh... a sure sign she was thinking. Her eyes shifted and darted as though scrutinizing some mental tableau.

"That thar Major," Uncle Radnor rubbed his stubbled chin with a soot-stained smithy's hand, "he acts like he swallered an iron poker an' can't stoop to-"

"Hell's fahr," Uncle Ferrel broke in, "e'en his own men look like they hate 'is guts."

"Got breeches made o' iron, he has," buxom May Donner declared with a righteous nod.

"An' got iron fer a heart as well." Aunt Sarah started to pucker up again and was soon gathered against May Donner's ample bosom, drawing looks of pale envy from the four strapping Delbarton bucks. "That man's made of cold old iron-" The heartrending sounds of her weeping and the sympathetic chirps and trills of birds were all that could be heard in the small clearing.

The Iron Major. Whitney's eyes narrowed in agreement. Today he certainly did seem made of iron... and flint and ice and all manner of hard, unyielding things. But then a tide of confusion surged inside her. Yesterday parts of him had been surprisingly soft, incredibly gentle and rousing. Where Charlie had pawed, he had stroked. What Charlie had commanded, he had coaxed... ohhh, so effectively. When the insight struck her she reeled on her seat; if he was made of iron, it certainly wasn't solid all the way through. Somewhere inside him there was something... more human. And if human,then capable of being "bargained."

"He's not made of iron," she announced, snapping rod-straight on her seat with her heart thumping harder. "He's mortal flesh, like any other man." They all came to attention as she came to life before their eyes. "And if he's a mortal man, he's got a man's mortal wants and weaknesses. All men have them... even him." A very Daniels glow crept over her heartlike face.

"Everything has its price. What we have to do is find his, and use it to get rid of him before he finds pa's still and the whiskey we've got stored away!"

The folk stared at each other in relief, drawing confidence from Whitney's contagious determination. They focused on every flicker of her expressive eyes, knowing they were watching a pure wonder at work. Then suddenly her lithe body relaxed and her fetching face lit with a crafty grin they'd all come to know and appreciate. She turned to them with a sense of urgency.

"I need to know everything about him... everything. His habits, his druthers, his daily routines-there has to be something he wants." She snapped her fingers in sudden inspiration. "Robbie," she looked around quickly, "where's Robbie Dedham?"

"Here I am, Whit!" he popped up from his seat on the ground behind her and hurried to her side.

"He'll be staying in your pa's tavern-likely, sleeping in your very bed. Can you do it? Can you keep an eye on him and tell me everything you learn?"

"Shure can!"

"Good!" She tousled his hair and sent him off with a swat on the behind, only to call him back a second later. "Better tell your pa to let his barrels run dry," she advised in a conspiratorial tone. "Can't risk filling them up again with the major sleeping overhead and lurking about." Catching her meaning, he nodded, and left at a run.

She collected the concentration of the other eager eyes with an upraised finger and a crafty grin. "Now, I guess you heard; harvest has been 'dismal and dismaying' this year. That means crops and foodstuffs for trading are in shamefully short supply... just like liquor will be in a day or two, when Uncle Harvey's barrels run dry." She wriggled forward on her seat and they drew closer with nods of understanding and smiles creeping over their faces. There wasn't anybody any craftier than a Daniels... they were in good hands, all right.

"Now-the hungrier a soldier is, the harder it is for him to hear orders. Pa learned that in his days at Valley Forge with old General George. And I suppose that extends to being thirsty too. After a fellow gets so hungry, so thirsty, he just quits hearing orders at all." Her expression was deviousness distilled. "I'm proposing that we interfere with the federal soldiers' hearing, a bit. It'll buy us a bit of time while we learn what it will take to bargain the major out of Rapture Valley. Even the Iron Major will have a hard time tracking down stills and whiskey and arresting folks single-handed... and hungry."

There were murmurs aplenty as the folk caught the scope and thrust of what they were being asked to do. They agreed readily and began to lay plans and strategies for hiding the recently harvested abundance of their fields. It was thirsty work, and soon May Donner produced an earthen jug filled with the best whiskey made, Daniels' whiskey. They passed it around, savoring the clean-cutting tang and the full, warm after-vapors.

Whitney took a swallow and closed her eyes to trap the sheer delight of it inside for a minute longer. That rare taste, that full-flavored redolence reminded her of all they stood to lose if she was wrong. But she wasn't wrong; she could feel it in her bones. And in sundry other parts of her as well.

"I need to know what they're up to and who they question. And you'll have to bring or send me word about where they search so we can move Pa's still. I don't think it would be a particularly good idea to mention Daniels Whiskey, or the fact that it's my Pa who does our distilling." Mentioning her pa made her realize how much she missed him. She rose with a sigh, realizing they'd all been absent from view long enough. "It's time we got back to our usual chores..."

"And my Charlie?" Aunt Sarah pushed herself up and went to Whitney's side with a doleful plea. "Please. I got to see my Charlie-to see if n he's all right!"

Whitney paused, chewed the inner corner of her lip, and then grinned. "I need a pie, Aunt Sarah. One of your special ones... apple... with cinnamon."

When Aunt Sarah stammered and looked puzzled, Whitney laughed that lush Whitney Daniels laugh.

"No... better make it two."

Late that afternoon Whitney and Aunt Sarah Dunbar appeared in the settlement clearing, headed straight for the soldiers' camp at the rear of Dedham's Tavern. In each pair of hands was a pie tin, filled with mounded golden pastry, and in their wake was an aroma so potent and so tantalizing that it drew folk from their houses all along their route. The soldiers on a desultory patrol back and forth in front of the tavern door caught wind of it and came to immediate attention, locating the source and elbowing each other. The guards posted at the edge of the camp came stalking around their assigned perimeters to meet the incursion of "locals," and as they came, their eyes widened and their steps quickened.

The two soldiers jolted to a halt on the path, blocking the way into the federals' camp. They sniffed and stared and shifted their muskets from hand to hand nervously. Belligerence, contempt, harassment, even armed resistance; they'd experienced them all during their passage through frontier towns and villages, and were equipped to withstand such adversity. But pie-bearing females!

They had no earthly idea what was expected of them in a case like this. And their confusion was shortly to grow worse.

"Gentlemen," Whitney turned her infamous Daniels smile on them, "we've come to beg a boon of you. Aunt Sarah here," she nodded to little Aunt Sarah, whose motherly suffering was plain to behold, "Her heart's next to breakin' from not seeing her beloved son, whom, we understand, is being detained in your camp. Now, I've tried to explain to Aunt Sarah that you're men of honor and duty-bound to see justice done, and that you're undoubtedly seein' to her Charlie's needs as men of integrity would. But she's pining and woeful in the extreme, and achin' like only a mother can, to see that her Charlie is all right with her own two eyes."

The smooth, lulling flood of Whitney's words and the seductive aroma of apple pies laced liberally with cinnamon were too much for the bone-weary foot soldiers, drawn from the ranks of Maryland's impoverished, to resist. Whitney could see capitulation written all over their faces before she was even half finished.

"She's fearful he won't get fed properly, you know how mothers are. I told her two pies were too much for one fellow to eat by himself, but she wouldn't listen."

"Will ye let me see my Charlie?" Aunt Sarah's chin quivered with exquisite subtlety.

The soldiers swallowed hard, their eyes fixed on the pies, two whole pies, that their prisoner probably wouldn't be able to eat all by himself. "Wull," one cast a desperate look at the other, "they ain't packin' weapuns... jus' pies. Where'd be the harm, Ned?"

"Bless you," tears rose up in Aunt Sarah's eyes. "You're a good boy," she reached up to pat the lanky one's cheek with motherly license. "I bet yer ma is worried sick about you." And as they started down the path toward the tents, she clinched their resolve with, "You look a bit lean, son. How long's it been since ye had a slip o' pie?"

They found Charlie lounging on the ground at the base of a large oak tree on the far side of the camp. Two guards slouched nearby, sullenly shaving the bark from sticks with their knives to pass the time. Charlie was in chains, all right; good sized ones that linked the shackles on his feet to the base of the tree. He wore a bored, petulant look, but otherwise seemed hale and unharmed. He scrambled to his feet when he saw them, and when he saw the pies, he began to grin.

Aunt Sarah thrust her pie into the lanky soldier's hands with orders for him to share it with Ned and the other guards and sailed straight into Charlie's bearlike hug. There was some weeping, some questioning, some assuring, and, as the soldiers hurried to cut their pie, lifting it out on their fingers, Charlie sat down on a nearby root to stuff himself with his favorite treat.

At the very moment his camp was being invaded by pie, Garner Townsend was responding to a knock at the door of his room on the second floor of Dedham's Inn. He called permission to enter and found himself staring at his new "personal aide," recruited from amongst the men by Lieutenant Brooks. There stood the paunchy erstwhile scout, Benson. Townsend crossed his arms and looked the frazzled, earnest-faced fellow up and down. Uniform too small, boots too big, musket a corroding mess; there was damned little of the soldier in Benson. He was even overage!

"You," Townsend huffed with long-suffering quiet. "Why you?" It was meant rhetorically, but Benson, unused to hearing questions nobody was expected to answer, did just that.

"Wellsir, Majur," he shifted from one outsized boot to the other, "I guess cause I wus a barber oncet. An' I done tailorin' and boot-blackin' and used to help my ma with the warsh. An' because I cain't keep up too good on them patrols-"

"Enough!" Townsend's hand shot up to halt him. "It's perfectly clear to me, Benson." He was simply the most expendable man in the unit-probably in any unit, Townsend snarled inwardly. "You'll see to my laundry and linen, Benson, sharpen my razor, polish my boots, brush my coat and see to the necessaries." He said this last with a wave to the chamber pot and wash basin. "If there's mending, you'll do it, and you'll see that the lieutenant's and my meals are delivered up here on a tray from the kitchen of this... establishment. Do you think you can manage all that?"

"Ohhh, yessir, Majur." Benson's round eyes suddenly lit with understanding. "Ye be needin' a gentlemun's gentlemun, then." When Townsend startled, he inhaled proudly and explained, "I been one o'them too."

The obvious pride in the fellow's face made Townsend bite back his sarcastic demand for the identity of the poor wretch who'd employed him. He proceeded to acquaint the fellow with his kit and routines, then handed over his boots for a good cleaning and a polish.

"I'll need them tonight when I take out the evening patrol," he explained. "Lieutenant Brooks and I are trading off patrols; he takes the early patrol, I take the late. It's my expectation we'll have a better chance of nabbing these criminals at night, when they think they're safe under cover of darkness."

Benson settled himself on the floor with rags, polish, and boot brush, and a loud groan filled the room. He looked up, red-faced, into Townsend's puzzled glare. "Don' mind me, Majur. That were jus' my belly talkin'."

Townsend closed his eyes and his strong jaw flexed as if he were still suffering some lingering pain from the morning's unthinkable episode. Bargaining... for food. It was pathetic, the depths to which humans could sink when cut off from the normal decencies of regular commerce. With no cash money available, they were reduced to squabbling and grappling and bartering. Well, he wasn't going to be sucked into it, wheedling and haggling like a fishwife.

He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace in his stocking feet. "We're all hungry, Benson, and tired." For some reason, he'd never felt more so. "But I won't allow a minor annoyance like scarce provisions to jeopardize this mission. If there's food in this valley, I'll have it, by damn. And I'll have the stills and liquor and the wretched criminals themselves along with it!"

"Crimi-nals?" Benson paused with his brush on the boot and frowned. "I didn' see no crimi-nals, Majur. Jus' old men and green lads an' widder wimmen... an' that young gal, that frisky one."

Townsend tightened, realizing that Benson simply echoed the thoughts going through many of his men's heads since they'd arrived in Rapture Valley. "We're here to enforce the law, Benson, to uphold rightly established authority. Whether you realize it or not, we're engaged in a desperate struggle here; the forces of justice and order against the reign of chaos and anarchy. When the good of a people demands the passage of laws, then men have a duty to obey them, and we Townsends have a duty to enforce them on everyone, equally. And I'll succeed in enforcing this law, restoring order... even here."

"How's that, Majur?" Benson was utterly captivated, by his commander's stirring summary of their mission. Why, if his mates-in-arms could only hear this- "Townsends always succeed, whatever the challenge. It's in our nature, bred in our very bones. We turn adversity into triumph, we Townsends. It's our... destiny." He clamped his wrists behind him and paced even harder.

His destiny... and his father's command. In the lengthening silence, his determined pace slowed as he stared into memory, reliving the moment just six weeks before when he'd received that command. He'd answered a summons to his father's study in the heart of their fashionable Boston residence, to be handed a communique from the Secretary of the Army, without a word. As he read his call to military duty, his graying, rail-straight father had watched with a hard look of appraisal, then turned to watch the rain fall on the window. No words were spoken; none were necessary. The expectation was clear; he was to bring home some achievement or honor to serve as political grist. Serving under President Washington in the campaign to put down a "whiskey revolt" in the western provinces was to be his contribution to the family laurels... and just perhaps his final redemption as well.

And nothing, nothing was going to interfere with it. Not assignment to a ragged, undisciplined troop of foot soldiers drawn from the gutters of humanity, not lack of food and clothing and rest, and certainly not a sly, tart-tongued little witch who dressed like a ragbone and kicked like a mule! His tender nether parts began to throb slightly at the reminder and heat rose under his strong cheekbones and crept into his ears. The infuriating little tart with the big green eyes and the lush pouty lips had just succeeded in wriggling into his thoughts again.

The measured, rhythmic shushing of the boot brush on leather imitated the quickening pulse of his blood. He stood, braced, feeling the remnants of the tidal wave of arousal he'd suffered earlier that day. He tried telling himself it was coincidence: he'd been wrought up or angry both times he'd seen her. And her being the irksome, she-devil sort, it was probably natural she'd get under his skin when he was already hot and agitated.

But the sight of her standing in the tavern doorway, with her gingery hair lit from behind as if it were a tarnished halo, seized his mind. Tendrils of excitement curled down through his muscular limbs to tease his sensitive parts. He had stood there like a tongue-tied schoolboy, staring-staring, hell!-absorbing her with his eyes. And all he could think as he searched for the remembered shape of her ripe, succulent breasts beneath her clothes was: "Fresh shirt."

Even now his body was fairly vibrating, thinking of it, and of the way her mouth had looked moments later... open, velvety, inviting, as it came toward him, just before she bit his damned button! He went taut as a bowstring and flushed with fresh humiliation. A bloody frontal assault! And he hadn't had the presence of mind to put up a single shred of resistance. He shuddered as angry steam spurted into his blood. The brazen little witch! He was going to see her repaid for it, stroke for stroke, humiliation for humiliation. He'd make her regret tangling with a Townsend. Townsends always won.

He paced to the window with a vengeful half-sneer and pulled the open shutters a bit wider. He leaned against the sill, surveying the encampment below and taking a deep breath of renewed determination. The sunlight was going, he realized; Lieutenant Brooks would be back soon with his patrol. He should have rested this afternoon while he had the chance; he'd likely be up half the night, thrashing through the woods.

His eye caught on a knot of figures near the trees at the far edge of the tents, in the vicinity of his prisoner. He straightened and scowled, searching them. A white shirt, deerskin breeches and a wide black belt, Lord. It was her; the recognition poured through him like hot sparks, followed by sheer disbelief. How dare she invade his bloody camp to consort with a known suspect?! And his own men were just standing there, not doing a thing about it!

"Dammit!" he snarled, wheeling and making straight for the door. He remembered at the last minute that he was in shirtsleeves, and lunged back to snatch up his coat and shove himself into it. Then at the bottom of the stairs, the cold uneven feel of the puncheon floor made him halt and look down at his stocking-clad feet in dismay. He was back up the stairs in a flash and snatching his boots from Benson's puzzled hands. Now beyond the pale of dignity and decorum, he hopped up and down, storklike, on one leg as he pulled on his boots. And a moment later, he was flying down the stairs a second time, his coat flapping and his face burning.

Whitney and Charlie stood a few paces apart from Aunt Sarah and the others. Her thumbs were tucked in her belt and she shoveled dirt back and forth aimlessly with the toes of her boots; his arms were crossed and he watched her shapely legs move with a wistful expression.

"I... I'm sorry about this, Charlie," she admitted. "It's hard... seeing you in chains."

"It is?" he grinned halfheartedly. "Well, that's somethin', anyway."

"They didn't beat you, or anything, did they?" She looked up into his sturdy, familiar face and his earnest brown eyes and felt perfectly horrible.

"Naw, they jus' give me a poke or two with a gun-butt." His mouth quirked up on one end. "Ye don' have to worry, Whit. I won't say nothin', if n they do beat me.

"I know. You're a good friend, Charlie Dunbar." The last part seemed to stick on something in her throat and she had to lower her eyes again. The part she'd left unspoken was resonant on the air between them. A good friend was what he would always be; no more, no less. But the days of their wild camaraderie, their volatile competition, were gone now, splintered by their separate destinies as a man and a woman. For the first time in their lives, they were silent with each other.

"Well, mebee I could bring m'Charlie a bit o' food, now and again, when we can spare it," Aunt Sarah's voice brought them back to more current matters. She was smiling wanly at the men who sprawled on the grass by her feet, licking their fingers for the fourth time. Freckled Ned and lanky Albert, the sentries they'd pulled from their duties minutes before, were quick to speak up.

"Well you jus' come along, m'am," Albert got to his feet, nodding his head respectfully. "We be pleased to have ye-"

"The hell we will!" came their commander's booming voice, bringing the rest to their feet as though they were attached to strings. They all turned to find the major bearing down on them with a stony face and an angry stride. "Just what in hell are they doing here, soldier?!"

When Albert stammered and looked about for help, Ned blanched and scooped up an empty pie tin to hold it out to his commander as though in explanation. He soon saw the error of his action and it drooped in his hand.

"Just what the devil is that soldier?!" Townsend stuck his chin out and glowered fiercely, sending the young soldier reeling back a pace.

"A... p-pie t-tin, sir."

"I can see that, numskull! What the hell's it doing here?!"

"Th-hey brung it, fer the pris'ner," Ned waved weakly at Aunt Sarah, who had scuttled back toward Whitney's protective embrace.

Townsend's eyes narrowed first on Aunt Sarah and then on Whitney. He turned back to snarl at Ned and Albert, "You've abandoned your posts, a court martial offense. Surrender your weapons and confine yourselves to your tent. You'll face discipline at reveille tomorrow morning before the full company. Move!"