CHAPTER 1

“… AND THERE WERE UNION MEN WHO WEPT WITH JOYFUL TEARS …”

Major Alphonso Clay and Lieutenant Jeremiah Lot were precariously perched on crates containing the infamous army crackers, trying to anticipate the jolts and swaying that the rickety old freight car inflicted on them. To sleep, even to briefly doze, was to risk being thrown to the floor, or perhaps even out the open side door, left dangerously ajar in the hope of relieving the stifling, humid air in the car. Still, a fall from the train was unlikely to be fatal; at no point was the wheezing locomotive exceeding twenty miles per hour.

Clay studied his black companion with concern, as he had done a number of times during the week-long journey from northern Virginia; the illegitimate son of Clay’s uncle and one of the man’s slaves was dearer to him than any living person. When General Rawlins, Grant’s chief of staff, had delivered to them Sherman’s telegram stating that Ambrose Bierce was at death’s door, perhaps the victim of a traitorous plot, Lot had literally staggered with the shock. Clay could not recall his friend looking that devastated since a certain evening in Louisiana, two years ago.

Clay had asked Ulysses Grant for permission to investigate Sherman’s suspicions, even though it had been a bad time to make the request; cannon were booming in the distance and aides were darting about with worried expressions. It did not surprise Clay to watch the grim, stooping man devote a moment to the telegram as if it were the only thing of importance in the world, bark an instruction for an aide to prepare orders for Clay and Lot, and immediately turn his attention back to the titanic struggle at his front. Clay had long known Grant possessed the twin gifts of total concentration and lack of the capacity for panic. Clay and Lot had commenced their journey within the hour, by horse to Washington, by rail to Cincinnati, where they switched trains to one headed for Chattanooga. Now they were on the last leg of the trip, on a stretch of railroad where no passengers were allowed without priority orders. Sherman’s army of one hundred thousand was completely dependent on this one stretch of rail for all of its supplies, a fact well known to Nathan Bedford Forrest and his cavalry. Forrest and his men were devoted to burning bridges and tearing up rails, but were frustrated by the fiendish efficiency of Sherman’s engineers under Orlando Poe, who often had the line repaired before Forest’s raiders had returned to base. Nevertheless, Sherman’s supplies were disturbingly tight, which was why he had ordered all passengers off the trains. Alas, there were exceptions, and among them were Clay and Lot.

Fearing that his friend was immersed too deeply in private misery, Clay attempted to start up a conversation. “Look,” said Clay, pointing through the open door to a long string of shattered railway cars. “I had read that Sherman ordered wrecks just shoved off the rails and left to rust, finding it more efficient to seize rolling stock from Northern lines to replace what he loses. Still, seeing it in person reinforces the impression that General Sherman can be a single-minded man.”

Lot turned his head and smiled sadly. “You needn’t try to lift my spirits, Alphonso, although I do appreciate the effort.”

Clay frowned. “Then let us speak on it. I will admit that I had come to value Captain Bierce’s merits and discount his faults, and have grown rather fond of him. Still, Bierce is a soldier, and these are the fortunes of war. Why has this hit you so hard?”

Lot glanced sorrowfully at Clay before turning his gaze again to the passing scenery. “He is one of the very few white men who have treated me as an equal. Many pay lip service to abolition, but want nothing to do personally with the black man. Bierce is different. Yes, he referred to me from time to time by … an unpleasant epithet; but he says worse about white men. And there was the time he saved my life outside Vicksburg.”

“As I recall, he was mainly saving the life of General Sherman.”

“He could have done that on his own; he was on horseback, and by then I was not. Instead, he placed himself and General Sherman at greater risk rather than leave me behind. That should not be forgotten. I will not forget it. More importantly, Bierce is a free-thinker, and has not yet found his way into the bosom of the Lord. I fear for his soul should he expire while not in a state of grace.”

Clay started to speak, but decided to remain silent. It was not that Clay did not believe in a life after death—far from it. Pessimistically, he doubted that Bierce’s place in that life would be determined by a deathbed conversion. Nonetheless, he admired his cousin’s uncomplicated faith, and would not challenge it for the world.

“You must prepare for the possibility that Bierce will be dead by the time we arrive,” said Clay gently. “Miss Duval has indicated the bullet penetrated the brain.”

“She might be mistaken as to the seriousness of the wound.”

Clay smiled unpleasantly. “On matters of this nature, I am inclined to trust Miss Duval’s judgment.”

Suddenly there was a squeal of brakes accompanied by a sharp lurch; the two officers barely kept their seats on the cracker boxes.

“It would seem we have reached the end of the line, quite literally,” observed Clay, watching the confused bustle of a large army camp slide into view through the door as the train slowly shuddered to a stop, emitting a final burst of steam that sounded like the dying gasp of a wounded beast. The two officers grabbed the carpetbags containing their effects and leaped the short distance to the ground, flinching as the summer Georgia sun struck them with full force. Blinking, they looked around for a welcoming party; but all they could see was teams of sweating enlisted men swarming over the train, unloading the cars of their precious cargo as fast as possible.

“It looks like we must find our own way,” commented Clay. “Well, schedules are irregular, and we could hardly expect General Sherman to personally keep a lookout for our arrival.”

As if to immediately contradict Clay, a mounted General Sherman came galloping around the locomotive, accompanied by a single mounted aide. Spotting Clay and Lot, he urged his mount forwarded, viciously reining it to a skidding stop in front of the two surprised officers. Sherman vaulted off the animal, handed its reins to the aide without a backward glance. With a total lack of decorum or respect for the differences in their ranks, Sherman vigorous shook the hand first of Clay, then of Lot.

“Damn glad Sam could spare you,” said Sherman without preamble. “Damn glad for more than one reason.”

“Sir, is Captain Bierce … holding his own?” asked Lot tentatively.

Sherman looked thoughtfully at Lot, the first black officer he had seen with his own eyes. “You were close to Bierce; you and Clay. It’s good you’re here; he is unlikely to survive until tomorrow. Man shouldn’t die with just strangers around him, even if he isn’t awake. Thomas and I think highly of Bierce; but there is little time that either of us can spare to be at his side. Tried to find if he had any special friends willing to be with him when … willing to be with him; seems he doesn’t. Sad thing to say, very … sad,” said Sherman, who with the exception of Ulysses Grant had few outside his family for whom he cared or who cared for him.

“I realize you cannot spare much time from the concerns of the army,” replied Clay quietly. “If you will direct us to where he is, you need not take more time from your duties.”

“Hell, I can spare that much time. Besides, on the way there I can tell you what the Duval woman suspects. More than likely nonsense! Regardless, I would appreciate your take on it.”

Leaving his aide holding his mount, Sherman began marching off with long-legged, birdlike steps, leaving Clay and Lot to hurry to catch up.

“Did Miss Duval give any more details on why she thought Bierce was the victim of a murderous assault?” asked Lot.

Sherman shook his head vigorously. “None beyond the fact that a Colt .44 is so short-ranged that the bullet had to have been aimed at him deliberately. I’m still not entirely convinced; bullets do the damndest things in battle, and it’s possible some Reb was using a Colt he took off a dead Federal. But by God, she’s a damned smart woman with a level head, and I’d feel better if you could put her concerns to rest.”

Clay smiled slightly. “Sir, I believe that Miss Duval has an … instinct for such matters. I would not dismiss her concerns lightly.”

“Well, you will judge for yourself, I expect. Here we are.” They had arrived at a large wall tent, one of scores set forth in neat rows. They entered to find a dozen cots filled with wounded men, who were thankfully silent; the surgeons had already done their worst on this tent’s occupants, who now stoically waited to see if they lived or died. At the back of the tent Teresa Duval leaned over one still figure, intently inspecting its eyes. She noticed the new arrivals, straightened, and wiped her blood-soaked hands on a rag hung on the side of the cot.

“General, I see you have brought our visitors yourself. Praise the Lord.”

“How is Bierce today?” asked Sherman, leading Clay and Lot up to the cot beside which Duval stood.

“Not as good as yesterday, sir.” She turned her attention to the Clay. “Major, I am pleased that General Grant could spare you and Lieutenant Lot. You look quite well.”

Clay nodded a greeting. “I am as well as ever, Miss Duval. You look as … capable as ever.”

“I believe you benefited from a long Christmas leave after the affair at Knoxville,” she replied. “I hope your holiday was satisfactory, and that you received memorable gifts to mark the birth of our Savior.”

Clay looked at her steadily for a long moment, and then said “I did indeed. Two of the gifts were especially intriguing.”

“I trust they met with your approval.”

There was another long pause. “As surprising as they were, I finally decided that they did.”

Lot, whose eyes had been riveted on Bierce, interrupted the enigmatic exchange. “Miss Duval, I must ask for details on Captain Bierce’s condition. Please, I must know it all.”

“He has shown little signs of consciousness since the operation,” she replied. “He opens his eyes in the morning, and closes them in the evening. That is all. I fear he is developing a fever, undoubtedly due to an inflammation of the brain.” She forced herself to shed a tear before continuing. “I fear that he will not recover after all, and that the end is near.”

Lot struggled to maintain his composure; only Clay could tell how devastated he was by the news. “How long?” asked the lieutenant in a voice barely above a whisper.

Duval simulated a look of tragic concern. “In all likelihood, before tomorrow morning.”

Lot nodded solemnly. “Captain Bierce is completely estranged from his family, and has few friends. If I will not be in the way, I would like to stay with him until … tomorrow morning.”

“Of course you may,” Duval replied. “I really do not see what purpose it will serve. I do not expect him to be conscious of your presence.”

“Perhaps not. I would nevertheless prefer to be here.” Lot turned his attention to Clay. “That is, of course, if you can spare me, sir.”

Clay nodded his head immediately. “Of course. I can handle the initial stages of the investigation myself.” The slightly built major turned his attention to Sherman. “General, with your permission I would like you to show me where Captain Bierce was found.”

“The men who brought him in are scattered on various duties, but I’ve already had them show me. I’ll take you myself.” Sherman cast a long, sad glance at Bierce’s inert form before saying “Let’s saddle up, Clay.”

“Until later then, Major,” said Duval. Clay glanced at the nurse who had uttered the innocuous words, and saw the slightest trace of a cunning smile adorning the face of the pious angel of mercy. He frowned as he followed Sherman out of the tent; he already had much on his mind, and this complication was unwelcome.

Sherman and Clay trotted up the approaches to the pass over Kennesaw. Suddenly Sherman reined his horse to stop, Clay smoothly following suit. The red-haired general glanced at the surroundings. Aside from a few figures in blue scurrying about in the distance, occupied with collecting and burying the last of the Union dead, they had the field to themselves. A slight, sickly odor of decay permeated the air. Swiftly the lanky general dismounted and wrapped his mount’s reins around the branch of a nearby tree; Clay again followed suit.

Restlessly, Sherman surveyed the area in silence. Clay interrupted the general’s melancholic thoughts. “Sir, can it be safe for you to be so close to the enemy position? A sniper could leave the army leaderless.”

Sherman seemed to snap back to the present. “What? Oh, that’s right, I haven’t told you. Johnston’s boys pulled out last night. We’re getting ready to pull up stakes and follow. Johnston must’ve realized I was about to send McPherson on a flanking move, and wasn’t waiting for me to spring the trap. Scouts tell me he didn’t leave so much as a cracker behind. Hardest military action is an organized withdrawal in the face of superior force, but Joe Johnston handled it smoothly and without loss … damn the bastard!” He looked over the scattered litter that lay in front of the crest of the ridge. “All for nothing. I sent my boys up against the middle, against the advice of nearly every general I had, even that idiot Hooker. All those men dead and crippled, and in the end Johnston leaves on his own. Goddamn it! I had been told … Never mind; the fault is mine. Anyway Clay, right here is where some gunners from Hooker’s artillery found Bierce.” He pointed to a scuffed area of the ground, which aside from a darkish patch of earth showed no sign of violence.

Clay looked at the ground and frowned. “The soil looks as if it had been trampled by a herd of bison. Little can be learned at that spot. I am surprised that you are even sure that was where Bierce was shot.”

“Had the spot pointed out to me right after Bierce was brought in by the boys who found him. I remember where the spot was in relation to the tree we used to tie up our horses. Besides, I also remember where it was in relation to the three-inch guns. They’re gone now, but the heavy bastards left deep wheel marks which even everything since couldn’t erase.” Sherman pointed to his left, and Clay saw for himself numerous ruts in the ground. He nodded. “Did they tell you how Bierce’s body lay?”

Sherman thought for a moment. “They said he lay on his stomach, facing toward the Rebs.”

“Could they tell if he had been shot during the assault itself, or during the subsequent retreat?”

Sherman again consulted his memory. “They were pretty sure it was during the retreat. Didn’t see him fall themselves, but they had been going back and forth all during the assault, bringing shells to the caissons, and they were sure his body wasn’t there until the retreat was well under way.”

“So,” mused Clay aloud, “Bierce was facing the enemy lines, even after the retreat was long under way. It indicates he was almost certainly shot from our side. What is even more interesting is that it indicates something about those lines was deeply interesting to him, so interesting as to slow his progress to a place of safety. General, I would like to see the Rebel position more closely.”

Sherman shrugged. “Suit yourself.” The two officers remounted, and in a minute were among the remains of what had been the Confederate front line. Not bothering to dismount, Clay surveyed the trenches, rifle pits placed to support each other, and numerous artillery positions. The placid blue eyes darted back and forth behind the spectacles, taking in every detail. Finally he turned to Sherman.

“General, I am not a strategist or tactician, but even I can see this is impregnable, if manned by sufficient troops. Why on earth did you order a frontal assault? There was not the slightest chance that one would succeed.”

Sherman looked enraged, but as much with himself as with Clay’s criticism. “Goddamn it, I know now it was murder to send men against this! I didn’t know it would be like this. In fact, I had specific information that the pass would be lightly held.”

Clay took another long look at the remains of the Confederate defense. “It would appear that you were misinformed. Just who gave you such information?”

“Doesn’t matter now. It was my job to evaluate the quality of intelligence. It was my judgment that failed, and no one else’s.”

Clay decided to let the matter drop for the moment; he suspected he would be returning soon enough to the issue of who provided Sherman with bad information. Instead, he commented “This might explain Bierce’s attention to the Confederate position he was fleeing. He must have made it far enough up the pass to glimpse the true extent of the Rebel preparations. However, it still does not explain why someone from our side would shoot him in the back of the head. I wonder if he had seen something that might explain the, ah, extent to which Johnston was prepared to receive you.”

“I guess Bierce himself is the only one who could answer that, and it looks like you won’t ever be able to get an answer,” responded Sherman moodily. The general shook his head as if to clear it. “Well, if you’ve seen enough we better be heading back; Army’s going to be going after Johnston at first light. Looks like you came on a fool’s errand. I’ll cut you and Lot orders that will put you on a train back to Chattanooga.”

Clay scanned the field, expressionless blue eyes giving no sign of what was going on behind them. “With your permission, I would like to accompany your army on the move. There are still a few matters I need to consider, and I can do that as easily in motion as stationary.”

Sherman shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Suit yourself. We’ll be living rough, but from what I saw of you at Vicksburg, I expect you can handle that.”

Clay did not respond. He continued to gaze over the field, and kept his thoughts to himself.

The sun was just setting when Clay entered the hospital tent in which laid the comatose Ambrose Bierce. He glanced over the rows of cots supporting moaning sufferers, and spotted a seated Lot beside the standing Duval and Dr. Fetterman beside Bierce’s inert form. Clay strode over, bowed slightly and clicked his heels, European-style. “Miss Duval, Dr. Fetterman. Doctor, I wish we could have met again under happier circumstances. How is the captain?”

Dr. Fetterman shook his head sadly. “There is no hope at all. The fever is mounting. I expect death within a few hours.”

Clay gazed down at Bierce for a moment; the captain’s eyes were now closed, but his bandaged head made small restless movements, while a film of sweat coated his face. Clay then shifted his attention to the black lieutenant. Lot was firmly holding one of Bierce’s hands with his left, while with his right he held his Bible open, reading from one of the more comforting chapters of the New Testament.

In a low voice, Clay said “Jeremiah, this is doing no good.”

Lot turned to look at Clay, who noticed his friend’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “Alphonso, how do you know that? How? He has not found God, and I think we both know why, both know what must have happened in his childhood. For him to be damned due to monstrous, unnatural sins committed against him … well, despite all I believe I hope that enough prayer will save his soul, or at least give him enough life to save his own.” Lot turned back to Clay, but instead of resuming his reading, he began to mutter. “Sinful as it is, I would wish the ancients were right about blood sacrifice. I would do almost anything to keep Ambrose alive.” There was a deep sigh. “But of course it never worked; even when the Carthaginians sacrificed their own children, much less animals, they could not save themselves from destruction by Rome.” Lot paused for a moment, then began quietly reading aloud from the book that anchored his soul.

In the softest of voices Clay replied “The ancients made a fundamental mistake. The forces to which they sacrificed did not want innocence, be it an animal or a child. They wanted something that could look upon Hell and understand the meaning of what it saw.” The preoccupied Lot did not hear Clay. Shocked, both Duval and Fetterman glanced at him strangely.

After a moment, Clay glanced at Fetterman and Duval. The doctor had returned to watching Lot with uncomfortable concern, obviously wishing to give succor but unsure how; Duval looked on with a pitying expression in which lurked a hint of a contemptuous smirk which few aside from Clay would have noticed. Clay addressed Fetterman in a low voice.

“Doctor, I know you have obligations to the other wounded. Still, I would take it as a personal favor if you would keep an eye on the lieutenant as he holds vigil. I would do so myself, but duty requires that I be elsewhere.”

While Fetterman nodded solemnly, Duval said “It must be an important task that would take you away at such a time.”

“That is so, Miss Duval.” Clay bowed slightly, clicked his heels, and exited the tent into the night without further ado.

Although the moon had not yet risen, the occasional campfire and lantern allowed Clay to easily find the holding pen for the Confederate prisoners who had not yet been transferred north. He paused before the abandoned corral inside of which scores of ragged men milled about, and observed that the rickety boards were no barrier to escape. Nonetheless, there were a number of alert sentries standing guard watchfully with loaded Springfields, and Clay doubted any of the prisoners would test the responses of the guards. Clay walked up to one of those guards, who sported a corporal’s stripes. The man saluted smartly.

“Corporal, I have a need to gather certain intelligence, intelligence most likely in the possession of Rebel cavalry. Do you have any prisoners from Forrest’s command in there?

“Yeah, a couple of Johnnies brought in day before last,” said the lanky man in the distinctive twang of Illinois.

“Please be so good as to bring them to me.”

The corporal looked for a long moment at Clay, as if he were about to challenge the major’s authority over the prisoners. Making up his mind, he finally shrugged and called to a nearby private. “Hey Burton, bring them horse soldiers we got two days ago out to me.”

“Sure thing, Frosty,” replied the private cheerfully. The formal, reserved Clay reflected disapprovingly that discipline seemed lax among units recruited from the West. In a few moments the private had brought two ragged figures out through the gate, saluted sloppily, and returned to his post.

“Here they be, Major. Two of that bastard Forrest’s men that won’t be raiding our lines again.”

Clay studied the two. Both were lean and wiry. However, one appeared to be a lad of no more than sixteen years, whose eyes darted around like those of a hunted rabbit. The other, older man showed no fear, and favored Clay with a nasty, defiant smile. After a few moments, Clay abruptly asked “Were either of you with Forrest at Fort Pillow?”

The younger prisoner started, cast his eyes downward and replied in a small voice. “Yessir.” The older man smirked and said “Waren’t there. Was on leave.” The young man glanced up, startled, but said nothing.

Clay ignored the older man. Instead, pale blue eyes glimmering behind his spectacles, he addressed the younger man. “Tell me what it felt like to kill all those men trying to surrender. Tell me how proud and valorous you felt.”

The scared teenager raised his head further, but could not quite make eye contact with Clay. “Never felt lower in my life. Felt lower than catfish shit. Waren’t glory. Couldn’t believe the order … hell, didn’t matter if they was darkies, they was Christians …” The youth suddenly sniffled, and wiped his eyes with a dirty sleeve. The older prisoner looked on with sneering contempt.

“How many did you yourself kill?” asked Clay in an emotionless voice.

The teenager hung his head even lower and mumbled “Don’t rightly know; waren’t keeping count. Maybe … three, four.”

Clay stared at the youth for a long moment, and then nodded slightly to himself; he was fairly certain that the boy had killed no one, and had probably fired wildly into the air so that his comrades would think he was participating in the butchery that had been unleashed at Fort Pillow. In a startling movement Clay stabbed a finger at the older man, and addressed the corporal. “Him. Tie his hands behind his back, then send this boy back to the pen.”

The corporal stared at Clay for a moment. “Just what’s this about … sir?”

“I am taking this prisoner for an interrogation. I wish to conduct it outside our lines and alone, as my methods are … unorthodox.”

“Just hold on here,” said the older Confederate. “I’m a prisoner, and you ain’t got no right …”

With a swift movement the corporal smacked the side of the prisoner’s head with the stock of his rifle. The older Confederate fell to the ground with a cry, clutching his wounded skull. The corporal reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew an ungainly pair of iron handcuffs, which he threw at the quaking teenager. “Lock your friend’s hands behind his back. Then you git back to the pen. Remember I can see you all the way, and if you take one step to either side I’ll kill you sooner than I’d kill a dog in the road.”

The trembling youth did as he was told, then nervously set off in the gloom, constantly glancing over his shoulder at the corporal, who did not even bother to look directly at him. Instead he roughly hauled the older Rebel to his feet, saying “Major, I reckon I know a place to cross the picket lines quiet-like. My boy is on picket duty there. He’s a good boy, and will do what he’s told. Follow me.”

The three men began walking through the gloom single file, the prisoner between the corporal and Clay. They quickly left the campfires and bustle of the camp behind, but Clay noted approvingly that the older soldier seemed able to find his sure-footed way through the darkness with no difficulty.

“Halt! Who goes there?” came a voice suddenly from the darkness.

Instead of a password, the corporal replied “It’s all right Zeke. It’s Pa.”

“Pa, what the hell you doin’ out here? Ain’t you supposed to be guarding the Rebs we took?” A half moon now shone in the sky, and in its pale light Clay saw a younger version of his lanky escort approach them, musket still at the ready.

“Major here wants to take this Reb bastard out past our lines, to put some questions to him private-like; figured it would be best if it was your patch he went through.”

Clay drew his revolver. Pointing it at the prisoner, he said “See that tree to your right, about ten paces off? Go stand there, and do not move while I talk with these gentlemen.” Muttering a curse, the prisoner did as he was told. Clay then turned to the two Federals. “The questioning I intend is of a … peculiar kind. I do not believe the prisoner will be coming back with me.” With his free hand Clay dipped into his pocket and extracted two twenty-dollar gold coins. “One for each of you, for the inconvenience of holding your tongues when there are questions about the missing prisoner.”

Neither man moved to take the coins. The older one said “Your money ain’t good here, Major.”

Frowning, Clay asked “Does that mean you intend to report this to your officers?”

The older man did not respond. After a moment, the younger spoke up. “That ain’t what Pa meant. You see, that bastard yonder is one of Forrest’s boys.” He paused for another moment, and then continued.

“You see, Major, when Uncle Abe called for volunteers a whole passel of men from our little neck of Illinois joined the same regiment; sometime several men in the same family. When Pa and me joined up, my younger brother Jacob joined up too, even though he was only seventeen. Both me and Pa tried to talk him out of it; two in the same family seemed enough. Jacob wouldn’t listen. He was always holding on about the sacred duty to free the niggers, and that he would never have a better chance to do God’s will. Family had been saving up to send him to college; he had more brains than the law should allow, always having his nose in a book, and it was clear he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. Still, he said college could wait, and that this was the opportunity of a lifetime. When the call went out for officers for them new colored regiments, he went for the interview, and got jumped clean up to lieutenant; not many white men wanted to officer darkies, even for promotion. Pa and me would rib him about being promoted over us; but we was really proud to bustin’ of him. Got one letter from him after he left for his new regiment, and he said the new darky recruits were shaping up just fine. Said he was even organizing reading classes for the runaways in his company, as he believed a black man with a book in one hand and a gun in the other would really be going places. Last thing in his letter was that after a few more weeks of drill and practice at Fort Pillow, they would be ready to leave off garrison duty and see some real action.”

None of the three said anything for a few moments, the weight of the Fort Pillow massacre hanging palpably in the air around them like a cloud. Finally, the young sentry spoke again.

“So you see Major, your money ain’t good here. You take as long as you need to do what you need to do. Pa and me will be waiting here when you get back.”

Clay said nothing. In the light of the rising moon he could clearly see the hard, granite-like set of the older man’s face, as well as the wet trickles coming out of the corners of both eyes. After a moment he pocketed the two coins, turned around, and marched over to where the surly prisoner stood waiting.

“Turn around and start walking,” Clay announced. “Make any sudden move and I will shoot you in the leg.” Growling an obscenity, the prisoner began to pick his way over the uneven ground leaving the Federal lines, while the more sure-footed Clay followed closely behind him.

The pair had been walking a quarter of an hour, the lights of the Federal encampment behind them faded to nothingness, when Clay suddenly announced “Halt. This is far enough. Turn around.” As the prisoner turned, an uneasy look now on his face in place of the previous arrogant smirk, Clay holstered his revolver. Then he produced a Bowie knife from where it had been secreted under his tunic.

An expression of genuine fear now on his face, the prisoner nervously licked his lips. “Ah, Major, ain’t no need to go on with this anymore. You tell me what you want to know, and if I can, I’ll give you the answer.”

Unexpectedly, Clay giggled; coming from such a solemn officer, the sound was terrifying. “You need not concern yourself with that. There is no knowledge in your possession of interest to me.”

“Then what the hell is this all about?” the Rebel asked loudly. He found himself hoping that there was someone, Confederate or Federal, out in the darkness that would hear his voice and come to investigate. He strained to hear the sounds of any passer-by, but all he could hear were the chirpings of crickets, and the distinctive hooting of a flock of whippoorwills. In the midst of his unease he still had time to think the latter odd; those birds should have flown north weeks ago.

Clay began to speak, as if musing to himself. “I am sure this is not what Father wanted. He hoped that what Grandfather von Juntz had done could be diluted, diluted through his own blood, so that good could be done for the Republic he loved while the darkness was kept under control. What he did not know was the desire would always be there, the … hunger. He did not anticipate how many opportunities there would be to justify the darkest deeds, calling on the foulest things, in the name of some greater good. He could not have known that I would call upon things which should not be called, and never be sure if I did so for the good of others or to satisfy my … craving.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?” blurted the prisoner. “You drunk or what?”

Clay giggled again. “No, my friend. It would have been better for you if I were. Better still that you had stayed away from Nathan Bedford Forrest. You see, the living person I care most about in the world is about to suffer a loss, and I would spare him that loss. That person’s friend is dying, and medical science can do no more. However, as the Bard once said, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ There is help I can call upon, help that may choose to grant a request for intervention, in a way that the narrow-minded pedants of science refuse to acknowledge exists. However, those forces demand a price, a tribute, in exchange for their help. What I am about to do will break a solemn promise I made to General Grant, and that weighs upon me; breaking such promises is dishonorable, and Clays strive to uphold their honor. It will make no difference to you, but I truly wish that I could obtain this assistance without doing what I am about to do, and truly wish that it would not stain my family’s honor, or that it would give me … pleasure.”

Clay began to tremble all over, as if snakes squirmed under his skin, and began advancing on the Rebel with the Bowie knife. Wide eyed, the prisoner turned to run, but tripped over a rock and fell hard, the handcuffs preventing him from breaking his fall. From somewhere in the darkness, a flock of whippoorwills began hooting in unison.

Father and son started as the screaming began, and stared intently into the darkness that had swallowed Clay and his prisoner. Distance made the screaming faint, but the agony and terror came through as clearly as if the screamer stood beside them. After the horrible sounds had continued for about a minute, the younger man started to move toward the sounds. His father seized his shoulder with a grip of iron.

“Let it be, Zeke. Let it be.” The younger man was about to protest when the distant screaming ascended to an impossibly high note of terror, then was suddenly cut off as if a door had slammed.

With a note of fear in his voice, Zeke asked “Pa, what the hell was that major doing?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Whatever his own reasons for doing whatever he done, it was a bit of payback for your brother. A very little payback.”

The two men peered into the outer darkness for some minutes, until they heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching. “Who’s there?” blurted the younger man nervously.

A shadowy form emerged from the darkness, and in the pale moonlight resolved itself into Alphonso Clay. Even in the dim light the soldiers could see the vacant, numbed expression on his face, the wooden, mechanical way in which he walked. He did not look at the soldiers, nor did he alter his pace, but as he passed them he murmured “I very much fear the prisoner bolted, and eluded me in the dark. I can find my own way back.”

Father and son watched the major walk leadenly toward the lights of the main encampment. After a long moment, the older man said “Zeke, you don’t have nothin’ to do with that major ever again. He’s not a good man to have near.”

“Yes, Pa,” said the younger with nervous sincerity.

Ambrose Bierce suddenly began thrashing wildly about, uttering agonized, animal-like sounds. Lot dropped his Bible, rose to his feet, and tried to restrain the wounded man, calling “Help here, help! For the love of God, help!” The exhausted Dr. Fetterman rushed up, followed closely by Duval.

Helping to hold Bierce down, through gritted teeth Fetterman said “These convulsions mean your friend’s death is imminent. Prepare yourself.” Behind the doctor Duval stared with fascination at Bierce’s wild, mindless motions.

Suddenly, the young captain arched at an impossible angle, only the back of his head and his heels touching the cot; then with an agonized cry he collapsed limply. Releasing his hold on his friend, Lot audibly sobbed. Dr. Fetterman rested his hand sympathetically on the lieutenant’s shoulder and was about to say something comforting when the form on the cot shuddered and suddenly drew a lungful of air. After a few irregular breaths his respiration became normal; in a few more moments, to the astonishment of all three witnesses Bierce began to snore softly. An amazed Fetterman watched Bierce’s complexion return to normal. He then gingerly felt the lieutenant’s forehead.

“The fever is gone,” he said wonderingly. “I cannot explain this. If it were not for the nature of his wound, I would swear this man was on his way to recovery.”

“Is it possible?” asked Lot in a low voice. “Has the crises passed?”

“I hardly know what to say. I have neither heard nor read of such a recovery. Miss Duval, I respect your knowledge of head wounds. What say you?”

Duval drew up to Bierce, struggling to overcome the unaccustomed dread of the unknown. If there was one thing she understood, it was death, and she had known Bierce would die once the fever had set in, as sure as the sun set in the west. She felt first his forehead, then the throbbing artery in his neck; the forehead was cool, the pulse strong and regular. “God be praised, I believe he may live. It is a miracle.” Duval had a look of pious joy on her face. However, carefully hidden in her cold heart was an uneasiness that was close to panic; Bierce was recovering for no reason she could imagine, and that lack of reason gave rise to unaccustomed fear in her breast.

Suddenly the tent flap was thrust aside, and the darkness vomited into the tent Alphonso Clay, the strangest of expressions on his face. All noticed it, but none could exactly describe it. Lot, who tended to Christian mysticism, later decided it looked like his friend had something subtly added to or subtracted from his soul.

Clay strode over to Bierce’s cot, and spoke without preamble. “How is he?” The voice was perfectly normal, in weird contrast to the disturbing expression its owner’s face carried.

As if to answer his question, the captain’s eyes slowly opened; Fetterman stood frozen in amazement, while Duval hissed her surprise. At first the eyes were unfocused, but they quickly gained a spark of alertness. Bierce looked at the figures gathered about his cot, and his gaze settled on Jeremiah Lot. Then to the utter amazement of all, he spoke in a faint voice.

“I’ll be damned. Lieutenant Sambo. Guess I’m alive after all. If there is an afterlife, I know where I’m headed, and Hell could never hold a Bible-thumper like you.” A faint, wheezy laugh escaped his lips. “Say, I’m so dry I could actually drink water, providing nothing better is available.”

Despite the tears in his eyes, Lot was smiling. “Ambrose, be sensible. You know water is what you need now, not alcohol. Why do you act as if you hate it?”

“I cannot abide putting the substance in me, normally. I understand fish fornicate in it.” Another wheezy laugh escaped the wounded captain; meanwhile, Fetterman had located a water bottle, and began gently raising Bierce’s head so he could drink the liquid.

After the young captain had taken a number of careful sips, Fetterman lay his head back down, and asked “How do you feel? Please describe everything.”

“My head aches as if I had drunk a gallon of monumentally bad liquor the night before.”

“Not surprising, Ambrose,” said Lot. “You have been shot through the head.”

Bierce muttered an obscenity, and started to raise his hand to his bandages.

“Please do not do that, Captain Bierce,” said Duval briskly, grabbing his hand and firmly placing it in its original position. “Lieutenant Lot has been here for a day, without rest or food. If you relapse, his sacrifice would have been for naught.”

Bierce slowly focused his eyes on the black officer. “You were here all that time?”

Lot looked embarrassed. “Dr. Fetterman, Miss Duval and the orderlies were too busy caring for others to stay by your side, but it didn’t seem right to not have someone here.”

Bierce winced with pain. “Guess I was damn lucky, to have a bullet bounce off my skull like that.”

“Lieutenant, you are luckier than you know,” replied Fetterman. “It penetrated the brain, in-and-out. Miss Duval undertook to repair the wound. If you live, it is due to her.”

Bierce focused his eyes on the nurse and frowned, remembering her reaction to the horror that a cabin near Knoxville had contained. Her response there did not seem consistent with an angel of mercy.

“I then thank you for your skill, madam,” he said slowly.

“Show your thanks by getting some rest,” she responded brusquely. “You are far from out of the woods, and having all these people excite you could cause a relapse.”

Clay, who had observed events silently, now spoke. “Miss Duval, gentlemen, I believe the captain does indeed need rest and quiet. Be that as it may, there are some brief questions I need to ask him in private. Miss Duval, if you will all leave him in peace, I promise to stay only a few moments to ask those questions.”

Duval was about to answer in the negative when she checked herself, remembering her long-term plans for Clay. Instead she said “Very well. But only the major, and only for a few minutes.”

Clay looked at Lot. “Go get some rest. You are exhausted, and there will be much to do tomorrow.”

Lot, Duval and Fetterman quickly murmured best wishes and good night to Bierce, and moved off. Only a few wounded men in nearby cots could overhear Bierce and Clay now; and those that were awake were concerned with their own injuries, and in no condition to concentrate on a conversation that did not involve them.

Bierce looked intently at Clay. “So to what do I owe this visit? Do not misunderstand me, I know that both of you, especially Jeremiah, are among the very few in this life who care whether I live or die, but last I heard you were on Grant’s staff way up in Virginia, helping him weed out criminals and Copperheads who had found their way into the Army of the Potomac. I know your sense of duty too well to flatter myself that you would abandon that to hold a wounded friend’s hand.”

Clay looked down on the frail looking Bierce for a long moment before deciding that he was strong enough for the story and what it implied. “Miss Duval repaired the entry and exit wounds in your skull. I must admit that her skill is astonishing, given that this conversation is taking place. In any event, the bullet that struck you just penetrated the skull on its way out, and was recovered from under the skin by her. It came from a .44 caliber revolver, almost certainly either a Colt or Remington, and she is convinced that it was fired deliberately at you by someone on the Federal side. She sent a telegram to Grant to that effect.”

The shock was apparent on Bierce’s pale features. “That’s not possible. Some Johnnie must have picked up a pistol from a dead Union officer, or some shot from our side went wild. Why would anyone on our side want to shoot me?”

“Why indeed. It is of course possible for Confederates to have captured Union sidearms, despite their preference for .36 caliber Colts or .42 caliber LeMatts. However, it would seem that you were looking at the advancing Rebels when you were struck in the back of the head. Furthermore, Miss Duval correctly points out the short range of the Colt and Remington .44s, and believes that whoever fired the shot was close enough to clearly identify you, not only as a Union officer but by name, if they knew you to begin with. We must at least seriously consider the possibility that you are the victim of a murderous assault perpetrated by someone on our side, under cover of a battle. The question now becomes one of why. Do you have any enemies who might conceivably desire your death?”

Bierce became visibly moody, then made an effort to appear jauntily cynical. “Sorry, Clay. I cannot think of anyone who would care whether I lived or died.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” replied Clay impatiently. “Many people care whether you live, up to and including General Sherman. I want to know if there is anyone who would hate you enough to commit murder.”

Bierce slowly shook his head; then Clay continued. “Then I must take as a working hypothesis that you possess knowledge which your assailant wished to prevent from being communicated to others. Can you think of anything that you know that another would consider worth killing for?”

Bierce frowned in concentration for nearly a minute. Finally he said “I truly cannot think what I know that would motivate such an attack. I had just seen with my own eyes that the Rebs were well-prepared to receive our assault, but by that time this was hardly a secret.”

Clay frowned thoughtfully. “Well, you are far from well. Get some sleep, and we will revisit this issue when you are stronger.”

Bierce’s handsome features clouded. “I am very tired, but I do not want to sleep.”

“Why is that?”

Bierce hesitated, as if embarrassed to say more. Finally he spoke,“Last thing I clearly remember was being slammed in the back of the head; the impact of the bullet, of course. Until I woke up just now, things are not clear. I have scraps of memory, impressions. Strange, disjointed images; obviously nightmares while I was unconscious, but I cannot seem to put them out of mind. Glimpses of strange things; what I remember makes me glad I do not remember more. Memories of strange buildings where … it’s hard to describe … the geometry seemed all wrong, as if the angles of a square added up to something other than three hundred sixty degrees. Sounds insane, I know; bullet must have really scrambled something in my head.” Bierce paused, unease written on his features. “And then the craziest thing of all. Remember I knew nothing of your being here; yet at the very end I heard a voice chanting something, something in a language I could not understand. And I would have sworn it was your voice doing the chanting, Clay.”

Clay stared intently at the wounded captain for a long moment before saying “Of course you are going to have unpleasing memories. Very few have survived an injury such as yours, and it would be surprising if your injured brain had not given you unpleasant thoughts. However, these thoughts will fade with time. I suspect you will always have them, but they will not be such as to bother you. Sleep now as best you can. We will talk more on the morrow.”

Unexpectedly, Clay patted Bierce’s shoulder reassuringly. Bierce could hardly keep the shock off of his face; coming from Clay, this sign of human emotion was as unexpected as roses starting to sing.

With a few quick strides, Clay left the hospital tent. He hurried to a tree that he could see in the gloom, far enough from the scattered campfires that he was certain he would be unobserved. He braced his back against the tree, buried his face in his hands, and began silently to sob with the misery of a lost soul.

The covered army ambulance jounced over the uneven road. Lot sat on the driver’s seat, doing his best to guide the tired horse around the worst of the potholes, all too aware that too many jolts could send the still-weakened Bierce back into the darkness that had almost claimed him. Oh, well, there was nothing he could do about the clouds of dust that the thousands of soldiers and horses preceding him at kicked up from the unpaved road. The canvas covering of the ambulance kept the worst of the blazing summer sun off the occupants of the ambulance, but did little to keep the choking dust from filtering in.

In the ambulance itself, Teresa Duval used some more of the scarce, tepid water to sponge Bierce’s head and neck. She then offered him the last drops water that the vehicle contained to drink.

Having sipped the unappetizing liquid, Bierce said “Thank you, madam. There was a time when I despised water; now I fear that I am becoming an addict.”

“I fear that is the last, Captain, at least until we get to Chattahoochee River. The whole army is about out of water, due to the drought hereabouts. Let us hope Johnston does not make a stand before the river, or the whole army will be in very serious trouble.”

“I do not believe he will do so, Miss Duval,” replied Bierce in his still weakened voice. “The Chattahoochee may be a wide river, but this time of year it is fordable everywhere, and the banks are shallow. The steep-banked Peach Tree Creek just outside Atlanta would make a much more defensible position. And if Joe Johnston has shown anything, he has shown that he has an excellent eye for the defense.”

Suddenly they became aware of the sound of distant cheering, then of hoof beats rapidly approaching the ambulance. One of the side-flaps was lifted, and they saw Clay leaning far off his horse to hold up the canvas as his mount kept pace with the wagon.

“Why Major Clay, whatever does that sound mean?” said Duval.

“Our advance column has reached the Chattahoochee, and has found it undefended. Water will be plentiful from here on.”

“Praise be to the Lord,” said Duval piously.

Clay, who knew just how sincere that sentiment was, favored her with a tight, grim smile, then turned his attention to Bierce. “Captain, how are you doing?”

“Thanks to this angel of mercy, well enough. Headaches and dizziness, nothing worse.”

“It is not good for you to be moving at all. Still, you would have been captured if we had left you behind, and I suspect Andersonville would be far worse for your health then the motion of this wagon.”

“True enough. You do not hear me complaining.”

Suddenly a distant, high-pitched voice interrupted their conversation. “Clay, is that you? Bierce in that wagon? Get your sorry asses over here! I want to see you both!”

Frowning, Clay let the flap of the wagon fall, and looked at the source of this voice. It seemed to be coming from somewhere in the river, which had just come into view. He spotted the shouting man. To the reserved Clay’s shock, it was General Sherman, standing in the river up to his thighs, buck naked.

Clay glanced at Lot on the driver’s box; his friend was a picture of shocked surprise. Suppressing an urge to smile, Clay solemnly commented “Lieutenant, better pull over to that clearing on the shore by the commanding general.”

As Lot wordlessly complied, Clay trotted ahead to the unselfconscious general. He dismounted and saluted smartly while glancing around. He noticed that although a steady stream of soldiers were wading across the shallow river, all were stopping to fill canteens and water barrels, and some were taking advantage of an opportunity for a long-deferred bath, especially enjoyable in the hot Georgia sun. A few even mimicked their commanding general’s lack of inhibitions. As Clay wrapped his mount’s reins around a convenient branch, several passing soldiers cheerfully shouted in unison. “Howdy Uncle Billy! Parade dress today?”

“I don’t give a crap how you rascals dress, so long as you keep Joe Johnston on the run,” Sherman replied with equal good humor.

As a ragged cheer issued from the advancing soldiers, Clay approached the edge of the water, “Sir, Bierce is in the wagon, but he is accompanied by Miss Duval. You may wish to attend to the … informality of your attire.”

“Hell, this is the first time I’ve been comfortable in a month,” replied Sherman grumpily as he waded to the shore. Nevertheless, he gestured to an embarrassed aide standing nearby, who handed his commander trousers and a flannel shirt. He was just buttoning the latter when Lot brought the wagon to a stop before him. Without waiting for help, Sherman strode barefoot up to the side of the wagon and threw back the flap. Startled by the sudden appearance of the commanding general, Bierce attempted to raise himself on his elbows and salute.

“To hell with that nonsense, Bierce,” growled Sherman with pretended anger. “You lie quiet; just wanted to see that you were all right with my own eyes. Army business kept me from coming in person, but Clay kept me informed, and I want you to know how happy I am that the army will not be deprived of your services. Soon as Miss Duval says you are up to a long rail trip north, north is where you are going, to stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you sir,” said Bierce smiling wanly. “Still, I should be fit for duty soon, and would prefer to stay with the army.”

“Goddamn it Bierce, you’ve had your brains blown out, and want to stay on duty! Come to think of it, might not be a bad idea; having had a bullet go through your brain qualifies you to be a general.”

Bierce laughed one of his unlovely, barking laughs. Sherman turned his attention to Duval. “And you, madam, you did the actual surgery. I am in your debt, as the army already is in your debt for many things.”

“I am just an instrument of the Lord’s,” she replied humbly, letting no sign of her conflicting emotions show on her face. The praise fed her cold ego, but she knew that she could not explain Bierce’s apparent recovery, and the compliment reminded her of that uncomfortable fact.

As if on cue, General McPherson galloped into view, followed by a number of aides and escorts. He came to a halt and saluted smartly. “General Sherman, sir, my advance scouts have reached Peach Tree Creek, and can see church spires in Atlanta. However, the Rebs are drawn up behind it in force. My men took a few prisoners, and they revealed disturbing news. Jefferson Davis seems to have lost patience with Johnston’s careful retreats, and has sacked him. The new commander is John Bell Hood.”

Sherman stood stock still for a moment. “Davis is a goddamn fool, and thank God for it. Of course Johnston retreated. What else could he do? We outnumber him near two to one. He would wreck his army in an attack; his only hope was to keep forcing us to attack him in defensive positions, rolling up casualties that might so shock the good people of the North that they would lose their minds and elect that goddamn traitor McClellan President in two months’ time.”

“Hood was appointed to attack, and attack he will,” said McPherson. “He was always aggressive. Furthermore, he is so reckless that he might try something wild that we are not prepared for. I played quite a bit of poker with him, when we were on duty together before the war. I once saw him try to run a $500 bluff with nary a pair in his hand.”

Sherman nodded. “I think you’re right. We’re going to see the elephant real soon. I want you to get the Army of the Tennessee brought up and dug in on our side of the creek as fast as you can. I’ll do what I can to hurry up Thomas on your right; good man, but not as quick off the mark as you.”

A troubled look on his face, McPherson replied “General, maybe it would be better if I handed over command to Logan. He’s my senior corps commander, and very good. After how I … let you down, I’m not sure you should rely on me with so much at stake. Say I took leave to go north and get married. It’s plausible, I have postponed it twice already.”

Sherman looked up at the youthful general steadily for a few moments, then replied in a low voice. “General McPherson, I told you that … the other matter is closed. You were mistaken, and men died. I have been mistaken, and men died. That’s war; no general’s judgment is perfect all of the time. I still believe you are the best the Union’s got, if something happens to Sam and me. If I thought you couldn’t do the job, you would have been long gone. Now, get your ass out to the left and set up a surprise for General Hood!”

A look of melancholy gratitude on his face, McPherson saluted and led his staff splashing across the Chatthoochee.

Clay and Lot were standing in the shade of a tree, having just settled Bierce into one of the walled tents, watching Fetterman direct his staff in setting up the field hospital. Duval was nowhere to be seen. One of the harried orderlies said he thought he had seen her heading off toward where the military telegraphs were being set up, but he was not certain.

After a long silence, Lot said “There is really no reason to stay here. Miss Duval must have been mistaken. Bierce must have been shot by a Rebel with a captured Union pistol, perhaps turning his head just as he was hit; making it seem like he was shot from behind.”

Moodily, Clay responded. “Perhaps. Still, that exchange earlier between Sherman and McPherson interests me. McPherson acted as if he had some great burden of guilt concerning his military judgment. Sherman has refused to tell me from whence came his information that the center of the line at Kennesaw was lightly held. I cannot help but wonder if it was from McPherson. I think that before we start on the long journey back we should …”

Clay was interrupted by the sound of dozens of cannon firing at once, thousands of rifles volleying, and the unearthly screech of the Rebel yell coming from numberless throats simultaneously.

“McPherson’s judgment cannot be that bad,” commented Lot over the noise of the battle. “Seems like he was right about Hood attacking immediately.”

Clay nodded absently. “Since we have no immediate duties, let us find Sherman and ask if we can at least act as couriers, or in some other capacity. I really do not feel like staying back here in safety while good men die.”

“My feelings exactly,” said Lot, and both officers moved off to find their horses.

Sherman was found without difficulty, he was with Thomas, and both generals were dismounted and in the middle of the front line, with rebel bullets clipping twigs from the trees all around them. They saluted, and Clay spoke.

“General Sherman, General Thomas, is there any capacity in which we could be of use to you?”

The massive, Union-loyal Virginian replied for both generals. “I thank you for the offer, but we have the situation in hand. I can hardly believe Hood is flinging his men straight at my lines, especially as he can see that we are dug in and outnumber him. There is scarce anything for me to do; all my boys have to do is reload and fire.”

“McPherson’s having some trouble off to the left,” added Sherman. “That’s the only place where Hood tried anything clever, a feint and a flanking movement, but early reports indicate that even there he was sloppy and bungled it. So long as our boys keep their nerve, we can stand all day and let Hood destroy his army for us.” Suddenly something to the right caught Sherman’s attention and he frowned. Clay and Lot followed the general’s glaze, and saw a lone private, probably someone who had lost his nerve and fled the front line, lying on the ground behind a thick tree, visibly quaking with fear; somehow in his terror he had not noticed the generals and their staffs behind him to his left. Sherman looked as if he were about to explode at the sight of cowardice, but then a grim smile crept over his face. He picked up a handful of pebbles from the ground, and starting walking toward the skulker. Casually he threw a pebble at the tree, which struck the trunk inches above the head of the shivering private.

“God save me!” the man shrieked at the top of his lungs, screwing his eyes tightly shut. Sherman threw another pebble, and heard the same shriek. He repeated his action a third time, and received the same response. By now Sherman was quite close.

“Hot and heavy fire, isn’t it” said Sherman.

“Oh God, I don’t know how any of us will live!” wailed the man, who then opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder, to see his commanding general. Terror of a different kind possessing him, he leapt to his feet and began running to the rear at top speed. A couple of aides made as if to pursue him, but a laughing Sherman said “Never mind, never mind. Shame will make him come back to his unit eventually. Who knows, when he calms down the shame may make him a good soldier.”

Sherman was still laughing when a dust-covered major rode up and saluted. “Complements of General Logan, sir. He begs to report that although the Rebs got in among our troops in several places, the bravery of the officers and the men contained the breakthroughs, and eventually drove Hood’s men back to their starting positions.”

Sherman frowned. “Why are you reporting from General Logan? What is General McPherson’s assessment of the situation?”

The aide could not look Sherman in the eye. “General McPherson behaved as a true hero. He was everywhere during the height of the attack, personally rallying the men if they showed signs of breaking, leading the reserves to where they were most needed. There was a dust up near a battery of Hooker’s artillery; some of the Johnnies got in among the guns, and while the general was directing the counterattack he was shot. Sir, General McPherson is dead.”

Sherman stared at the man with disbelief for the longest moment. Then, Sherman began uttering a series of mournful shrieks, tears streaming from his eyes.

Sherman’s grief and anger had passed through the blustering stage; he now spoke with quiet, deadly precision. “Dr. Fetterman, we are not putting James into a nameless grave in Georgia.”

In one of the hospital tents Sherman, Fetterman, Clay, Lot and Duval stood around the table that supported the lifeless body of the youthful general. Sherman continued speaking.

“Dr. Fetterman, you will come with me now. Several sutlers who attach themselves like leeches to this army are set up with embalming equipment; but some have better equipment and chemicals than others. I need you to come with me and canvas those parasites. I rely on you to tell me who can do the best job of preserving his remains. I want no horrible surprises when his fiancée sees him for the last time.”

Fetterman silently nodded, and Sherman replied “Good. We will not be long. Please keep watch until we return.” He looked down at the corpse and said enigmatically, “The South has taken another. Very well. I will begin taking from it.” With jerky steps, he exited the tent into the evening twilight, followed closely by the army doctor.

Clay waited a moment before speaking. “Quickly. We will not have much time. Please help me take off his tunic and shirt, and turn him over.” Puzzled and uneasy, Lot and Duval did as they were asked. In a few moments, the general’s body was face down on the table.

“You both observed there was no exit wound in the front, so the bullet that entered the back must still be in McPherson. Miss Duval, I know that you are not made uneasy by such work, so would you please probe for the bullet and remove it? I would do it myself, but I lack your expertise.”

Duval was puzzled as to why Clay wanted the bullet, but saw no reason to refuse his request. She grabbed several evil-looking tools from a nearby bag, and commenced her task. The squeamish Lot had to turn away; Clay watched with emotionless interest.

In less that five minutes Duval had located the bullet and secured it, drawing it from the corpse with unpleasant squelching sounds. She dropped the bullet into her hand, wiped it clean with a scrap of cloth, and took it to the nearby oil lamp for close examination.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she turned to Clay.“How did you know?” she said to him with a combination of wonder and admiration.

“I did not know, only suspected. However, you appear to have confirmed my suspicions.”

“What suspicions?” asked Lot.

Clay nodded to Duval, who answered “General McPherson was killed by a .44 caliber bullet, undoubtedly fired from a Union army pistol.”

The three people stared at the lump of lead in the woman’s hand, considering everything it implied.