Chapter 6

“… I’ll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best …”

The revolver slipped from Clay’s fingers and thudded softly on the dirt floor. Ignoring the moans of the injured man on the table, ignoring Major Price’s corpse, Clay staggered three steps forward and dropped heavily to his knees next to Lot’s silent form. Tenderly he gathered the black sergeant into his arms and began rocking slowly back and forth. After a moment, a low, keening sound began to issue from his throat, a sound unlike any that the witnesses to the scene had ever heard. Periodically, it would drop to impossible depths, reverberating like the lowest notes of a cathedral’s organ and then ascending multiple octaves to a sound so high it almost faded away. The survivors in the tent hardly knew how to respond and were frozen in place until a flap was thrown back and Lieutenant Bierce entered cheerfully whistling a snatch of “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” bringing a whiff of cheap whiskey with him. He took in the scene, froze for a moment, then blurting an obscenity, rushed to Clay’s side.

“Clay! Clay! What has happened here?” He shook the captain’s shoulder but received no response. Bierce examined Clay’s face carefully but saw only a horrifying blank expression, from the mouth of which issued the inhuman sounds of grief. Bierce turned his attention to the motionless Lot. To his own surprise, he found his eyes filling with tears.

Working gently around Clay’s cradling arms, he examined the bleeding wound at the back of Lot’s head, then placed two fingers to the sergeant’s neck. Bierce started, then began to speak to Clay like a small child. “Clay, Jeremiah is alive. His pulse is strong. Clay, do you hear me? Clay, we need you to let him go, so the surgeon here can examine his injuries. Clay. Listen to me, Clay.”

Slowly Clay turned his head to Bierce and seemed to notice him for the first time. “Alive. Are you certain? Alive?”

“At least for the time being. Come on Clay, I need you to be strong. Help me move him to the unoccupied cot.”

Clay slowly shook his head as if confused by something. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, “Of course. I’ll take the legs, you the arms.” With extreme gentleness, they moved Lot past the table holding the moaning soldier to the unoccupied table beyond, stepping gingerly over the body of Dallas Price. The surgeon of the 27th Ohio rushed over and began to efficiently examine the wound.

“Doctor, what happened here?” asked Clay quietly.

The surgeon’s voice quavered, but his fingers were swift and assured. “It happened so quickly, I can hardly say, Captain. Just as we were preparing a poor soul for an amputation, a large lieutenant came in with two cavalrymen, saying he heard someone named Captain Larson was here and that he was needed at Burnside’s headquarters.”

“I’m Larson,” said the former sniper. “A large, handsome feller with a cheerful way about him?”

“That’s the one, sir. Seemed disappointed until he noticed the two ladies that were helping Major Price. Then he said something about having to settle for the ladies and ordered his men to take them. Mrs. Sanders screamed, and Price stepped forward and asked him just what this was about. Then the lieutenant drew this big, strange-looking revolver and just … shot him dead. Dead, sir! Cold-blooded murder. Then the sergeant here made a lunge for the bastard, but before the brave fool could be shot, Miss Duval smacked him in the back of the head with a bottle, and he went down like he was pole-axed. Then cool as you like, she tossed the bottle down and said, ‘No sense in this getting out of hand. Shall we go?’ The Lieutenant looked surprised but recovered real quick. Had his men grab the ladies and told me that if I gave the alarm he’d have their throats cut. I must’ve stood here five minutes or more; then I just couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take it. Started yelling, and that’s when you came in.”

Bierce looked meaningfully at Clay. “Sounds like our friend Solomon Ward.” Bierce then shifted his attention to Larson. “Looks like he’s still determined to eliminate the witnesses to the Fort Pillow massacre.”

“Seems like he’s worried about some sort of trial,” responded Larson. “If I catch him before the law does, he won’t have to worry about no rope.” Larson’s eyes had acquired a flat, dead look.

The surgeon had finished. “Doesn’t seem to be any fracture. No real dilation of the pupils. I expect the sergeant has a concussion. Tricky, but there is no obvious reason for him not to recover.”

Clay giggled, startling everyone in the room. The sound he emitted was definitely a giggle, but was devoid of any trace of amusement. In fact, it made all who heard it uneasy for no reason they could say. A shudder passed through his narrow chest; then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he turned to the surgeon and said, “I am pleasantly surprised to see you, sir. You decided not to stay with the wounded Rebels after all? Not that I blame you. Forrest’s offal is not worth a visit to Andersonville.”

“No, sir, I intended to stay. However, there was a real tragedy. Some straggler snuck into their tent and killed all three before I returned. Slashed their throats. What kind of monster would do that to wounded prisoners? Anyway, no point in staying for bodies.”

“Indeed. I am glad that you remain free and for the service you rendered my sergeant.” Clay glanced at the inert form of Major Price. “There was no point in killing that man. He was unarmed, and a skilled physician. No point at all. His killer seems to be in love with death for death’s sake.” He turned to address Bierce. “Best notify the provost of what happened here.”

“Should I alert the pickets to be on the lookout for three soldiers with two women?”

“There is no reason, Lieutenant. Ward undoubtedly has the passwords and countersigns from … well, he has them. He is long gone with his hostages.”

Bierce nodded grimly, and strode out of the tent. Then with some hesitation in his manner, the surgeon of the 27th Ohio turned to the two captains. “Sirs, as gruesome as it may seem under these circumstances, the soldier on the first table has the beginnings of gangrene in his leg; if there is not an immediate amputation, he is a dead man. While we wait for the provost, could you assist me by holding him steady? There was only enough chloroform to make him woozy, and I fear he will thrash around. It will not take long.”

The two officers nodded and approached the table while the moaning soldier began to scream.

Clay, Larson and Bierce stood with heads bowed before two fresh graves with crude wooden crosses. At Clay’s insistence, the burial party had left them alone.

Larson suddenly broke the silence. “I hear Sanders held with the Episcopalians. Anyone know Major Price’s church?”

Bierce emitted one of his barking, humorless laughs. “General Potter told me Price was a free thinker. I expect he stopped believing in a God of mercy about the time the cholera epidemic in ’59 carried off his wife and all three of his children.” Bierce paused and added almost reluctantly, “Maybe that was why he became so obsessed with treating the sick and wounded.”

“Can’t say I’m much of a church-goer, so I’m not one to talk down his beliefs,” replied Larson. “Still, it ain’t right to leave a good man in the ground without a few words.” The lanky former sniper removed his kepi, bowed his head, and began to speak. “Lord, you know the sins of the two men here a sight better than me. Major Dallas Price may not have been able to believe in you because of the hurts inside him, but he did a powerful lot of healing, and died tryin’ to protect a lady. General William Sanders believed in you, but he betrayed his country and his fellow soldiers, just about the most doggone awful crime there is. Still and all, he did it because he loved his wife, to protect her, and he died tryin’ to set things right. Taken together, they were good men, tried beyond the trials of other men through no fault of theirs. Sinner that I am, I ask that you forgive them and give them eternal peace. Amen.” He restored his kepi and saluted the graves.

Bierce looked sharply at Clay; he could have sworn he heard the captain whisper “amen” as well. Bierce shook his head as if to dismiss the thought; it simply was not possible.

The three officers began to walk towards the hospital tents nearby. “How is Sergeant Lot progressing?” asked Larson.

Looking straight ahead, Clay said, “Very well. The surgeon is perhaps being overcautious in still keeping him confined to bed. However, I agree with the doctor that concussions can be tricky, and no chances should be taken.”

Throwing back the flap to the tent, they entered to find Jeremiah Lot groggy but awake, covered with a thick army blanket to ward off the autumn chill, another folded blanket acting as a crude pillow. The surgeon was elsewhere, undoubtedly tending to other survivors of Longstreet’s failed assault. The only other occupant of the tent was the soldier whose leg was amputated, now sleeping the unnatural sleep that laudanum provided.

As the three officers approached him, Bierce, with artificial cheerfulness, said, “Well, good to see you awake, you goldbricker. It is about time you stopped lolling in the shade near the water barrel and got back to duty.”

“You will do no such thing,” interjected the humorless Clay. “It is sheer good fortune that you are alive, no thanks to your foolishness in attacking an armed man with your bare hands. You will stay here until the surgeon tells me you are completely recovered. In a backhanded way it was good that Duval struck you, although, even there, you were fortunate. Despite what the dime novels say, it is extremely hard to hit someone in the head hard enough to render them unconscious without killing them.”

“I get the point, sir,” responded Lot in a feeble voice, smiling wanly. “It was just that when I saw Dr. Price murdered in cold blood, for no reason at all, something snapped inside of me. At that moment, I wanted to kill Ward and would have done so if it had cost me my life.”

“I still can’t figure why that Duval woman struck you,” commented Larson thoughtfully.

“I blame myself for that,” replied Clay impatiently. “I knew that there was something wrong about her from the moment I first clapped eyes on her.”

“How could you possibly have known that?” asked Bierce.

“There was no objective reason,” replied Clay bitterly. “Call it an instinct or perhaps a hunch. I didn’t trust my feelings and refused to move against her because, in my own mind, I couldn’t point to an objective reason to do so. I tend to worship at ‘the alter of reason,’ but it would seem that, upon occasion, reason can be a false god.”

“Unbelievable,” added Lot from his cot. “A lady with such a Christian demeanor, acting as a spy for the barbarian murderer, Ward, from the beginning. She helped deliver Mrs. Sanders into his power. When Ward learns that General Sanders died frustrating the first assault on Knoxville, he will have no hesitation in adding one more murder to his total. I fear that there is nothing we can do to save Mrs. Sanders now, much less bring Ward and Duval to justice.”

Clay placed a reassuring hand on Lot’s shoulder. “Do not disturb yourself about what you cannot change. Save your strength for your recovery. Sherman’s forces will be here any day, and matters might proceed rather quickly when they arrive.”

“Sherman will be here?” asked the surprised Lot. “What about Longstreet?”

“While you have been lollygagging around, there have been some major events,” responded Bierce. “Looks like Longstreet learned of the approach of Sherman’s boys and felt that with all the losses he’d had, he could not stand up to them. Our scouts have confirmed that the Rebs are leaving. It appears they’re circling around Knoxville and heading east into Virginia, undoubtedly to rejoin Lee. Aside from a few roving bands of Forrest’s cavalry, the danger is over, Sergeant.”

“Then we’ve saved the loyalists,” responded Lot. “I knew that somehow God would grant us victory.” A wan smile flitted over Lot’s face, while the atheist Bierce, genuinely fond of the black sergeant, firmly held his tongue in place.

“We will leave you to rest,” said Clay abruptly. “Gentlemen, come with me.” With affectionate waves to the wounded Lot, the three officers exited the tent. Once outside, Clay said, “Be so good as to walk with me for a while, gentlemen.”

The three officers left the grounds of the hospital area and began strolling down the main street of Knoxville. The atmosphere was very different than it had been just a few days before. Soldiers still bustled back and forth on innumerable errands, but there were smiles on their faces as they did so. The civilian refugees that they encountered, white and black, still looked ragged and hungry, but hope and optimism shined in their eyes. The siege of Knoxville was over, and it showed.

Suddenly Clay began to speak without looking at his companions, as if thinking aloud while they walked. “During the first assault on Poe’s fort, I thought I saw in the distance Longstreet and Forrest on a hill. It was so far away that I could not be certain. Still, some instinct inside of me insisted that it was them. In that moment, I felt an urge to leap on a horse, charge right through the battle and up to Forrest so that I could kill him with my own hands. It was what I wanted to do more than anything on earth, and I could die content once it was done. Of course, I resisted the impulse. Logic told me I could not make half the distance to them before I was inevitably killed.”

Bierce knew the story about how the slave-trader, Forrest, had taken Clay’s lover Arabella, sister to Jeremiah Lot and his cousin by Clay’s uncle, and sold her to a Louisiana family who maltreated her until she took her own life. The family paid a terrible price in an evening of blood and flame. Unlike Bierce, Larson did not know the story and looked uneasily at Clay.

“I can’t help but see you’ve got a powerful hatred for Forrest and his boys,” said the lanky sharp-shooter. “Don’t mind that. After what I saw at Fort Pillow, I’d pay gold to see Forrest hang, but what have you got against him?”

“It is a personal matter. In any event, the fate of General Sanders set me to thinking. I am certain that Generals Grant and Burnside will want Sanders’ treason kept a secret, for a number of reasons. Therefore, Sanders’ death, a genuinely brave one, will elevate him to the status of a national hero. That made me realize that even if I succeed in killing Nathan Bedford Forrest, I might only succeed in making him a hero to the Confederacy. It’s not enough to kill Forrest. He must be utterly destroyed, now and after his death.”

Larson looked away from Clay, taken aback at the calm, un­emotional way such undying hatred was expressed. Even Bierce felt a chill go through him, a chill that had nothing to do with the crisp autumn air.

“Forrest must be brought to trial, for the Fort Pillow murders and … for other crimes,” continued Clay. “His depraved bestiality, his barbaric, uncivilized nature must be demonstrated publicly to the world. There must not be the slightest trace of sympathy or admiration for him when he goes to the gallows, even in the Confederacy.” He turned his calm blue eyes on Larson. “That’s why it’s so important to me that you survive to testify against him. You are the only one living who actually witnessed the command to slay. With your testimony, he will not be able to claim that his men went out of control without his knowledge. And that’s why I must go and see if I can capture Solomon Ward alive. I am certain that I will be able to persuade him to testify to his commander’s orders. Also, if possible, I will rescue Mrs. Sanders from his clutches, if she still lives. I promised Sanders I would try to protect his wife while he lay dying, and a Clay will not go back on such a promise.”

“You aim to do that alone?” asked Larson. “It don’t seem the smartest thing in the world. Should at least let me and Bierce tag along. Besides, how do you aim to find Ward, short of walkin’ up to Longstreet’s whole army and asking for him?”

“I believe if I move quickly, it is possible to snare him. When we were going through General Sanders’ effects, I found a small scrap of paper. It contained, in his own hand, directions to a small farm that appears to be northeast of Knoxville. The paper has no indication of what the place is. It might possibly designate a meeting-place, directions to which were provided by Ward during their last meeting between the lines. There would almost have to be such a meeting place, in order that Ward could receive information from Sanders. Ward did not dare use his disguise of a Union officer too many times to penetrate our lines. As leader of our cavalry and responsible for scouting, Sanders could venture alone outside our lines without arousing too much suspicion. Right now, time is of the essence. As part of Forrest’s cavalry, Ward is undoubtedly staying in the area to screen Longstreet from Sherman’s advance, but as soon as Longstreet has a good head start, the cavalry will follow. That’s why this must be done today.”

“Sounds like another one of your corkers,” added Bierce cheerfully. “I really wish you’d let Larson and me come along for fun.”

“Gentlemen, it is not a question of your bravery; both of you have demonstrated that many times over. It is just that I am likely to fail, with or without your help, and I would prefer that neither of you suffered the consequences of my failure. Please be so good as to watch over Sergeant Lot. That is the greatest assistance you can render me.” They had reached the hotel that served as the army headquarters. Clay turned and saluted his fellow officers saying, “Good-by gentlemen. We will meet again within one day, if we meet again at all.” Without awaiting their response, he strode into the building.

Clay walked into the ground-floor parlor that served as Burnside’s office. To his surprise, it was General Potter sitting behind the commander’s desk. Potter himself was surprised. He had been staring moodily at a hip flask clutched in one hand and glanced at Clay guiltily. As Clay saluted, Potter lay the silver container carefully aside and said “Yes, Captain, what is it?”

“My apologies, sir. I expected to find General Burnside here.”

“He is gone for several hours with General Parke, out to the west. They’re hoping to establish contact with General Sherman’s vanguard this very day. General Burnside could easily have left that to subordinates, but he felt very restless and decided to go himself. In any event, he has left me in command in his absence. How may I be of service to you?”

In a few clipped sentences, Clay explained his madcap plan. Potter looked at him and occasionally nodded, but it was obvious that the general’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“In any event sir, I need your permission to leave our lines—and a pass to assure no trouble from the pickets,” said Clay in conclusion. “Ward’s repeated penetration of our lines in the guise of a Union officer has left our people suspicious, if not positively jumpy.”

“If this is what you want, then be it on your head,” replied Potter with surprising fatalism. He took a pen and a small piece of paper, swiftly wrote a couple of lines on it, and scrawled his signature at the bottom. Handing it Clay, he said morosely, “I fear your chances of success are small, Captain, but you do have my best wishes for securing Ward and liberating Sanders’ widow.”

Clay took the pass and pocketed it but did not immediately turn to leave. Instead, he focused his pale blue eyes on Potter for some moments, and then spoke. “General, I was privileged to witness your bravery during the final Rebel attack on our lines. The way you slowly walked back and forth in full view of enemy marksman, showing not the slightest concern for danger—even singing a patriotic song. It must have greatly heartened your men in the moment of their greatest peril. They must have believed you the bravest officer they had ever seen.”

“The greatest fraud they had ever seen,” murmured Potter. “You might as well know, Captain, I was terrified. Terrified out of my wits.”

“That may be, sir, but you showed no sign of it. They all must have seen what I saw: a calm, collected leader who placed himself in great peril to provide an inspiring example.”

“That may be what they saw, but that is not what I am. I am a fraud who fears dying with every waking moment and can hardly get through a day without alcohol.”

“Were you in liquor during the attack?” asked Clay quietly.

“No. No, I wasn’t. Strangest thing, Clay. At the height of the battle, I had no need of it at all. It’s only before or after that I seem to need its help. Thank God for the men that I hadn’t … well, I had held off …” Potter’s voice trailed away, and he glanced at the flask on the desk with something akin to fear.

“General, I will now be presumptuous, and I would not blame you if you took offense,” said Clay. “Nevertheless, this must be said, just between the two of us. You may be afraid, but you are not the coward you fear. A coward would have run away during the attack—or drank himself senseless. When your men needed your example to overcome their own fears, you did not fail them. Nonetheless, you must consider that if you continue to … overindulge, you will be of no use to them. Someday there might be a sudden call for your leadership, and you will fail that call. I do not believe that you need to rely on spirits, but you must be your own judge on this matter.”

Before the astonished Potter could respond, Clay smartly saluted, turned, and left the room.

The bearded Confederate leaned lazily against a tree, slowly chewing tobacco while he considered his future. There was no doubt that being in Major Ward’s “special squad” beat the hell out of being with the rest of the company, never mind with Forrest’s other units. True, there was a good chance of being killed in Ward’s service, but there was a much better chance of that with the rest of the army. No frontal assaults against entrenched infantry or into the maws of cannon for Ward’s pets.

Aside from that one botched raid on Burnside’s column just before the bluebellies made it to Knoxville, it seemed service with Ward was just about the safest place you could be in the Confederate army. Even that raid would have been a cakewalk if they could have all used their Colts, reflected the man. Still, Ward had ordered no chance be taken of killing the women by accident, and if the man had learned one thing, it was that you did not cross Major Solomon Ward. He remembered the punishment that had been meted out to a cavalryman who had not followed orders exactly, and he shuddered.

The man spat tobacco juice and continued to think on his future. Yes, the danger was not great, and the rewards were considerable. Those on Ward’s “special squad” got paid in gold out of Ward’s own pockets—none of that worthless Confederate paper for the special squad. Still, he pondered, maybe it was time to take French leave, filter up into the north, and lose himself in one of the big cities there.

Everything about the special squad was beginning to get on his nerves. Even the gold wasn’t quite right—always Spanish pieces at least two hundred years old. And the things the special squad had to do from time to time! It was not that he minded killing nigger-loving Union sympathizers, he told himself. They deserved all that they got. It was the way the major insisted they be killed sometimes that bothered him. It was all right to kill those Yankee-lovers at that farm last month—maybe even all right to put out the traitor’s eyes. However, to make him watch what was done to his boy first was too far—never mind what was done to the boy himself. The man regarded himself as a free thinker who had left Christian superstitions far behind. Still, he shuddered at the mere thought of nailing the poor little bastard upside-down on the cross—and of what had been done to the tyke’s heart.

In its own way, he thought the girl was even worse. To his surprise, he had not actually been able to participate in the … enjoyment of the girl. The man knew he was not the only one in the special squad that was becoming unnerved at some of Ward’s actions. No, he thought, it was about time to go—perhaps this very night. He had saved most of the Spanish gold Ward had given him. With a good horse and a few rations, he could be clean up to Kentucky before …

Swift as lighting, a blue-clad arm snaked around the tree against which the rebel lounged. The arm ended in a bright piece of metal, which sliced once. His life’s blood gushed out in powerful squirts. The man was only able to gurgle softly once, before he fell to the soft forest floor and died. Alphonso Clay stepped quietly from behind the tree and looked expressionlessly at the man he had just killed. He leaned down and wiped the blade of his Bowie knife clean on the man’s clothes, just like he had done a few minutes before, after having snuffed out one of the dead man’s comrades.

He then looked down the slope at the rude cabin near the stream, just where Sanders’ map had indicated that it would be. Six horses were tethered to various nearby trees, which implied Ward and three troopers, assuming there had been a separate horse for each of the two women. Clay had dispatched the two who had been assigned as sentries. That left Ward and one other armed man inside the cabin, calculated Clay. Not impossibly long odds, since he had dispatched the sentries before they could give the alarm. His main concern was that Mrs. Sanders might be harmed if he did not approach this in just the correct fashion. He was also apprehensive about whether Duval was inside and what role she would play. He did not underestimate the danger she could pose but felt additional motivation from the opportunity to deal with her. Clay always believed in killing two birds with one stone wherever possible.

Moving with the assured stealth of an Indian, Clay glided from tree to tree, angling his approach to avoid the door and the cabin’s single window. It was true that the door was closed, the window covered with tarpaper, but Clay was determined to take no un­necessary risks. Having attained the cabin wall to the left of the door, Clay smoothly drew his Smith & Wesson Number 2, carefully cocking it. Drawing a deep breath, he surged into motion, kicking the door open and leaping into the cabin’s one large room.

Ward was sitting at a plank table with Marjorie Sanders and Duval. The instant the door had flown open, Ward leapt to his feet, jerked the indignant widow in front of him with one arm while drawing his large LeMat revolver with the other, and held the massive weapon to her head. A surprised cavalryman stood frozen in the act of tending a kettle that hung over the fire that fitfully smoked on the hearth. Teresa Duval sat quietly at the table, to all appearances unconcerned.

Ward laughed heartily. “Well, well, Alphonso Clay, at last. I had begun to give up on my hopes that you would act on the map I left Sanders. I am relieved that my faith in you was not misplaced.”

Clay frowned slightly in puzzlement, but the revolver in his hand was rock-steady. “Release Mrs. Sanders. If you and your man surrender without resistance, you will be taken prisoner according to the usages of war.”

Ward laughed again. “My, my, a true barracks lawyer. Usages of war, indeed! Do you recognize the gun in my hand? It’s a LeMat. A truly fearsome gun. Nine chambers containing .42-caliber balls, and a central barrel with a load of buckshot. I’ve set the trigger to fire the central barrel at the slightest touch. If you do not immediately drop your weapon, I will blow this woman’s head apart. I know that you are capable of killing me at this range without harming Mrs. Sanders, but you know that you could not stop me from reflexively pulling the trigger.”

“Don’t listen to him! He’ll never kill that bitch!” shouted Duval suddenly.

“On the count of three, then,” said Ward. “One … two …”

Clay made his decision in an instant. In a smooth action, he uncocked the Smith & Wesson and allowed it to fall to the floor. He knew that he could kill Ward in a moment, but that in that moment, Ward could put a load of buckshot into the head of his hostage. He gave no thought to putting himself into Ward’s power. He was a Clay and incapable of violating his promise to the dying General Sanders and allowing his wife to come to harm.

“Much better,” responded Ward. “Now we can talk in a civilized manner like gentlemen. Please be so good as to sit in the chair I have just vacated.”

As Clay walked around the table, eyes never leaving Ward’s face, he said “I have done as you wish. Please unhand Mrs. Sanders.” Clay sat in the empty chair ramrod straight, his spine never touching the back of the chair.

With a laugh, Ward released his hostage. “Please collect the good captain’s weapon.” A smile on her face, Marjorie Sanders stepped over to where Clay had been, bent over to retrieve the revolver, and brought it back to Ward, who responded, “Thank you, my dear.”

Clay’s eyes widened, the only outward sign of the stunning shock that he felt. Teresa Duval glared savagely at him, saying, “Stupid bastard. I warned you. They’re in it together.” Her New England twang was gone, replaced by a definite Irish brogue. Clay turned to look at her, and from his seated vantage, he could now see that her hands were tied together, while a stout rope around her middle secured her to the chair itself. He turned his attention back to Ward, who was now pointing his LeMat at Clay, while Mrs. Sanders took his arm possessively and smiled.

“I see,” Clay said quietly to her. “How long have you and this animal been lovers?”

The smile left Marjorie Sander’s face. “That comes ill from the man the newspapers still call ‘The Beast of New Orleans.’” She nodded to the trooper by the fire. “Pierce, please bind Captain Clay as securely as you did the white trash.”

“More securely,” added Ward. “He has abilities that might surprise you.” Clay did not resist as the solder warily tied first his hands and then his feet, always taking care to stay out of Ward’s line of fire. Finally, after gingerly relieving Clay of the Bowie knife, he fastened Clay to the chair, giving a vicious last jerk as he finished tightening the bonds. The soldier seemed mildly disappointed that Clay gave no sign of discomfort. He then said, “Major, want that I get Hopkins and Sweeney?”

“Oh, by all means find their remains; I expect our visitor has taken care of them very efficiently.”

With a surly glance at Clay, the soldier left, closing the door behind him. With a flourish, Ward brought a chair over to Sanders, who daintily settled herself in it. Finally, he drew up the room’s remaining chair to the table across from Clay, seated himself, and stared at the captain with bright-eyed satisfaction.

Clay shook his head slowly. “I should have suspected someone of your character would not normally travel with a Praetorian Guard of only three. You lured me here and did not want me warned off by impossible odds.”

“A risk Clay, but an acceptable one, given that I expected you to be bold and energetic.”

“So, how do you propose to deliver me to Richmond?”

With a laugh, Ward replied, “Who said anything about delivering you to Richmond?”

Clay seemed taken aback. “I assume the purpose of this trap was to secure me for a public trial over my actions in New Orleans. A trial very embarrassing to Washington, here and in Europe.”

Mrs. Sanders laughed softly. “We certainly do not wish to see you hang, Captain Clay. When the Confederate Congress passed an act requiring General Benjamin Butler to be executed upon capture rather than taken prisoner, as punishment for his crimes in Louisiana, did you never wonder why you were not included in its provisions as well?”

Reluctantly, Clay replied, “It had struck me as strange, madam.”

“Wade Hampton and others of us worked quietly behind the scenes to have your name dropped from the legislation. President Davis was disturbed by that but had to accept it. Wade Hampton owns over one hundred thousand acres and twenty thousand slaves, and Davis simply does not have the power to run afoul of Wade and our other friends.”

Teresa Duval could no longer stay silent. “And who are these ‘friends’ you keep talking about?” she rasped.

Ward laughed. “Captain Clay knows. Why don’t you illuminate your scrub friend there?”

Clay said only two words. “Starry Wisdom.”

Ward laughed again. “Oh, the newspapers! How they liked that name! So sensational! It was merely an alias given to our New England friends, a name that would make them seem at worst a collection of religious cranks. Our group is so old and far-flung, it has no common name. So hard to take a group calling itself ‘Starry Wisdom’ seriously—so hard to persuade officials to waste time looking deeper into its activities.” The smile left his face. “Your late friend, John Brown of Providence, proved we were overconfident. Of course, Professor Slaughter was a fool and left evidence where none should have been left, but still, any large group has a few fools, and we should have taken that into account.”

Frowning, Duval asked Clay, “What’s this English-loving bastard talking about?”

Ward was laughing again. “Yes, by all means tell the slut, Clay.”

Never taking his eyes off Ward, Clay said, “I have no idea to what this man refers.”

“Why, he is referring to a small group that seek knowledge, and through that knowledge power, Miss Duval,” responded Sanders in a sweet voice. “Power beyond the imaginings of most people—not just the power of superior people over slaves, not just the power of people of quality over white trash, not even power over a nation. For those who believe, for those who help, power literally beyond imagining.”

Duval laughed harshly and turned her attention to Clay. “English-loving bitch must have the pox! Only someone with a softened brain could …” She trailed off.

Clay was not laughing. He stared at Ward and Sanders with an expression of disgust, but not mirth or disbelief. “You cannot. Too much is uncertain, the risks too high. You do not have the knowledge,” he said.

Ward’s expression sobered for a moment. “True enough. Starry Wisdom has built great influence and acquired great wealth, done in ways that would astonish your friend, but of course not you. However, the key to the ultimate eludes us. Oh, we’ve tried over the decades, we’ve tried. You might be surprised to know how many of Wade Hampton’s twenty thousand slaves have disappeared in our efforts to find that key. And then we learned of your existence and deduced what your German grandfather must have done, realizing that you yourself might be the key. That’s why it was so important to possess you alive. When we learned of your presence with the Union army, obtaining you intact became my principle assignment, although certain other duties also occupied my time.”

“You are quite mad,” responded Clay, the first hint of fear marking his placid features. “Friedrich von Juntz was nothing more than a scholar, about whom the ignorant rabble assembled outrageous stories.”

“Tell me then, what was the name of your grandmother? What was the name of your mother’s mother, von Juntz’s mate? From whence did your mother spring?”

The bound Clay shrugged his shoulders. “My mother was a natural child of a Prussian Junker. There was undoubtedly shame, and the mother’s name was hidden.”

“We have been able to piece it together. Some from your grandfather’s Unausprechlichen Kulten, which had hints of what we had already learned in other ways, and which revealed so much more: the unknown nature of your grandmother, the strange manner of your grandfather’s death, torn literally to pieces while in a locked room. Furthermore, your father was at one time a member of our brotherhood, although he broke with us due to his lack of belly for the methods we were exploring. You of course knew of his association with us, did you not?”

The faintest spots of red appeared on Clay’s cheeks. He did not reply.

Then Ward continued. “Cicero Clay was a hypocrite of the first water. He broke with us because he disapproved of doing what needed to be done, but when he learned of your mother’s existence, he virtually flew across the Atlantic. I imagine he expected to set forth a whole brood of superior Clays on the world. He did not anticipate your mother’s death in childbed. Still, he had you. It wasn’t perfect; nothing ever is. Take your vision, for instance; it is a shame about the spectacles. However, all else worked as he had hoped.”

“What is this bastard talking about?” growled Teresa Duval. Beneath the level of the table, out of sight of Ward and Sanders, with the tiniest of motions, she was flexing her wrists, the wrists that she had braced as hard as she had dared while she was being bound and had now relaxed, leaving slack. The amount of slack was tiny, but sweat was beginning to lubricate her efforts, and she was confident that she could discretely free her hands if given enough time.

“Tell her Clay,” responded Ward with a laugh. “Tell her how you were always the number one student in every class you ever took, without exception. Tell her how you ranked number one at Miskatonic College and at Harvard, the finest universities in the Americas. Tell her just how fast you can be, just how strong you are, when the need arises. We know. We have been discretely checking ever since we realized what Cicero had done. Tell her the abilities your ancestry gives, what you can command—like calling to like, as it were. Tell her about the night at the Devereaux plantation, when you held your dead nigger whore in your arms, uttering the words, and the response you received. We had the story from a witness. If you had made certain preparations, the response would have been all you desired.”

Clay turned to Duval. He gave no sign that from his angle he could see her patiently working on her bonds. “Miss Duval, I fear we have fallen into the hands of a ‘monomaniac,’ suffering from what some of the European alienists call a ‘fixed delusion.’ It is best to do what he says; such people are very dangerous when their delusions are contradicted.”

Ward’s mask of affability began to slip. “Tell the cracker what you like! You know I speak the truth. Well, you will be coming with us as a prisoner, with this woman as hostage for your good behavior. There is a place on one of Hampton’s estates where we will have complete privacy. We hope that you will see the point of voluntary cooperation. Regardless, we will eventually have your cooperation, voluntary or no. Think of that on our journey because I assure you, we will stop at nothing, literally nothing, to shorten the way.”

In a voice scarcely above a whisper, Clay said, “Was not owning human beings as chattels, treating them as objects, enough for your thirst for power? Do you realize what your success will mean for mankind?”

“Who cares about the white trash, much less niggers, chinks, and Indians?” replied Sanders. “The elite will rule as they should. I started to explain that to my husband, once Solomon had inducted me into the mysteries, but William was weak,” she said thoughtfully, not a trace of sorrow or guilt in her voice. “I saw the look of growing horror on his face, and I realized that the same weakness that kept him enslaved to the pitiful democracy of the Union kept him blind to my love for Solomon. His weakness would never allow him to be free of conscience or delusions of morality—as a truly superior person should be. I convinced him that I was playing a joke—the poor fool, such putty in my hands. Later I came up with the idea of having Solomon pretend to threaten my life, in order to obtain William’s cooperation. Poor, love-struck idiot! There was nothing he would not do to protect me.”

“You are both quite mad,” said Clay, a note of wonder creeping through his voice. He gave no sign that with his excellent peripheral vision he saw what the table prevented the lovers from seeing: that Duval had succeeded in slipping her hands free but continued to hold her arms as if still bound.

Teresa Duval was extremely glad that she had spent some time with that traveling magician some years ago, the one who had taught her his secrets of escaping from various kinds of knots. Now, however, came the hardest part. Willing herself to keep the rest of her body absolutely still, she inched her hand toward the cunningly concealed pocket in her dress. When Ward had first captured her, he had relieved her of the Sharp’s pepperbox but had not detected the slim, specially sharpened razor. With tiny movements, she edged the implement into her hand, opened the blade, and began to cut with delicate motions the rope that held her to the chair. She was confident that she would be free in moments. She only hoped that Clay did not notice what she was doing and give the game away with his reaction. Luckily, Clay appeared to be oblivious, keeping his eyes focused on Solomon Ward.

“With all of your delusions, I am surprised you had the time to try to assassinate Captain Larson,” commented Clay sarcastically. “With such power within your grasp, why should you fear any tale he might tell about Fort Pillow?”

A genuinely uneasy look flitted across Ward’s face. “I have always been aware that chance might thwart our goals. If any other policeman but John Brown had looked into the child disappearances in Providence, I am sure Professor Slaughter would have been able to throw dust in his eyes, and success would have ours without your assistance. Chance thwarted our carefully nurtured plans then. And now, I need to assure that there is no credible witness to what happened at Fort Pillow. I do not underestimate how dangerous a man Nathan Bedford Forrest could be. I would not want him as a complication as we move toward our goal.”

Clay looked genuinely confused. “Why on Earth would you fear Forrest? You implemented his obscene order—and did it very well.”

Ward laughed, but now his laugh was somewhat forced, and he replied with anger in his voice. “Damn low-born scrub, placed in a position to give me orders! That demonstrates why there is no more hope for the Confederacy than for the Union. I knew how to deal with niggers who dared to take up arms against their betters, and told him so, but the money-grubbing scrub told me to take the darkies for sale and the white officers as prisoners. Imagine, telling me what to do with property in rebellion! Well, as soon as he was out of earshot, I gave the order to kill everyone.”

Clay looked stunned. “That is not possible,” he said in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper. “The massacre must have been Forrest’s doing. It must have been.”

“When Forrest found out what happened, he was almost out of his mind with rage,” responded Ward. “Not about the dead Yankees, he could not have cared less about them. I had made an error. I did not realize just how seriously he took someone defying his orders. He threatened to kill me on the spot, and I knew that he meant it. That kind of threat is to be respected from Forrest, illiterate scrub that he is.”

A trace of a smile flitted across Clay’s face. “I can well understand your concerns. People in both North and South are still talking about the little disagreement he had with one of his staff officers a few months back.”

“What is that? I don’t believe I heard of it,” said Duval, her rigid posture giving not the slightest sign of the tiny back-and-forth sawing movements of her hands as she delicately attacked the rope that bound her to the chair.

“The account I read was hardly credible,” explained Clay. “The story went that the argument escalated until the young officer drew his Colt and shot Forrest in the belly. Instead of falling, Forrest grabbed the man’s gun arm, drew a small clasp knife from his pocket, and eviscerated his assailant. What’s even more unbelievable is that Forrest recovered within weeks from being gut-shot, which frankly seems impossible.”

“You can believe it,” said Ward grimly. “I came on the scene moments after it happened. So you see, it’s not cowardice but healthy respect that makes it necessary for me to hide my responsibility for doing what needed to be done at Fort Pillow. Of course, in time, I will be in a position to render Forrest harmless to myself, or anyone else, but I must be circumspect until then. In any event …”

The door was flung open. Ward’s soldier strode into the room, murderous fury on his face. “Hopkins and Sweeney are dead all right,” the soldier grated. “He slaughtered them like sheep! I’ll have the Yankee bastard beggin’ for death.”

“You will do no such thing,” interrupted Ward. “Fortunes of war, and all that. Captain Clay will be our guest on a very long ride. You will be extremely cautious about him, but his life must never be put at risk. Now go prepare the horses. After they’re ready, we will very carefully secure the captain and his lady-friend so that they will not be able to make a break, and then start immediately.”

“But Major, ain’t we gonna bury …”

“No time for that Pierce. However, what I intended to pay them will fall to your portion; I presume that will sooth your grief over your late comrades.”

“Well, all right,” responded the soldier, somewhat mollified. He turned and left the cabin.

Ward then spoke to his paramour. “My dear, it is best for us to answer the calls of nature before we set out. Of course, one of us should stay with our guests at all times. Please keep them entertained for a few moments. When I return, I will perform the same service for you.” He handed Sanders the LeMat. Despite her delicate appearance and the massiveness of the weapon, she took the gun and held it with familiarity, barrel aimed between Clay and Duval. Ward left the cabin. Holding the pistol rock steady, Sanders smiled sweetly at the two captives. Clay ignored the blonde woman and addressed his fellow captive. “Miss Duval, I believe I owe you something of an apology. I could tell from the moment I met you that you were up-from-the-gutter Irish and were aping the manners of your betters to conceal something unsavory.”

“Captain Clay, if that is your apology, I dread your insults,” responded Duval with a cynical laugh. She had finished severing the rope around her belly but kept it from falling by holding the severed ends with her fingertips; the table continued to block Marjorie Sanders’ view. Duval now realized that from his angle Clay could see perfectly well what she had done, but had not given the slightest sign. She decided that the next few moments would be interesting indeed.

“I am curious as to why you struck Sergeant Lot.”

“The stupid darky was going to start another brawl, in which I feared I would be killed. It was the purest of self-preservation, Captain.”

Clay stared steadily at her for a moment, then said, “It is very lucky for you that you did not kill him. I have obligations to the sergeant that would have required me to take certain actions, actions that would be distasteful to me, should he have died. This is over and above what I owe you for an extremely unpleasant evening. What did you use, digitalis in the tea?”

Duval emitted one of her silvery, heartless laughs. “Luck had nothing to do with the sergeant. I have had some experience with the cosh in my earlier life, and I know just how much force will stun a man and just how much will break his skull. If he lived, it’s because I didn’t want him to die.” She paused, then spoke with a note of genuine regret in her voice. “As for the … other thing, I felt that you were a threat to me and needed to be put out of the way. Believe me or don’t, I am somewhat pleased that I was unsuccessful.”

Clay looked appraisingly at her, then replied, “You’re a very remarkable woman, Miss Duval. It was obvious from the first that you were playing a very deep, sinister game. I still believe that you are, although I now see it is not on behalf of the Confederacy, or of Major Ward’s friends. To my shame, I allowed the deference I automatically feel toward a well-born woman to lull my suspicions concerning Mrs. Sanders. With hindsight I can see that she yields nothing to you in the arts of deception and concealment.”

Sanders frowned and said “That is very ungallant, Captain.”

However, Clay ignored her and continued to speak to Duval. “I am curious about a few things. Now that it seems that the proper authorities will not ever be hearing what we discuss, I hope you will satisfy my curiosity. It was you who killed the three wounded Rebels, was it not?”

Duval hesitated, then just nodded her head once.

“That puzzles me. Why did you do it? You are clearly not a Union irregular.”

Duval frowned, as if something unpleasant had crossed her mind. “I have no love for the English; why is something I will keep to myself. But when I see the damned Rebels trying to bring in the English aristocracy, setting up class distinctions, aping aristocratic manners, giving them airs over those in the dust, it causes me no love for anyone who follows the stars and bars.” She hesitated, then added, “It was stupid of me to take the risk; it did not aid me in my … job. But that little surgeon from the 27th Ohio is a good man—a fool and an idealist, but a good man. God knows there are precious few of them. When I heard him say he would stay with those bastards even if it meant Andersonville … well, it just didn’t seem that I should let that happen, if I could prevent it without risk to myself. It wasn’t too difficult, after all.”

Clay shifted his gaze to Mrs. Sanders. “Madam, you can see that there is indeed a large difference between yourself and Miss Duval, but it is not one of class and breeding. I am certain that there are many dark corners in her background, but unlike you, she will occasional give consideration to something beyond her own wants and desires. Certainly she would never lower herself to betraying a good man who loved her, for an animal lust after a creature such as Ward, rendering herself lower than the grimiest Louisville whore.”

Marjorie Sanders was not accustomed to being addressed in such a manner. A hard, angry look on her face, her attention completely on Clay, she leveled the revolver directly at the center of his chest and said “How dare you! If you were not so vital …”

Duval took instant advantage of the distraction Clay had provided her. She hurled herself across the table, razor in hand. The impact knocked the surprised Sanders backwards out of her chair. The two women landed hard on the floor in a confused tangle. With one hand, Duval held the arm that possessed the gun away, while she slashed at the other woman’s throat. At the last instant, Sanders ducked her head to protect her neck, and the blade instead inflicted a deep wound on her cheek. Crying out and reflexively dropping the gun, Sanders shoved Duval violently away and rolled to the far wall, clutching her wounded face and screaming. Swiftly pocketing her razor, Duval quickly scooped up the LeMat and pointed it at Sanders.

“Don’t kill her!” bellowed Clay. “We may need her to negotiate our escape. Come cut me loose before Ward and his man return.”

Glancing at Sanders and seeing the woman was rolling back and forth on the floor, unlikely to be a threat for the moment, Duval turned and walked toward Clay, reaching into her pocket with her free hand, removing the razor and flipping it open with a casual movement of her wrist. She thought to herself that she would have no need of Clay in effecting her escape and that Clay suspected far too much about her to be allowed to live. As Clay looked steadily at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles, she reflected that all that was needed was a quick slashing of his throat; then using Marjorie Sanders as a shield she could easily kill Ward and Pierce. After that, she would dispatch the woman, and no one would be left who could tell tales.

She reached Clay, bent over, and to her immense surprise, severed the bindings on his wrists with a few strokes. A few more freed him from the rope around his body. Clay stood up, massaging his hands to restore circulation, while Duval stood immobile, marveling how her body had rebelled against her conscious plans, and searching her mind for some explanation.

Hurried steps were heard approaching the door; Sanders’ cries had attracted attention. With an impossibly quick movement, Clay plucked the revolver from Duval’s hand, cocked it, and swiveled it toward the door just as Pierce burst into the cabin, Colt in hand. Clay fired, and Pierce’s head jerked; the cavalryman fell backward into Ward, who reflexively grabbed the dying man. Clay pointed the revolver at Ward’s head, cocked it, and said, “Please raise your hands, Major, and join your paramour in the corner.”

Casting a venomous look at Clay, Ward let the soldier’s body slide heavily to the ground, and he went to the corner where Sanders now lay softly weeping, clutching her wounded face, blood oozing between her fingers. “What have you done to her?” he snarled.

“Silence. She had a disagreement with Miss Duval. Miss Duval seems to have had the better of the argument. I believe the wound is rather superficial, although unpleasant to view. You may tend to her as best you can, but do not utter a word.” Clay then turned to Duval. “Take one of the horses and ride like the wind for Knoxville. Explain the situation there, and immediately return with a cavalry squad. These are very dangerous people, and it is just possible that there are more of Forrest’s men around. It would be unwise for us to transport these prisoners to Knoxville by ourselves. Pushing the horse as fast as you can, it should take half an hour for you to attain Knoxville. To explain the situation, obtain an escort, then return should take about an hour. I will therefore see you in about an hour and a half. Alas, there is one thing that I want from you before you go.”

“Really?” said Duval as she restored her weapon to its hiding place.

“I am certain that if I inquire deeply into your background, I would discover a number of criminal, unsavory matters. However, I am all too aware that you could discover the same in my background, and I am not a hypocrite. Therefore, as a condition of my not making further inquiries, I want your word of honor that you have not in the past and will not in the future take any actions against the Government of the United States, or in favor of the so-called Confederacy. Oh, and that you will make no more attempts upon my life.”

Duval laughed her silvery laugh. “My word of honor? Honor is a fiction, a meaningless concept used by aristocrats to justify their pride and greed. You would not seriously put store in any such assurance from me, would you?”

“Do I have it?” replied Clay.

Duval started to laugh again but checked herself. Looking strangely at Clay, she said, “I will not phrase it ‘terms of honor,’ but you can wager the farm that I will never help English-loving bastards like those two in the corner. As for the other matter, it would seem there is no longer a need for me to take such … decisive action.”

Nodding his head, Clay replied, “Very well. Now make haste. Take whichever of the horses outside seems the strongest. I will see you in ninety minutes.” Duval strode out of the cabin, banging the flimsy door behind her. Clay turned to his prisoners. Ward had helped Sanders to her feet. She was holding her lover’s handkerchief to her wounded cheek; the bleeding had slowed with the pressure, proving Clay’s assertion that the wound was relatively superficial.

Holding his arm around Sanders, Ward looked at Clay with a weird mixture of rage, fear, and plaintiveness in his features. “Clay, it is still not too late,” he said urgently. “We can be gone long before the bitch returns with soldiers. It’s still not too late for you to join. It is still not too late for you to gain power unimaginable, to view wonders incredible.”

Clay was silent for several moments, seeming to consider what Ward said. “I am not immune to attraction of power and of wonders,” he said finally. “However, as a Clay, I can never dis­regard the demands of honor and decency. To throw in with you would be to abandon the United States, the country my family helped to build. Furthermore, it would be to forget your murder of a number of excellent people—Corporal Samson and Major Price, to name just two. It would be to forget your unpardonable slur against the woman I loved, a woman superior to you in every respect. Finally, it would be to forget what is owed to that farmer whom you blinded, his obscenely slaughtered son, and his defiled daughter. No cause, no goal would justify these actions. The depravity of your Starry Wisdom is limitless.”

“Those people did not signify,” responded Ward desperately. “Peasants and slaves, of no worth to a superior person such as yourself.”

Clay shook his head slightly. “There was no chance you could tempt me into your ranks. I had intended to let you live, to testify against Forrest, but unfortunately for you, you revealed that the massacre of the prisoners at Fort Pillow was not directly his fault. He has committed many crimes, and someday I will see him destroyed for them, but much to my surprise, it would appear that Fort Pillow is not among those crimes. In that case, your usefulness to me is at an end.”

True fear finally shown on the faces of both Ward and Sanders. “You are going to kill us both?” quavered the wounded, teary Sanders.

“Madam, I promised your late husband that I would do what I could to preserve your life. I will not go back on such a promise, even after learning how little you deserved his devotion. However, the two of you seem interested in mysteries. You will be witness to a mystery, and Major Ward will experience it.”

Clay began to tremble all over, and the expression on his face began to change.

Ward and Sanders began to scream. Ward’s screams stopped after a while, but Sanders’ went on and on and on.

It was almost exactly ninety minutes later that a party of fifteen horsemen approached the cabin. Leading them was Teresa Duval. Riding astride rather than side-saddle, her assured handling of her mount made some of the riders behind her seem clumsy by comparison. The three horsemen directly behind her were Sergeant Lot, Lieutenant Bierce, and General John Turchin.

When Duval had galloped up to Burnside’s headquarters, she was just in time to see Turchin’s brigade enter Knoxville, the advance guard to Sherman’s army. Interrupting Burnside’s formal greeting of Turchin, she explained the situation briefly. Turchin remembered Clay and cheerfully volunteered himself and his headquarters guard to follow her to the cabin. As the tired, grumbling troopers obeyed their general and prepared their mounts to hit the road again, Duval quickly informed Bierce and Lot of what had happened. Larson was gone on some errand, and Duval was not inclined to waste time tracking him down. Against the advice of a concerned Bierce, Lot insisted on joining the posse. Less than ten minutes after first addressing Burnside, Duval was leading the small party out of Knoxville.

As they approached the cabin, the wild, hysteric screams of a woman became audible. Most of the horsemen frowned, but strangely, the Russian general smiled broadly and said, “Ho! Sounds like Clay enjoy fruits of victory. Women of an enemy can expect nothing less.” Lot looked shocked at the comment; even the cynical Bierce struggled to keep a look of disgust from his face.

The horsemen reached the front of the cabin and dismounted. As the others loosely tethered their mounts to nearby trees, Turchin strode up to the cabin door. However, before he could open it, it opened of its own accord, and a screaming Marjorie Sanders erupted from the cabin, the clotted slash on her cheek and her wide, crazed eyes making the beautiful woman a horrific sight. Turchin frowned with puzzlement as the woman staggered blindly past him, screaming over and over. As several of his men gingerly attempted to restrain and calm the crazed woman, Turchin turned to the cabin and stepped inside. Before any of the others could reach the door, Turchin staggered out, leaned forward, and vomited the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

As the general retched, Alphonso Clay stepped calmly from the cabin. He was spattered with blood; some droplets even appeared on his spectacles, which had slipped crookedly down on his nose. Slowly, he adjusted the stems on his ears so that the glasses rested levelly on his face. He walked a few steps, slowly, as if in a trance; then his gaze rested on Jeremiah Lot, who was rushing forward to him.

“Alphonso! Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

As the black sergeant seized his shoulders, Clay looked uneasily at his friend. “Jeremiah, I fear you will be disappointed in me. I seem to have rather … let myself go.”

Turchin had finished emptying the contents of his stomach. He turned to face Clay, loathing warring with fear in his expression. “Upir,” he said obscurely in his native tongue. “No man could do what you did. This was not punishing of traitors. This was … upir. I put you down like mad dog.” He loosened the flap of his holster and began to draw his Colt. Seeing what was about to happen, Lot released Clay’s shoulders and resolutely stepped between his friend and the general.

“Out of my way, Sergeant. This man an animal, worse than animal. I end him here.”

Lot swayed slightly; he was still woozy from his head wound. “I will not do so, sir. If there is a charge to make, then it will be made before a court martial.”

“You not see what happen in there. No point in court. If you make me, I shoot through you.”

“You will have to do so, but think how the Radical Republicans in the Senate will react, what Sumner and Sherman will feel when they hear you have killed a black man wearing the blue. Their influence saved you once before, after the Athens business because they believed you devoted to Negro rights. I doubt they will save you again.”

While the enraged general and resolute sergeant argued, Marjorie Sanders continued to cry and moan. Several soldiers tried ineffectively to calm her.

Bierce took the liberty of quietly stepping up to the door and looked inside the cabin. For a few moments, his eyes refused to acknowledge what was before them. Then his mind processed the images, and he fully understood what had caused a Cossack to vomit.

Suddenly next to him he heard a soft, moaning sound. He turned to see that the sound came from Teresa Duval, who was looking over his shoulder, eyes bright, face slack, drinking in the horror inside the cabin. There was a sudden, sharp gasp from her. Bierce, who had extensive amorous experience, recognized what that gasp had meant. With a cry of revulsion and disgust, he shoved her backward from the cabin, entered, and slammed the door behind him.

Bierce thought with furious speed. He now perfectly understood Turchin’s reaction. It would be the reaction of any court martial as well. They would hang Clay, and the hanging of Clay would devastate the devoted Lot, as would the mere knowledge of what Clay had done. He owed both of them his life, twice. Much as what had happened here horrified him; he could not forget that. However, he had only moments before other witnesses entered who could back up whatever Turchin would say. He spotted an oil lamp in the corner. Moving swiftly, trying not to focus on what was scattered around the room, he picked it up. It gurgled, showing itself to be nearly full. Quickly he emptied the oil onto the dried wooden floor, produced a friction match, and lit it. He dropped the match into the nearest puddle of oil, which ignited with a whoomp, streamers of blue flame spreading quickly to the other little puddles on the floor. Swiftly he opened the door and left the cabin, closing the door before anyone could notice the growing flames. Fortunately, the other soldiers’ attention was utterly riveted on the spectacle of a sergeant defying a general. “Very well,” growled Turchin at last. “We take this dog to Knoxville and have him hanged there. Anyone who see what he did will be glad to be hangman himself. And you, I have court-martialed for disrespect!”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Bierce politely. “Just what charge would you levy against Captain Clay?”

“What charge? Look in that cabin, and tell me what difference it make! What charge!”

“I have looked in there, sir,” replied Bierce in a respectful voice. “All I saw was a dead officer from Forrest’s command, an officer known to have used Federal uniforms to spy upon us and to kill several excellent soldiers, including Major Dallas Price.”

“Fool! Did you see what was done to him?”

Innocently, Bierce shrugged. “He appeared to have been shot. Of course, gunshot wounds can be ugly, sir, very ugly.”

Teresa Duval glanced at the tarpaper that covered the one window of the cabin. She realized that so far she was the only one who had noticed the flickering, growing flames that shown faintly through the tarpaper. Turning to Turchin, resuming her New England twang, she said, “I too saw the body, sir. Messy gunshot wound, but I have seen poor souls with worse.” Bierce turned to look at her with amazement.

Turchin looked with even greater amazement at Bierce and Duval. Then he gestured to his escort who had been nervous witnesses to all that transpired. “Come! I show you something that will haunt your dreams for years!” Followed by his men, Turchin strode up to the door and flung it open. The burst of fresh air caused the flames inside to roar into greater strength. Turchin only barely avoided serious burns by throwing himself backward as a blast of fire erupted from the doorway.

Turchin and his men retreated to a safe distance and watched the dry wooden structure become an enormous bonfire.

Teresa Duval walked up to him and said sweetly, “No matter what you tell a court martial now, Lieutenant Bierce and I are the only other people who can testify as to what was in that cabin, and we will testify that there was nothing untoward in there. Perhaps the long march to Knoxville has exhausted you. I have known many people to see strange things when exhausted.” Leaving the furious Russian, she walked over to where Lot and Bierce had gathered around Clay, who seemed to be in something of a daze.

“I am truly sorry, Jeremiah,” Clay muttered. “I did not intend for it to go so far. But all the blood, well the blood …”

“Do not speak on it,” said Lot, then to Bierce and Duval, in a lowered voice said “He is in some kind of shock. We must get him to Knoxville and administer a sedative. Help me get him to a horse. We will have to take it very slowly, to avoid any further upset.”

The three began to gently guide Clay to where the horses were tethered. As they passed the furious Turchin, Clay seemed to become more alert. Without stopping, he turned his head and said to the general, “I recall you once told me that you thought we were much alike. I suspect you no longer believe so.” Clay giggled and turned his head forward as the party continued walking.

John Turchin stared after Clay for a long moment. Then crossing himself in the Orthodox style, something he had not done in many a year, he muttered “upir.”