PROLOGUE

JUNE 27, 1864—KENNESAW MOUNTAIN, GEORGIA

“WILLIE!”

The scream seemed to contain all of the grief, anguish and despair in the world. Major General William Tecumseh Sherman shot bolt upright in his cot, drenched in sweat that was only partly due to the humid Georgia night, and glared wildly about the interior of the tent, dimly lit by a flickering oil lamp. Tears ran down his cheeks; a sob escaped him. Moments later the flap of his command tent was thrown back, and a sentry peered nervously at his commanding general.

“Uh, General Sherman sir, you all right?”

Sherman wiped away the tears with his shirtsleeve, and was surprised to find that he had again only taken off his tunic before collapsing onto his cot. “Fine, son, fine. Just a bad night. We all get them at times.” He grimaced a smile at the sentry, while in his mind’s eye he still saw his nine-year-old son William at the moment of his death six months ago; his body ravaged by the yellow fever that the South had inflicted on the child. Not on him, on his son, the son he had brought down to the South for company. ‘Damn the South to Hell!’ he thought savagely.

“Yes sir, I guess we all do,” replied the sentry uneasily. “Sir, it’s near four in the morning. Generals Thomas, McPherson, Davis, Logan and Hooker just got here for their final orders; that scout fellow Bierce too. Want I get your aides up?”

“No, let them sleep a bit longer. They’re going to have a damn long day. Tell the generals and Bierce to come in.” With nervous energy Sherman jackknifed out of bed and shrugged into his tunic, not bothering to button it up. The sentry held back the flap of the large tent to admit the visitors.

The first to enter was Major General George Thomas, commander of Sherman’s Army of the Cumberland. In contrast to Sherman’s disheveled appearance, the massive hero of Chickamauga was carefully groomed and neatly dressed. His dignified, bearded face bore an expression somewhere between resignation and anger. Following him, Major General James McPherson, the cheerful, youthful commander of Sherman’s Army of the Tennessee. Sherman smiled at the sight of McPherson. However, the smile immediately became a frown as he caught sight of Major General Joseph Hooker, the brave, self-promoting commander of the 20th Corps who had been sent west to retrieve a reputation he had lost to Stonewall Jackson during a brief, disastrous command of the Army of the Potomac. Hooker was immediately followed by Brigadier General Jefferson C. Davis, acting commander of the 14th Corps; the unfortunately-named Davis had the flat, cold eyes of a killer, which was what he was in spades. Behind Davis came Major General John Logan, a darkly-handsome, well-connected former congressman who Sherman grudgingly conceded had the makings of a fine officer. The last to enter was the slender, handsome Captain Ambrose Bierce, who was obviously completely unintimidated by the high rank of his companions. Sherman’s mind suddenly flashed back for a moment to a dusty field outside Vicksburg, reminding him what he owed the young scout.

“Very well, gentlemen,” said Sherman abruptly in his quick, high-pitched voice. “We went over the details after dinner. Any last-minute questions before you go to your posts?”

The ponderous Thomas spoke without preamble in a soft Virginia drawl, “Sir, I must once again urgently request that you postpone this attack. Flanking maneuvers have served us well enough these last two months. Progress is slow, true, but we eventually succeeded in forcing Joe Johnston out of every position he has held, with a minimum of casualties. Most of the boys in the frontal assault will be mine. I fear their lives will be lost with nothing to show for it.”

Sherman realized his eyes must be showing his anger, but knew he was incapable of concealing any strong emotion. “Thomas, we went over this all not six hours ago. Johnston has come to expect our flanking maneuvers, and will have weakened his center to reinforce the flanks. He will not be expecting us to punch straight up the center. When we do, he will crumble, just like Bragg did at Chattanooga last fall.”

Thomas paused for a long moment before replying, as if he were silently counting to ten. “Bragg was always a careless officer. Johnston is not careless. I assure you, I know him from the prewar army, where he was the finest chess-player around. He will leave enough men and cannon in the pass to turn it into an abattoir.”

“Goddamn it, Thomas! We can’t keep going so slowly. It’s no longer a matter of battles in the field, but of politics. The election is barely four months away. Grant is bogged down in Virginia, and the papers are full of the so-called fiasco of the Wilderness Campaign. Here, we inch along day after day, and have no victories to show for it, much less Atlanta. And the Democrats have just nominated that Goddamn traitor McClellan to run against Lincoln on a peace platform! If the armies don’t show some victories, the Rebs will gain at the ballot box what they can’t get in the field.”

The floridly handsome Hooker chose this moment to speak for the record. “Sir, do you really want the events of the summer written in letters of blood?” It did not escape Sherman that Hooker had not actually said he favored or opposed the attack.

“Hell yes, so long as it’s the last Goddamn chapter!” exploded Sherman. “I told you all last night, this attack will take place, and we will smash Joe Johnston! Now, anyone have anything to say that will be of use to the attack?”

Surprisingly, it was Bierce, by far the lowest-ranking officer in the tent, who spoke. “Sir, I personally scouted the route up through the pass tonight as far as I dared. A couple of Rebels heard me, and sounded the alarm, so I never made it to the top; had some luck in getting back at all. It is true that the approach to the Rebel position is much less difficult than at Chattanooga, but I still cannot say to what extent Johnston’s army has dug in, or what kind of artillery support they have. Our attack might be as great a victory as Chattanooga, or it might be as bloody a fiasco as Grant’s assault at Cold Harbor.”

Sherman seemed to ignore Bierce. “Gentlemen, this battle will happen, and we will be victorious. To your posts, and wait for the sound of three cannon-shots at first light. Dismissed.”

The officers grimly saluted and began filing out of the tent, Bierce at the end of the line. Sherman suddenly said “Bierce, stay for a moment.” Bierce turned to face Sherman while the last general in line, the emaciated, deadly-looking Davis cast a sour look over his shoulder and let the flap of the tent drop, leaving the scout alone with the commanding general.

“Captain, it sets a bad example for a commanding general to explain himself to his subordinates,” said Sherman without preamble. “Gives them the idea he’s not sure of himself. Still, I’ll make an exception for you, with what I owe you from Vicksburg, and what with the personal risks you took in scouting tonight. Information has come to me, information from a damn sensitive quarter. Johnston’s center is going to be weak, as weak as Bragg’s was at Chattanooga. Thomas will smash through and set Johnston’s boys running. Once that starts, McPherson will take his army, hook around the right, and if he doesn’t trap them altogether he will hit Johnston’s boys in the flank so hard we will waltz into Atlanta. That will put McClellan and his damned defeatism in its place!”

Bierce looked troubled. “Sir, if you say you have other sources showing the Rebs to be weak in the middle, then who am I to question it? I just would have been more comfortable if I could have verified it with my own eyes.”

Sherman looked at the tall, slender Bierce, and remembered how little Willie had been tall and slender for his age when the South’s yellow fever had taken him. For some reason, it struck him that Willie might have grown up to look very much like Bierce.

“Bierce, I know whatever course I choose, good men are going to die. Don’t care what the generals think; but I want you to know that they didn’t die because I was a pig-headed fool like Rosecrans or Burnside. And I want you to know that no matter how today turns out, I had a good, solid reason for going at the middle.”

“May I ask what that reason is?”

Sherman hesitated. “Don’t take this wrong, Bierce. I have absolute trust in you; more than anyone else in this army, except Grant and maybe McPherson. But I gave my word that what I was told would stay with me, and stay with me it will.”

Bierce looked appraisingly at the red-headed, slightly wild-eyed general. “Well, I can respect that sir.” He saluted, and started for the flap of the tent.

“Captain Bierce, just what part will you be playing this morning?”

Bierce paused. “General Thomas wants me to be behind the skirmishers in the first wave of Hooker’s boys. He has tasked me with providing quick warning of any … unexpected barriers to the movements of large masses of men, and to report it back to him instantly.”

A feeling of dread, brother to premonition and first cousin to panic, suddenly hit Sherman. Willie! “Captain Bierce, I want you to take as much care of your person as your duties allow. Remember that you have nothing to prove; there is no question of your personal courage.”

Bierce laughed, a barking, unlovely sound. “Why Sir, General Thomas said much the same thing to me. Generals are not usually concerned with the fates of captains. It is flattering that you both have made an exception for me.” With a jaunty salute, Bierce lifted the flap of the tent and was gone.

A whisper of doubt began to creep into Sherman’s mind; he physically shook his head back and forth, as if to shake it out through his ears. No, he thought. The information was good, and by noon this war would be well on its way to being won.

Bierce looked behind him, and could just make out in the dim pre-dawn light the gaggle of horsemen on a small hill less than a mile away. He knew that would be the cautious, majestic Thomas; his two corps commanders, Hooker and the morose Davis; and a crowd of aides, messengers, and assorted hangers-on. A quarter-mile closer he could just make out the batteries of three-inch guns, assembled courtesy of Colonel J. Howard Kitching, Hooker’s chief of artillery. Lying on the ground in his front and to his sides were huddled masses of blue-clad infantry, grimly clutching Springfield muzzle-loaders; over them stood their officers, who seemed to the cynical Bierce to be already assuming heroic poses appropriate to the illustrated magazines.

The silence was broken by three cannon-shots, separated by four or five seconds each. Officers screamed “Charge!” The men leapt to their feet and began jogging at the double-quick up the slope while Kitching’s guns loosed salvo after salvo at the top of the pass, shells whistling over the heads of the advancing men. However, the cannon stopped belching fire before the men were halfway to the Confederate lines, to avoid hitting the men in blue. Bierce jogged along with the men, not far from the front; a manic smile spread over his face as he began to believe there really would only be token resistance.

Then the banshee howl of the Rebel yell burst forth from thousands of throats, and all Hell broke loose. Rebel cannon by the score sent clouds of grapeshot into the front ranks, leaving masses of torn flesh where living men had been a moment before. The ripping fire of thousands of Enfield muskets created a continuous, crackling sound interrupted only by the roar of the cannon and the screams of the Rebels, most of who concentrated their fire on the bravest officers, causing whole regiments to be suddenly leaderless. Incredibly, these regiments kept grimly advancing with few or no officers to lead them, the men unconsciously hunching their shoulders and leaning forward as if advancing in a driving rainstorm.

Ambrose Bierce had a strange love/hate relationship with death, and would have kept running up the slope with the men if there had been the slightest chance of success, regardless of risk. However, he could see that there was not the slightest chance of the attack succeeding, and threw himself prone on the ground, while the men kept flowing around him. When talking with others Bierce was inclined to mock foolish bravery and laugh at those who gave their lives for generals’ mistakes. That was a pose, required for some obscure need of his injured soul. Here, watching the men move up the slope to probable death or mutilation and certain failure, he screamed in rage while tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Then he found words.

“Stop, you fools! Go back! Go back! Stop!” But the cacophony of the battle kept all but the very nearest to him from distinguishing his words; and those nearest disregarded the unfamiliar captain lying prone on the ground. Raising his head as much as he dared, he was amazed to see the ever-dwindling first wave approach within yards of the pass’s crest. For a moment he dared to hope that the sacrifice would not be in vain, that a miracle would occur. Nevertheless, it was not to be. Just short of their goal the columns seemed to melt away, leaving a residue of bodies on the ground, writhing in agony or ominously still. The survivors began to run back to their starting points; a goodly number were shot in the back by gleefully screaming Rebels. Glancing upward, Bierce saw a lone drummer-boy at the summit, a lad of not more than fourteen years, standing defiantly, refusing to retreat. Apparently none could bring themselves to shoot the boy, and Bierce saw arms come into sight, seize the drummer, and pull him over the summit and out of harm’s way.

Bierce stood to join the retreating survivors. However, for some moments he stared at the top of the pass, proximity and the strengthening sunshine allowing him a glimpse of much of the Confederate lines for the first time. To his horror he saw hundreds of rifle pits, located to be mutually supporting; scores of cannon carefully dug in to command the approaches; uncounted barriers and ditches thrown up to disrupt an attack. From where he now stood, it was painfully obvious that General Joseph Johnston had been expecting the attack, and had very carefully prepared for it. Bierce turned and ran for the rear. ‘Damn Sherman!’ he thought. Whatever Sherman had been told was lies; no chance that this had been a mistake or misinterpretation by whoever was the commanding general’s informant. ‘Well, I’ll tell Sherman what I saw, and find out who is the traitor that led us into the trap; Sherman’s promises be damned!’

Bierce had by now reached the first of the Union batteries. Out of breath from his run in a hot, muggy Georgia morning, he paused briefly to rest. He turned back to look at the pass of death, where the bodies of some of Sherman’s best soldiers lay like autumn leaves. Suddenly, there was a smashing impact on the back of his head. Bierce fleetingly wondered if someone had hit him with a hammer as he fell forward. He hit the ground hard; trying to move, he found that he had lost all control of his limbs. Darkness rushed at him, and he now realized he must have caught a stray bullet in the head, and was dying.

Life had always frightened Ambrose Bierce more than death, after what he had experienced in this war, and before that in Indiana. He welcomed the approaching darkness with no fear at all. Then he caught a glimpse of what lay beyond the darkness, and vainly tried to scream.

Sherman galloped up to the hill where Thomas and his party were stationed, trailing aides behind him like a kite’s tail. He had been with McPherson on the flank, waiting for a message that the breakthrough had happened, so he could unleash his young protégé to complete Johnston’s destruction. However, the aide from Thomas brought news of disaster, not success. Telling the astonished McPherson to await further orders, he had driven his horse as hard as he dared to find the commander of the Army of the Cumberland. He found the ponderous Virginian at the crest of a low hill, accompanied by Hooker and their respective aides. Savagely jerking the reins to halt his mount, Sherman ignored Thomas’ salute and shouted “What the hell has happened? Why is there no breakthrough?”

“A breakthrough does not appear possible, sir. Johnston seems to have heavily entrenched and provided a number of batteries of supporting artillery. Given the defensive nature of the approach, he could hold off ten times his numbers for as long as he has ammunition.”

Sherman’s wild eyes focused on the nearest streams of survivors staggering back to safety; their regimental flags indicated that they were from Hooker’s 20th Corps. “Hooker, why are your men retiring? Why are they not at least digging in close to the Reb lines?”

Joe Hooker glared at Sherman with undisguised contempt. He was a man who never lost an opportunity to show up a superior; but right now his indignation was transparently sincere. “I have ordered a general retreat … sir. Finding that I have lost as many men as my orders required, I saw no reason to leave them in danger to no purpose.”

“General Hooker, you are insubordinate in word and manner,” said Thomas angrily. “I realize that you are under some stress, but it is still inexcusable. Please be so good as to tend to your corps, and only come into my sight or the sight of the general commanding when you are prepared to behave as an officer should.” With a curt nod Thomas dismissed his chief subordinate. Hooker looked as if he were about to say something more; but seeming to change his mind, he saluted and galloped off, followed by his own aides.

Thomas turned his attention to Sherman. “I apologize for his conduct, sir. Even though he was not my choice for the 20th Corps, I am fully responsible for his disrespect.”

“Never mind that!” Sherman remembered Joe Hooker from prewar San Francisco as anything but a gentlemen, constantly making the rounds of brothels and borrowing money that was never repaid; he concurred in Thomas’ low opinion of the commander of the 20th. “Where is Davis? Has he had any luck?”

Sadly, Thomas shook his head. “He heard one of his divisions could not get back, their retreat being cut off; the moment he heard that, he galloped off to direct their rescue without even asking permission.”

“Sounds like Davis; one hell of a fool, but afraid of nothing.” Sherman hesitated for some moments, then looked at Thomas and said “I want you to know that this is all my fault. You were right, I was wrong.”

Thomas looked back, saying nothing. It took nearly a minute for Sherman to realize that Thomas was going to say nothing; in an obscure way, that rebuked him more than a half hour of screaming and cursing would have done. Finally, Sherman issued an order. “Do what you can to call a truce and recover our wounded and … the others.” Jerkily Sherman saluted and put the spurs to his horse, his aides scrambling to keep pace.

Teresa Duval was enjoying herself as she bustled about the complex of hospital tents. She always found the aftermath of a battle pleasurable, the sight of blood being so … stimulating to her. However, she was always careful not to show her pleasure outwardly, staying in her character of a pious nurse from New England, provided courtesy of the Sanitary Commission. The surgeons and staff of the Medical Corp regarded her as an angel of mercy, a nurse more skilled than most doctors in saving the wounded from dying of their wounds. They praised her medical skills to the skies, and in truth she had saved dozens of Federal soldiers from death and preserved dozens more from a lifetime of handicap. If the surgeons and staff noticed that on those rare occasions when she attended Confederate wounded her skills deserted her and the wounded almost always died, they seemed unwilling to draw any conclusions.

In truth, the role of nurse was only one of several which Teresa Duval performed; she was naturally a brilliant actress, and in another life would have dominated the stages of the nation. Far from being a pious Christian from a middle-class New England family, she was a survivor of the Irish Famine, living a bestial life in the slums of New York until the financier Jay Gould plucked her up from the gutter, gave her a veneer of sophistication and manners, and made her one of his most valuable agents. He had arranged for her to be assigned to Sherman’s army, and directed her to send him coded telegraphs, innocently addressed to her mother, giving advance knowledge of Sherman’s movements and prospects; using that advance knowledge, he was able to anticipate movements in share and commodity prices in the financial markets, and make hundreds of thousands of dollars at a stroke. Gould had also arranged for her to secretly be appointed to Allen Pinkerton’s Secret Service, with the understanding that whatever she learned of financial interest while serving the Secret Service would be immediately shared with him. A lesser woman would not have been able to perform all of these apparently contradictory roles without giving herself away immediately. However, Teresa Duval was no ordinary woman.

Duval bustled into a large, shambling barn that stood in the center of the scattered hospital tents, absently wiping her blood-stained forearms with a scrap of cloth, oblivious to the moans and occasional screams of the wounded soldiers around her. She regretted having just amputated a young soldier’s leg. She much would have preferred to restore him to combat, killing English-loving rebel bastards, but the bone had been completely shattered by an Enfield round, and amputation was the only way of saving him from death by gangrene. Now she needed to find a doctor to give her another assignment; she had not yet had her fill of cutting on human flesh. She spotted a small, frail-looking captain at a table to her right, and recognized him as Saul Fetterman, the former surgeon of the 27th Ohio whom she had met under peculiar circumstances on the road to Knoxville the previous year. She changed directions and approached Fetterman, who stood staring at a silent form on the table.

“Dr. Fetterman, I finished that poor soul’s amputation,” she said, feigning sorrow that had no place in her cold heart. “Where else may I be of service in the Lord’s cause?”

Fetterman turned his gaze on Duval, who noted his sad, exhausted eyes. She respected his medical skills, and was as fond of him as her nature allowed. Still, she thought of him as something of a fool. She remembered how last year he had volunteered to stay with wounded Confederate raiders, even though it would have meant his capture and imprisonment in the hellish Andersonville. Duval still wondered why she had bothered to take certain actions that saved him from that fate; then decided that she was becoming sentimental as the years passed.

“Miss Duval, you have been doing wonders all day, but there is only so much that a lady should be asked to endure, even one of your great abilities. You should take some rest. It seems like the wounded will never cease coming. In God’s name, how many people did Sherman lose today? And for so many of them, there is nothing that can be done. Take this captain; why did anyone bother to bring him in? He has been shot through the head, and cannot live.”

Duval glanced at the officer, and did a double-take. “I know this man,” she blurted. “Ambrose Bierce; a scout with the Army of the Ohio.”

“A pity that a good Christian cannot put such a poor soul out of his misery,” said Fetterman morosely. “There is no chance he can recover. See there?” Fetterman pointed to a bloody, clotted wound behind Bierce’s left ear. The scout’s blue eyes were open, staring fixedly with horror, but there was no spark of animation in them; the only sign of life was the weak, wheezy sound of his lungs, feebly gasping for air. Gently Fetterman turned Bierce’s head, and pointed to a bump behind the right ear. “See, the bullet transited the rear of the cranium; I wager that bump conceals the bullet itself. Must have been nearly spent, or it would have cleanly exited the skull. Amazing that he is alive at all.”

“Bierce!” came a high-pitched shout from about ten paces away. Duval and Fetterman spun around to see General Sherman, his wild eyes fixed on the table. With jerky movements the commanding general approached the table and looked down into the captain’s unseeing blue eyes.

“Sir, I am surprised to see you here,” said Fetterman.

“Where else should I be?” snarled Sherman. “These boys are all here because of me. Because of me! And they don’t even have the consolation of a victory. I need to see them; they deserve the chance to look at me with hate.” He stared down at the wounded scout, and spoke again with a voice beginning to crack. “Damn you, Bierce! I told you to be careful. Told you!”

There was an embarrassed silence for a few moments, and then the general asked the doctor “What are his chances?”

Fetterman hesitated before speaking, “Sir, they simply do not exist. The brain has been penetrated. We need to move him aside to make way for a soldier that can be helped by medical science.”

Sherman grabbed the small doctor’s shoulder roughly. “God damn you! You will not throw this man aside like trash! You will operate on him, and do all you can to heal him!”

Fear in his eyes, Fetterman replied “Sir, even if I do as you say, all that could be done is close the wound. Infection of the brain is almost inevitable, resulting in a horrible death in a matter of days. Even if by some miracle there is no infection, he would probably remain in this state for the remainder of his existence.”

Sherman’s face acquired a lunatic cast; his free hand began to undo the flap of his holster. “You whoreson! By God if you don’t do as I say …”

“General, sir, Captain Fetterman,” interrupted Duval smoothly. “I once successfully closed such a wound. Although the man was never the same afterwards, he could live a life … of sorts.”

Sherman looked with surprise at Duval. “You did?”

“With the blessing of God, I did sir,” replied Duval in a pious New England voice. “I need two small pieces of metal, cleaned and heated in flame, some surgical pins, the smaller the better; and a solution of carbolic acid.”

Sherman released Fetterman, but then pointed a forefinger like a knife. “You! You get this woman anything she needs, and help her. You save this man’s life, or God have mercy on you, for I will have none!”

An hour later, Sherman, Fetterman and Duval staggered out of the barn, circling to the side of the building that still gave shade from the brutal Georgia sun. For the moment they ignored the stream of wounded that was still arriving; there were other doctors and nurses to tend to them for the time being. Tension and lack of sleep having put Fetterman on edge, he suddenly addressed Sherman angrily.

“General, sir, I don’t care what you think, how you threaten me, but we have done that man no favor! I have nothing but praise for how Miss Duval conducted the procedure; no one could have shown more skill, least of all myself. Nonetheless, despite all precautions taken, infection will almost certainly take hold in a few days. And if by some miracle it does not, he will spend his life as a vegetable, sir. A vegetable!” Frightened by his own outburst, Fetterman turned away from the astonished Sherman and stared at the horizon, seeing nothing.

Duval felt pleasure at the compliment to her abilities that Fetterman had bestowed in the midst of his tirade. In spite of such a trivial emotion, she felt there was no time to bask in praise; she had an immediate, serious decision to make. She knew Bierce to be a friend of sorts to Major Alphonso Clay, Ulysses Grant’s sinister trouble-shooter. Six months before, she had realized that the wealthy, cultivated, dangerous Clay was a man who just might possibly understand the desires that drove her. She had sent him a gift of a pair of objects that she knew would please him greatly, and waited for his response. All patience in vain; none had come, either positive or negative. Teresa Duval was not a woman to give up on anything she desired, and had given much thought as to how to draw Clay into her orbit. Now in her blood-streaked hand she held a small metal object that chance had sent her; and she had always believed in seizing unexpected chances.

“General Sherman, sir, the wounding of Captain Bierce is troubling in more ways than one.”

With a bird-like movement of his head, Sherman switched his attention to Duval.

“What do you mean, Miss?”

“It is not surprising that the Captain was shot in the back of the head. It does not even necessarily imply he was running from the battle; bullets come from all directions in a battle. However, the bullet itself disturbs me.” She opened her hand to show a flattened piece of lead. “I recovered this just under the skin at the exit wound. Sir, this is not a rifle bullet. It a .44 caliber pistol bullet.”

Sherman frowned. “So? He was shot by some Goddamn Reb officer.”

Duval shook her head, a vaguely sinister smile on her face. “Rebel officers do use an odd assortment of pistols; but for the most part they use .36 caliber Colts or .42 caliber LeMats. I fear that Captain Bierce was shot by one of our own men, a Southern spy.”

“That’s damn nonsense! At worse, a wild shot, flying a great distance …” Sherman suddenly turned thoughtful.

Duval nodded. “Yes, you see. The Colt .44 is notorious for its short range, not being able to send a bullet much further than about fifty paces. The man who fired it would have seen Bierce clearly.”

“Still, there could be other explanations than a murderous attack on a fine young officer under the cover of battle.” Sherman sounded dubious.

“Without doubt, General,” replied Duval agreeably. “Still, may I suggest that you telegraph to General Grant and ask for the services of Major Alphonso Clay? I believe you saw something of his abilities at Vicksburg, as did I at Knoxville. Besides, I believe Clay to consider Captain Bierce a personal friend. You know the Major’s reputation; he would insist on confirming that there is nothing more involved here than the fortunes of war.”

Sherman nodded. “I can see that. A hard customer if ever I saw one. Well, I will send a telegram tonight. First I need to see Bierce again.” He hesitated, and then gruffly went on. “I want to thank you and Dr. Fetterman for what you did, no matter how it turns out. I am under some pressure, and sometimes say more than I mean.” The doctor turned to look at Sherman, realizing that this was as close to an apology as he would ever get. The commanding general re-entered the barn without a backward glance.

“Come doctor,” said Duval crisply. “Let us check the tents and see where we can do the most good.” Fetterman drew a breath, shuddered, and silently nodded. As the two walked toward the nearest tent, from which came a continuous, high-pitched wail, Duval thought smugly of how she had set things in motion. She cared little for whether Bierce lived or died; what was important was that the fascinating Clay would soon be here.

Inside the barn, Sherman stood motionless for nearly a quarter of an hour over the table on which Ambrose Bierce rested. His head was now wrapped in bandages, but otherwise he appeared unchanged; open blue eyes staring rigidly at nothing, the chest wheezily rising and falling at intervals. Sherman knew it was wrong to care so much more about this one man then all the others killed or mutilated in today’s butchery. Deep inside, somehow this young captain, to whom he owed his very life, had become mixed up in his mind with Willie, the son who might have grown up to look so much like Bierce. William Tecumseh Sherman cared little for most people, but for those he did care for, he cared with all the fervor of his burning, tormented soul.

His eyes began to fill with tears. The figure on the table seemed to shift back between Bierce and Willie and Bierce again. The South had taken them from him. Irrationally he felt that the South was a coward who would not face him, but would instead take from him whatever he valued. The South, the damned, traitorous South.

Suddenly Sherman murmured. “I will make Georgia howl.” There was a pause, and then he screamed the phrase again at the top of his lungs.

“I WILL MAKE GEORGIA HOWL!”

Everyone in the barn who was able to do so looked uneasily at Sherman, and then at each other.