In the shade of a fringe of trees that edged the river bank a troop of cavalry was drawn up in one long, thin line.

Knee to knee, the silent, blue-coated riders sat, waiting, waiting--not for a charge upon the enemy, or orders for a foray through an already harried land.

They waited for a leader--a man who had led them through the heat and cold, through peaceful valleys and the bloody ruck of battle; a man whom they loved and trusted, fearing him only when they shirked a duty or disobeyed the iron laws of war.
This man had been taken from them, himself a servant who had disobeyed these laws, his sword dishonored, his shoulder straps ripped off before their eyes.

And now the troopers waited--and for what?
An order had come which put them on review, a long thin line of horsemen waiting on the river bank, while the sun beat down on the parched red fields, and the waters of the muddy James lazed by as they murmured their sad, low song.
The troopers were silent--waiting.

A horse stamped idly in the dust, and a saber rattled against a booted leg.