CHAPTER 2

“HARDLY COULD THEY BE RESTRAINED FROM BREAKING OUT IN CHEERS …”

“You bastards,” said Sherman in a quiet, controlled voice from the tent opening; it was somehow more frightening than his wildest shouts and wails. “I leave for one moment, and you mutilate this fine young man’s body. Isn’t a Goddamn Rebel bullet enough? Could you not leave the remains with some scrap of the dignity he held in life?” Behind the coldly furious commanding general stood Dr. Fetterman, who nervously plucked at the general’s elbow in an ineffectual gesture toward restraining him.

In a motion so swift that it made Duval blink with surprise, Clay snatched the bullet from the palm of her hand and advanced toward the general, displaying the lethal piece of metal in his own open palm.

“This was done at my request; the others bear no responsibility. I feared that your esteem for the late General McPherson would cause you to forbid recovering the bullet still in him. No disrespect whatsoever was meant for a brave man who was murdered while defending his country.”

Despite his fury, Sherman was too quick-witted to overlook the fact Clay used the word “murdered” rather than “killed”. Sherman was already aware that Clay used language with unusual precision. Bright eyes narrowed in angry puzzlement.

“I know you well enough to realize you say nothing that is without purpose,” said the general in the same icy, controlled voice. “However, I don’t know what you are driving at. Enlighten me.”

“Sir, I suspected that General McPherson may have been murdered under the cover of battle by a traitor in our midst. This bullet is a .44 caliber pistol round; just as Miss Duval indicated in the case of Captain Bierce; it is my belief that this bullet was fired by a Union officer, almost certainly by the same pistol wielded by the same man.”

With quick, bird-like movements of his head, Sherman shifted his attention from the bullet to Clay’s face to Duval and back to the bullet. He paused, then lifted his eyes to meet those of Clay and asked in the softest of voices “Is it truly your belief that James was murdered by a traitor wearing the blue?”

“Sir, I cannot be certain at this time; but I fear that is likely.”

Sherman brushed past Clay to stand over McPherson’s body. He was silent for a moment, and then began speaking as if to himself.

“He was the best we had, destined to be the glory of the army. Sam and I can do the job, but we are flawed, and probably aren’t doing it as well as we should. I failed in banking before the war, and went a little crazy in Kentucky, till Sam took me in hand. Sam himself … well, he had that bad patch in the ’50s. But James … nothing like that for James. Sailed through the Point number one in his class, and never looked back. Smarter than the law should allow, but was so charming you didn’t mind. I know people say he was promoted too fast, that Sam and me made things easy for him. Don’t give a damn what people think; young as he was, he was better than us, and getting better every day. Never set a foot wrong, except once; some days I almost hoped something would happen to me, so he could take over the army here and do things better.”

“Sir, it was General McPherson who told you Johnston’s center was weak, back at Kennesaw.” Clay had made a statement, not asked a question.

Sherman’s head jerked around violently. “How came you to know that? I’ve told no one!”

Clay shrugged slightly. “McPherson’s offer to withdraw from the army, when combined with your admiration of him and your refusal to assign blame to anyone but yourself, makes it fairly obvious. You are, shall I say, usually intolerant of failure. Your tolerance in the face of the massive intelligence failure before Kennesaw could only come from a desire to shield someone for whom you felt the greatest respect.”

“Felt country couldn’t spare him. People like Hooker and Logan wanted his command and were already nipping at his heels, spreading tales of his inexperience, damn them. Well, I could hold them off and give James cover, what with Sam heading the army and my brother in the Senate. But if word got out that all those men died because he had believed some high-drunk nonsense … well, couldn’t permit that. I can look after myself, with Sam and my brother covering my flanks; if I took the blame, at worse James would replace me if I were removed.”

“I fear that General McPherson was used as an unwitting tool to provide you with disastrously bad intelligence,” said Clay. “Although I am not personally in a position to judge, I will take your word for it that he was a skilled, intelligent officer. Unfortunately, that makes this matter even more serious. McPherson was in turn protecting someone he trusted implicitly. I can only assume someone of rank, someone deeply respected by the army at large, not just one of its officers.”

Sherman stared for a long moment at Clay, shock warring with rage in his features while he thought of the traitor who had nearly destroyed Grant’s army outside Vicksburg, the traitor who must never be named, to protect the country at large. Finally he said to Clay “I am not a policeman, Goddamn it. I know how to run and supply an army; but I don’t know jack about how to go about smoking out such a bastard. You know this shit Clay. What do you suggest?”

“Lieutenant Lot and I are going to need unrestricted access to all your top commanders; I fear that one of them must be at the center of the matter. Although we will not reveal the fact that General McPherson’s death was not the result of the fortunes of war, we will need to ask hard questions that an innocent man could regard as aspersions on his personal honor. We will need your authority and backing to compel cooperation from the more recalcitrant.”

“Can’t stop the army while this is sorted out,” said Sherman moodily. “Have to keep the strategic initiative going.”

“There is no need to do so. We can pursue our investigation while the army is in motion.”

The flap of the tent was thrust aside, and a lean, slovenly civilian appeared. In his left hand he held a pump with a long India-rubber tube trailing to the ground; under his right arm he cradled a large wooden box that clinked as he moved, as if filled with heavy bottles. Sherman glanced at the civilian with an unreadable expression, saying to the others “Miss Duval, gentlemen, there is no further need for your services tonight. You may turn in for the night.”

Clay and the others took the hint. Clay himself was the last to leave; as he lowered the flap of the tent, his final sight was of the civilian moving toward the table holding McPherson’s body, while Sherman suddenly covered his mouth with his hand, as if to stifle a sob.

The following morning Clay and Lot encountered General Sherman again. Knowing that his temper was uncertain in the best of times, and that his grief over McPherson’s death would not be quickly assuaged, they had hoped to avoid dealing personally with him for some time. However, the universe is ironic, and seldom takes account of personal preferences in its ordering of events.

After an unappetizing breakfast of hardtack and bacon, they had tentatively drawn up a list of officers to be interviewed. However, before formally commencing their investigations, they had decided to look in on Bierce. It was unfortunate that Sherman had independently decided to do the same thing, and still more unfortunate that a group of generals had tracked him down at the same time.

Clay and Lot entered the hospital tent only to find a furious argument was taking place between Sherman, Hooker, and Logan, with Thomas and Generals Oliver Howard and Jeff Davis watching uncomfortably. Sherman’s back was to the cot on which Ambrose Bierce reclined, grinning from ear to ear; the three other cots in the tent were occupied by silent forms that lay dreaming under the influence of morphine.

“I do not deny that General Logan performed heroically after McPherson’s death,” Hooker loudly announced in his deep baritone. “Nevertheless, the Army of the Tennessee is mine by right! I have seniority in the rank of major general of volunteers. Furthermore, I also hold the permanent rank of brigadier in the regular army, while his commission will expire with the end of the war. It is insupportable that there is any doubt!”

Clay touched Lot’s shoulder, and nodded toward the tent flap; it was obvious that they had intruded on a policy disagreement that did not concern them. However, before they could make a quiet exit, Bierce spotted them. In a strong, clear voice the wounded captain cheerfully announced. “Lot, Clay, I am so glad to see you! Don’t leave; I believe that the generals will not be much longer.”

Almost as one, the six generals turned their attention to the unexpected arrivals. Hooker looked as if he was about to explode at the interruption. However, before he could launch into one of his famously profane tirades he was interrupted by Sherman.

“Oh hell, let them stay. I’m not saying anything they can’t hear.” He then turned his glowering attention back to Hooker. “General, I am well aware of your seniority. However, the days of promoting strictly on the grounds of seniority are over. We damn near lost this war in its first two years, largely from letting Goddamn fools with seniority command better men. You are nothing more than a corps commander, a barely adequate one; and it would be murder of good men to jump you up to an army command … again.”

Hooker’s already florid complexion turned beet red at the unmistakable reference to his brief command of the Army of the Potomac. Bierce’s smile became so wide it looked like it might reach past his ears. The darkly handsome John Logan smirked; but then Sherman turned his attention to Logan.

“Don’t smile, General Logan,” he said gruffly. “You’re not getting the Army of the Tennessee, either.”

Looking as if he had been slapped, Logan almost whined as he blurted out “But I’m the senior corps commander! There was my performance after McPherson’s death! Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“You did well enough, Logan. However, it was a matter of holding the line for half a day. There’s more to being an army commander than holding the line. I’m giving the Army of the Tennessee to General Howard.”

The handsome, earnest-looking general to the right of Thomas started, then stepped forward. “General, it is an honor greater than I deserve. Are you certain this is for the best?” Only then did Lot notice that the empty right sleeve of his uniform that had been carelessly pinned to his chest. Of course, Clay had noticed that disability the moment they had entered the tent.

It was hard to determined who looked more enraged, Hooker or Logan. The later spoke first.

“Sir, you can’t do that! He’s not even from the Army of the Tennessee! What will the boys think when they see a Cumberlander promoted over me?”

“They will think that William T. Sherman is a bastard, and I can live with that. Howard is an experienced West Pointer, and you are not; I’ll not hand an entire army over to an amateur.” Sherman then turned to Hooker and spoke before the latter could launch a long-winded objection. “As for you, I think that your current assignment stretches your abilities to the limit. To the limit, sir.”

Clay had often heard someone referred to as “exploding with rage.” Until this day he believed it to be a metaphoric expression; but watching Hooker’s face redden to the point it nearly turned purple, he wondered if he was going to see it literally happen. Hooker seemed to struggle for words to express his outrage, and it was some seconds before he could rasp a reply.

“General, in case you are not aware, General Howard is my senior division commander. My subordinate! You are jumping him over me sir! The man whose 11th Corps went to pieces at Fredericksburg, and let Jackson take me in the flank!”

“It was your sloppy dispositions and indecision that allowed Jackson to take you in the flank. As for Howard’s 11th, his boys were mainly Dutchmen who had never heard a shot fired in anger before that day. This campaign has already allowed him to prove that when given experienced, steady troops General Howard is a superb commander.”

Literally quivering with rage, Hooker shouted “Damn you! I will submit my resignation this very afternoon!”

With no notable pause, Thomas replied “Your resignation is accepted—gladly.” Hooker’s immediate commander stared with calm dignity at his just-fired subordinate. Hooker balled his hands into fists, and actually looked as if he would attack the commander of the Army of the Cumberland.

“That’s fine with me,” snapped Sherman. “I think that with the consent of General Thomas, I’ll give your command to General Slocum.” For a moment, one could literally hear a pin drop in the hospital tent. The whole army knew that Slocum so despised Hooker that he had agreed to become one of Thomas’ corps commanders on the express condition that he would have no personal dealings with Joe Hooker. Giving Hooker’s command to Henry Slocum would be the final insult.

Although everyone else in the tent was focused on Thomas and Hooker, appalled at the spectacle and fearing the outcome of the next few moments, Clay had focused his attention on General Jeff Davis, standing on Thomas’ left. The emaciated Davis had the body of a very sick man; but Clay noticed that his steady, dead stare was locked on Hooker, and that he had quietly unsnapped the flap of his holster. Clay suddenly remembered that two years previously Davis had shot to death his own commanding officer in a personal dispute, and had only evaded a court martial through obscure, behind-the-scenes political manipulation on his behalf. Clay briefly wondered whether he was about to see history repeat itself. Hooker had not noticed Davis’ actions, which was just as well, thought Clay; Fighting Joe was a man of many and serious flaws, but physical cowardice was not among them. With what appeared to be a titanic effort, Hooker seemed to bring himself under control. He stormed out of the tent, shouting over his shoulder “None of you have heard the last of this!”

Thomas was the first to break the silence. “I have wanted to do that for a long time, but needed some reason, Joe Hooker is one of the pets of the Radical Republicans in Congress, and there would have been hell to pay without some good excuse. His offer of resignation is that excuse. We cannot have officers threatening to quit every time they are denied promotion.” He did not mention the fact that he continued to serve uncomplainingly after Sherman was promoted over his head.

John Logan had been a congressman before the war, and expected to go much higher after it; he was not accustomed to humbling himself to anyone. Nevertheless, under the burning ambition was genuine patriotism. Forcing himself to look straight into the eyes of the one-armed General Howard, he said “General, my outburst and … disappointment was not directed at you, at a man, or commander, but at the situation. I, of course, will abide by General Sherman’s decision, and will serve you to the best of my ability. However, if you feel that in light of my … freely expressed opinion you would be more comfortable with a new commander for the 15the Corps, I’ll understand it. I will make no fuss. ‘Unlike Joe Hooker’s’ was the unspoken thought.

Howard was a rigid but genuine Christian; Logan’s frank statement was the best approach toward healing any incipient breach between the two generals. “General Logan, the 15th Corps has proven itself to be the backbone of the Army of the Tennessee time and time again, due in no small part to its commander. It would be a privilege to have you continue in the role you have filled so well.” The tension palpably drained from the room; only Clay noticed General Davis unobtrusively fasten the flap of his holster back into place.

Sherman nodded approvingly at the determination of the two generals to work in harness. “Well, gentlemen, it was not my intention to burden Captain Bierce with the squabbles of high command. He needs rest to complete the recovery from his head wound; I suggest we leave him to his visitors.” Sherman exited the hospital tent with his quick, bird-like walk, followed by the other generals while Clay and Lot snapped formal salutes. Davis was the last in line; as he passed by Clay he turned his head and briefly favored him with an once-over from those cold, dead eyes.

The two friends walked over to Bierce’s cot. Bierce looked pale and tired, but surprisingly well for a man who had taken a bullet through the brain. “Glad you were in time for the show,” said the young scout cheerfully. “It was a welcome change of pace. The pious Miss Duval does not want me to read yet, much less write. And as you can see, my tent mates are not precisely sparkling conversationalists.” He gestured vaguely to the inert forms occupying the remaining cots.

“Where are Doctor Fetterman and Miss Duval?” asked Lot.

The smile suddenly left Bierce’s face. “As you can surmise, this tent is for those requiring nothing but quiet. There are many demands on Dr. Fetterman’s time; he is not negligent, just giving his attention this morning to other tents where more active treatment is required. As for Miss Duval, I believe that in addition to duties in the other hospital tents, she is spending some time at the telegraphy office. Very devoted to her mother, back in New York; seems to be sending wires virtually every day.” He turned his head to look straight at Clay, and cocked a cynical eyebrow.

“So you believe there is something more involved than messages to a parent?” asked the blond major.

“Don’t you?”

The faintest of smiles played about Clay’s lips. “I do, as a matter of fact.”

Bierce suddenly turned completely serious, jaunty cynicism shed like a cloak. “Listen Clay, be careful around that one. She isn’t what she seems, and … well, just be careful.”

With mock surprise Clay responded “Captain, I am shocked. How can you harbor suspicions concerning the woman who saved your life?”

Bierce closed his eyes, feeling even wearier than before. He remembered how he owed his life to Teresa Duval’s medical skills; but he also remembered a shabby cabin outside Knoxville, and the shocking way she had responded to the horror it contained. Without opening his eyes, he said, “I don’t think she means you or the Union harm; just don’t stand in her way. That goes for you too Jeremiah. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m suddenly very tired. Do appreciate the visit, but …” He was asleep, having never completed the sentence.

“He is still in danger, isn’t he?” asked Lot.

“Yes, yes he is.” Avoiding looking at his friend, Clay continued. “Nevertheless, you can be confident he will recover, more or less, providing he has rest and quiet. Now, let us go find General Davis.”

“We start with him? Why?”

“My initial inquiries show that neither Sherman nor Thomas know quite where General Davis was at the height of the assault at Kennesaw Mountain. Very strange, given how central his troops were to the assault. Besides, we are looking for a murderer, and General Jeff Davis brings an interesting quality which recommends him to me as a suspect.”

“What is that, Alphonso?”

“Oh, he is already proven to be a murderer.”

Sitting in the camp chair before a table placed outside his command tent, General Jeff Davis looked even more emaciated than when he was standing. His skin had the appearance of yellow parchment, more appropriate to a three-day corpse than a living man. Even his eyes seemed to belong to a corpse, appearing to reflect no light whatsoever. Still, his voice was firm enough, which he demonstrated after Clay had introduced himself and Lot. Turning his dead eyes on the young Lieutenant, he said to Clay “Sherman told me you would be asking some questions, and I was to answer. Still, I don’t talk to niggers, except to tell them to empty the slops. Tell that one there to wait over yonder; I only talk business with white men.”

Jeremiah Lot found such insults hard to take at the best of times; from a general officer of the United States, it was intolerable. He had opened his mouth to reply when his cousin rendered any reply superfluous.

“General Davis, you have insulted an officer of the United States, an officer to whom I am bound by the strongest obligations, furthermore an officer whom I suspect is your superior in intelligence and character. If you were any kind of gentleman, and not the Hoosier cracker you obviously are, I would call you out for that remark. As it is, repeat the offense and I shall horse-whip you in front of the camp.”

Davis leaped to his feet, hand resting on the flap of his holster, a spark of animation finally showing in his eyes. “You bastard! I should …”

“Should what, General?” interrupted Lot. “Shoot Major Clay like you shot General Nelson, back in Kentucky? I think not. Your friends in Washington would not save you a second time.”

Davis turned his attention to Lot. “So, you know about that. Nelson insulted me, and I killed him. No nancy-boy dueling nonsense. That bastard humiliated me in front of my own men. He died for it.”

“Yes sir, you killed a brave man who helped rally Kentucky to the Union when there were not many there standing with the Union,” responded Lot.

“Your friends noted your genuine bravery and ability in command, qualities sadly lacking in our generals at that stage of the war, and decided to quash the court martial against you,” added Clay. “However, both Lieutenant Lot and myself report directly to General Grant, and through him the President. They would make sure that nothing would save you from the firing squad this time, should something … untoward happen to either Lot or myself.”

Davis’ eyes bored into Clay. “You think I’m scared of you? Wasn’t scared in Mexico. Wasn’t scared at Fort Sumter, when frenchie Beauregard sent the cannonballs flying thicker than flies. Wasn’t scared at Chickamauga. And I’m not scared of you.”

Clay contemplated Davis for a moment. He now realized that there was before him a man in constant pain, a slowly dying man, a man who flung himself into battle because only by risking death and inflicting it on others could he feel even momentarily alive. A man who had his uses while the Union struggled for its life.

“Sir, I realize that you are one of those who think this bloody conflict is simply about preserving the Union, and not about bringing dignity and freedom to the black man. I will not argue the point. However, I will insist upon this: either apologize to Lieutenant Lot, and treat him with the respect due his rank, if not his person, or I will break you from the army. Do not doubt that I have the power. I would prefer not to use it; but I will if need be. You will then be unable to participate in the battles to save this country; unable to do anything save look on while resting quietly and in peace.”

Davis looked back and forth at the two men before him several times. Gradually the fire in his eyes died, and they reverted to their normal dark, lifeless appearance. Moving his hand away from his holster, Davis turned at last to Lot and said with apparent effort, “Lieutenant, I forgot myself just now. I … apologize for my rudeness and … ask … your forgiveness.”

“Sir, your apology is accepted,” replied Lot, with as much sincerity as the apology itself.

“Now that the air is cleared, I would like to ask you a few things, sir,” said Clay quietly. “Would you care to be seated?”

“I’ll stand,” replied Davis abruptly.

“Very well. What was your opinion of how the engagement at Kennesaw Mountain was conducted?”

Davis stared at Clay for several moments before replying. “Ain’t my place to comment on that. That’s the job of Sherman and Thomas.”

“Not the job of McPherson as well?” asked Lot. “You refer to General Thomas, who is one of the two army commanders, but not to General McPherson. That seems odd, given that your division was in fact in direct contact with McPherson’s flank.”

Davis turned his attention to Lot, with some obvious effort. “George Thomas knows his business; showed that long before this war, in Mexico and the frontier, and has continued to show it ever since. McPherson …” Davis suddenly cut himself off.

“McPherson did not quite have the experience of Thomas?” Clay supplied.

“Think what you like about me speaking ill of the dead,” Davis suddenly replied. “McPherson was a pretty-boy desk soldier, a pet of Grant and the abolitionists. He came out of the academy in ’54, and went into a series of cushy engineering assignments, while I already had eight years of combat experience, winning my commission in the field at Chapultepec, not in a classroom!” Again Davis grimly clamped his mouth shut.

“So you had difficulty working with a superior you considered your inferior in experience and ability?” asked Lot.

Davis’ dead eyes flickered to life briefly. “Don’t you ever accuse me of forgetting my duty to my country, or you will not have the opportunity to regret it,” he responded in a low voice. Making an obvious effort to control his deadly temper, Davis continued. “I have never let my feelings interfere with my duty. When General Thomas said I was to support McPherson, I did everything in my power; even gave him Colonel Kitching, Hooker’s artillery commander, who was supposed to be added to my division, along with every cannon of my own that I could spare, without even being asked.”

“Let us leave Kennesaw aside for the moment,” said Clay. “Did you happen to observe General McPherson’s death during Hood’s attack?”

A spark of unpleasant animation came to Davis’ eyes. “What you mean is did I kill the pretty-boy.”

Clay looked appraisingly at the emaciated general. “No one has mentioned murder.”

Davis spat out an obscenity before replying. “Why is it all you college boys think that everyone who ain’t been to college is stupid? I’ve heard of you, Major Clay. Heard rumors of what you do for Grant, and how you leave a trail of broken careers wherever you go. And now you’re here asking me what I think of McPherson and whether I saw him die. Don’t take a college boy to figure out where you’re heading.”

Clay looked at Davis with grudging respect. “I would suggest you keep your surmise concerning McPherson’s end to yourself; we would not want to start rumors that would rot morale.”

“Fair enough; I see the point. Anyway, didn’t see him fall. Did catch glimpses of him from time to time, but didn’t pay much attention; my own division was having a pretty hot time.” Davis paused, then almost unwillingly added “He was brave enough, I grant him that. Didn’t wish him dead, if that’s what you are thinking.”

“Would you know of anyone who would wish him dead?” asked Lot gently.

Davis wheezed a very unpleasant laugh. “You could take your pick. Just about any officer older than forty who saw Sherman’s pet pin two stars on each shoulder. Maybe they wouldn’t actually do it, but they sure must have thought of doing it from time to time.”

“I appreciate your candor,” replied Clay. “We have taken up enough of your time for now. Please remember to keep our conversation private.” Clay and Lot both saluted Davis, who sourly returned the gesture. The general then half-sat, half-collapsed into his camp chair, looking more like a corpse than ever, not even bothering to look at his two visitors as they turned and walked away.

“What do you think? asked Lot as soon as they were out of earshot.

“He is certainly capable of murder, and bore no love for McPherson. However, murder by stealth does not seem to be his style; he shot the unarmed General Nelson in front of two witnesses. We should keep him in mind, but enquire further.”

“Enquire of whom?”

“To start, of General Hooker. He is taking the train north as soon as he can pack his kit; and I would dearly like to have a talk with “Fighting Joe” before he is out of our reach.”

In contrast to the isolated, brooding calm of Davis’s tent, Hooker’s large command tent was a scene of crowded commotion. Young officers in immaculate uniforms were hurriedly filling a number of large trunks with a variety of objects, some of which clinked and gurgled. Both Clay and Lot visibly started at the sight of an attractive young woman lounging on a cot at the far side of the tent, who boldly stared at them as they entered; although her dress was of expensive and demure muslin, it was obvious that “she was no better than she should be.” In the center of the commotion the tall, handsome Joe Hooker stood directing the packing, casting frequent, appreciative glances at his female guest. Clay and Lot caught the general’s eye, and saluted.

Hooker frowned, and then said “I remember. You two were in the hospital tent. Well, what do you want?”

“General, I have been given a special task by General Sherman,” said Clay. “I would suggest that you ask your staff to leave while we discuss that task.” Suddenly, one could have heard a pin drop in the tent; none of the staff officers had ever heard anyone be that peremptory to Fighting Joe.

“And just who the hell are you to give a major general orders?” replied Hooker loftily.

“Major Alphonso Clay and Lieutenant Jeremiah Lot, on detached duty from General Grant’s staff, at your service, sir.”

Hooker’s pale blue eyes darted between the two officers, and then settled on Clay. “Clay. Are you the Clay who has been with Grant since Vicksburg, the one who in New Orleans had … some trouble?”

Clay bowed slightly. Hooker seemed lost in thought for a moment, and then abruptly said to his staff, “Out. All of you out. Arrange my baggage on the train as best you can. You can finish cleaning up in here after I’m done with these … guests.” The various staff officers scurried to comply with the imperious Hooker. However, the woman in the corner rose languorously from her cot and glided up to Hooker, placing her arm lightly on his.

“Joe, you don’t mind if I stay?” she asked in a husky voice.

“Yes, I do. Go get yourself settled on the train. Make sure that we’re guaranteed some privacy; it will be a long ride north.” Suddenly he slapped her on the rump, and smiled. The tart gave him an angry glance and left, seeming to walk as slowly as possible.

While watching this display, Clay suddenly remembered what a cavalry officer named Francis Adams (of the Boston Adamses) had told him about a visit the snobbish young New Englander had made to Hooker’s headquarters during the latter’s brief, disastrous tenure at the head of the Army of the Potomac. The grandson and great-grandson of Presidents had sniffed that Hooker’s headquarters was a combination of barroom and brothel, where no gentleman cared to go and no lady dared to go. At the time, Clay had dismissed the comment as a product of insufferable snobbishness. Now he realized Adams may have made a valid point.

Now that they were alone, Hooker turned his undivided attention to his visitors. “Listen, if you are here to tell me not to raise a fuss about being passed over, you’re wasting your time. Don’t care that Sherman has Grant as a friend, and a brother in the Senate. I have my own friends in Congress; Thad Stephens, Ben Wade, Charles Sumner, to name three. They’ll trump any moves by Sherman, and raise such unholy hell that Lincoln will have to overrule Grant, and do the right thing.”

“We are not here to concern ourselves with your wounded self-esteem.” Lot noticed that Clay’s voice had adopted the exaggerated, superior drawl that displays of arrogance always seemed to induce; any arrogance aside from his own, that is. “We are concerned with the circumstances surrounding the death of General McPherson, not the consequences of that death.”

That seemed to bring Hooker up short. Frowning, he replied, “Just what the hell do you mean, ‘circumstances surrounding’? Circumstances couldn’t be clearer. He caught a bullet while leading his men. Not a bad way to go; hope when my turn comes, it’s something like that.”

Lot stared carefully for signs of hypocrisy on Hooker’s face, but saw only sincere admiration for the manner of McPherson’s end. Then he asked, “Did you witness the moment of his death yourself? Grant and the president will want to know every detail.”

Hooker seemed to ponder the black lieutenant’s question before responding “I suppose I did, though I didn’t realize it at the time. My 20th Corps was supposed to be in contact with McPherson’s flank, but the idiot said lead brigade commanders weren’t pushing their men enough, and had left a gap an army could have walked through. I was screaming at the top of my voice at the lead brigades to join hands with McPherson’s boys while scribbling orders for other brigades to come up and take their place in the line. Anyway, caught a glimpse of some mounted officers having a dustup with Reb skirmishers near my artillery. Saw one of them go down. Must have been McPherson. I appreciate a brave general as much as the next man; but being that far out ahead of his boys was just plain stupid. Your example to the men is useless if you get killed in front of them; worse than useless. Anyway, he’s dead, and Sherman’s denied me the command that’s rightfully mine. If you have no further fool questions, I’ve a train to catch. Sooner I’m in Washington, sooner this injustice will be put to right …”

A medium-sized, stocky officer of about forty appeared at the tent flap. He saluted smartly and said “General Hooker, my deepest apologies for interrupting. However, the departure time for the northbound train has been moved up, so the track will be clear later on for a supply train coming south. We really need to finish packing your kit.” There was a slight pause, “Sir, if you would like, I will come north with you. I’ve been with you since the beginning, and have seen you dealt with unfairly repeatedly, but this takes the prize. I could hardly stand to answer to officers that have treated such a great hero so shabbily.”

Clay looked at the new arrival, expected to see the subtle signs of sycophancy. However, all he could detect was admiration that approached hero-worship.

“No, Colonel Kitching, you are the best artillery commander in this army, and if you left with me my enemies would accuse me of trying to sabotage the Union forces,” replied Hooker. “Stay here. I will be back soon, with plenty of promotions for those who have shown their loyalty and the boot for those who have not.”

Several low-ranking officers peeked over Kitching’s shoulder, obviously anxious to scurry in and finish their general’s packing. Clay returned his attention smoothly to Hooker. “I believe our business is finished. However, with your permission, I would like to talk to the colonel for a moment outside, where it will not interfere with your … preparations.”

Frowning, Kitching looked to Hooker, who with a wave of his hand said “Oh, go talk to them, Kitching. Don’t need you for the packing business, and besides, they are a couple of Grant’s minions. Best to humor them.” Wordlessly, Kitching formally saluted Joe Hooker, spun on his heel, and led Clay and Lot out of the tent and under a nearby shade tree. He then turned to face the two investigators. “Well, what is it? You here to try to get more dirt on Fighting Joe Hooker.” Frank hostility emanated from the artillery officer.

Clay decided that adhering to a diplomatic falsehood would be easier. “General Grant is concerned about friction in the command structure out here, and sent us to see if matters were as strained as rumor would have it. However, the death of General McPherson has reordered our priorities. General Grant is a sentimental man, and was very fond of McPherson. Without any doubt, he would want to hear every detail of his last moments. I understand you may have been one of the closest officers to him when he died. What can you tell us about that tragedy?”

Colonel Kitching frowned, as if working hard to remember. “Didn’t see anything at the time. That’s not surprising. Either of you ever serve in an artillery battery? No? Well, there’s nothing closer to hell on earth than an artillery position in the middle of a fight. You load, aim fire; then run the gun back out and do it all again and again. And if you think one cannon can make a big noise, try three or four batteries going off all the time; and once every while a Reb shell hits a gun or caisson, which explodes with a sound like the end of the world, likely as not blowing little bits of men and horses into your face … Never met an artilleryman who had good hearing past middle age, or one who didn’t have a strong stomach. Anyway, everyone was keeping their heads down while Hood’s madmen seemed to be coming at us from every direction, only looking up to correct aim. And I was even busier than my men, running back and forth along the line, redirecting batteries constantly as new targets presented themselves. I wasn’t wasting time looking around for what other officers were doing, and wouldn’t have seen the shot that killed him anyway. Anyway, that’s all I can tell you.” He looked at Hooker as the general proudly strode out of his tent toward the railhead, followed by a gaggle of young officers puffing under the weight of their commander’s luggage. “Now, I must leave you. Joe Hooker is the greatest man I have ever known, and I will see him off.” With a sloppy salute, Kitching turned on his heel and hurried after his adored chief.

“That was … intriguing,” murmured Clay. “Well, let us see what we can learn from McPherson’s staff officers. They were with him when he died, and should have seen everything.”

“They should have seen everything,” muttered Clay with savage emphasis as he entered the tent where Ambrose Bierce lay recuperating.

“Be fair, Alphonso,” said Lot soothingly. “Everyone agrees that it was utter chaos at the moment McPherson was shot. An enemy regiment had approached through a slight ravine up to our lines, and had made a sudden dash. Our line was broken in several places, and a few even got in among Kitching’s guns. It was suicidal, of course; one lone unsupported Reb regiment could not break the whole line. However, you have to imagine how it seemed. Horsemen and foot-soldiers, blue and grey, all mixed together, rifles and cannon firing every which way, smoke blurring everything …”

“Afternoon Major, Lieutenant,” interrupted Bierce in a weak but cheerful voice. “Clay, I have to say that this is the closest I’ve ever seen you to losing your temper—at least without someone about to die. What has gotten under your skin?”

“General McPherson was surrounded by at least six aides at the moment he was shot, and not one of them noticed a thing, at least until the general toppled from his horse. Not one! Staff officers that unobservant have no business around a headquarters. They should be stripped of their rank and fed into the line; stopping a bullet is about as useful as they can be.”

Bierce frowned slightly in puzzlement. “Why the hell does that matter, Clay? McPherson is dead and proclaimed a martyr. End of story. The details are of no earthly use to anyone.”

Lot looked questioningly at Clay, who after a slight hesitation nodded.

“Ambrose, you already know that we suspect you were shot by a traitor. What we now suspect is that the same traitor murdered General McPherson under the cover of Hood’s assault.”

Bierce’s face assumed a melancholic expression. “I see. I won’t insult you by questioning your conclusions; not after Vicksburg and Knoxville. So sad. McPherson was miles ahead of most of the incompetent butchers in our command. Bad enough to die facing an open enemy in open battle. To be killed by a skulking traitor … Anything I can do to help?”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Lot. “You are weeks, if not months, from full recovery. You duty is to do nothing but rest until that recovery is assured.”

“Excellent advice,” said Teresa Duval from the opening of the tent. She strode in, saying “Thank you gentlemen for reinforcing my excellent instructions to Captain Bierce. In fact, when he is strong enough, I will try to get him a priority billet on a northbound train, so that he may complete his recovery in more restful surroundings than an army camp in the field.”

Clay bowed slightly to Duval, the slightest trace of an ironic smile on his face. “A pleasure as always, Miss Duval. And how is your mother?”

Duval hesitated slightly. “I do not receive many messages from her. She prefers to receive them from me. I am better able to afford the charges.”

“I was not aware that the military telegraphers were in the habit of charging, even for those civilians who use their services,” replied Clay.

Hiding her irritation at her slip, Duval responded. “I mean, they would charge her at her end, but do not charge civilians in the field at all.”

“I see,” commented Clay with a hint of mockery in his voice that both irritated and intrigued Duval. “In any event, have you been able to make arrangements for Captain Bierce to be taken north for his recovery?”

She shook her head, a frown of sincere irritation on her face. “General Sherman has ordered that for the time being no wounded be transported on the line. General Forest’s cavalry is very active, and has even derailed two trains. Only fully capable, fully armed soldiers are permitted until greater security can be guaranteed.”

“Surely not even Forest would molest the wounded and sick,” interjected Lot.

“The man responsible for the Fort Pillow massacre is capable of anything,” replied Clay abruptly. “In any event, there is a pressing need to get Captain Bierce and the other wounded out of field conditions and into more permanent, healthful surroundings. If only General Sherman would make haste and take Atlanta.”

Duval seemed to be mulling over whether to speak further, then abruptly said “You may not have long to wait. While I was with the telegraphers I happened to overhear several staff officer’s talking about the latest movements. It looks like tonight General Howard’s command is to move toward the last railroad into Atlanta we haven’t cut. At the same time, the long-range cannon will continue the bombardment of the town center that has already begun; then the moment the Rebs start to respond to Howard, General Thomas’ men will smash straight through into Atlanta. We may very well have the town and Hood’s army by noon tomorrow.”

“Why do you believe that’”? asked Clay curiously.

Duval uttered one of her silvery, chilling laughs. “Isn’t it obvious? After his losses of the last week, Hood must know he’ll be destroyed if he stays in Atlanta; he doesn’t have the slightest chance of winning a stand-up fight with Sherman’s entire army. He is probably evacuating as we speak along the railroad. Howard will cut it to find that his prey has already escaped the trap.”

Clay looked at Duval with grudging admiration. “An astute analysis, Miss Duval. My opinion on such matters is of no value. However, we will know if you have correctly analyzed the situation by tomorrow.”

Clay and Lot were settling into their tent shortly after midnight when suddenly the night began to fill with the sounds of hoarsely shouted orders, bugle calls, and neighing animals. Dimly lit figures dashed about seemingly at random, on foot or horseback. Clay snatched the arm of a passing corporal, and shouted “What has happened? Are we under attack?”

“Hell no, sir,” said the young man in a voice pitched high with excitement. “Scouts report Hood is pulling out of Atlanta before we cut the last railway. Sherman has told Slocum’s corps to go right into town, right now, while the Army of the Tennessee is to set out to catch Hood on the hop. One-arm Howard better be quick; looks like the Rebs are truly heading for the hills. Excuse me, sir; my colonel will skin me if I ain’t there when we start marching.” With a hurried salute, the excited young soldier disappeared into the confused darkness.

“If the army is on the move, so will be the wounded,” commented Lot. “They dare not be left behind, to the tender mercies of Forrest’s cavalry. We had better go to the hospital and make sure that Ambrose is handled as gently as may be.”

Impatiently Clay started to say that Ambrose Bierce was not the only wounded soldier at risk, but a glance at the concerned face of his friend stopped him. “Of course, let us attend to him. We can always pack our own gear at the last minute.”

Shouldering their way through masses of hurrying soldiers, barely evading galloping teams of horses hauling cannon or caissons, they quickly found Bierce’s tent. To their surprise, they saw that almost all of the medical supplies and equipment were already neatly packed and loaded in wagons outside the tent complex, and that Fetterman and Duval were gingerly carrying Bierce out the front of the tent toward the lead wagon.

“Dr. Fetterman, you have my admiration. I can scarce believe you have organized things so efficiently in such a short period of time. May Lieutenant Lot and myself help you transfer the other wounded to their transport?”

“No need,” replied Bierce weakly from his stretcher. “I’m the last.

“Don’t compliment me,” said Fetterman, grunting under the strain as they leveraged Bierce gently into the bed of the lead wagon. Clay noted that Duval held up her end of the load with no sign of strain. “Miss Duval has organized the supplies and the patients wonderfully, actually assigning them numbered wagons in advance, and making sure that our orderlies kept the wagons at the ready.

“Miss Duval is a woman of many talents,” said Clay. Duval glanced sharply at Clay, that was the first compliment he had paid her that had not been laced with subtle sarcasm, and she found the sudden lack of mockery as disturbing as she had previously found its presence.

“Many talents, and hidden depths,” said Bierce weakly from his prone position between stacks of medical supplies.

“Captain Bierce, Lieutenant Lot, despite Miss Duval’s efficiency, we can always use extra hands. Besides, Atlanta is likely to be in confusion now, with rioters and deserters from both sides on the prowl. I would deem it a great favor if you would accompany us, if you do not have duties elsewhere.”

“Of course,” responded Clay. It will take Lieutenant Lot and I just a few minutes to pack our gear and saddle our horses. We simple could not allow wounded heroes to be put at risk—or a helpless, defenseless woman.” Lot thought that he saw Clay wink at Duval as he said this; but the nearby lamps were flickering in the murky darkness, and he decided it had just been a passing shadow.

It was shortly before first light when the wagons of the medical corps rumbled into Atlanta proper, embedded in a moving column of blue soldiers who nervously awaited a surprise attack that did not come. Fetterman held the reins of the lead wagon, while Duval sat primly on the seat beside him. The mounted Clay and Lot flanked the lead wagon, Clay on the right, Lot on the left. The gas streetlamps had failed, but the darkness was not complete; aside from the occasional lamp or torch that the tramping soldiers surrounding them held, a group of burning buildings in the distance threw a lurid illumination over the army column.

Duval looked at Clay, who had ridden silently beside the wagon for some time. Occasionally his spectacles caught the red glow of the distant fire, giving him an unearthly appearance. Deciding to break the silence, she said “Major, you seem to have something on your mind. May I know what concerns you?”

Clay turned his head and seemed to consider her as his horse kept pace with the wagon. “I was thinking of the many trips I had made to Atlanta, before the war,” he finally responded. “This is Peachtree Street, the stretch where the people of quality lived.” He gestured to the homes that lined the street, all dark, many in ruins from random artillery shells. “The people here had lives of grace and beauty, and threw it all away in a fit of pride and arrogance. I doubt they will ever retrieve those lives.”

Clay’s melancholic mode disturbed Duval for no reason she could easily identify. Trying to change the subject, she pointed to the buildings that burned in the near distance. “Since you are familiar with the town, can you tell me what is on fire over there.”

Without pause Clay replied “Those are the railroad yards, and the associated warehouses. Every major railway in the Deep South meets here. Movement of large numbers of Confederate men and supplies is now going to be virtually impossible in half the Confederacy.”

“Why would General Sherman burn them?” Duval asked curiously.

Clay giggled, a sound that disturbed Duval’s nerves, nerves that were unsettled by very little. “Not Sherman, I assure you, Miss Duval. Hood himself, without a doubt. Those warehouses must be filled with supplies the Rebs had carefully gathered up and horded. Now that they had to retreat in a hurry, there was nothing left to do but burn them all.”

Silently, several of the buildings they were watching seemed to leap into the air and disintegrate; a second later, the air was filled with an ear-shattering series of explosions. Involuntarily, the hospital train and all the soldiers surrounding it came to a halt and stared at the spectacle as burning timbers seemed to sail to the very skies before falling to the ground. A feeble Ambrose Bierce lifted a flap of the wagon’s canvas cover, spiting out an obscenity and then asking “What the Hell has happened?”

“It would seem that General Hood was not able to take all of his explosives with him,” replied Clay, a grim smile on his lips. “That should make General Howard’s task somewhat easier, at least.” Clay peered at the flaming ruins of the rail yard, and then spotted a remarkable sight. Dangerously close to the fires, threatened by secondary explosions at any instant, a man led a horse attached to a buggy through the hellish scene; some garment covering the animal’s head to prevent blind panic. As nearly as Clay could tell, a lone woman occupied the buggy itself. Obviously refugees trying to slip past the Federal army before it was too late. Suddenly Clay’s view of the refugees was cut off by a nearer sight. William Tecumseh Sherman was approaching the wagons, his unmistakable profile illuminated by the flames in the distance. Behind him trailed his staff, which seemed unusually subdued by the destruction around them.

“Clay, Fetterman, Lot, Miss Duval,” Sherman said without preamble. “Here we are. Here we are at last. Glad to find you. Wanted you with me; especially wanted Bierce.”

“I am flattered, sir, but why?” said Bierce, propping himself up on the back of Fetterman’s seat. “I am sure you have a lot to do right now.”

“Quite a lot Bierce, quite a lot. Couple of my aides have gone up to city hall with Slocum and corralled the mayor. He wants some high-falutin’ surrender ceremony. Thinks he’s delaying us in chasing after Hood; doesn’t know that Howard is already hot on his tail. Still, it is a big thing to have Atlanta in our hands, and … damn it Bierce, I wanted you to be there!” In the slowly growing light of dawn, Sherman looked angry at himself for expressing a sentimental thought. “Anyway, there’s a big public park in front of city hall where the medical corps can set up, so you might as well tag along.”

Sherman looked at the milling soldiers around the wagons and addressed them in a loud voice. “What are you waiting for, you saucy bastards? You’ve wanted to see downtown Atlanta for four months, let’s go take a gander!” With a full-throated cheer the column began moving again, Sherman ramrod straight in his saddle, eyes straight ahead. The soldiers around him had suddenly lost their weariness; smiles could be seen everywhere, laughs heard everywhere.

Duval said softly to Clay as they proceeded. “How do you think he does it? These men love him. A man who has sent thousands of their comrades to their deaths, a man who is, let us be blunt, half mad. How does he do it, Major?”

“I truly do not know, Miss Duval,” Clay responded thoughtfully. “As far back as history goes, there have been leaders who can reach out mystically to those they lead. Some have used their influence for good, many more for evil. It will be interesting to see which one Sherman will be.”

By the time they reached city hall, a charming building in the Greek Revival style, the morning sun was peaking over the horizon. Showing no sign that he had been twelve hours in the saddle, Sherman leapt from his horse and bounded up the steps where the mayor, a portly, sweating man, stood flanked by General Slocum and another officer who Clay recognized with surprise as Colonel Orlando Poe, who had played such a key role in the events at Knoxville. Clay turned and saw that Lot had already dismounted, and was gently helping Fetterman and Duval seat Bierce on the driver’s seat, where the invalid could clearly observe the surrender. Clay turned back to the front of city hall, and observed that the mayor was reading something from a lengthy document that he held with both hands, while Sherman looked increasingly impatient. Curious to hear exactly what was being said, Clay quickly dismounted, tethered his mount to the wagon, and shouldered his way roughly through the crowd of festive soldiers who were the main observers, Atlanta’s citizens seeming to have become invisible. As Clay approached the steps, he began to understand snatches of the major’s speech, which seemed to be a long-winded defense of the Confederacy combined with a plea for mercy. Clay had pushed his way to the top of the steps in time to hear Sherman say, “Goddamn it, are you surrendering, or do you want me to tell these boys Atlanta is still a town in rebellion and turn them loose?”

Visibly quaking, the mayor replied “General Sherman sir, Atlanta is yours. We beg that you use us kindly.”

Sherman than gestured to Poe, simply saying “Now.” In his turn, the imperious-looking Poe pointed to two privates, who carried between them a large folded object. They stepped over to the city hall’s flagpole, from which the Stars and Bars had already been removed. Reverently they unfolded the object, to reveal it as a large American flag. Quickly they attached it to the cord, and raised it the sky, where a morning breeze caused it to wave and snap majestically. The flag was saluted by the privates who had raised it, then by generals Sherman and Slocum, then by all of the other soldiers gathered before the beautiful building. Then, somewhere out in the vast crowd of soldiers, as single voice broke out in a cheer. More voices joined in, and soon the air was filled with the sound of thousands of wildly cheering soldiers, cheering not only the victory of their country but the fact they were alive to witness that victory.

Clay had aggressively wormed his way onto the city hall’s porch, so despite the pandemonium he was close enough to hear a soldier approach Poe and shout “Sir, the line north is up and running!”

Poe nodded dismissively, then moved over to Sherman. The engineer saluted and said loudly “Sir, the telegraph line is operational. What message do you wish sent to Washington?”

Sherman turned his bright eyes on his chief engineer. “Take a telegram, Poe.” The colonel swiftly drew a notebook and pencil from a tunic pocket and looked at his commander expectantly.

“Date it … hell, what is today’s date, Poe?”

“The second of September, sir.”

“Very well.” Sherman looked thoughtful for a moment, then suddenly smiled. “Say ‘Atlanta is ours, and fairly won.’ That should set the right tone for those bastards in Washington.”

Poe finished jotting the message, put the notebook away, then strode to the front of the steps and held up his hands for silence. Surprisingly, the boisterous crown immediately quieted. Then Poe proclaimed in a voice like a trumpet “You should all know that Major General Sherman is telegraphing to Washington ‘Atlanta is ours and fairly won’!”

The crowd of soldiers seemed to go insane with joy. The cheering that had gone on before seemed as nothing compared to this. Clay looked at Sherman smiling down on his soldiers and suddenly knew the secret of charismatic leadership: it was in loving those you led, and letting them see that sincere love.

Clay suddenly felt dampness on his cheeks. Frowning, he looked upward expecting rain, only to see the Stars and Strips waving in an absolutely clear early morning sky. Suddenly he realized they were tears—tears of joy. Angrily he wiped them away.