CHAPTER 3

“SO WE MADE A THOROUGHFARE FOR FREEDOM AND HER TRAIN …”

Clay and Lot waited outside the office Sherman had established in what had been the mayor’s headquarters in Atlanta City Hall, sweltering in the heat of a Georgia September morning. Lot sat rigidly at attention, never having lost his uneasiness around those with stars on their shoulders. However, his posture was nothing compared to that of Clay’s, whose ramrod-straight spine at no place touched the chair’s back; his posture had nothing to do with unease around high rank, and everything to do with his uncompromising sense of decorum. From behind the closed door to the inner office came the muttered sound of voices, occasionally punctuated by a fierce “Goddamnit!” in Sherman’s high, fluting voice; each curse made the nervous aide at the desk to the side of the door visibly start, and shuffle the papers on his desk more frantically.

“You really think nothing can be gained by staying a little longer?” asked Lot, more out of a desire to distract himself from the commotion emanating from the General’s office than any real curiosity.

“I am afraid not, Jeremiah,” Clay responded. “We are at an impasse; I fear more time spent here will bring us no closer to the murderer. Meanwhile, we could be more productively employed in Grant’s headquarters. Petersburg should have been taken by now, and Richmond not long thereafter; I suspect the General will need our assistance in determining why that is not so.”

The door to Sherman’s office flew open, and Colonel Orlando Poe, chief engineer of the Military Division of the Mississippi, stormed out, his proud, arrogant face contorted by equal measures of anger and frustration. He paused briefly upon noticing Clay and Lot, bowing slightly. “Gentlemen. I am pleased to see you again. Perhaps you will find the General in a more reasonable frame of mind than have I.”

Lot stood up with Clay, who returned the bow. “I see congratulations are in order,” replied Clay. “When we were in Knoxville you were a humble if able captain. From captain to full colonel in less than a year is quite an achievement; you are to be commended.”

“Commended!” Poe snorted with disgust. “I have earned each step in the promotion, and continue to pay for it. I no sooner repair a bridge or culvert on our railroads than Forrest burns them up, sometimes destroying entire trains in the process. And Sherman will not give me the power to bring Forrest to heel! Well, gentlemen, you must excuse me; if I don’t get some bridges built, this army will go hungry.” Head erect, dark eyes flashing with anger, Poe strode out of the building.

“Uh, General Sherman will see you now, sirs,” announced the young aide without making eye contact, his face flushing with embarrassment at witnessing such behavior by superior officers. The two friends entered the office and saluted formally.

“Close the Goddamn door!” growled Sherman. Clay shut the door, then he and Lot seated themselves in chairs before the cluttered desk. “Hate closing the door in this Goddamn weather, but the kinds of things you bring to me usually isn’t for every pair of ears.” The lean general mopped sweat from his face with a dirty handkerchief, casting a longing glance at the open window, where the lace curtains remained motionless in the absence of the slightest hint of a breeze.

Clay came straight to the point. “Sir, my investigation has made no progress. I can identify no probable subject for the murder of General McPherson, or even an unambiguous motive, for that matter.”

Sherman reflected moodily for a few moments before asking “Couldn’t it be just possible that both Bierce and Mac caught random bullets? That it is a coincidence after all?”

Clay did not hesitate before replying. “I think it is unlikely, but not impossible. I have erred before in my analysis, but, even if I have not erred, the criminal seems to have left too few clues to be traced. If he is wise and commits no further atrocities, he may be safe forever.”

“So you recommend that we do nothing and hope for the best?” asked Sherman. “That doesn’t sound like you, Clay.”

“I take no joy in leaving a job undone, sir. However, the Union does not have the resources to spare on hopeless causes. With your permission, we will just visit Captain Bierce before packing our effects.”

Mopping his forehead again, Sherman said “Guess you know best about this kind of thing, Clay. Well, let me come with you to see Bierce. Need to get out of this room for awhile, anyway, even if it isn’t any cooler outside.” Sherman abruptly stood and without further comment strode quickly to the door and threw it open. He ignored the hasty salute of the nervous aide, and went quickly out the entrance of City Hall, leaving Clay and Lot to keep up as best they could. One look at Sherman’s brooding, angry countenance convinced the two friends that idle conversation was not desired, and they accompanied the General in silence to the hospital tents laid out neatly in the park across from City Hall. Barely acknowledging the salutes of the soldiers he passed, Sherman led his party to the tent housing Bierce and a few others. As he reached the entrance he suddenly noticed Doctor Fetterman, approaching hurriedly from the right. The slightly-built physician breathlessly saluted and said “General, an unexpected honor. How may I help you?”

Nodding to Clay and Lot, Sherman replied “These officers will be leaving shortly, and wanted to say their goodbyes to Captain Bierce. Thought I might poke my head in as well. Is he continuing his recovery?”

“It continues to amaze me sir, given the nature of his wound. In fact …”

From inside the tent a horrible strangling sound interrupted the doctor. Frowning, Fetterman said, “Excuse me. Some emergency,” and entered through the large tent’s flap. After only a moment’s hesitation, Sherman also entered, followed by Clay and Lot. The scene inside astonished all four of the new arrivals.

Ambrose Bierce was kneeling alongside his cot, a small pool of reeking vomit in front of him. Clutching him from behind, arms wrapped around his stomach, was Teresa Duval, hissing in a distinct Irish brogue “Bring it up, bring it all up, you stupid bastard!” Then to the shock of the witnesses, she interlinked her fingers into a single fist, and viciously rammed the young captain in his stomach. With an agonized sound a small explosion of vomit burst from Bierce’s mouth, joining the pool on the ground. Sherman and Lot were literally shocked speechless, but not Clay. Taking two small steps forward, in a tight, controlled voice the blond major said “Miss Duval, I demand an explanation for this assault on Captain Bierce.”

Duval glanced up, and spoke in a voice now showing no trace of Ireland. “Do not be a fool, Major Clay. The Captain has been poisoned with laudanum. When I realized this, I administered an emetic and, ah, helped him to vomit out the portion not yet absorbed into his body. Now please assist me in helping the Captain walk. He must not be allowed to sleep until we are assured what entered into his system is not fatal.”

“Poisoned!” exclaimed Sherman. “But how …”

“Major!” interrupted Duval sharply. “If you want your friend to live, help me keep him active.”

Clay smoothly took Bierce’s left arm, while Duval took his right. Together they raised the young scout unsteadily to his feet and began walking him about the tent in small steps. Bierce’s face was deathly pale, his eyes fluttering. Fetterman peered closely at Bierce, then said “You are right, Miss Duval. He shows the symptoms of opium poisoning. We must keep him awake until the crisis passes. Lieutenant, be so good to find the nearest camp with coffee brewing and bring it here.” Lot hurried to comply. Meanwhile, Bierce had begun to mutter, “Need … lie down … sleep few … minutes.”

“You will get a chance soon, Captain,” Duval replied firmly. “Right now we need to make you a bit better.”

“How did this happen?” demanded Sherman.

“I had just finished changing the linens of the artillery sergeant in the corner and was passing the Captain’s cot on my way to taking them to the laundry tub when I glanced at Bierce. His color was wrong for someone on his way to healing. I stopped, and noticed his breathing was labored, his pupils dilated wide. I suppose laudanum was in my mind; I had just dosed the artillery­man to keep him quiet while his stump began to heal. Anyway, I sniffed his breath, and detected its distinctive scent.”

“Just how did the Captain come into a large dose of such a dangerous drug?” asked Clay, the blue eyes behind the spectacles seeming to glimmer with a light that made Duval nervous for no reason she could name.

“Wrong … didn’t take … lau … laudbubm …” slurred Bierce. “Jus a little … little bit of John Barley … Barleycorn … damn rotgut … got a kick on it …” Bierce’s head lolled and eyes closed. With brisk economy Duval slapped his face twice, and Bierce jerked awake.

“Why … angry … no cause … Clay’s … want.” Clay frowned at the enigmatic comment; but before he could make any response Lot appeared at the entrance to the tent, a tin cup in one hand, a pot full of steaming coffee in the other.

Pouring into the cup as he approached, Lot said, “Here Ambrose, drink. Drink as quick as you can.”

The woozy young captain swallowed one mouthful, grimaced, and mumbled “Coffee … hot … need some more from my flask …”

“Damn your hide!” said the religious Lot, resorting to what was for him extreme language. “Forget liquor! You nearly died; keep drinking coffee until you are fit to burst!” Mumbling incoherently, Bierce nodded and continued his slow shuffle around the tent’s interior while sipping the brew. After two cups, Bierce looked noticeably more alert and had ceased staggering. Clay released one of Bierce’s arms, motioning Duval to do the same.

“Lieutenant, take the captain out for a walk in the open air. Keep an eye on him, and keep the coffee flowing. The rest of us have some … business to transact.” Nodding wordlessly, Lot led the dazed but recovering Bierce out into the air.

As soon as they were gone, Sherman was able to maintain his silence no longer. “Goddamnit Clay, what has happened here? Poisoning? Fetterman, if your people have been making mistakes like that, I’ll have your guts for garters!”

With quiet dignity the doctor replied “Sir, I have made many mistakes in my career, but overdosing patients with dangerous drugs has not been among them. Nor would any on my staff make such an error. Miss Duval, is it possible that the captain has an, ah, private weakness? There are a few opium fiends in the army, and laudanum can be freely purchased from the sutlers.”

Duval was staring through the glass door to the supply cabinet. She did not answer immediately, but instead opened the door and removed a small brown bottle. Frowning, she hefted it, then uncorked it and peered intently inside. “No, doctor, I do not believe Captain Bierce overdosed himself,” she said finally. “I have known him for some time; his vices are public and unconcealed, and do not include addiction to the poppy. I gave him only moderate doses during his recovery, and he never asked for more. Further, thievery is not among his vices.”

“Thievery?” asked Sherman, frowning.

“He is too proud to stoop to theft, especially of army supplies,” she responded. “When I last dosed the artilleryman in the corner, I left this bottle of laudanum two-thirds full; it is now nearly empty.” Her eyes darted to the small pile of personal possessions Bierce kept at the head of his cot. She leaned down and picked up a battered hip-flask that was in plain view. Unscrewing the cap, she sniffed deeply, then turned to Clay, handing the flask to him. “Major, smell this,” she said.

Clay sniffed at the flask, and frowned. “You are correct, Miss Duval. Laudanum. Its slight, sweetish odor is just barely detectable under the stronger scent of the, ah, inexpensive whiskey Bierce favors; he would be unlikely to notice. The obvious question is: How came the drug into the flask? Only someone whose presence would be unremarked in this tent would have the opportunity.” As he capped the container and placed it in an inner pocket of his tunic, Clay focused his pale blue eyes on Duval. “You seem unusually conversant with tincture of opium, even for a nurse.”

Duval met his stare without flinching. In a near-whisper, audible only to Clay, she said “I had the ability to kill Bierce at any time since he came to my care, and in any number of ways that would have seemed natural. Why would I wait until he was nearly recovered, or be caught in the act of helping him vomit?”

“What was that?” asked Sherman crossly.

“It is of no importance,” replied Clay. “Think carefully, Miss Duval. In the last few hours, who came into this tent who might have meddled with Bierce’s liquor?”

“I only saw some officers from the artilleryman’s battery, come to check on his progress,” she replied without hesitation. “However, that signifies little; I came and went many times during the last few hours, and someone with nerve enough could have come and gone during my absence.”

Clay cocked his head to one side; his eyes unfocused for a few moments. Then abruptly returning from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “General, with your permission I believe the lieutenant and I will stay after all. The murderer is still active, and not content to lay low; this must take priority over other activities where we could be of use. However, I must ask that an armed guard be placed on this tent until transportation north can be arranged for Captain Bierce, and further that he be accompanied by an armed escort until he is well away from your command. He is in mortal danger, and little able now to defend himself; the Union owes him some protection, in view of his many daring services.”

“I’ll start cutting the orders today; he will be on a train north day after tomorrow at the latest.” Sherman’s face had taken on the wild, crazed look that always presaged the rare times when his anger threatened to spiral out of control. In his mind he saw not Ambrose Bierce, but little Willie in the moment of his death. ‘God damn the South to Hell!’ he thought; then realized he had spoken aloud. “I will have sentries posted in this tent within the hour.” Giving the impression he had reached a decision about another matter as well, Sherman spun on his heels and left the tent without further ado.

“That was strange,” muttered Fetterman. “I wonder what it means.”

“It means trouble for the South and for traitors,” replied Clay, an odd eagerness in his voice.

The following morning an aide ushered Clay and Lot into Sherman’s office. The general barely glanced up as the aide closed the door, then looked down to his desk and continued scribbling signatures on a series of documents on his desk.

“You summoned us, sir,” said Clay.

“Thought you would like to know I’m putting Bierce on a train going north this afternoon, along with a protective guard. He will soon be out of danger, and able to complete his recovery in peace.”

“We appreciate this,” replied Lot. “However, would it not be wise to confirm with Dr. Fetterman that it is safe to move Captain Bierce?”

“Doesn’t make a difference,” replied Sherman gruffly. “Starting at dawn, I’ve been sending trains north as fast as they can be loaded with the wounded and with soldiers intended to defend Nashville. Bierce will be on one of the last trains, before we start tearing up the railroad.”

Clay seldom allowed surprise to show on his features, much less shock; this was one of those rare times. “Sir, you are going to destroy your own railroad?” he asked incredulously.

“Can’t bring Hood to battle. Howard keeps after him, and Hood keeps slipping away like some Goddamn Injun. Not Howard’s fault; he’s a good general. Rebs just travel too damn light, and always stay ahead of our boys. Howard sees what Johnnie Hood is up to as well as I do. Wants us to follow him away from Atlanta, from the Georgia breadbasket, and up into those barren Goddamn highlands again, while the good people of Georgia harvest the grain and raise the cattle the Confederacy needs to keep going. He also keeps Forrest and that other Reb cavalry general, Joe Wheeler, threatening that lone railroad back to the North. Trying to starve me into doing something desperate and foolish.” Sherman signed the last paper, and suddenly leaped to his feet. “Well to Hell with that! Hood and Forrest are going to see my army do something desperate all right, but not what they expected. I’m sending back to Nashville all the wounded, all the tired and clapped out troops, along with General Thomas. He’ll have time to whip them into shape. Those fellows, especially when Northern reinforcements arrive, should be able to hold Nashville if Hood and Forrest make a stab north. I’m going to divide the remaining army into two wings, one under Howard, the other under Slocum. We will burn this town, and then take a little stroll down to Savannah, destroying everything of any military significance along the way.”

Recovering from his initial shock, Clay nodded approvingly. “I see. You are taking a leaf from General Grant’s book, the same tactic he used at Vicksburg. Keep your army moving and live off the land, leaving the enemy to flail about, vainly trying to cut supply lines that no longer exist. I assume this is not a spur of the moment decision.”

Sherman focused his bright, bird-like eyes on Clay. “That’s right. Sent a message in code to Sam a week ago, telling him I thought it would be the best way to proceed. Back came word from Sam, saying the risk worried him, but if I thought I could do it, go ahead. I think I can do it. Scouts say there isn’t much except Georgia militia and Wheeler’s cavalry between us and the sea; and I don’t care if it rains Goddamn militiamen! My fellows can take care of the sort of old, feeble and unblooded remnants that will be in the militia.”

Lot hazarded a comment, “What if Hood goes north into Tennessee? If Thomas cannot hold him, he could end up on the Ohio.”

Sherman glared at the black lieutenant, and replied “If Hood will agree to go to the Ohio, I will give him rations! My business is in the South. Any damage he could do up there is temporary, and will be easily rectified by the resources of the North. Any damage I do down here is permanent.”

There was a hesitant knock at the door. “Come in!” growled Sherman abruptly.

The timid aide stuck in his head. “General Sherman, sir, Mayor Calhoun is demanding to see you. It is about your letter to him concerning, ah, evacuation of Atlanta …”

A tall, portly man dressed in white linen shouldered his way past the aide, waiving a document. “General Sherman, this is outrageous! This is barbarous! I demand you revoke this inhuman order!”

“Shut the door on your way out,” said Sherman to the aide, who withdrew with alacrity. Deliberately not offering his guest a chair, Sherman sat down. “Mayor Calhoun. May I introduce you to Major Alphonso Clay and Lieutenant Jeremiah Lot, valued officers visiting from General Grant’s headquarters.”

Calhoun only glanced at Clay, but his gaze lingered for a long moment on Lot, the mayor’s lip curling in a combination of disgust and rage at the sight of what he feared most: a black man in a position of authority. Then with an effort he turned his attention back to Sherman’s grim visage. “Sir, I demand you retract this barbarous order!”

Without taking his eyes off Calhoun, Sherman addressed Clay and Lot. “Gentlemen, you may be puzzled as to just what the good mayor is talking about. You probably haven’t heard yet, although I am sure copies of what the mayor is holding in his hand will be in every regiment by nightfall.”

“May I ask what the document contains?” asked Clay.

“Your General has ordered the destruction of Atlanta!” exploded Calhoun.

“I have issued an order to Mayor Calhoun and his council, instructing him to evacuate all civilians from Atlanta.”

“All?” exclaimed Lot with surprise.

“All,” replied Sherman firmly. “No exceptions. The old, the young, the female, the infirm. All must be gone by tomorrow night.”

“And if we refuse to leave?” asked the appalled mayor.

“That would not be advisable, Mayor Calhoun. I intend to burn every public building, every improvement, and every factory. I intend no deliberate violence to private residences. However, the weather has been so hot for so long that you know as well as I it will inevitably spread to people’s homes. Better they leave now with some dignity and in some order, rather than screaming into the night with only the clothes on their backs.”

“All of the civilians? All of them?” said Lot, whose Christian soul was appalled.

“Without exception. The use of Atlanta for any civilian purposes is inconsistent with the conduct of this war.”

“Think of the suffering this will entail,” exclaimed Calhoun. “This is inhuman!”

Without warning, Sherman jackknifed out of his chair, rounded his desk, and came nose to nose with the furious mayor. “Goddamn you, my order is not designed to be humane! Peace is what this country needs, not Atlanta, this country! I know about the food and manufactures your city has sent to kill my boys, and Sam Grant’s boys. I know how you all, men, women and children, exult in the death of the brave soldiers fighting to preserve this sacred Union. Your people are fortunate that I let them go with their lives!”

The mayor drew back slightly, shocked at the abyss he glimpsed in the wild eyes of the general. With some visible effort, Sherman calmed himself and continued to speak.

“My plans make it necessary for all of your citizens to go away. All I can do is offer my army’s services to make their exodus as easy as possible.” A shadow passed over Sherman’s face, and his voice became tinged with melancholy. Willie! “You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it, and those Southerners who brought war into our country deserve eternal damnation. You might as well appeal against the thunderstorm as against the hardships of war. I will conduct this war for peace and Union, and destroy whatever is necessary to achieve that goal.”

The anger had drained out of Calhoun, to be replaced by acute fear; the widening of his eyes showed that despite hearing all the horror stories of Yanks he had never dreamed of such terrible implacability. The paper slipped from his fingers, which now trembled slightly. Sherman saw the fear he had engendered, and smiling sadly, continued in a different tone.

“When peace comes, I will share with you my last cracker, and shield with my very life your homes and families against any threat from whatever quarter, but now you must go, all of you, and find shelter away from the business of this army, until the mad passions of men cool down and allow Union and peace to settle once more over Atlanta. Now go! Tomorrow the destruction begins, and you have much to do for your citizens before then.”

Calhoun opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. With obvious effort at preserving his dignity he bowed ever so slightly and swept out of the office, banging the door behind him.

“My congratulations, sir,” said Clay. “It is long since past due to show traitors that the wages of treason are the loss of everything they value, and that it is the purest mercy if they are left with their very lives.” A disturbed-looking Lot opened his mouth as if to say something, but seeming to think better of it, his mouth snapped shut.

Sherman shot a suspicious glance at Clay, wondering whether the major was flattering or mocking him. He could detect only sincere admiration in Clay, which disturbed Sherman for no reason he could easily name.

“It has to be done,” said Sherman gruffly. “It will be risky enough to leave Hood and Forrest on the rampage behind us. I cannot leave a transportation and manufacturing center like Atlanta in our rear. Besides, it will strike at the women.”

“The women?” echoed Lot, disbelief in his voice.

“Of course,” Clay replied for the general. “Southern women have been encouraging their men to maintain this war, cheerfully urging their husbands and sons toward treason and death, while they sit peacefully at home and read of glory in the illustrated papers. Now, the women of Georgia are going to see something of the war they so support; real war, war with mud on its boots tramping through their parlors. They will bravely send their men to death and mutilation, but will howl for peace when their livestock is taken from them and gardens trampled.”

“Alphonso, it cannot be necessary to go as far as this,” said Lot.

“It is,” replied Sherman grimly. “And if we do not make an end to the rebellion in this campaign, next year they will not be complaining about losing their homes, they will be pleading in vain for their very lives. If need be, I will create a vast silence and call it peace.” ‘Willie!’ echoed silently in his head.

Although there was not a cloud in the sky, a shadow seemed to pass over the room.

Ambrose Bierce had finished pulling on his boots and stood up. Too fast; a horrible wave of vertigo overcame him, and with a stifled moan he collapsed back onto the cot. Teresa Duval frowned disapprovingly, and then steadied him with one hand while she held his chin with her other, peering intently into his eyes.

“I warned you, Captain, take everything slowly. You should not even be walking. I will call for a stretcher and some orderlies.”

“No,” growled Bierce through gritted teeth. “I will not be an invalid anymore. I can walk to the depot, and will do so.”

A small, chilling smile played briefly across Duval’s lips. “Very well, Captain. It will be your funeral.”

The nausea had passed for the moment. Bierce looked up at Duval, and unexpectedly said “I don’t believe I ever properly thanked you for saving my life.”

“Nonsense. It was my job. Besides, your own constitution saved you as much as my nursing. Before you, if anyone had ever told me a man could survive such a wound I would have called him a liar. No, no thanks are needed. My reward will come in other ways.”

“Such as Alphonso Clay.” murmured Bierce. He locked eyes with Duval, and began to speak in a low yet firm voice. “I know something of what you are and I shudder at the thought of the things about you I don’t know. I know you are not what you seem. And I know that you want Alphonso Clay. I may owe you my life, but I also owe it to him, more than twice over. Stay away from him, or I will see that you come to regret it.”

For the moment they were alone in the tent. Duval toyed with the idea of killing Bierce on the spot, but swiftly realized there would be a lot to explain. Her explanations just might be accepted by the trusting Fetterman, but not by Clay, not by the owner of those pale blue eyes that seemed to see everything.

“Why, Captain Bierce, I have not the slightest idea of what your talking about,” Duval replied in a tone of innocent puzzlement.

“Just remember what I have said.” With care, Bierce slowly stood up. He swayed slightly, but retained his footing. The flap to the tent was suddenly thrown back, revealing the pair of sentries who had been posted there since Bierce’s poisoning. In strode General Sherman along with Clay and Lot.

“Where is Fetterman?” Sherman asked abruptly.

“The doctor is tending to an outbreak of the bloody flux in one of the cavalry encampments,” Duval replied. “He has already wished the Captain Godspeed, suspecting he would not be back in time for his departure.”

“Sure you can make it to the train under your own power, Major?” asked Sherman gruffly.

“I will … Major?” Bierce had been brought up short, and stared in confusion at Sherman.

“You are brevetted major in the United States Volunteers, effective today. The paperwork is going north on the same train with you. Sorry I don’t have any oak leaves to sew on your straps; but I expect you can get those while you are on leave.”

“I hardly know what to say …” began Bierce slowly.

“Say anything but thank you,” interrupted Sherman. “You are a damn fine officer, and the country owes you more than can ever be repaid. Once you get to Nashville, your orders permit you to go anywhere you like, for as long as you feel the need. Are you going to stay with your family in … Indiana is it?”

Bierce swayed and turned paler, and recovered his composure only with visible effort. “I had not intended to, sir. Yet … perhaps I will. Perhaps I should. There may yet be time for the youngest. I should at least try.” Bierce’s eyes assumed a melancholy, even haunted appearance. With a visible effort, Bierce drug his attention from some dread inner landscape and back to his commanding general. “In any event, I appreciate your coming, but I can get to the train on my own—so long as Major Clay and Lieutenant Lot are kind enough to carry my kit.”

“I’m going there anyway. General Thomas is taking the same train as you, on his way to Nashville. The army’s top brass is going to see him off.” Sherman paused, and cast a glance at Clay. “In fact, Major Clay has an interesting idea to trap the traitor who tried to murder you—a plan in which you can be of material assistance.”

“What are your orders sir?”

In the end, it took Bierce half an hour to walk the quarter mile to the switching yard. At one point Clay was on the verge of calling for a halt and ordering a stretcher; but a glance at Bierce’s pale, determined features told him it would be an unforgivable injury to the young officer’s pride. Twice Bierce had stumbled slightly, and both Clay and Lot made as if to grab an arm and steady him; but before either of the friends could actually do so, Duval would have Bierce by the arm, helping him to regain his fragile balance.

As they came up to the depot, they spotted dozens of aides and horses, waiting at a respectful distance while a smaller group of officers talked by the last car of a waiting train. As they slowly approached the latter group, it resolved itself into an assembly of Sherman’s top leaders: Generals Howard Slocum, Logan and Davis as well as Colonel Kitching were gravely making their farewells to the majestic-looking George Thomas. Kitching spotted the approach of the newcomers and murmured something to his superiors. The entire group turned as one and saluted formally. Sherman returned the greeting with a sloppy half-wave, and then spoke directly to George Thomas.

“Thomas, hope there are no hard feelings about the assignment at Nashville. I need someone there who’s good at defense, and there’s none better than you. Sorry about the health of a lot of the troops I am sending with you, but they won’t need to march so much on the defensive, and I need all the healthy ones for the coming campaign.”

The dignified Virginian looked at Sherman for a long moment before replying. “I understand. I am to keep Hood out of Tennessee with whatever you can spare me, while you march with our best men to glory against Georgia militia.” The complaint was only implied, but for someone like Thomas it was the equivalent of slamming his hat on the ground and cursing.

“Nothing personal, Thomas, but we’re going to be moving Goddamn fast, and speed is not your strong suit.” Sherman was seemingly oblivious to the combination of shocked and angry looks the other officers gave him. Thomas was respected by his colleagues more than Sherman would ever be, and the indifference to Thomas’ feelings grated.

Surprisingly, it was the murderous Jeff Davis who was first to step forward and take Thomas’ hand. Casting a disdainful glance at Sherman, he said “General Thomas, it has been a privilege and an honor to serve under you. Tennessee will be Union so long as you are in command.” The other officers hastened forward to add similar farewell compliments. Meanwhile, Clay and Bierce detached themselves from Sherman’s party and approached the platform. Clay threw Bierce’s carpetbag up to a waiting private, then gave a supporting hand to the still unsteady Bierce as the latter carefully stepped up onto the platform of the passenger car. Bierce turned and leaned down, bringing his head close to Clay’s in a conspiratorial posture.

“Last chance,” whispered Bierce. “If you’re right, you will be making a target of yourself to the assassin.”

“It is the only way, Bierce. Now, talk while looking at the group of officers and point.”

A grim look on his face, Bierce looked at the group surrounding Thomas, pointed, and raised his voice. “It’s him Clay. Can’t prove it, but it’s him.”

Clay turned slowly and stared at the group of high-ranking officers. Their attention had been drawn by Bierce’s loud, unpleasant voice, and all were now looking at the two majors. The cold look of implacable hatred on Clay’s face was not forced. He was reasonably certain that one of those surrounding Thomas was a traitor and a murderer. He turned back to face Bierce and said in a voice carefully modulated to carry to the puzzled officers “Do not concern yourself. I will obtain the proof, and put an end to him.” Then lowering his voice to where only Bierce could hear he added “That should assure he will not have an accomplice try to murder you in the North, and concentrates on me.”

In a similarly low voice, Bierce responded. “That is what concerns me. I’ll be safe in the North while someone plots your death. You may be overestimating your ability to protect yourself. Perhaps I should stay after all …”

“Nonsense!” hissed Clay. “You have already done more than enough. Leave the rest to Lot and myself, and concentrate on restoring your health.” Suddenly, Clay fiercely gripped Bierce’s hand; the young officer grimaced with pain. “I know you will never entirely escape what was done to you,” whispered Clay intently. “Nevertheless, you are a strong man and will survive. You have a life to live, and things to accomplish. Do not sacrifice that to the horrors of the past.” Clay then stepped back, and formally saluted.

“Watch you back,” Bierce said softly, staring uneasily at this man who could see into his soul. Then he waved to Lot and Duval and said in a louder voice, “Lieutenant, Miss, farewell and good luck.” Then with a meaningful last glance at Duval, he turned and shuffled into the passenger car.

Clay turned, and saw George Thomas approaching him with his slow, measured gate, product of an injured back that had never properly healed. Only Clay was close enough to notice how the general grimly set his jaw as he grabbed the car’s handrail, or to hear the slight groan as he pulled himself up onto the rear platform. He slowly turned, and fixed his stern gaze on Clay. “You seem embarked on a dangerous course of some sort,” he said in his soft Virginia drawl. “Be cautious, the army cannot spare you just yet.” He then turned and entered the car, leaving Clay too astonished to salute.

Lot walked up. “What did General Thomas say?”

Clay waited of a long moment before replying. “He knows we are setting a trap of some sort for some one. I wonder if it is as obvious to the traitor?”

“You can’t afford to assume otherwise.” Lot looked over to the knot of officers around Sherman. All but Davis saluted and strode off to rejoin their waiting aides and horses. Davis and Sherman remained locked in some serious conversation. Clay and Lot walked over, and then waited at a respectful distance. Suddenly Sherman clapped Davis on the shoulder and said “Then get to it, Jeff.” The emaciated general formally saluted his commander, cast a sour look at the two young officers, and strode off to join his own aides. Sherman stared moodily after him for a moment. Then he abruptly turned and addressed Clay and Lot.

“Well, it’s done. You’re lives may not be worth spit. I hope for your sake one of these men is not a traitor. Hope for the country’s sake, as a matter of fact.”

“The risk must be taken,” replied Clay. “May I ask what you just told General Davis?”

The train gave a shrill whistle, and began its long journey north. “Hell, you can see in just a moment. I told Davis to have some of his boys start to tear up the railroad as soon as that train clears the depot. He’ll have a couple of his regiments following the line north until they run into Forrest’s boys. Ah, watch.”

In the distance Clay and Lot could see Davis on horseback, giving a brisk order to a young officer who stood in front of scores of soldiers, most of whom carried crowbars and axes. The young officer saluted smartly, turned, and gestured to his men. With the train hardly out of sight, they attacked the rail line. Faster than seemed possible the lengths of metal were pried up and the wooden crossties piled into a heap and ignited. In the dry, hot weather it took barely a minute for the pile of wood to become a bonfire. Pairs of sweating soldiers threw lengths of metal rail on the growing fire. In less than five minutes the middles of the rails began to glow dull red. Pairs of soldiers, their hands protected by heavy gauntlets, picked up the rails by their relatively cool ends and carried them hurriedly to a nearby telegraph pole. Placing the glowing middle against the pole, they pulled mightily until the softened metal began to give, and kept pulling until the rail was twisted into a hairpin shape. They repeated the process while some of their comrades moved down the line, tearing up more track and building more bonfires for the gleaming rails. Clay nodded his head approvingly.

“Very efficient,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself. “The rails will cool into a shape useless for repairing the line, while the ties are consumed by the act of mutilating the rails.”

“Davis is sending parties of his boys up the line, so different sections of the road can be simultaneously destroyed,” answered Sherman. “He has parties already working on the branch lines; nothing is going to move by rail in Georgia for the rest of the war.”

“Don’t the soldiers complain about the hot, hard work in this climate?” asked Lot.

Sherman favored the young officer with one of his grim smiles. “Davis tells me they are enthusiastic. They see the end of the war coming, and don’t mind working hard to make it come faster. Matter of fact, he tells me some of his boys have come up with a nickname for the twisted rails. They call them ‘Sherman neckties’.” The general chuckled. “I love the boys in this army. There isn’t anything they will not do for me.”

Suddenly, Sherman sobered. “Including burning the heart of Georgia.” He began to walk away from Clay and Lot, as if he had forgotten their presence. “They will help me make Georgia howl,” he muttered, leaving the two friends to look uneasily at each other.

Teresa Duval expertly worked the reins of the medical supply wagon, avoiding another one of the seemingly endless potholes in the dusty road. She spared a glance backwards, where a cloud of dark smoke on the horizon marked the spot where Atlanta burned. She smiled, and turned her attention back to the road. ‘Served the Limey-loving bastards right,’ she thought.

She glanced to her left and right, and noted with satisfaction the smaller pillars of smoke that dotted the horizon. Sherman had spread his army out in a column sixty miles wide, with orders to remove for the use of the army any food or material of military use from any farm and plantation they encountered, and to burn any that they could not carry away. Officers in charge of the foraging parties had been given strict orders to not burn houses or abuse the civilians themselves. However, Duval knew that order would be more honored in the breach. Every man jack in Sherman’s army had lost friends, sometimes relatives, to Rebel fire, and they were anxious to inflict pain with interest on the South. This did not bother Duval, she had seen Ireland during the Famine.

Duval noticed two horsemen weaving through the knots of marching soldiers in front of her, and recognized them as Clay and Lot. Since the very beginning of the march they had made a habit of riding off on their own. Duval knew that Clay was tempting the traitor to make an attempt on his life by ranging far away from the main columns, even though his plan had never been explained to her in so many words. The risks he was running created strange, unfamiliar feelings in her breast. She utterly denied to herself that those feelings were akin to dread or panic, and maintained a surface appearance of doe-eyed placidity.

As he pulled up alongside her wagon, Lot nodded a greeting and said, “Still on the move, Miss Duval? I would have expected you to set up camp by this late in the afternoon, to tend to incoming casualties.”

“No need for that, Lieutenant,” she responded. “The Lord has blessed us with few casualties so far, which are easily handled by the regimental surgeons. It is best that I stay on the road until dusk, so that the reserve supplies are as close to the head of the army as possible.” She hesitated, and then asked “Cannot you persuade the Major to take a larger escort on his … scouting? He is more likely to listen to you than to me.”

Lot grimaced. “I truly wished I could. It is all I can do to persuade him to take me along.”

Clay guided his horse up to join the slowly moving wagon. Although it did not seem possible for him to have been close enough to overhear the exchange between Lot and Duval, he obviously had. “Taking an escort would defeat the purpose, Miss Duval. The traitor is obviously careful, and will attack only when he feels I am vulnerable. The best course is to establish a pattern of riding about, apparently concerned with other matters. In fact, I have just about concluded that the Lieutenant’s presence may be deterring him. Jeremiah, I may have to forego the pleasure of your company the next few afternoons.”

“I have told you before, I will not permit you to go alone,” replied Lot in a voice that for him was unusually harsh. “We are in this together, Alphonso.”

Clay looked speculatively at his cousin and friend. “Suppose that I were to order you to stay behind?”

“Then you would simply have to court-martial me for insubordination and disobedience in the face of the enemy. I doubt you would want that kind of disgrace to come upon a Clay, even one who does not actually bear the Clay name.” He paused, and then added “Besides, would you truly expect a Clay to behave otherwise?”

A ghost of a smile flickered across the major’s face. “No, I expect not.”

“May I be so bold as to ask what you intend for tomorrow?” said Duval with apparent indifference, not taking her eyes from the road.

“I understand that General Davis’ main body is guarding the left flank of the march,” replied Clay reflectively. “Perhaps the lieutenant and I will take a ride over, to inspect his operations on behalf of General Sherman.”

“You suspect Davis is the murdering traitor,” Duval replied evenly.

“I never so much as implied anything of the sort,” said Clay.

Duval suddenly looked directly at Clay. She was no longer doe-eyed; her glance showed anger, impatience—and something else. “I may be many things, Major Clay, but a fool is not among them,” she said in a low voice. “Besides, everyone knows how he killed General Nelson up in Kentucky, and did not dance on air for it. Why could he not kill another Union General?” ‘Or a major,’ she thought but did not say.

Clay barked an unpleasant laugh. “Why indeed not, Miss Duval? I have already had one of Sherman’s couriers take a message to the good General Davis, informing him that I will be at his headquarters tomorrow, but not informing him as to why. If he is the traitor, he may feel compelled to take some hasty action, especially since he knows the lieutenant and I will be riding by ourselves across land where civil order no longer exists, and deserters from both sides roam almost at will. He would be correct in thinking it would be possible for almost any kind of unfortunate incident to occur to two lone riders. Of course, our protection will be that we will be alert for a more specific threat than the occasional looter or bushwhacker.”

As the small party had been speaking, they had approached a farmhouse and barn situated close to the road. The foragers had already been there. Although the house was intact, the barn was furiously burning, while a family stood nearby with devastated looks on their faces. In the yard the bodies of several large hogs lay on an improvised bonfire; apparently the foraging party had not been able to carry away all of the livestock, and had killed and set afire what they could not take. The smell of burning pork made Duval’s mouth water, although she did not feel particularly hungry.

“Miss Duval, we should camp for the night in the yard of this farmhouse,” said Clay abruptly. “There is a well and outhouse available to us, which we are unlikely to find as easily in the light left to us. Besides, no other Union units have taken claim of this site, yet. Crowding will not be an issue.”

As Clay’s party turned into the yard, the old farmer shot a murderous glance at them, then hustled his family into the farmhouse without saying a word. Duval looked at the house thoughtfully as the door slammed shut, then said to Clay “It would be much more comfortable to rest in clean beds with a roof over our heads. Why don’t you evict those traitors, and let us have a bit of luxury tonight?”

Clay looked at the burning barn, then at the mound of slaughtered livestock. He was silent for a moment before replying “There are children in that family; one a girl of no more than eight, I believe. It will be a hard winter for them. Let them keep what comfort they can. You can make do in the wagon, while the lieutenant and I can rest comfortably enough on our blankets.”

Duval hid her anger at Clay. Whenever she began to think that he understood how the world worked, that it belonged to those with the strength and belly to take whatever they wanted, Clay would show some contemptible speck of “honor”. She almost spat at the mere thought of that hypocritical English notion. She held her rage in check, and sweetly said “Let us then set up under that oak tree at the far side of the yard.”

The sleeping Duval shifted uncomfortably in the narrow space she had made in the crowded bed of the wagon. Normally, Duval slept soundly throughout the night no matter how rough the circumstances, seldom having dreams—at least any that she cared to remember. But the annoying galloping of the occasional frantic army courier just fifty yards from where she slept, combined with her discomfort, gave her a rare restless night. She dreamed, and dreamed of the past, combining memories with fantasies in a way she could have disentangled only with difficulty when she woke—if she had ever remembered more than snatches of her dreams. She found it strange that she occasionally had dreams of her past before the age of twelve, a past she seemed curiously unable to recall when awake.

In one particularly vivid dream sequence, she was a twelve-year old, listening to a furious argument between her mother and father; in her dream, she did not think it odd that she could see neither of their faces. She seemed to recall that the argument had taken place many times before. Her mother was angry at her father for “meddlin’ in politics and not mindin’ where the next meal will come from,” while her father muttered something about “fey woman, who listens to the sprites and fairies,” and that he should have known no good would come from marrying a witch such as her. The voices grew louder, the insults viler. In her dream, the young Duval tired of it and went out into the dark night; her departure unremarked by her battling parents.

She picked her way across the farmyard and into the fields beyond, scanning the ground in the dim light of the gibbous moon for something, anything to put in her stomach. In a loose patch of earth she spotted a potato and scooped it up eagerly, hoping that it was something edible that had been missed by her parents. Disappointedly, the root felt mushy in her hand, and even in the dim light she could see the black corruption that blighted the tuber; the foul disease that was starving the Irish while the English landlords and their minions partied in Dublin and Belfast, or faraway London. She briefly thought of trying to choke it down; but remembering the nausea that a previous such experiment had generated, she cast the corrupt object aside, wiping her hand clean on her dress of the foulness. She knew she was luckier than many Irish. Her father owned his land, and had some livestock husbanded to feed his family while tens of thousands starved to death in the countryside. But now that the last of the animals were gone, Duval knew that her father would have to dip into his small horde of gold to buy food to keep them all alive.

In her dream, she strolled slowly across her father’s fields, trying to think of things other than the gnawing hunger in her belly. Like how she agreed with her mother that Father was foolishly wasting his time in political agitation; time that could be better spent in helping his family to survive. Her father would always angrily rail against the British, saying that all of Ireland’s problems came from the absentee English landlords and their cruel land agents who were squeezing the life out of the people, and that Ireland would never be happy and prosperous until it was free of the English yoke. Silently Duval agreed with her mother, who thought it was foolish to be concerned with the rabble, English or Irish; the rabble who had burned her grandmother alive for being a witch were undeserving of her father’s concern, reflected Duval in her dream.

She had crossed the field and entered a small copse of trees. Suddenly feeling the weakness of hunger, she decided to sit with her back to one of the trees and rest. Past experience had shown the argument between her parents would continue for some time, unpleasantly loud, and she saw no reason to return home until they had exhausted themselves. In her dream, she felt her eyelids begin to get heavy, when suddenly she became alert at a distant sound.

The sound seemed a combination of a wail and a scream, coming from far off in the distance. Although the uncanny sound seemed to be coming closer and louder, Duval felt no fear, only an avid curiosity; she could not imagine what could emit such an unearthly noise. Then she caught a glimpse of movement in the part of the field she could see between the trees. The moonlight was strong enough to show a figure gliding across the field toward her, a figure seemingly surrounded by fluttering rags of cloth or linen. The eerie wail clearly came from the figure, which was making straight for Duval, who was puzzled as to how it could see her in the deep shadows of the copse. ‘This must be the dread being of which her mother had muttered such frightening things,’ thought Duval, ‘this must be the herald of death, the banshee.’

In her dream, she thought in a detached way that she should run, or at least cower in fear at the approach of the dread apparition. In the way of dreams, she felt only curiosity at the sight of the approaching creature. With a sudden leap forward, the figure was before her, howling so loudly it should have deafened Duval, but did not. Duval simply stared curiously up at the banshee’s face, observing a pale, unearthly beauty. Somehow, in the dim moonlight, she could see that the creature’s eyes were a pale blue. The screaming suddenly diminished to a low moan, almost a whisper; the figure bent forward and took Duval’s chin in its long-fingered hand. The young girl and the ageless spirit looked steadily into each other’s eyes for what seemed to Duval to be an eternity. Duval still felt no fear, only puzzlement at the look of sad pity on the unearthly countenance. Then in the blink of an eye, the banshee was gone; the faint echo of a wail rapidly fading to nothingness.

As if a spell had been broken, Duval leapt to her feet and began running toward her home. She knew that the banshee was the herald of death; all country folk knew that. If it had not come for her, then it must have come for Mother or Father, she thought in her dream. She feared that the spirit had come as a prophecy of death to one or both of them. In the dream she remembered being frightened for them, which struck her as strange, being that in her waking life she felt no fear for anyone, not even herself.

As she ran she could see her home, now wreathed in flames; a small group of people in the front yard. She could not imagine who had come to help. Most of their neighbors had starved or fled the area in search of food, and the ones who were left hated and feared her mother, believing her to be a witch. It was only when she was almost upon the small knot of figures in front of the burning house that she saw that three wore the red tunics of the militia, and skidded to a halt. In her dream, she felt that she should have turned and run, but she simply could not. She stared at the figure of her father, hanging from a branch of the shade tree in the yard. She could not decide what was more shocking, his head tilting at an impossible angle or the fact that it was his own belt twisted around his neck. She turned to see her mother on the ground with a beefy, grunting soldier on top of her; his hands pinning her arms to the ground while his torso thrust furiously in a parody of the act of love. In her dream she felt she should be doing something, anything, but could not; all she could do was watch, her eyes meeting her mother’s agonized gaze.

Duval suddenly felt a rough hand on her shoulder, and was spun around to face a slovenly soldier with the stripes of a corporal on his tunic. “Well, well, Colleen, we were a wonderin’ where you be. The Lord Lieutenant of the county said we were to round up all the troublemakers, including their pups. The few of your neighbors hereabouts said your da had a daughter, and grieved we would be to do an incomplete job. And here you be presentin’ yourself to us.”

Duval tried to ignore the continuing sounds of her mother’s rape. “The Lord Lieutenant told you to kill Father and … Mother?”

“Not in so many words, Colleen, not in so many words. But I ask you now, what would be the point of bringing in traitors and their whelp to a nice jail and hot meals, when there ain’t enough food for the loyal subjects of the Queen. Might as well sport with the woman as well. I’ll tell you something about your ma. Your neighbors’ve been informing on your folks, mainly because of your ma. Probably didn’t care about your da’s treason, being Irish and all, but they hated her, and that’s a fact. Said she was some sort of witch, in league with old Nick. Said all kinds of bad happened to those who crossed her, or her man. Yes, it was easy as anything to find out that your folks …”

The man on top of Duval’s mother suddenly howled. “The bitch bit me!” he exclaimed with hurt surprise, holding a hand to his face, blood seeping from between his fingers. The third soldier advanced to help his friend, who was hindered by his loose trousers. However, before he could reach the man, Duval’s mother leaped to her feet and snatched the bayonet from the scabbard attached to the rapists’ dangling belt. The man yelped with fear, but, to the shock of all, she reversed the blade and rammed it into her belly with such force that the point protruded from her back. She turned her eyes toward her daughter and whispered “Remember.” Then her eyes glazed and she fell, dead before she struck the ground.

The corporal sighed with regret, “Ah, that is a shame. And before I had my chance.” He turned his eyes toward the young girl, noticing her figure was surprisingly full for a girl of twelve. He grinned wolfishly. “Well, if I can’t have the ewe, the lamb will have to do. There’s good meat on you, even if you look a wee bit starved. Still Colleen, there is an easy way for a good-looking lass like you to earn a spud.”

“I suppose there is, corporal,” she replied, and without ado began shrugging off her dress. All three soldiers, even the wounded man who had attacked her mother, gazed with admiration and lust at the firm, supple body that was quickly revealed. They did not look at the eyes, which were coldly darting about, calculating distances and angles. “I want you first,” she said to the corporal in an emotionless voice, “but I don’t want them watching. I would like a little privacy.”

“Certainly,” the slovenly excuse for a soldier said cheerfully. He turned his attention to his two companions. “Take a break, boys. I’m taking Colleen around back, where we tied the horses.” He took the arm of the now-naked girl and roughly led her around the still-burning house to where three tired nags nickered uneasily. When they neared the horses, the corporal suddenly seized her and kissed her roughly.

In her dream Duval did not resist, but said “Wait. I want to look good for this. Do you have some gear I can use? You know, a mirror, comb—that sort of thing?”

Breathing heavily, the corporal looked confused for a moment, then his face brightened. As Duval had hoped, he said, “Sure, and I’ve got a mirror in me shaving kit.” He went to one of the horses, and removed a small leather satchel from the saddle-bag. He started to open the bag, but Duval interrupted him. “Let me, corporal. You should start undressing yourself. I want this to be a special experience for you.”

Smiling from ear to ear, the man replied “Colleen, it is a true pleasure to meet a lass who takes such care in her work.” He tossed the small bag to Duval, then clumsily sat down to start removing his boots. He had just succeeded in removing the second one when a small but surprisingly strong hand grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head backwards. He started to yelp with surprise, but before he could shout, a cold piece of steel slashed across his throat, severing his windpipe. He collapsed flat to the ground, eyes bulging with surprise and dawning horror, and made futile attempts to stem the spurting blood with his hands while only a bubbling gurgle escaped his mouth. As he began to lose consciousness, he saw the beautiful young woman step into his field of vision, naked except where spurts of arterial blood had splashed her body, casually holding his own razor in her right hand. His last thought was how strange it was that a girl covered in blood could smile so sweetly.

Duval spent only a moment staring down on the dead man with satisfaction. Then she turned and went to the horse that had belonged to the corporal, where she had already noticed two large horse-pistols in saddle-holsters. She remove the pair of guns, and checked to confirm percussion caps were in place on each; glad that her father had spent so much time teaching his only child about firearms. Then holding a pistol in each hand, she moved her arms behind her, like she was hiding a surprise gift from a child. With no hesitation she walked quickly around the side of the burning house and towards the remaining two soldiers.

One soldier was still clumsily trying to bandage up the wound in the face of her mother’s rapist, who was seated on the edge of a water-trough; neither noticed Duval until she was only a dozen paces away. The unwounded soldier caught a glimpse of her and began to straighten up. He frowned and said “Where the hell is …” then stopped as he saw how the girl was splattered with blood. Surprise paralyzed him for just a moment, but that moment was enough for Duval to cover the remaining distance, take her left arm from behind her back, and fire the large pistol into the center of his chest. The .54 caliber bullet knocked him backward several feet, killing him instantly. The rapist howled and scrabbled for his musket which lay beside him, but Duval calmly brought the gun in her right hand from behind her back and fired it into the center of his face, turning his head into a horror of broken bone and gore.

Duval dreamt that she stood looking at the bodies of the soldiers for some time, a strange, pleasurable sensation deep in her belly; a sensation she had never felt before, but which was more enjoyable than anything else she had ever experienced. Then, letting both pistols fall to the ground she strode to the well and drew up a bucket of cold, fresh water. As she sluiced the gore from her naked body, she gasped with pleasure, and began to plan her future—a future in which Ireland would play no role. She would need to bury her parents, and that would take several hours; but the soldiers’ bodies could be left for the crows. She would take their horses and arms, and sell them in Cork; that should raise enough money to buy her passage to America, a land that loved the English as little as she. As she dried herself and began to slip her dress back on, she reflected that there would be a task to perform before she took the road to Cork. Only one neighbor was left close to her father’s farm; only one family who could have peached to the English, a family that was always casting evil eyes at Duval’s mother. She decided she would pay a short visit to that family, to settle accounts on behalf of her parents. She was sure there would be no interference; the famine had largely depopulated the country hereabouts.

Then a frown flitted across her face. Food was the problem. What little her parents had perished in the fire, and the traitorous neighbors were likely to have little of their own. How could she survive in the week or more it would take to reach Cork? She briefly considered butchering one of the horses, but quickly discarded the idea; she knew what passage to New York would cost, and would need to sell all the nags to have a chance of meeting that cost. Then she looked down at the bodies of the two soldiers that she had shot. Prime, healthy specimens, she decided. Well developed thighs and upper arms; those would be the best cuts. Cooked and salted, there would be more than enough for a week. She walked over to where she had dropped the corporal’s straight razor, picked it up and carefully inspected it, seeing the mark of Wilkinson, the maker of swords and the most expensive razors. She looked at it carefully, watching how the light from the burning farmhouse gleamed off its high-quality steel. ‘A very fine, very expensive blade,’ she thought. She realized this razor would mean a great deal to her in the future. She turned toward the bodies and began to advance …

“Miss Duval, Miss Duval,” came the cultured voice of Alphonso Clay.

Teresa Duval’s eyes flew open, and she saw Clay’s head framed by the early-morning sunlight streaming in through the entrance to the wagon.

“My apologies for awakening you, Miss Duval. However, I know how seriously you take your duties, and would not wish you to oversleep.” Clay hesitated ever so slightly, then added, “In any event, it appeared that your slumbers were … disturbed, and that it might be doing you a favor to awaken you. Lieutenant Lot has obtained some prime bacon, and is frying it for our breakfast. You are welcome to join us, if you like.”

She was suddenly aware of the aroma of frying pork. Her mouth began to water. It was not that she was that hungry; it was rather that the smell reminded her something. Something she could not quite remember, but she had the feeling she had enjoyed that something immensely. She tried to remember, perhaps something in her dream. However, the dream was already fading from her consciousness, leaving only the vaguest of impressions.

“Yes, Major, I believe I will accept your offer.” A smile of anticipation on her face, Duval allowed Clay to offer her a hand down from the wagon. As she cheerfully advanced toward Lot and the waiting breakfast at the campfire, Clay looked at the expression on her face, and frowned slightly.

It took until that afternoon for Clay and Lot to catch up with General Davis; the saturnine commander was definitely not a headquarters general, and was constantly on the move about his column. They finally located him on the southern bank of a deep creek, shouting curses from horseback as his men manhandled three-inch cannon across a pontoon bridge. On the far bank of the bridge were a few score soldiers, along with a heart-rending sight: nearly a thousand blacks of both sexes and all ages, some with bundles of pitiful belongings. Slaves who had fled their bondage to follow an uncertain future behind the Federal army. Clay and Lot cantered up to Davis and saluted. The general ignored the salutes, and continued his conversation with a horseman to his right; Clay recognized the rider as Colonel Kitching.

“Colonel, get those God damn guns of yours off that bridge!” growled Davis. “My rear guard still has to come across, and I expect the God damn Reb cavalry to show up at any moment.”

Kitching seemed to take no offense at the general’s curses. “My boys are moving as fast as they can. You can see for yourself there are only three more cannon to bring across. Then the rear guard can come across, and we can break up the bridge. It may not look like much, but that stream’s too deep for cavalry to ford; we’ll be secure enough then.”

“Pardon my interruption,” said Clay smoothly. “However, General Sherman has charged me with inspecting the left flank, and reporting to him on several matters. He is especially interested in your precautions against attack by Confederate cavalry. Normally mounted soldiers are not much of a threat to infantry; but spread out as the troops are, occupied with the destruction of property with military value, he is somewhat uneasy.”

Davis turned his dead eyes on Clay; the pallor of his face was interrupted by two bright spots of color on his cheeks. “Don’t tell me my business, you arrogant little bastard! You think I don’t know the risk? Bad enough with Joe Wheeler out there; I just thank God Hood took Forrest with him to the west. Why do you think I’m so God damn anxious to get those cannon off the bridge, and the rear guard across?” Davis took a deep breath, and turned his attention back to Kitching. “Colonel, I may have spoken harshly to you just now. If so, you have my apology. You are a fine officer, always doing more than required, even handling such sensitive things as prisoner exchanges …”

The sound of a flurry of shots from the opposite bank interrupted Davis. The escaped slaves began to scream in fear; all turned to look across the stream and saw several hundred horsemen galloping over a small hill, aiming straight for the bridge. The last of the cannon had just finished crossing, and the lone regiment on the far bank acting as rear guard began to crown onto the shaky pontoon structure. The colonel in charge of the regiment apparently had lost control, as the men were obviously panicked. Only one lone platoon at the very rear even bothered to fire a few wild shots at the approaching horsemen before themselves bolting for the crush at the bridge.

Davis looked about him and spat an obscenity; there were only a couple of under strength regiments within immediate call. Still, the general did not hesitate; he put the spurs to his mount and began galloping among the milling soldiers, ordering their officers to shake their men into skirmish lines and to fire across the river at the horsemen, being careful not to hit their comrades still squeezing across the bridge. A small, thin young man at the front of the horsemen held up his hand, and the galloping cavalry skidded to an almost comical stop; the young commander knew his men’s pistols and carbines were no match for the Union muskets being fired from the far bank. The last of Davis’ men were now on the bridge, with the black refugees beginning to crowd on it. Davis stared at the far bank, and snarled; the grey horsemen had dismounted and were carefully dodging from piece of cover to piece of cover, denying the Union soldiers easy shots. Clay and Lot saw what Davis saw; the Rebels would soon be so close that there short-range weapons would be effective against the Union Springfields. At that point, their superior numbers would allow them to overwhelm the defenders and capture the short pontoon bridge. Once that happened, Wheeler and his cavalry could cause considerable havoc in the unprepared rear areas of Sherman’s left flank. Suddenly, Davis spurred his horse toward the bridge, followed closely by Colonel Kitching. Clay and Lot followed, heading straight for the action, curiosity overcoming discretion.

“Cut the Goddamn bridge loose!” shouted Davis in a voice that seemed far too loud to come from such a sickly frame.

“Sir, you cannot do that!” exclaimed an appalled Kitching.

Davis turned to the artilleryman, murder in his eyes. “Our boys are across! We got to cut it loose before Wheeler can take it!”

Kitching would not give ground. “There are still a thousand contrabands across the river! You know what Reb cavalry will do to runaways!”

“I don’t give a Goddamn for the niggers!” Davis turned his attention to an artillery lieutenant who stood to the side of the stream of refugees, only a few more bluecoats left before the stream of terrified blacks would begin to reach the near shore and safety. “Lieutenant! Sever the ropes holding the bridge. Now!

“Disregard that order, Lieutenant!” screamed Kitching. “The General has no right to issue such an inhuman command!”

In a lower, dangerously controlled voice, Davis said “So, you would defy me in the face of the enemy,” and began to move his hand toward his holster.

Without preamble Clay vaulted off his horse and became a blur of motion, arrowing straight toward the pontoon bridge. In the seconds it took him to reach the bridge, his custom German saber had appeared in his hand as if by magic. With two swift strokes the ropes securing the right side to wooden pilings were severed. Then, in an acrobatic feat that should not have been possible, he made a running start toward one of the pilings, leapt up and with his right foot launched himself even higher, sailing with apparent grace over the last of the soldiers struggling onto the shore, landing hard just beyond the left side of the bridge. Lot cried out, thinking Clay must have injured himself; but he was wrong. Clay sprang to his feet, sword still in hand; with a blur of motion, the two ropes securing the left side of the bridge to the bank were severed. The swift current began to carry the detached end of the pontoon bridge downstream; the unbalanced strain caused the ropes on the far bank to break loose from their moorings, and the bridge began to accelerate downstream, carrying more than a score of frightened black refugees. Two suddenly cried out, clutching bloody wounds; the Confederate cavalrymen were taking potshots at the unarmed, helpless runaways.

The mass of escaped slaves remaining on the far bank were in a frenzy of panic as Southern horseman dashed at them. Some dropped to their knees and pled for mercy; their pleas were rapidly cut short by flashing sabers. Union soldiers held their fire for fear of hitting the refugees, watching the massacre with impotent rage. Meanwhile, hundreds of panicked blacks plunged into the stream attempting to swim across. Many were poor swimmers, or could not swim at all, and the winter rains had swollen the stream rendering its current fast and treacherous. Many of the stronger made it to the far shore, where willing hands dragged them from the water; but many more disappeared beneath the surface or were swept downstream where a rapids filled with jagged rocks awaited them.

Lot had stood as frozen as a statue, utterly shocked by his friend’s actions. Then rage replaced astonishment. He ran to where Clay stood on the bank, watching the appalling chaos with apparent detachment. Lot seized him by the shoulder and spun him so they were face-to-face. “Why, Alphonso, why? Look at them! God damn you, look at them! How could you condemn those Christian souls …” Lot’s voice choked up; letting go of Clay’s shoulder, he waded into the shallow water to help the survivors who had reached the shore, despite the patter of Confederate bullets that kicked up little geysers around them. Suddenly, the roar of several cannons firing at once rang out; Kitching had turned his guns around, and was firing at the Confederate cavalry. Having no effective cover or means of replying to artillery, the horsemen sullenly retired. Suddenly, their was silence, save for the moaning of wounded survivors and the muttered curses of soldiers going to their aid, chief of which was Lieutenant Jeremiah Lot.

Clay stood unmoving, simply observing the chaos and his friend’s humanitarian efforts. Then, with an absolutely blank expression on his face he turned and walked away from the riverbank, his departure noticed only by General Davis, who frowned as he looked at Clay’s retreating figure.

The column was on the march, now with the black survivors of the river crossing firmly embedded within it instead of trailing behind. General Davis noticed this as he road along the line of march with his staff, looking for stragglers or other signs of indiscipline. On several occasions he considered barking an order to eject the contrabands from the column, so it could march with greater ease. However, on each occasion he saw a number of soldiers glance darkly at him, then avert their eyes sullenly. Davis was a competent general, and knew better than to push his men without a pressing cause.

He also noticed that Clay and Lot no longer rode together. Once Clay trotted his horse up to that of the lieutenant; who then put the spurs to his own mount. Davis mulled several things over in the dark recesses of his mind, then reached an unwilling decision. At the next rest stop, he told his aides that he would not be needing their services for a quarter of an hour, and that they should relax as best they may. He rode over to where Lot had dismounted in order to help some soldiers distribute army crackers and water to a group of exhausted and demoralized refugees. He slid off his horse and wrapped the reigns around the branch of a convenient tree, holding himself erect with some effort. Then he stiffly approached the group; the refugees seemed to collectively cringe, while the soldiers saluted, including Lot, whose expression gave the lie to the respect implied by the salute. Davis touched his hat in return, then said “Lieutenant, I need to talk to you in private. You will come with me.” Davis turned and headed toward a nearby meadow; reluctantly, Lot followed. When they were out of earshot of the nearest soldiers he suddenly stopped, placed his arms behind his back, and seemed to stare intently at the far horizon. Lot stopped beside him. Without looking at the lieutenant, Davis began to speak.

“You’re related to Clay, aren’t you? Don’t try and deny it; your both of the same height and build, and are always together. Served a lot of years in the South, and know how it works with the plantation owners and their … property.” He waited for some denial from Lot; hearing none, Davis sighed and began to speak again. “Never talked about such things with a nig … a black man before; but the good of the service requires me to talk to you now. You think I was wrong to cut the bridge loose, don’t you?”

In a strained voice Lot asked “Does the General require an answer?”

Davis chuckled grimly. “No, I guess not. Tell me Lieutenant, what do you think would have happened if I hadn’t given that order?” Without waiting for an answer Davis suddenly turned to face Lot directly. “God damn you, I’ll tell you! Wheeler and his butchers would have sabered their way across, overwhelmed the small rear guard, and slaughtered every last one of your Goddamn precious contrabands, besides wreaking havoc in the army’s rear areas and forcing Sherman to turn around and deal with him. As it is, we saved Sherman from a major problem; and about half of the contrabands got across one way or the other. Half is better than none. Anyway, Clay saw all that, saw it in an instant, while you and Kitching did not. He acted for the greater good, and will carry a burden of guilt for the rest of his life; while you and Kitching would have kept your consciences clear, at the cost of even more lives.”

Davis turned to face the horizon again. Without looking at Lot, he continued to speak. “As I said, spent a lot of time down South before the war, got to know you Southerns pretty damn well. Clay is like all the Southern gentlemen I ever ran across, only more so. I think he might die rather than show weakness, even to—maybe especially to—those he feels closest to. I think he feels just as sorrowful for the contrabands who were lost as you do; maybe more so, as his actions condemned them. He has to live with that guilt. I know about that, too. I was quick to anger, but didn’t think things through. Didn’t matter that there was no trial …” Davis trailed off, while Lot looked at him curiously, realizing the general was alluding to the murder of General Nelson.

“Anyway … kin is kin, no matter what side of the blanket it’s on. You can do as you like; but if I were you, I’d take Clay aside private-like, and let him know he did right in your eyes. Wouldn’t mean anything from me; hates my guts. Guess it would mean a lot from you.” Davis was silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the horizon, and then still not looking at Lot said “Well, that’s it … Lieutenant. Git.”

A thoughtful Lot saluted formally, turned, and headed back to the column. Davis remained staring at the horizon for a very long time.

Lot caught up with Clay as the latter rode silently beside Duval’s medical wagon. Lot brought his own mount up beside Clay and matched the plodding pace that was being set. Clay neither looked at nor spoke to Lot; his utterly blank expression remained focused on the road ahead. For some minutes the two friends rode mutely side-by-side, subject to an occasional curious glance from Duval. Finally Lot broke the silence. “Strange man, General Davis. He felt you did right at the bridge, but seems to think I should be the one to tell you so.”

Clay said nothing.

Lot took a deep breath. “Alphonso, I owe you the deepest apology. I was carried away by the horror and tragedy of the moment, and did not stop to consider that you had done the best for all concerned.”

“Did I?” asked Clay softly, without looking at Lot. “And to whom should I make my apologies? The dead refugees collectively? Perhaps the mother I saw go under for the final time with her child? Maybe the old man who used his last strength to shove a child to the shore before the current carried him away to die? Tell me Jeremiah, which of them would be the appropriate recipient of my regrets?”

“You did what needed to be done, Alphonso,” replied Lot gently. “More innocents would have died without your actions; I can see that now. You did not hesitate because you were stronger than me, better than me.”

An explosive, ugly laugh erupted from Clay’s throat. “You believe that? Let me tell you, I am not a god, and do not enjoy playing the role of one.” He turned to look at Lot. “There is nothing for which to apologize, old friend. You were right to be disgusted with me. I am disgusted with myself, no matter how correct the action was when considered in cold blood. It was inhuman of me, unforgivable.” He turned away, and murmured “I am not a god … no matter what Father would have liked.”

Frowning at the enigmatic final comment, Lot said “Alphonso, you are not inhuman, merely strong. Strong enough to do what is necessary, no matter how grim it will be. Despite my initial … feelings, what you did at the bridge does not diminish the respect and love I feel for you, and always will.”

Clay seemed about to say something when suddenly his head turned forward. “Cannon and musket fire. Heavy. It would appear that the Georgia militia is making a stand.”

“I hear nothing,” said Lot.

“It is very faint, but it is there.”

“How can you be sure it is the Georgia militia?”

“The fire is heavy, too heavy for scouts to be the enemy. Hood is off to the west and north. The militia is the only organized force that it could be. Foolish, very foolish. They have at most four thousand. Even spread out like it is now, Sherman’s army will grind them up.” Clay glanced at Lot. “There should be a lot of confusion; most of those we suspect are in this wing of the army. Shall we give the traitor a target?”

Lot hesitated slightly before saying “No time like the present.” With no further words the two friends put their spurs to their mounts. From her perch on the driver’s seat of the medical wagon, Teresa Duval watched them arrow toward the sounds of the battle that only Alphonso Clay could hear. There was a strange constriction in her throat which she could not understand.

The battle was over by the time Clay and Lot reached the scene. Spotting Generals Slocum and Davis conversing under the shade of a tree, their mounted aides at a respectful distance, the friends galloped up, dismounted and saluted formally. Davis touched his hat absently and continued to murmur to his superior, who answered him in short, sharp sentences.

Clay stared speculatively at Major General Henry Slocum, commander of Sherman’s left wing and Davis’ immediate superior. He suddenly remembered that just two months ago Slocum had been a mere division commander, demoted from the Army of the Potomac in something like disgrace; in the command reshuffle after Hooker’s resignation and McPherson’s death, he had received two major promotions in rapid succession. Clay decided he could not ignore the fact that Slocum seemed to have benefited most from the acts of treason that had been committed.

Slocum noticed the new arrivals, and acknowledged their salutes. In a voice that held a strong New York accent, he said “Major Clay and Lieutenant … Lot, is it? I know you have a special brief from General Grant, but as you can tell, I am somewhat busy at the moment. Whatever you want, it will have to wait.”

Clay ignored the dismissal. “With respects, sir, I will not take more than a moment of your valuable time. What has happened here?

Slocum’s weary, pinched features showed his irritation. “A little matter of a battle, Major, if you must know. Idiot militia thought to actually hold us back. I don’t care if it rains militia, it cannot hold against trained professionals. Once word spread of what my boys found yonder, nothing could hold the men back; they swept right over the Reb line in a matter of minutes.”

Slocum had gestured to the large oak near which his aides clustered. Clay had already noticed the four blue-clad bodies hanging from its branches, and had dismissed them as deserters summarily punished. However, he looked closer, and now noticed the cardboard placards hung around their necks, on them the word “Looter” scrawled in black paint.

“Some of Wheeler’s cavalry must have done that,” said Slocum, answering Clay’s unspoken question. “Took my men prisoner, and murdered them.”

“Sir, why haven’t you taken them down?” asked an appalled Lot.

“Wanted the boys to see what the Rebs have done. Wanted them to know they are not fighting ‘gentlemen,’ but mad-dog traitors. Put some vinegar in them; they went right over the top of the Rebs. Didn’t take many prisoners.” Slocum turned his attention to Davis. “Jeff, you and your staff better go appraise the situation on the battlefield, find out if any Reb units were able to withdraw intact, and if so in which direction. I’ve got to report to Sherman as soon as may be.”

Davis saluted silently, mounted his gelding stiffly, and put the spurs to the horse; his aides trailing behind him like the tail of a kite. Clay said “Sir, I believe we will go forward ourselves and make our own appraisal. General Sherman may appreciate more than one point of view.”

Slocum gave the two friends a sour look, and replied “Do as you wish, Major.” Clay and Lot both saluted, salutes that Slocum deliberately did not return, and galloped off in the direction Davis had taken.

It only took a minute for them to reach the site of the battle. Both quickly drew up their mounts and surveyed the scene, wrinkling their noses at the acrid smell of gunpowder. Lot muttered “Lord have mercy on our souls;” Clay merely looked about dispassionately. There were only a scattering of blue-clad corpses on the field; the Union wounded having apparently already been removed. However, as far as the eye could see the ground was littered with silent forms clad in butternut. “This was a massacre,” said Lot, a rising note of horror in his voice. The two friends rode into the middle of the field of death. Suddenly, Lot dismounted and began franticly darting about from body to body, turning some over to see more clearly their features. “God in heaven, Alphonso, these are children. Children!” Tears began to stream down the black lieutenant’s cheeks.

Clay glanced about the battlefield, and confirmed Lot’s discovery. There were a few adults mixed in with the boys; but those adults had clearly been in their sixties, or even seventies. Without emotion, Clay observed “The Confederate Conscription Act called up all fit men between the ages of sixteen and sixty; the militia now consists of those younger or older than those limiting ages.”

Lot looked up at his friend with a stricken face. “Alphonso, we’ve slaughtered children and grandfathers here.”

“It is tragic, but not the fault of the Union. Richmond put muskets in their hands and ordered them to kill our people. Our side could only respond in one way.” He looked about the field, where isolated figures in blue walked or rode about the field. “This would have been a good place to make an attempt on my life, with the confusion attendant on the conclusion of a battle acting as cover; but I see no one acting suspiciously in our vicinity. Come, let us catch up with the column, taking our time, and keeping watch while pretending indifference.”

Lot did not move, or even appear to hear. His gaze was fastened on the body of a boy of no more than ten lying face to the sky; the top of his head had been removed by a shell fragment, the eyes just below the red horror were filled with innocent amazement. Clay looked at his cousin and friend for a long moment, un­accustomed feelings flowing through his very strange heart. Gently he said, “Jeremiah, he is past the cares of the world, and is now in a better place, a place where evil men will not use his life for their own ends. Come, let us leave here.”

Reluctantly, Lot turned and mounted his horse. Eyes straying to the dead child, he asked “Which way, Alphonso?”

Clay gestured to his right. “Down that county road over there. It heads in the general direction we need to go. More importantly, there appear to be a number of trees and buildings along it; good cover for an ambush. Let us go slowly, and hope the traitor takes advantage of the opportunity. Keep alert without being obvious.”

As they began trotting down the road Lot said in a low voice “As I said before, this is madness, Alphonso. We may not spot an ambush until the shot that kills you is fired.”

“It cannot be helped. The traitor is careful, and would avoid an obvious trap. If he kills me, then it is your duty to avenge me.” Clay gestured at the Spencer carbine that was in the scabbard of Lot’s saddle. “I know just how good a shot you are, especially with a rifle. Whether or not the traitor’s shot kills me, I have little doubt you will put paid to his career of murder. No, my mind is made up; the risk is considerable, but it must be taken. Honor demands it.”

“Honor demands that you die?” asked Lot incredulously.

“It did for all those children behind us,” responded Clay somberly. “I will do no less.”

The friends rode slowly along the road, appearing to be in no particular hurry. Clay seemed totally oblivious to the surroundings, while Lot’s eyes darted frantically back and forth, trying to uncover a hint of an attempt on Clay’s life. He suddenly noticed a number of figures ahead of them to the left, by a magnificent Grecian mansion set back some hundred yards from the road; transferring his reins to his left hand, he placed his right hand on the butt of the Spencer. The fact the figures were mainly blue-clad gave no comfort; their unknown enemy would be wearing the blue. As they slowly rode up, they could see that the crowd was composed of about twenty soldiers, mixed with a somewhat larger number of blacks. Clay and Lot reached the group, dismounted, and tied their horses to a convenient hitching-post. Clay asked in a loud voice “Who is in command here?”

An officer stepped forward, seemingly too young to shave but with ancient, weary eyes. “Lieutenant Pierce, 37th Indiana,” the officer said, saluting.

“Major Clay and Lieutenant Lot, attached to General Sherman’s headquarters,” responded Clay, returning the salute. “What is transpiring here?”

“This is one of Wade Hampton’s plantations,” he replied, gesturing vaguely behind him. “My colonel ordered me to take some boys and make sure everything of value was removed.”

“One of?” asked a surprised Lot.

The young officer shrugged. “My colonel tells me Hampton has lots of places like this.”

“Hampton is the richest man in the South,” replied Clay. “He is said to have more than fifty thousand acres among his various plantations, and own more than twentyt thousand slaves. A power unto himself. They say Richmond is afraid of him, and does whatever it can to keep him placated.”

Pierce shrugged. “My colonel said something similar. We figured that it would be an easy thing. Seize the livestock, take the valuables, free the slaves, and raise a little hell to give Hampton something to remember us by. Well, it looks like all but one of the overseers skedaddled, taking the portable wealth and house slaves with them. They left only those field hands who were not fit to travel, and …” The young lieutenant gestured behind him, where about thirty blacks lay on the ground, being given food and water by hard-bitten soldiers who were acting surprisingly solicitous to the contrabands. Lot took his first good look at them, and gasped; Clay gave no overt sign of shock, a sudden motionlessness of his posture giving the only sign of his feelings.

The slaves, male and female, had all been mutilated and physically abused in various horrible ways. Some lay of necessity on their stomachs, their backs a mass of recent weeping wounds and ancient ugly scars inflicted by the whip. Others had horribly mutilated arms and legs, the wounds apparently inflicted by some kind of animal bites. A few wept uncontrollable as Federal soldiers clumsily tried to offer succor; many more law apathetically, accepting the food and water but otherwise acting as if they were unaware of their surroundings.

“We all heard up north tales of what was done to slaves, and in the campaign so far we had seen some that had been busted up by their owners,” said the young officer in a low voice. “But nothing like this. Doesn’t make sense. They’re valuable property. Doesn’t make sense to do something like this to something you own. My boys got the story out of those willing to talk; not all were. Seems Hampton and some of his friends like to really go at those who acted the slightest bit uppity, or who ran. Would sic bloodhounds on them, then flog the meat off their backs while they were still bleeding from the bites.”

Clay turned to look at the young lieutenant. “Are these all?”

“All those still alive. Some didn’t survive the dogs, or the floggings. Some of the contrabands say some were just taken away and never seen again. Probably were sold south, but these here figure they were killed somehow. Can’t blame them, I suppose.”

“You say one of the overseers was captured,” said Clay in a soft voice. “I would like to see him.”

Pierce gestured to the open door of the mansion. “A couple of my boys have him in there. I told them to persuade him to show us anything of value that might have been hidden.” He glanced at the mutilated blacks, and a hard look came over his young face. “Told them not to be gentle. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to him.”

The three officers mounted the imposing steps, turned right and found themselves in a room that had undoubtedly been the owner’s library. The large desk and chairs were of mahogany, and the bookshelves reached the twelve-foot ceilings. However, the books had largely been pulled down from the shelves and thrown into untidy piles. Two soldiers loomed over a disheveled figure slumped in an armchair, a large, powerfully-built man who nonetheless looked badly frightened; the split lip and the beginnings of a black eye showed his fears were not unreasonable. One of the soldiers turned to the new arrivals, and half-saluting said “Lieutenant, we’ve worked this Johnnie over pretty damn good. He’s still saying there are no hidey-places for crops and livestock, or for silver and such.”

Clay walked over to the prisoner, and looked down at him mildly. “So, are you responsible for the injuries to those human beings out in the yard?” he said in the softest of voices.

“Not those’uns,” he mumbled.

“Really?”

The overseer looked up at Clay with tired, defeated eyes. “I won’t lie to you. Out in fields I would lay on if they slacked, or if they talked back. But niggers are property, and you don’t break up good property for no reason. Tried talkin’ to Mr. Hampton once to ease off on what his friends an’ him were doing. But he told me if I kept actin’ like a nigger-lovin’ Republican he would fire me, and make sure no other plantation in Georgia would hire me.”

“So to keep your position you acquiesced in the torture and murder of human beings.”

The prisoner looked down, and mumbled “Got a wife and three little ones. This is all I know.”

“You apparently did not try to learn anything else,” said Clay mildly. Something in one of the piles of books caught Clay’s attention. He bent over and picked up two large, ancient-looking volumes. Without looking at the prisoner, appearing absorbed in inspecting the books, he said “How did Wade Hampton and his … friends come to cause such injuries?”

Still looking at the floor, the overseer replied “Tried not to see too much. Sometimes he would take them as tried to run away and make a … hunt of it. Give them a head start and release them bloodhounds out back. Mr. Hampton and his friends would ride after them on horseback; sort of like a foxhunt, I guess. Sometimes they’d bring the nigger back, bleedin’ something awful. Sometimes didn’t bring the runaway back at all. Still, that wasn’t the worst. Sometimes, not often, they’d git together after dark. They’d take one of the field hands, usually a woman or pickaninny, out to the woods to the north and west. Mr. Hampton would tell me and the other help to stay in the house, and never mind what we heard.”

“Did you never become curious about what happened at these … events?” asked Clay, who still seemed absorbed in the two volumes he had recovered.

“No, and if you’d have heard the drumming and screaming that came here when the wind was right, you wouldn’t have been curious neither.”

Lieutenant Pierce looked curiously at Clay. “Sir, what do you have there?

“Two extremely rare books, Lieutenant. One is The Necrominicom by the Arab Abdul Alhazard. Although this copy seems to be of the inferior John Dee translation. Even an inferior copy of this work is quite valuable. The other is of some sentimental value to me: Unausprechliken Kulten by Friedrich von Juntz, who happens to be my maternal grandfather. It would appear that Wade Hampton and his friends are somewhat eclectic in their intellectual interests. With your permission, I would like to take these books as personal souvenirs.”

“Don’t see why not, Major. They may be valuable, but my boys will not take to hauling old books all over Georgia.”

“My thanks,” replied Clay, as he placed the volumes carefully on the corner of the mahogany desk. He then unsnapped his holster and drew his Smith & Wesson revolver. “And now, I regret I must …” His words were interrupted by a commotion. With surprising strength the wiry Jeremiah Lot had jerked the large prisoner out of the chair and hustled him out into the hall and through the front door screaming “Run! Run for your life! Get your family and keep running until you are far away from here!” The prisoner caught something in Lot’s voice that convinced him of his danger, and despite his injuries took off like the Devil was behind him. As he ran through the yard some of Pierce’s men made as if to stop him. However, Lot shouted “By order of Major Clay and Lieutenant Pierce, that man is not to be molested! Let him go!” Lot watched briefly to make certain the overseer was on his way at top speed, then re-entered the library. Pierce and his two men stood with confused looks on their faces; while Clay stood frowning, his pistol pointed in Lot’s general direction.

“You should not have done that,” said Clay, a chilling, ominous tone in his voice, a strange light seeming to gleam from his pale blue eyes.

“Alphonso, I love you too much to allow another … incident like in New Orleans,” replied Lot, looking unwaveringly at the pistol in his cousin’s hand.

Clay was frozen still as a statue for some seconds, then finally said, “Very well, you may be right.” He then turned to Pierce. “Lieutenant, where are the bloodhounds kept?”

A note of unease in his voice, Pierce replied “They are kept in a kennel just to the left of the back porch door. Why?”

“I will be only a moment,” replied Clay. Still holding the revolver, Clay stalked out of the library. Pierce turned to Lot and asked “What the hell is up with your major? He is acting like he is a few cards short of a full deck.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” replied Lot. “A good man, but he responds … unpredictably when he sees injustice. We are lucky that he did not …” Lot was interrupted by the crack of a pistol shot, followed by the yelp of a dog. Pierce started, while his men looked uneasily at each other. A few seconds later there was a second shot; a few more seconds, a third. A fourth. A fifth. Then uninterrupted silence.

In a few moments they heard footsteps coming down the hall, and Clay entered the library, just finishing sliding shiny metallic cartridges into his revolver. He snapped it closed and reholstered the weapon, then walked over to the desk and tucked the two large volumes under his arm. He looked directly into Pierce’s eyes and said “Burn this place and everything in it to the ground.” Pierce noticed that the strange light was gone from Clay’s eyes. Without waiting for a reply, Clay left the room.

Pierce looked confused. “Uh, Lieutenant, we have orders from Sherman himself not to deliberately burn civilian houses,” he said to Lot.

“Sherman is far away, and Clay is right here. If I were you, I would burn it, and praise God nothing worse happened.”

Teresa Duval had been rejoined by the wagons under Dr. Fetterman. Together they had set up a temporary hospital in a large barn, and were being kept busy enough by the relatively few casualties the Georgia militia had inflicted before being destroyed. Normally she would have been quite happy dealing with blood and mangled flesh, but Fetterman had destroyed her mood when he had brought in a half-dozen captured Confederates who had volunteered to work as hospital orderlies. She carefully hid her feelings from Fetterman, but every time she heard one of the English-loving bastards utter something in their drawling accent that aped the British upper classes, she came very close to committing an indiscrete murder. Only her sense of self-preservation gave her the strength to drive the ravening demons back into the dark corners of her mind.

Suddenly a form appeared in the door of the barn, and Duval’s heart leapt at the site of Clay’s spare frame; she hardly noticed Lot following behind him. “Good afternoon, Miss Duval. I trust you are not overwhelmed by the casualties.”

“She does well as always,” replied Fetterman on her behalf. “One casualty is one too many; but the battle was short enough that we are able to help all those needing immediate assistance. I thank the Lord Sherman gave me permission to use some of our prisoners from the Confederate regulars to provide assistance.”

“No luck, Major Clay?” asked Duval brusquely, not quite meeting his eyes.

“None so far. However, one can always hope. This was always a long-shot plan; but a long-shot is better than a no-shot.”

There was a sudden commotion outside the barn; horses neighed, and a wagon creaked. General Sherman’s high, fluting voice was heard. “Goddamn it, get someone out here! A good officer is like to die!” Two of the prisoners rushed out with a stretcher and staggered back in carrying a man who alternately sobbed and screamed. His legs both ended in bloody rags just below his knees; a tourniquet on each limb kept him from bleeding to death.

“Goddamn Rebel bastards!” shouted Sherman wildly, glaring at the prisoners acting as orderlies, who carefully did not meet his stare. “Happened right in front of me. Was talking to this captain, as he marched along at the head of his company, when BAM. An infernal device blew him near twenty feet in the air, taking off both legs. Don’t know how he’s survived to reach here.”

“Put him on the empty cot over there,” commanded Duval calmly. Along with Fetterman she approached the cot, gazing with outward calm and inward pleasure at the ruin of the young officer’s limbs. “We will be able to save his life, if he does not die of shock. We will have to complete the amputations of course; both will be below the knees, which will facilitate the fitting of artificial legs.”

“Let me administer the ether while you prepare the instruments,” said Fetterman, while the young officer thrashed wildly.

“Sir, what do you mean ‘infernal device’,” Lot asked Sherman.

“A keg of gunpowder, buried in the road, with some clever plunger connected to a percussion cap, arranged so that the pressure of some poor bastard placing his foot on it will cause the explosion. Some call these damn things torpedoes. Don’t care what they are called; coward’s weapons are what they are. We’ve been running into a few; more as we approach Savannah; making the boys nervous and slowing down the march.” Sherman’s eyes lit upon one of the Confederate prisoners sponging off a wounded man. “Well, the Goddamn Rebs planted these things, and the Goddamn Rebs can dig them up. You and you and you,” said Sherman, pointing in rapid succession to three of the orderlies. “You Johnnies have got a new duty. You’re going to be right out in front of my main column, right in front. Anyone gets blown to Hell, it’s going to be you!”

“General, you cain’t do that,” wailed one of the prisoners. “We is prisoners, and the laws of war say prisoners cain’t be put in harms way.”

“I am the only law in Georgia! You will do as I say, or I will hang you higher than Haman!”

The only officer among the prisoners stepped forward; a lanky man with a haggard expression, whose red collar proclaimed him to be an artilleryman. “General, with your permission, I would like to volunteer on behalf of the men. I am better qualified than they to spot the signs of such a device, and to disarm it without undue risk.”

“And I imagine you planted a few of them yourselves. What’s your name?”

“Lieutenant Samuel Flournoy, sir. And yes, I did plant a few such devices. I regarded them as against the laws of war, and told my superiors so. However, they ordered me to participate, and I felt honor-bound to do so.” The rebel looked steadily at Sherman, neither defiant nor afraid.

Gruffly, Sherman said “You didn’t need to reveal that. Why did you?”

Flournoy shrugged. “It is the duty of an officer to protect his men as best he can. Your order is barbarous,” and Flournoy paused meaningfully, “but since you are determined to give the order, I really have no choice but to assume responsibility and volunteer for the duty.”

“Very well, you have your wish.” Sherman paused, then almost angrily added “Lieutenant, I hope to God you survive this war. Now come with me. My aides will take you up front, and get you any tools you need to disarm the infernal devices.” Flournoy saluted slowly and correctly, and walked out of the tent with dignity, closely followed by Sherman.

“A brave man,” murmured Clay approvingly.

Before she could stop herself, Duval said “I do not want them brave. I want them dead.”

Lot looked at Duval with shock, Clay with cool calculation.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, Clay,” growled Sherman, not taking the binoculars from his eyes. “Guess your plan of making yourself bait didn’t pan out.”

“No sir, it would appear not.” Standing at the top of a low hill with members of the general’s staff, Clay looked at what was occupying Sherman’s attention: a fort at the mouth of the Ogeechee River, and beyond that the town itself. There was an intermittent drizzle from the gray December skies; but it did not limit visibility. Sherman would have been surprised to learn that Clay could see as much with his bespectacled eyes as the general could see with his powerful army glasses.

“What is keeping Hazen,” Sherman grumbled. “He’s got to take Fort McAllister now, today, or this army is going start to starve.”

Clay nodded. “It is hard to live off the land when the land has been as picked over as much as around Atlanta. Still, things are going the Union’s way in general. The taking of Atlanta changed the whole mood in the North, and was probably the main reason for McClellan’s defeat and Lincoln’s re-election. The South can no longer count on victory coming from a change in government.”

Sherman took the binoculars away from his face and growled “I’m concerned in the here and now. If Fort McAllister falls, Union warships can sail right up to us with everything we need. Only a few days after that, we will take Savannah. Only question is whether General Hardee will stand and be destroyed or slink off to the north. He must know he hasn’t a chance against us, in the town or not. Hell, if he has ten thousand able to hold a musket I’d be damned surprised.” Sherman sighed. “So Clay, what do you want to do.”

Clay’s normally placid features were set in a grim frown. “I have failed, plain and simple. As soon as we have established communication with the Union fleet, I request permission for Lieutenant Lot and myself to take ship and rejoin General Grant’s staff.”

“Guess there’s nothing else to do,” replied Sherman. “It just seems just so Goddamn hard … wait a second.” Sherman brought the binoculars back up his face, just as the sound of cannon and musketry reached the soldiers on the hill. “There goes Hazen!” yelled Sherman, something Clay could confirm with his naked eyes. They watched the distant line of blue figures scramble up the steep earthen slope leading to the fort’s parapet; some fell, but most went straight over. In less than a minute the stars and bars had disappeared from the flagpole. The crowd on the hilltop cheered and pounded each other on the back; all save Alphonso Clay, who looked on as if only mildly interested.

“Goddamn Hazen and his boys! Goddamn them!” shouted the manic Sherman. “He can take his Goddamn time about things, but when Bill Hazen says he will do a thing, it is done! The campaign is now officially a success; the rest will be mopping up.”

At this point a couple of soldiers approached the general, escorting Samuel Flournoy, whose ashen features and stiff expression showed just what he thought of the easy Union victory.

“Beggin’ your pardon, General,” said one of the soldiers, a grizzled corporal running to fat. “Mickey and me thought this might be a good time to be askin’ the General a favor, even if it ain’t quite regular, not going through the officers and such.”

Sherman looked at the two presumptuous soldiers, appearing amused by them. “So, what favors can I give two fine specimens of my army.”

“Well, it’s not for us exactly, although we would sure be grateful,” said the corporal. He gestured to Flournoy. “You see, Mickey and me have been assigned to watch this Johnnie here dig up torpedoes, makin’ sure he don’t run away. Well, he’s never tried, but he has dug up twelve of those damn infernal machines, takin’ his life in his hands each time. Figure he’s saved a lot of boyos doing that, but it’s like this: those things are tricky, and it’s only a matter of time until one blows him to glory. Don’t seem right, somehow. Sam Flournoy seems like a good egg, even if he is Reb, and he’s risked his life enough, says me and Mickey. So if you don’t take strong exception sir, me and Mickey would take it as a personal favor if you let this Johnnie here have a chance of livin’ out the war, and send him to the officer’s prison stockade. Sir.”

Sherman looked first at the corporal, then at “Mickey”, and finally at Flournoy with his intelligent, bird-like eyes. Finally he said “Well, never heard of my boys asking a favor for a Reb officer. Don’t see how I can deny it. Flournoy, you’re off the duty.”

“Sir, I will escort the prisoner to the stockade,” interjected Clay unexpectedly.

“That’s all right then,” said Sherman. Just then someone shouted that the Stars and Stripes were being raised over Fort McAllister. Everyone on the hilltop cheered and turned their attention to the spectacle; everyone but Clay and Flournoy. “Lieutenant, please come with me,” said Clay. Flournoy assented with a stiff nod, and the two began the short climb down the hill and back to the area where headquarters staff had pitched their tents.

As they walked side by side, Clay suddenly spoke. “You may wonder why I have taken this opportunity to escort you.”

“The thought has crossed my mind,” said Flournoy dryly.

“You are a brave man, a true gentleman in every sense of the word, and deserve some consideration above that normally accorded prisoners of war. I see that you are a married man.” Clay pointed to the wedding band on Flournoy’s finger. “Any children?”

Flournoy hesitated a long moment before replying. “My wife was expecting our first child when last I heard from her. She must have had the baby now, or …” Flournoy left unsaid the hazards of childbirth. “It is not knowing that is the worst.”

“I assumed as much. I would be pleased if you would join me in the tent I share with Lieutenant Lot. It is not much, but it is better than what is accorded prisoners, even officers. You can have a decent meal, and prepare a long letter to your wife, assuring her that you are safe, and will be restored to her soon. You realize the Confederacy has lost, and that the war will be over in less than six months.”

A sad expression on his face, Flournoy replied “I am afraid that is my assessment as well.”

“We will not speak of the relative merits of our causes. The important thing is that you will live to see your family again. A few months in a prison stockade will be unpleasant, but endurable, especially when one has some money to buy the little extras that corrupt guards can make available.”

“I have no money,” replied Flournoy. “It was taken from me when I was captured.”

“I will see that you have a modest sum.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Flournoy.

“Call it the courtesy of one gentleman to a better gentleman who has suffered from the fortunes of war. Ah, this is where we cut off. The Lieutenant and I were fortunate enough to find a camp spot off the beaten path. Hardly anyone uses this particular trail, and it is so quiet one can almost forget one is in the middle of a vast army. There, you can see the tent …”

Flournoy’s arm shot out, seizing Clay by the shoulder, arresting his forward motion. “Do not move,” he hissed, and with his other arm pointed to some moist, disturbed soil into which Clay had been about to step. “I have seen the signs before. I could be wrong, but I believe there is a torpedo buried in the path.”

Clay frowned. “In the middle of Sherman’s headquarters camp? That scarce seems possible.”

“It may have been placed there before the army arrived here. In any event, I recognize the subtle signs. Could you get some spades, any digging implement that you can find? I will stay here and make sure no one stumbles into this device.”

Clay briefly considered the possibility that Flournoy was deceiving him, and creating an opportunity for escape; but after a look at the strained, pale features of the Rebel officer, he decided that Flournoy was sincere. Without another word, Clay went in search of the implements.

An hour later, Flournoy had uncovered most of the infernal device. As Clay and Lot watched, he ever so gently removed a percussion cap, ever so gently disarmed a spring backup. Flournoy staggered upright, and then went to a nearby patch of grass, where he collapsed, drenched in sweat despite the cool weather. “It is safe now. At least safe enough. I wouldn’t smoke or build a campfire near it.”

Clay and Lot approached the hole, where the half-buried device lay. Squatting on his haunches, Clay peered intently at the device. Suddenly he asked “Is this design typical of Southern torpedoes?”

Flournoy had produced a dirty handkerchief and was wiping sweat from his face. “As a matter of fact, no. Usually a small keg of gunpowder is used. Here, an artillery shell was used as the explosive device. Of course, you appreciate with our limited industrial base, the South must improvise a great deal.”

“Improvise a great deal,” echoed Clay. Suddenly Clay produced his own handkerchief and began to clean the side of the shell from clods of earth still attached to it. Letters began to appear, letters of the Government that had commissioned the shell. However the letters were not those that should have been expected, not “CSA” for the Confederate States of America.

They were “USA”: United States of America.