CHAPTER 4

“TREASON FLED BEFORE US FOR RESISTANCE WAS IN VAIN …”

A cleaned, shiny three-inch shell sat on a spread of newspapers in the middle of the desk that graced the elegant library. Sherman stood by the window, puffing furiously at a cigar, staring at the sliver of ocean that could be seen from the gracious townhouse he had made his Savannah headquarters. Jeremiah Lot stood uneasily by the closed door, dividing his attention between Sherman and Alphonso Clay. Clay himself was seated in a Queen Anne armchair that had been drawn up to the desk, his gaze locked on the shell, fingers tented just below his chin.

Sherman turned from the window and threw the butt of his cigar at a spittoon; he missed, but did not seem to notice. “Well, Clay, where does this leave us? I’ve got a Goddamn city to secure, and an army to reprovision and put on the road. And now you tell me a traitor is still active.”

Clay spoke as if he had not heard the general. “What do I know that I do not know?” he softly murmured.

“Eh?” responded Sherman, brought up sharply by Clay’s comment.

“What do I know that I do not know?” Clay repeated, his eyes still focused on the shell. “I suspect that the traitor is one of four officers, but am unable to narrow it down any further. The traitor is safe so long as he takes no further action; yet he seems desperate to kill me. Therefore, he thinks that I know something that would identify him. Yet I do not!” Clay suddenly slapped the left arm of the chair in frustration, so hard that the noise resembled a pistol shot.

“Have you considered that the torpedo may not have been intended for you?” asked Lot unexpectedly. “Our tent was off the regular path, and for two days we had no visitors—except for General Sherman.” The black officer looked meaningfully at the scarecrow-thin commander of the army, who started slightly at the suggestion.

Clay finally removed his gaze from the shell, and looked at his friend. “That is true. Someone could have observed the visits of the General, and thought to take the chance. That way the traitor would be removed from the scene when the assassination took place. Otherwise, it is hard to imagine how he could kill General Sherman—or myself—and survive the attempt. Of course, one motive does not exclude the other; the device could have been intended for me, knowing that on both prior occasions when General Sherman visited our tent I escorted him back to the main encampment. Two for one, as it were, with the death of the highest-ranking Federal officer in the South as a bonus.”

Sherman grunted noncommittally. “You imply you have a list of suspects in mind. Why haven’t you shared their names with me?”

Clay rose from the armchair, and faced Sherman with something like the formality of parade-rest. “Two reasons, sir. First, although I have a number of suspects, only one is in fact the traitor; and I hesitate to place even a temporary cloud on the honor of an innocent gentleman. Second, I doubt you could conceal your knowledge of his possible guilt from the traitor, and hence prematurely alert him to his danger.”

“Damn you Clay, I can keep a secret, and as commander of this army I have a right to know. I order you to tell me who you suspect.”

Clay’s face became completely expressionless; with a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders he began to speak.

“Very well, sir. Assuming the traitor is not a madman, he must feel he would benefit from the deaths of Major Bierce and General McPherson. I believe that in the attacks on them treason was only incidental, that the murderer was driven by a motive even more heinous and venal than mere politics. It is fairly obvious to an intelligent observer, and has been since late this summer, that the Confederacy is doomed, and that the death of no single leader, no matter how important, can save it. I am driven to the conclusion that the motive is advancement—selfish, personal advancement.”

Sherman’s bird-like eyes focused intently on the slightly-built officer. “Explain yourself. How can what’s been happening advance anyone …” Sherman’s voice trailed off, and after a moment he softly said “Son of a bitch.”

Clay nodded. “You see it now, sir. Very obvious, once you accept the fact that someone you know and trust, someone you see daily, is willing to murder for worldly success.”

“The Goddamn bastard set McPherson up, didn’t he? And Mac didn’t see it, even after it happened.”

“I fear that is the case, sir. Someone whom General McPherson trusted implicitly gave him bad intelligence data. Very bad indeed. He was told that Johnston’s line was very weak at Kennesaw Mountain. Knowing how you favored McPherson, the murderer could be assured you would take his advice. Undoubtedly aware of your, ah, stormy temperament, he anticipated you blaming the general and relieving him; not knowing the depth of your personal ties to McPherson. Further, it was not out of the question that you yourself would be relieved after such a debacle. Earlier in this war many generals were relieved for less, and this would open up another high rank for advancement. Once again, the criminal misjudged the situation, underestimating your influence with General Grant, and forgetting the great reliance of the President on your brother, Senator Sherman.”

“God damn. God damn it to Hell,” said Sherman with what was for him unusual solemnity. “There are only a handful of men who could benefit from that. I would trust any of them with my life.”

Clay nodded. “You see why I was reluctant to burden you with suspicions until I could narrow the range of suspects to one. However, let us go through them.

“You must consider General Oliver Howard. He is the man who has benefited the most from the events in question. Before Kennesaw Mountain he was a mere division commander, under a cloud from his disastrous performance with the Army of the Potomac. Within three months he has shot right through the rank of corps commander to be placed in charge of your Army of the Tennessee. And if anything … untoward were to happen to you, he is one of the two officers who is best placed to succeed you.”

“Goddamn it Clay, I just can’t believe it of Howard. He is one of the hot-gospel Christians, always praying when he isn’t fighting. Besides, whatever happened back East, he has proven himself a damn fine general out here.”

“That may be the very point, sir. It would appear his dismissal from the Army of the Potomac may have had more to do with army politics than his performance; performance during which he lost his right arm. He may have brooded upon that, and convinced himself he was justified in taking … extreme measures to gain a position he felt he deserved. As for his professions of Christianity, I have known people who were very public in their faith only in order to divert attention from their true characters.” Clay smiled slightly, but did not elaborate before discussing his next suspect.

“Then we must consider General Henry Slocum. Many of the factors that apply to Howard apply to him as well. Like Howard, Slocum lost command of a corps in the Army of the Potomac more due to politics than failure to perform, and arrived in your army a mere division commander. Although recent events have formally raised him back to the command of a corps, he is in fact acting as an army commander alongside Howard. If something were to happen to you, if Howard is not your replacement, then it would undoubtedly be Slocum.”

“To someone with no morality, the chance of becoming the top Union general after Grant might justify murder,” observed Lot.

“Indeed,” responded Clay with a nod. “Men—and women—have murdered for far less. Therefore, we also need to consider those who have benefited at a less exalted level, or who may simply want revenge for having been denied promotion.”

Frowning, Sherman asked “Who would that be?”

“For one, consider General John Logan, commander of your 15th Corps. I personally witnessed his rage when you denied him General McPherson’s command after the latter’s death. It is at least possible that he engineered his superior’s death in hopes of receiving his command, and harbors a murderous grudge for not in fact receiving it at that time.”

Sherman turned and walked over to the window. He stared at the distant ocean for some moments before speaking. “I meant no reflection on him personally. He is a good corps commander, but not the stuff required for command of more than one corps. Besides, he is a brave and patriotic man; he could not have been responsible for the attacks of Bierce and McPherson.”

“Brave and patriotic men have committed murder throughout history,” responded Clay. “Bitterness can twist even good men in strange directions. For instance, it may have done so with General Jeff Davis.”

“Eh?” grunted Sherman. “How would he benefit from what’s going on?

Clay answered a question with a question. “Tell me sir, why did you not consider General Davis for the positions now held by Generals Howard and Slocum? Is he not able to handle an army?”

“Hell yes, Jeff’s able. One of the finest Goddamn generals in the army. It’s just …” Once again, Sherman trailed off without finishing his sentence, looking thoughtful.

“It is because he murdered General Nelson back in Kentucky,” supplied Clay. “Somehow he evaded punishment for that. That is a mystery in itself, although I suspect political influence was exercised at the highest levels to preserve an able commander for the Union. However, no matter what influence protects him and no matter how skilled a general he is, he will never advance beyond corps commander. Such appointments need the confirmation of the Senate; and it is simply politically impossible for the killer of General Nelson to obtain that approval. That is why you did not consider him for promotions, is it not, sir?”

Sherman sighed. “Yes, that’s about right. I even wrote privately to my brother, asking him if the fuss over the Nelson business had died down in the Senate. John let me know in no uncertain terms the Senate would not stand for Davis’ promotion.”

Clay continued. “Therefore, we have a man who won his way up through the ranks, earning his commission in the field. A man who believes himself to be better than those who have been promoted over his head, due to their West Point connections. A man prone to hatred and violence. We cannot dismiss him from consideration.”

Sherman grimaced as if tasted something foul. “Goddamn it Clay, you have just named my four best commanders! Anyone else you would like to include?”

Clay smiled slightly. “I would have liked to include General Hooker, for several reasons. Unfortunately, although he could have been responsible for the first attempt on Bierce’s life, he was far to the north during the other attempt.”

A frown on his face, Lot said “One thing bothers me. All of these men are known by sight to everyone in the army. How could they hope to commit these atrocities undetected?”

Clay shrugged. “Remember that two of the assaults took place at the height of battles. Ironically, in such situations you can be surrounded by thousands of people and go undetected, as those people concentrate on simply staying alive. In addition, it is not unknown for a high-ranking individual to have a lackey bound to them by hero worship or the like. Such an individual could perform the actual deeds under the instructions of the murderer.”

“So what the hell do I do?” asked Sherman angrily. “Arrest all four? Do nothing until they try again? Just what do you suggest?”

“It would not be feasible to arrest them all,” said Lot. “Aside from the injustice done to three innocent patriots, this wounded country could hardly stand knowing of yet more widespread treason in the highest ranks of their leaders.”

Clay nodded. “The lieutenant is correct, sir. I fear that I must continue to present myself as a target to the killer; perhaps dropping ambiguous hints to the generals that only a guilty mind would understand.”

“So what should I do, Clay?” growled Sherman. “Post bodyguards around you day and night?”

Clay shook his head. “As I have pointed out before, that would defeat the purpose. The criminal is far too clever to expose himself unless he feels assured of success.”

“Goddamn it Clay, I can’t continue to let you expose yourself like … like … human bait!”

“With deepest respect, sir, the final decision is mine, not yours. I intend no disrespect to your rank and your honor when I say that I am actually not part of your command, not part of your command structure. I answer directly to General Grant, and through him to Secretary of War Stanton.”

Sherman glared at the mild-looking young officer, and only brought his temper under uncertain control with a visible effort. “Do as you like then. I’ve got enough to do getting this army on the road.”

“Already, sir?” blurted Lot. “The men have barely settled into quarters after an epic march, and it looks to be fairly steady rain for the next few weeks.”

“No choice,” growled Sherman, fumbling for another cigar and lighting it with a friction match. “Got a message from Grant off one of the supply boats. He wants me to leave a small garrison in Savannah, and take the rest of the army overland, through the Carolinas and into Virginia.”

Clay, who was rarely surprised, blinked his astonishment. “Now, in this weather?”

“It’s an order Clay, and a damn good one. Sam is holding Lee in the trenches around Petersburg, the railway center guarding the approach to Richmond. He can’t seem to break through; Bobby Lee is good on the defense, I’ll give him that. But Marse Robert can’t maneuver. The moment he leaves the trenches, Sam’s superior numbers will just chew Lee to pieces. Besides, leaving the trenches means the Rebs give up Richmond, and the war is as good as over. So Sam wants me to march the boys overland; brushing aside what little the Rebs have and tearing up anything that could help Lee, and at the end of the march we join up with Sam and finally finish off the traitors.”

Lot gave a low whistle, while Clay slowly nodded and said, “I see. It is the end. After four years, it will finally be the end.”

Sherman, who had been puffing furiously on his cigar, suddenly coughed asthmatically and looked sourly at the cylinder of tobacco. Then he said “Grant ended his message by saying ‘I think if the thing is pressed Lee will finally surrender.’” Sherman suddenly grinned savagely. “I think I’m going to press this thing.”

Jeremiah Lot could not recall feeling quite so uncomfortably in his entire life. The light but steady rain had thoroughly soaked him to the skin long ago, while the cool temperatures of a Southern winter guaranteed that moisture reaching his skin chilled him to the bone. His discomfort was augmented by the unsteady gait of his horse which occasionally lurched wildly in struggling its legs free of the sticky mud churned up by the preceding thousands of soldiers and their vehicles. Still, Lot felt he could not complain: his friend sat on his own horse with ease, apparently insensible to the chill from his wet uniform. Furthermore, most of the soldiers within sight looked cheerful, even boisterous, despite being on foot and having to deal with the sucking mud firsthand. Mostly to take his mind off his own discomfort, he decided to draw this to his friend’s attention.

“Alphonso, after what these men have been through, being forced to march through the freezing mud should have placed them near mutiny. But just look at them! They positively act like they’re on some picnic, laughing and joking as they trudge along this sorry excuse for a road.”

“They see the end, Jeremiah. Most of them had probably given up on seeing victory, or even surviving the war. However, now they see victory clearly in the distance, and a chance to survive to reach it.” Clay hesitated, then added “Besides, there is another factor—one that will bode ill for many people.”

“What is that?”

“Do you appreciate the true significance of crossing the Savannah River, as we did yesterday?”

“Of course. We are now in South Carolina.”

“We are now in South Carolina,” echoed Clay. “The first state to attempt to secede from the Union. The first state to call for Civil War. In all other Confederate states, even in Georgia, there are pockets of sincere loyalty to the Union. Not in South Carolina. The men hold this state more responsible for this national tragedy than any other state in the Union. I fear for the people of this state.”

Lot was astonished; he had never before heard Clay utter a word of sympathy for the Rebels, civilian or military. “Surely it will not be worse than in Georgia.”

Clay did not look over at his friend, but only shook his head slightly. “Mankind is sometimes capable of the most sublime nobility, and sometimes of the most appalling depravity. Sometimes the impulses exist simultaneously in the same breast. One must always keep that in mind. That is why we will pay a brief visit to General Oliver Howard, the Christian General, using as an excuse the order entrusted to me this morning by General Sherman. We will approach this as we have before. I will appear indifferent to any threat, while you will keep unobtrusively alert behind me. I assume that your Spencer is cleaned and loaded?”

“Of course, Alphonso,” replied Lot grimly, patting the butt of the Spencer in its scabbard.

“The question was rhetorical, Jeremiah. I had no doubt.” Clay became silent, and reflected on the events of the day before yesterday that had reminded him of the need to talk to another ostentatiously Christian person …

The town of Savannah was in a state of controlled chaos as wagons were being packed, supplies distributed, and units reorganized for the upcoming march. Clay had paid a visit to the wharves where the Union transports were disgorging supplies and taken on the wounded and sick for transport North, in hopes of finding letters from his estate manager. In this he had been disappointed. However, as he left the warehouse that acted as he army’s temporary post office, he spied Teresa Duval on the gangplank of one of the transports, talking to a young naval officer. Although she was nearly one hundred yards away, Clay could clearly see her hand several envelopes to the man, and a small object that glinted yellow. The officer touched his cap, and Duval turned and strode swiftly down the gangplank and into a street, disappearing from view. Clay briefly considered accosting the naval officer and demanding the letters, but uncertain that they would have anything to do with the traitor he sought, and unwilling to start an interservice conflict, he decided to let the matter pass. Thoughtfully, he entered the street leading to Sherman’s headquarters, and had almost dismissed the matter from his mind as irrelevant when a voice right behind him called his name.

“Why Major Clay, what a pleasant surprise.” The surprise was not pleasant; Clay whirled to find a smiling Teresa Duval looking directly into his eyes, smiling the sort of smile worn by the Mona Lisa.

“Miss Duval, my apologies, you startled me.” In truth, Clay was more than startled; he knew his hearing to be unnaturally acute, and simply could not imagine how she had come up behind him without his hearing a sound.

“I need to visit General Sherman’s quartermaster and make sure some supplies Dr. Fetterman wants are in fact delivered to the hospital wagons. It would seem you are also going in the same direction. Would you care to escort me? The streets are full of rowdies, some the worse for drink; I was quite worried on my way here. A Christian lady would feel better with your protection.”

Clay threw his head back and emitted several barking laughs; he was quite sure that Teresa Duval was one of the most dangerous people currently in Savannah, more than capable of handling anything that came her way, and that she had only the most nodding acquaintanceship with the Bible. Then recovering his composure, he replied “It would be an honor,” and offered her his arm. She took it lightly, and the two began strolling down the street.

After a moment, Duval casually commented “Of course you saw me give the letters to the naval officer. I expect you found it strange that I did not use the Army post.”

“I assume that you are aware that the military censors examine many letters going north, to prevent the transmission of sensitive military data. I would imagine your letters contained … delicate material that you did not wish to be scrutinized by bored army clerks.”

Duval gave Clay a doe-eyed glance, smiling sweetly. “Just so. Very perceptive of you, Major.”

“Letters to your dear mother?” asked Clay in an ironic tone of voice. His obvious doubts did not disconcert her; she smiled again.

“We all have secrets, Major. Perhaps it is time we exchanged some. As a pledge of good faith, I will go first. I am on the payroll of the Secret Service, and whenever I can do so, submit detailed reports on this army to Allan Pinkerton. In his own way, he entertains the same kinds of suspicions as do you.”

As they strolled up the street, Clay favored Duval with a brief glance and an ironic smile. “With respect, Miss Duval, that is obviously not the totality of your secrets. I spotted you hand at least two envelopes to the Navy officer. If all of your ‘sensitive’ communications were to him, one envelope would have been sufficient.”

Duval stiffened slightly with surprise, but then relaxed. After all, she thought, this kind of sharpness was why she found Clay so alluring. Among other reasons. “True enough Major; I have given you one of my secrets, but not all. Now it is your turn.”

“I am a private man, Miss Duval. I do not care to share myself with others.” They were now approaching Sherman’s headquarters.

“Oh come, Major. You must have shared secrets with others in your life. I am certain you have done so with Lieutenant Lot. And besides, you must have a sweetheart back in Kentucky who …”

Clay dropped her arm like it was a red-hot poker. He whirled with shocking speed, and staring at her with icy blue eyes said in a quiet voice “I believe this is your destination, Miss Duval. If you will excuse me, I have other calls on my time.” With a swift, shallow bow and a click of his heels, he had turned and was striding away. Duval looked after him thoughtfully. ‘That settles that,’ she thought. ‘He definitely is not a nancy boy. There was a woman in his life. She had not left him, or he her; there would have been a trace of bitterness in his manner. No, he showed only pain; she is dead. That is well enough; once less problem to resolve.’ Smiling to herself, she turned and entered Sherman’s headquarters.

“Alphonso, are you all right?”

Clay started, realizing that his attention had wandered while he had mulled over his encounter with Teresa Duval. Straightening his posture, he muttered “Just tired, Jeremiah. Just tired. Ah, I think I see our destination. Whenever you see so many mounted officers, a general cannot be far away.” The two friends urged their mounts into a canter, and shortly made their way through the crowd of aides. Their number was explained by the presence of two general officers: the darkly handsome John Logan, and his immediate superior Oliver Howard, the Christian General. However, Howard was not behaving in a very Christian manner. Deftly controlling his mount with his only arm, Howard was berating a fuming Logan.

“Sir, your inability to control your men comes perilously close to dereliction of duty. Look at what they are doing. Just look!” Lacking a second arm with which to point, Howard indicated the horizon with a furious jerk of his head. Clay and Lot followed the gesture, and saw what had inspired the general’s rage: distant pillars of smoke, stretching as far as the eye could see. Not the dozen or so that had been observed at any given time during the march to sea; literally a hundred or more, with no doubt many times their number outside of their immediate sight. Lot gasped, and had to work to retain his composure. Clay merely shook his head slightly, as if disappointed by some minor occurrence.

Logan’s normally saturnine features were further darkened by barely controlled anger. “Sir, it is beyond my power to entirely control my men. I am confident they will leave off their mischief if a military situation arises. Their readiness is not an issue.”

“Beyond your power, or beyond your desire?” thundered Howard. “I have only to look at the horizon to see evidence that they behave as Vandals or Huns. They would only dare to do so if they knew that their officers, and above all you, did not care!”

Logan’s visage darkened further. “Sir, you know what my boys have been through—those as have lived to reach this point. Most of them have been in the army since ’61, risking death from the enemy or disease every day, Most have seen their friends, sometimes relations, buried in unnamed graves. And why?” Logan’s controlled features suddenly slumped into a mask of hate. “Because of Goddamn South Carolina! Sure, the others states went along, but I would wager a dollar to a turd none of the bastards would’ve had the balls to secede without South Carolina showing the way! And now my boys are here, on the soil of the state that triggered off this Goddamn tragedy. My boys can do what they Goddamn like in this state, burn what they like, take what they like, hump what they like, and I don’t give a Goddamn!”

Glaring, Howard began to open his mouth; but before he could respond to Logan’s tirade, Clay cantered up and smoothly saluting, interrupted the impending command catastrophe. “Pardon the interruption, gentlemen, but General Sherman has entrusted an urgent order to me that affects you both.” The two generals simultaneously turned amazed and furious glances on Clay, astounded that their confrontation had been interrupted by a mere major. Before either could say anything, Clay spoke again with even greater impertinence as he extended a sealed letter toward Howard.

“Gentlemen, General Sherman made me familiar with the contents of this order. It is vital and urgent, requiring immediate action. The execution of the order would be impeded by any sudden … alteration in the command structure of the army.”

“Goddamn you Clay, how dare …” began Logan.

“Govern your intemperate language,” interrupted Howard in a steely voice. “It is unpleasant in the eyes of the Lord, as well as mine.” The fuming Logan retained enough control to do as his commander told him, while Howard clumsily clutched the envelope in the hand holding his reins, tearing open it open with his teeth and extracting the paper enclosed with no little difficulty. Frowning, he said “You were correct, Major. This takes precedence over my disagreement with General Logan. I will have to defer his discipline for insubordination to another time.” Turning his attention to Logan, he added “General, we are ordered to wheel to the left and advance on Columbia.”

“Columbia?” sputtered Logan. “We’re barely two days’ march from Charleston. Charleston, the place where it all began! The boys are itching to show that Goddamned town the price of treason.”

“I am sure that General Sherman knows that,” replied Howard. “I imagine he also knows the Rebs know that, and have concentrated what little they have for a last-ditch defense of Charleston. I was not looking forward to taking the town. The Rebs may be on their last legs, but they still have some fight in them.” Nodding, Howard continued speaking as if to himself. “Yes, they will have stripped Columbia bare of almost every soldier. We can walk into the state capital almost unopposed, and in the process cut all supply lines to Charleston, which will then fall of its own weight.” He focused his attention once again on Logan. “General, you will immediately get your corps into marching formation, and direct it toward Columbia. We will be the right flank of the advance; Slocum and his boys the left. Anyone found out of column without an officer’s orders will be summarily shot, without a court martial. No looting of any kind; speed is essential. Is that clear, General Logan?”

The former Congressman’s eyes smoldered with anger; but he slowly nodded, saluted, and rode away without a word. Howard turned his stern, Old Testament prophet features toward Clay and Lot. “Please be so good as to inform General Sherman that his orders have been received and are being obeyed.” Then with an appraising look at the pair, he added “Just the two of you have been riding about?”

Clay nodded in agreement.

“The countryside is infested with deserters from both sides and civilian bushwhackers,” said Howard. “Let me assign a trusted officer to escort you back to Sherman.”

“That will not be necessary,” replied Clay. “The lieutenant and I are perfectly capable of defending ourselves.”

Howard shrugged slightly. “As you wish.” With his only arm he deftly turned his mount’s head, and began to gallop toward the east, followed by a string of orderlies who had been waiting respectfully at a distance.

As they disappeared down the road, Lot said “I wonder if General Howard is the one, and had a minion who would try to quietly murder you on the way back to Sherman’s headquarters.”

Clay shrugged. “If he does, we are still likely to encounter him. Part of me hopes that the murderer is Howard, so the suspense and danger will come to an end. Part of me hopes that it is not, as it would be a blow to you personally to see such a professing Christian unmasked as a traitor and hypocrite.”

Lot shook his head sadly. “Do not worry on that account, Alphonso. I am well aware that the Devil can quote scripture; it would have no effect on my faith.”

Clay smiled slightly, wistfully. “Very well then. Let us retrace our steps not too quickly, giving an evil-doer time to catch up with us.” Careful to keep their mounts at a slow walk, Clay and Lot proceeded along the road toward Sherman.

Teresa Duval drew the medical wagon to the side of the muddy road, out of the stream of trudging soldiers; she knew that the horses needed some rest, and a chance to crop some of the grass that grew on the side of the road. She was impatient with the needs of the animals, but was aware that their usefulness would be impaired if she drove them too hard. She sat on the driver’s seat for some minutes, watching the animals eat; becoming increasingly bored. Then an idea struck her: Clay and Lot had left their personal effects in the medical wagon. Included among them were the two books that Clay had liberated from Wade Hampton’s mansion. She had been quite curious about them, but something in Clay’s manner had indicated he would not appreciate any request to examine his finds. Well, she reflected, Clay is gone for most of the day; she could now satisfy her curiosity with no one the wiser.

With surprising ease she slipped into the bed of the wagon and with no detectible sound extracted the two books from Clay’s carpetbag. One she quickly saw was in German, a knowledge of which not being among her many unusual talents. She looked at the heavy Gothic lettering of the title page and slowly sounded out the volume’s name and author: “Unausprechlichen Kulten Von Friedrich von Juntz”. She frowned slightly at that. She remembered hearing Clay once comment that his mother’s maiden name was von Juntz. It seems that this could have been written by a relative of Clay’s, which would explain his interest. Deciding to inquire further into this at another time, she smoothly tucked the volume back into Clay’s carpetbag, and turned her attention to the other, larger volume.

This one was in English, but an archaic English she could barely understand, language that reminded her of the bits and pieces she had read of that damned English scribbler Shakespeare. She turned to the title page, and saw that it was something called The Necromonicom by some Turk-sounding person named Al-Hazred, ostensibly translated from the Arabic by John Dee in the year of our Lord 1602. She again frowned slightly at that, for a different reason. Although she could remember only bits of her childhood, she seemed to recall hearing in her youth of John Dee. Some wizard, she seemed to remember, dead for many generations, but still talked of with fear and awe in the Irish countryside as an alchemist who had done magical things for the damned bastard Elizabeth of England. She had a brief flash of memory, of some aging priest whispering to her father while she watched, about how the wizard Dee had summoned up the storms, and the things hidden by the storms, that had destroyed the Spanish Armada before it could liberate Ireland from the yoke of England. Superstition, she thought then and she thought now. Still, it was interesting that here she held a book that had been translated by the long-dead mage.

Idly, she began idly leafing through the pages, wondering why this volume had been important enough to Clay to merit rescue from the burning Hampton mansion. Something caught her eye, and she stopped turning pages, concentrating on the one that had drawn her attention. Although the archaic English was difficult to decipher, she was able to make out what was said. Her first impulse was to laugh; but then she remembered the translator, and the terrible reputation that followed him down through the centuries; it was clear that he believed what the infidel had written in his book. Further, the fact that the intelligent, intellectual Clay considered the volume worth rescuing from Hampton’s mansion gave her pause. She turned to another page, and something else caught her eye, then to another, then to another. Soon she was perched on a crate of medical supplies, utterly engrossed by the ancient tome. ‘Could it be?’ she wondered. Could what she was reading possibly contain a grain of truth; more pertinently, could it possibly explain Alphonso Clay?

Although engrossed in the book, her sharp hearing detected the approach of a pair of horses. Quickly and smoothly she returned the ancient tome to the exact position it had occupied in the carpetbag, and fastened the latch. Grabbing a large role of bandages at random, she exited the back of the wagon, and feigned surprise at the return of Clay and Lot.

“Major Clay, Lieutenant Lot. I take it your expedition was without success.”

“Part of me is thankful that is so,” responded Lot.

“There will be other opportunities,” responded Clay. “General Sherman has informed me that at dawn this army will begin a force march on the state capital at Columbia.”

Duval nodded thoughtfully. “I thought as much. I have already supervised the loading of most of the medical supplies. Once I change the dressings on the more badly wounded, I can start seeing to their transfer to ambulances.”

“I pray the more severely wounded can stand the jostling on the road,” said Lot solemnly. “Miss Duval, may I be of assistance in your tasks? I have no immediate duties.”

Somewhat surprised at the offer, Duval responded. “I have the assistance of a number of prisoners; but if you wish, another pair of hands is always welcome.” She turned her attention to Clay. “Major, would you care to help as well?”

The fastidious, aristocratic Clay generally considered himself above such labor, but Lot’s offer had shamed him. “I would be honored, Miss Duval,” he replied with a slight bow.

Duval smiled slightly. Things were beginning to go as she had planned.

Sherman, Howard, and Slocum stood on a low hill that overlooked the approach to the small, orderly town of Columbia, their respective staffs at a distance. Through field glasses, they carefully examined the fields between them and the beginning of Columbia proper; units of blue-clad figures maneuvered, but did not fire. An occasional, solitary gray-clad figure appeared from time to time at the capital city’s outskirts; none of them fired, either. A solitary Clay stood at parade-rest slightly apart from the generals. He had come to confess final defeat, and ask permission to take a supply boat north. He was awaiting a moment when Sherman’s conference with his top commanders would conclude. Entranced by the sight before him, Sherman showed no signs of dismissing Howard and Slocum.

Finally, Slocum turned to Sherman. “With respect, this is nonsense,” the gaunt New Yorker said. “Hardee is just using this truce to evacuate his men to the north before we encircle the town. Give us the order and we will sweep down and bag the lot; we must outnumber him ten to one. Our caution is getting embarrassing. Even old ‘Slow Trot’ Thomas is showing us up. He took the dregs and rejects of our army, and has just totally smashed Hood at Nashville.”

Sherman took the field glasses from his face and frowned. “The delay is necessary. It was Jeff Davis, your own Goddamn corps commander, who accepted the white flag from Hardee. They’ve got a lot of our boys, who were moved from Andersonville before we took that hell-hole, in there. You saw what those we did manage to free looked like.”

“I did indeed,” said Howard quietly. “They were starved in a way I would not have thought possible. Unbelievable that Christian men could behave thus, even toward those they regard as enemies. If there are more such souls down there, their only chance will be to get back into our hands, and immediately receive decent food and medical care.”

“Need I remind both of you that Grant has forbidden prisoner exchanges for the duration?” asked Slocum coldly. “The Rebs won’t exchange any of our darky soldiers, but send them into slavery, whether they be escaped slaves or Northern-born free men. Until that changes, no prisoner exchanges.”

“Hell, I know what Sam said,” replied Sherman. “Davis seems to think he can get some of our colored boys back along with those poor bastards from Andersonville. If I can get them, Sam will forgive me.”

Frowning, the one-armed Howard asked “Why does Davis think he can persuade the Rebels to exchange our colored troops for some of their own now, when they have steadfastly refused to do so throughout this war?”

“He has placed Colonel Kitching, his artillery chief, in charge of the parley,” replied Slocum. “Kitching has shown some skill in dealing with the Rebs when they called truce throughout the last year. He has gotten a reputation as a trusted straight-shooter. In fact, the captain from Wade Hampton’s legion who first waived the white flag asked for Kitching by name. And I expect that they will deal in good faith concerning our darker comrades. When that Lieutenant Lot demanded that he be allowed to participate in the negotiations, as a pledge of their faith, they did not object …”

Breaching protocol, Clay interrupted. “Lieutenant Lot has been permitted to go into Columbia?” On the word “Columbia” Clay’s normally soft, quiet voice seemed to drop an octave, and pick up a disturbing resonance, as if issuing from a deep cave.

Sherman looked quickly at Clay, frowned, and said “I know you and the lieutenant go back aways, Major Clay. However, there is no cause for concern. Say what you may, the Rebs honor truces …”

Sherman was interrupted by a distant sound, like the ripping of sheets. He jerked his field glasses to his eyes, and saw what Clay could see aided only by his wire-rimmed spectacles: numerous puffs of smoke emanating from the buildings on the edge of Columbia, and more than a score of blue-clad figures writhing on the ground or ominously still. Sherman spat out a stream of creative obscenities, then took the glasses from his face.

“Goddamn traitorous bastards fired on my boys under cover of a flag of truce! Goddamn it!”

“It might have been an accident,” said Howard slowly. “Some trigger-happy private fires, the rest of his company assumes he saw a coming attack and fires, and so on.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass!” stormed Sherman. “They shot at my boys under cover of a flag of truce, and for that they will pay. Howard, Slocum, form your boys up. I want them charging that town within half an hour!

Without pretense of deference, Clay interjected himself into Sherman’s tirade. “Sir, there must be time for the recall of … of Kitching and Lot. He … they could be killed in the assault, by treacherous Rebels by design or our own people by mistake.”

Sherman shook his head vigorously. “Too late for that. Whether or not treachery was involved or only a nervous private triggering a chain of events, a black man in a Union officer’s uniform is in mortal danger.” Suddenly Sherman advanced on Clay with jerky steps, and seizing him by the shoulders said fiercely “I know what Lot must mean to you. However, the best thing we can do is get into that town damn fast, before it occurs to someone to … well, before something bad happens. Go to your tent. We will be in Columbia in an hour, and I will have the provost on the lookout for your friend.” Sherman released Clay as roughly as he had seized him, turned to his general and aides, and began barking a series of orders.

Clay turned and began trudging down the hill toward his tent with mechanical steps, his face an unreadable mask, completely ignoring the gathering noise, excitement, and back-and-forth movement that was seizing the Federal encampment . He came to a stop before his tent’s entrance, eyes staring at nothing, arms hanging loosely at his side. He kept wondering over and over why Lot had placed himself in such unnecessary danger, and above all why he had not mentioned his intentions before disappearing into the Confederate capital.

“Major Clay. Major Clay?”

Slowly Clay returned to an awareness of his surroundings. Before him stood Teresa Duval, frowning slightly at his abstraction, holding an envelope in her hand.

“Major, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely. “What may I do for you?”

“Lieutenant Lot left an envelope with me, before he went off somewhere. He did not seem to want to say where, but asked me to give this to you if he had not returned within the hour. Very mysterious.” She extended her hand toward Clay.

With the reluctance Socrates must have shown when he took the final cup of hemlock, Clay took the envelope. However, he made no move to open it. Instead, the outside world seemed to go very far away, the confused sounds of the army camp seemed to fade to nothingness, and he was alone with his whirling thoughts. In the space of several heartbeats, a number of thoughts and voices raced through his head, all leading his mind in a single direction.

‘Jeremiah would only have left such an envelope if he feared he would not return, If he feared that, why did he not ask for me to go with him? Because he feared I would be in mortal danger if I went with him; no other reason is possible. Why would there be danger during a prison exchange negotiation? Southerns are capable of deceit and treachery, but not where there are credible witnesses. With the whole army knowing of the truce, and with Colonel Kitching there …’

Duval looked with concern at Clay. His normally pale complexion had lost whatever color it possessed; his mouth opened and worked, but no sound emerged. The pale blue eyes behind the spectacles glowed with horror-filled realization. After a few moments Clay finally found his voice. “I now know what I did not know. Kitching. It is Kitching.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Her concern mounting over Clay’s seemingly bizarre behavior, Duval asked “Major Clay, are you ill?”

Now he looked directly at her, and spoke in a stronger voice. “I am a cretin, a fool, an arrogant ass. I was so used to looking for treason in high places I overshot the mark.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kitching. Kitching is the traitor. So obvious! If I had not been blinded by my assumption it was someone wearing the stars of a general. A mere colonel was not a glorious enough trophy for me; my prior success had fed my pride. Who would have had easy access to Union artillery shells to arrange the trap that would have killed me save for the sharp eyes of Lieutenant Flournoy? Who else could have entered the tent to poison Bierce without exciting your notice, but the commander of the wounded artilleryman who shared the tent with Bierce? Who commanded the artillery battery beside which General McPherson met his death, the noise and confusion of a desperate battle keeping anyone from noticing that an officer had briefly turned his pistol from the front and fired it at a general? Who else was well-known for being eager to undertake any discussion with the enemy occurring under a flag of truce? And when General Davis’ men were under attack, during the river-crossing before Atlanta, it was Kitching who argued against cutting loose the pontoon bridge, even though it was obvious that unless fired upon by artillery, Wheeler’s cavalry would be over it and wreaking havoc among our troops. Come to think of it, it was Kitching who said he could not fire his guns at Wheeler’s men without slaughtering the contrabands, yet when the bridge was gone proceeded to do precisely that. And going back to the very beginning, Kitching’s artillery was right beside Bierce when he received his wound. Kitching thought that Bierce would eventually reason it out, or if not I would eventually reason it out. But it was neither Bierce nor myself; it was Jeremiah.”

“Why didn’t he tell you of this?” asked Duval.

“Because he knew there was still a lack of proof that would stand up in a court martial. When he learned that Kitching was going to again make contact with the Confederates under cover of a flag of truce, he seized the opportunity to force himself on Kitching, hoping to learn something or surprise something that would be enough to send Kitching to the gallows. He knew it would be dangerous, he knew I would insist upon going myself—so he did not tell me.” Clay violently ripped the envelope open, scanned the contents of the letter it contained, and letting the paper slip from his hands, turned his devastated eyes toward the sky. “It is as I feared,” he said, not looking at Duval. “Jeremiah states his suspicion of Kitching, briefly told his plan—and apologized for any grief that he may have caused me.”

Suddenly, both were aware of the sound of volley firing and distant huzzahs; the assault on Columbia was underway. The sound seemed to awaken Clay from his near-trance. With speed that astonished Duval he ran to the tree where his and Lot’s horses has been tethered; the Lieutenant had apparently accompanied Kitching on foot. Clay unwrapped the reins with lightning speed and leapt into the saddle. By that time, Duval had dashed over and grabbed the bridle, restraining the animal.

“I know what you intend,” she said fiercely. “It will do no good. There is chaos in the streets of Columbia right now, and you could die from an aimed or random bullet in the blink of an eye. Wait until the town is secured.”

Clay stared down at her, his blue eyes glowing with a strange light. She suddenly realized that his eyes were exactly the same color as those of the banshee that occasionally haunted her dreams. He loosed the flap to his holster, and said in a low, quiet voice “Release my animal or I will kill you.”

More astonished than frightened, she let go of the bridle and took a step backwards. Clay jerked viciously at the head of his mount until it was pointed in the direction of Columbia, then cruelly dug his heels into the horse’s side, spurring it to an immediate gallop. As the dust from the horse’s departure enveloped her, Dr. Fetterman rushed up, agitation on his face.

“Was that Clay? Where’s he going? I’ve got to tell him the prisoner Flournoy has escaped from the hospital. When some passing messenger said Columbia was being immediately attacked, he knocked down a soldier and took off like a scalded cat. Don’t know what got into him; he knew …”

Fetterman found him talking to the air. With speed only marginally less impressive than Clay’s, Duval had untied Lot’s horse, sprung into the saddle in a most unladylike manner, and was galloping Hell-bent after Clay’s dwindling form.

Utter chaos ruled in Columbia. The Confederate defenders had erected street barricades of bales of cotton, bales kept from Europe by the Union blockade and hence only good for stopping bullets. However, there were far, far too few soldiers behind the bales. As the Union charged the defenders fired one ineffective volley that harmed very few, then fled for their lives, the blue soldiers chasing them through the streets with whoops of triumph. A winter wind was sweeping down from the mountains to the west, swirling dust and bits of cotton from the abandoned barricades through the streets.

Duval sharply reined up her horse as she approached the center of the small town, shielding her eyes from the dust and scraps of cotton being blown about by the strengthening wind as she furiously looked all about for a sign of Clay’s horse. Duval had lost sight of Clay in the frantic approach to Columbia, and was desperate to locate him for reasons she would have found hard to put into words. She did not see Clay or his animal; but she did see cheering soldiers pulling down a Confederate flag from a large domed building that must be the state capitol. She galloped over to the marble steps, smoothly slid from the mount, and wrapped the reins around a convenient post, ignoring the occasional curious glance from blue-clad soldiers, most of whom recognized her from her work in the hospitals. She ran effortlessly up the marble steps and into the building’s main hall.

There she found what she had expected: the remains of the Rebel headquarters, as represented by a jumble of desks and mounds of paper, and blue-clad soldiers making a number of surly gray-clad officers prisoner. She glanced around until she located the highest-ranking Union officer, a colonel with florid muttonchops whiskers contemplating a moaning Confederate officer lying on the floor; surprisingly sympathetic Union soldiers were trying to comfort the injured man. She suddenly remembered meeting the colonel once; his name was Amos Crenshaw, commander of the 23rd Indiana Infantry. She rushed up to him.

“Colonel Crenshaw, I require your assistance,” Duval said with a breathlessness she did not in fact feel.

The colonel turned to her, blinked with recognition, and then said “Why Miss Duval. Looking for hospital facilities? Fortunately casualties have been quite low, Reb resistance crumbling immediately …”

“I have only a moment to spare. I must speak with Major Alphonso Clay. Has he been here yet?”

“Been and gone,” replied Crenshaw with a frown. “Strode in like the King of Siam and demanded to talk to the highest Reb headquarters officer we got. We told him that captain there was the highest who hadn’t already high-tailed it.” Crenshaw gestured at the groaning Rebel on the floor, who Duval could see was trying to speak through a mouthful of broken teeth. “After I had pointed out that Johnny, Clay went up to him and asked civil-like where the truce negotiators had been taken. When the Reb seemed to hesitate, out of nowhere Clay hit him the mouth, knocking him to the ground; then he commenced to kick the poor bastar … excused me ma’am, poor soul, until he screamed through his bleeding mouth that they had been taken to Wade Hampton’s townhouse. Guess Clay knew where that was, because he turned and left without a word to any of us.”

“Where might Mr. Hampton’s townhouse be located?” asked Duval.

“Go out the front door and turn right. Go two blocks, and then turn right again. You cannot miss it. It is by far the grandest house on that street.” The colonel turned and interjected “If you are going there let me get you an escort; the streets are still dangerous. Corporal Wright, can you help this lady …” Crenshaw’s voice had trailed off; Duval was nowhere to be seen.

Clay had considered kicking open the door to the grand brick structure; but on reflection he decided a stealthy approach might be wisest. He vaulted the railings and dropped silently into the area below street level. Then removing his Bowie knife from beneath his tunic, he made short work of the kitchen window latch. Slithering silently in through the window, he closed it but left it unlatched. Listening very carefully, he detected no obvious commotion within the house; the reveling Union soldiers had not yet begun their joyful task of looting the homes of the high and mighty. However, he did detect the distant sound of murmuring voices; most ears would not have picked up the sounds. Drawing and cocking his Smith & Wesson, he moved stealthily into the main hall.

There the voices were somewhat louder; it took him only a moment to realize they came from a door that appeared to lead to a basement. Softly approaching the door, he tried the handle ever so carefully; the door slid open silently on well-oiled hinges, and the voices increased in volume. He was about to carefully attempt the stairs leading downward to the basement when he detected a motion behind him.

Whirling with frightening speed, to his genuine surprise he found his pistol pointing into the face of Teresa Duval. He was somewhat less surprised to see a Sharp’s pepperbox pointed straight at his heart. With a disturbing smile on her face, in the softest of whispers she murmured “Well Major Clay, shall we shoot each other, or form an alliance to see if we can retrieve Lieutenant Lot?”

Clay paused only a moment to consider. To argue with the woman could alert whoever was down below; and in truth he knew she could be a very valuable ally—if she could be trusted. Nodding silently, he turned back to the stairs and led Duval in a slow, quiet descent.

Gradually a segment of the stone floor came into view; it was lit by a flickering light source that was still beyond the field of vision. The sharp click of several pairs of booted feet could be heard, along with rustling noises. Meanwhile, two voices could be heard in intense conversation; Clay and Duval froze on the stairway, intent on catching every word.

“I’m finished. After what you did to the lieutenant, it is only a matter of time—not much time—until Clay figures the whole thing out.” The voice of that was Kitching, high pitched with nervousness. “And why in the Hell did you do that anyway? There was no especial need. It would only draw more attention down on me.”

An unpleasant laugh was heard in a different voice. “You are a rare piece of work, Kitching,” said the voice in an aristocratic Southern drawl. “Not only do you make a hero of that ass Hooker, you are willing to slaughter as many of your own people as need be to restore him to command. And now that you have failed, you want our help in getting to Europe.”

“Our goals overlapped!” responded Kitching indignantly. “I know something about your organization, and how it cares more about its own power than the success of the Confederacy, which has lost this war beyond repair. When I first contacted your people, I made it clear that once Hooker was restored to his rightful place—once the pygmies who were jealous of his greatness were swept aside—he would need money for the final step, the ascent to the White House. If Starry Wisdom provided that money, I would make sure that Hooker supported your aims.”

Another laugh from the other voice, this one rueful. “You make a hero of that strutting whoremonger Hooker. Personally, I cannot understand it. Be that as it may, General Hampton sent word that your plan had possibilities, and that Starry Wisdom was to support you.”

“Some support! You would attempt nothing against Clay, leaving me to try to eliminate him on my own.”

“Be grateful you were unsuccessful,” said the other in a threatening voice. “Hampton has made it clear he wishes Clay to be left alive, if possible. Clay is more important to us than you can possibly imagine. If you had deliberately killed him, the General’s displeasure would have been expressed to you in very … disquieting ways.”

“Just why is that runtish Kentuckian so important to your people?”

“That is none of your affair. In any event, we must be off before your victorious colleagues take it into their heads to have a look in this building. With you as an escort, and with the passes you have signed by Sherman, we should be able to move through your lines easily enough. From that point, it is up to Wilmington, onto a blockade runner, and off to Bermuda. From there we can regroup, and see what use we can make of you in our plans. What was done to the nigger was done to assure assistance from … certain parties in our escape. The Confederacy may be dying, but that is of little import in the grand scale of things. Starry Wisdom lives.”

“I didn’t know much about your group or your ceremonies, and now I don’t want to know more. My God, why did you have to treat that nigger officer that way? Wouldn’t a bullet in the head …”

At those words Clay leapt from the stairs and made a rolling landing on the flagstone floor, his momentum carrying him to where the stairwell blocked Duval’s view. A moment later there was a deep, howling sound—the sound of a wolf being skinned alive. Holding her small pistol before her, Duval glided quickly down the stairs, coming to a shocked halt at the very bottom. Teresa Duval had seen many terrible sights in her life, had in fact been responsible for many of the sights, and had been relatively unmoved by them. The rape of her mother, the hanged body of her father, human flesh roasting on a fire, the objects inside a cabin near Knoxville—all had left her emotions relatively unmoved. However, the sight before her came closest to unnerving her cold, terrible nature.

A motionless tableau was before her. An astonished Kitching gaped at Clay, as did a fleshy, bespectacled man of about forty near him. Near a large table four other men stood frozen in various stages of undress, articles of Federal uniforms heaped on the table they surrounded, along with a glittering pile of coins. Clay looked at none of the men; he stared past Kitching and the bespectacled man. Behind them was a kind of alter supporting large ceremonial candles which gave a flickering, ghostly light to the dim basement. Against the wall was an inverted cross, to which was nailed Jeremiah Lot, the gaping hole in his chest testifying to the fact he was no longer among the living. Another impossibly deep, terrifying howl came from Clay, a howl that seemed to contain all the grief and pain of the universe.

Then, in less than twenty seconds, a number of things happened.

One of the men at the table started to draw a huge LeMat revolver; almost casually Clay shot in him the chest, and when the screaming man did not instantly fall, shot him again, silencing the cries for good. Clay then advanced on the stunned Kitching and his be­spectacled colleague, cocking his Smith & Wesson. However, the surviving three men at the table rushed Clay without drawing weapons, aiming to overpower him instead. Two shots rang out and two of them fell; one dead from a bullet in the brain, the other screaming as he clutched his bleeding stomach. However, the third man had knocked Clay’s gun out of his hand, and was now punching furiously at Clay, who easily dodge the man’s clumsy roundhouse blows.

The bleeding, crying man on the floor saw Clay’s pistol skid to within a foot of him; painfully he began to crawl toward the weapon. Seeing this, Duval transferred her small pistol to her left hand and produced in her right hand the razor from the cunningingly-concealed pocket of her frock. Flipping the blade open with a flick of her wrist, she took two quick steps toward the wounded man, bent over, and slit his throat from ear to ear, deftly dodging the crimson fountain of blood while muttering “Die, English-loving bastard!”

Suddenly, Clay slipped by his opponent’s guard, seized him in a headlock, and snapped the man’s neck with a single twist. Duval was genuinely impressed; she had no idea the slightly-built Clay had such strength, and felt rising warmth deep in her belly as Clay threw the body away as if it were a rag doll. However, she noticed that the large bespectacled man had seized an officer’s scabbard from the table, drawn the sword it contained, and was lumbering toward Clay with the blade raised high above his head. Duval began to scream a warning to Clay; but with a speed the eye could barely follow, Clay had drawn his own saber and leapt at his opponent, burying his sword to the hilt in the large man’s belly before he could bring down his own weapon. An astonished look on his face, the man gagged and died, drawing himself off Clay’s sword as he slowly fell to the ground.

Duval then noticed that a desperate-looking Kitching had picked up the LeMat pistol dropped by the first man killed; with horror she saw Kitching was fumbling with the hammer, undoubtedly to allow the trigger to fire the huge buckshot load from the revolver’s central barrel. Shooting left-handed, she fired all four barrels of her Sharps .32 as fast as she could cock the hammer. Three of her four shots hit home, and Kitching fell; but as he fell the dying man touched the trigger, and with a deafening boom the pistol went off. Clay staggered, and Duval surprised herself by screaming. Clay quickly regained his balance, and looked with detachment at a rent in his right trouser-leg just above the knee, from which blood oozed rather than spurted. Taking a scrap of clothing from the table, he fussily cleaned his saber before returning it to its scabbard. Then, with the slightest of limps, he walked to where his pistol had fallen; picking it up, he turned toward Duval, gun held loosely in his hand. He looked at the dead Kitching, and back at Duval.

“You took him from me,” he said quietly. “He was mine. You took him from me. I had the right … I had the right …” Clay turned, and looked up at the mutilated body of his cousin and best friend, defaced in an obscene parody of Christ’s passion. The gun now pointed at the floor; Duval could now see that a single tear flowed down Clay’s expressionless face. Quietly, Duval came up beside Clay and looked at the remains of Jeremiah Lot. Duval had not considered the black officer her equal, but this was not a matter of racial prejudice; she considered no man her equal. She cared only slightly that the man was dead, considering him a religious fool with little knowledge of the real ways of the world; but she cared very much how his passing would affect the man at her side.

Suddenly they heard a pounding from upstairs, shortly followed by the cracking sounds of a wooden door being splintered. The clatter of boots on the upper floor were then audible, along with laughing, cheerful voices, many with Midwestern accents. Very shortly there were breaking and rustling sounds that indicated Wade Hampton’s elegant townhouse was being looted with no light hand. Clay made no move nor said any word, continuing to look at his friend’s remains as if nothing was happening above them. Finally, three Federal soldiers came down the stairs, a short, lean corporal in the lead. They reached the bottom, of the stairs and came to a skidding halt, clutching their Spencer carbines tightly; eyes wide at the abattoir before them. Finally the corporal spoke.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” he exclaimed in a soft Irish brogue. He looked at Clay, recognized him, and asked “Major Clay, sir?

“Corporal Walker,” Clay acknowledged, not taking his eyes off Lot as he reholstered his revolver. Clay had only met the corporal once, at Sherman’s headquarters; but Clay never forgot a face, a name, or a voice.

“Begging the Major’s pardon, what has happened here? Why is Nurse Duval here with you, and who are these …” The corporal’s eyes suddenly lit upon Kitching’s body. “Sweet Jesus! Colonel Kitching! General Davis’ artilleryman! What in the name of all that is holy …” His eyes had lit on the mutilated Lot. Religious imagery failing him, he spat out an obscenity.

Clay turned to face Walker, his placid face a picture of self-possession. “Corporal, the men in this room violated the truce that had been called, and took Colonel Kitching and Lieutenant Lot prisoner. They mutilated and murdered the lieutenant, as you see; undoubtedly expressing their innate racial hatred. Miss Duval and I were able to trace the criminals to this lair, and broke in just as Colonel Kitching loosened his bonds and attacked the murderers. Miss Duval bravely assisted me in joining the fight; a fight in which … unfortunately the Colonel lost his life. Corporal Walker, I believe you and your men are engaged in unauthorized looting, in contravention of the regulations of the Provost General.” The corporal and his men paled as one; the penalties for looting were well known. However, Clay proceeded to put them at rest.

“I care not what you do with or to the property of such … animals. Personally, I would say burn this place to the ground, except that the brick and stone construction of this structure would make that extremely difficult. Instead, take everything your men can carry, keeping in mind to watch out for the Provost. In return for turning a blind eye, I would only ask of you two favors.”

Relief in his voice, Walker replied “Anything.”

“With care, remove Lieutenant Lot from where he was … placed, and transport him to the camp. Then, find an embalmer among the sutlers, and prepare a coffin adequate for his transport to Savannah, and from there by boat and train to Kentucky. The soil of South Carolina is unfit to receive his remains; he is going home to Dignitas.” Clay strode over to the huge pile of coins, examined them briefly, and then grabbed a handful, which he gave to Walker. “This should defray any expenses. As you can see, these are old coins of Spanish minting; but each should contain the same value of gold as a twenty dollar piece.”

Walker looked avariciously at the pile of remaining gold. “What about the rest of that, sir?”

“Call down the rest of your men and decide how to divide it; it is of no interest to me. Do with it as you see fit.” Clay began to ascend the stairs; as she moved to follow, Duval’s left hand deftly scooped up a handful of coins and deposited them in a pocket of her frock so smoothly that no one seemed to notice.

“Major Clay!” called Walker. “What should we do with Colonel Kitching’s body?”

With only a slight pause on the stairs, Clay said “Give … it a hero’s burial.”

Clay was standing on a street corner a block from Hampton’s mansion, oblivious to the laughing looters passing up and down the streets, many very much the worse for drink. The shoulder-length blond hair that emerged from the back of his kepi whipped about in the strong cold wind coming down from the mountains to the west. Duval had followed him to this place, curious at his detached state. Finally, she hazarded a question.

“Major Clay, why tell those boyos to give that English-loving bastard a hero’s funeral?” For once, she did not hide her Irish accent.

Clay was silent for so long that she began to think he had not heard her. Then he answered Duvall. “I could see no alternative. The evidence is circumstantial, and there are no surviving witnesses from whom to force a confession. It would be only my word, spreading a rumor of treason within the very center of Sherman’s army at the very time this country is emerging from treason’s shadow. It would embarrass Sherman and Grant, to no good purpose; yet the lack of evidence would cause many to accuse me of slandering a hero. If Kitching had lived, it would be one thing; as he is dead and beyond causing further harm, let his betrayal die with him.”

With a certain admiration in her voice, Duval replied “You are certainly of a forgiving nature.”

“Forgiving?” he said, turning his glowing blue eyes directly upon her. Once again, she was reminded of the banshee’s eyes that haunted her dreams. “I can never forgive a wrong; a Clay cannot do so. I cannot forgive Kitching, or the abominable, power-crazed Starry Wisdom, for what they did to my cousin and friend, the truest Clay who ever lived.” Duval started; although she had suspected a connection between Clay and Lot, she never expected to hear it so openly proclaimed.

Turning away from Duval to look about him at the buildings of Columbia, he continued to speak. “I will never forgive the traitors who ripped this country apart, not to resist oppression, but so they could be free to oppress others, many of whom were far, far better human beings than they. I will never forgive the leaders of the South who tried to destroy what my family had helped build, and end the great American dream so that they could be free to ape the corrupt aristocracy of Europe. I will never forgive the state of South Carolina for leading the succession movement, for being the first to joyfully proclaim treason and lead the rest of the South into the abyss. I will never forgive the city of Columbia for being the place where the first ordinance of secession was passed, and for being the place where our nation’s four-year nightmare began.”

Clay fell silent, obviously looking at something in the nearby intersection. Duval followed his gaze, but all she could see was a disorderly pile of cotton bales, remnants of a pitiful barricade, the strong winds sending occasional scraps of the fiber whirling through the air. Without a word, Clay began walking toward that barricade; Duval followed closely at his heels, curious as to what was going through his mind. He looked down at the ground near the scattered bales, and saw a Colt percussion revolver lying next to a reddish smudge, apparently abandoned by a wounded soldier. He picked it up, and spun the cylinder, noting that only two of the chambers were discharged. With his free hand he drew his Bowie knife from under his tunic, and with a rapid succession of powerful strokes slashed open several of the cotton bales. As the winds tugged at the ragged scraps of cotton, whirling several high into the air with every gust, Clay thrust the Colt into one of the bales and fired four times in rapid succession. The burning grains of powder shot from the barrel immediately ignited the cotton; fanned by the winds, the flames spread rapidly through the ruined bales, every strong gust sending flaming firebrands of burning cotton high over the city. Clay dropped the empty gun and stepped back several paces, contemplating the conflagration.

Duval had come up beside him. “Fire is such a pretty thing,” she said. Clay glanced at her, and frowned slightly at the broad grin on her face. “That mansion and the capitol may be of brick and stone, but most of the buildings seem to be of wood,” she continued. “The wind is going to carry bits of flaming cotton all over Columbia; this place will burn like an Englishman’s soul in Hell.”

Already the roofs of several buildings were alight; Clay and Duval could watch the fire visibly leap from building to building. As the minutes passed they began to hear the hoarse voices of Union officers shouting orders, and began to see lines of soldiers forming bucket brigades from town pumps to nearby houses that had begun to burn. A fire engine pulled by two panicked horses raced by, black smoke belching from the engine. Finally Clay spoke to Duval.

“The streets are becoming increasingly congested. I suggest we find a quiet spot to watch Columbia enjoy the fruits of its treason. During a trip I made here before the war, I visited the college. There is an attractive park with benches aside from the main building; I suggest we avail ourselves of that vantage point.”

A stroll of two blocks along a street frantic with soldiers and civilians brought them to the park Clay had remembered. He stopped and looked at the college building facing the park, its windows already alive with flame. Suddenly, the sound of a woman’s screams drew his attention to a small frame house to the left of the large building; the modest home’s roof was already ablaze. Clay frowned slightly at what he saw; a woman surrounded by several men in Confederate uniforms was wailing hysterically. Without conscious thought he drew his saber and launched himself at the group, Duval following at a slower pace. However, he skidded to a halt as he reached the group, and after a moment returned his weapon to its scabbard.

The woman was not being attacked at all. He could now see that three of the four standing men were obviously wounded, and just as obviously trying to comfort the pair they surrounded. Three Rebels with what appeared to be more serious wounds lay in the street, fussed over by a black woman in servant’s garb. The screaming woman was being tightly hugged by a man in a Confederate officer’s uniform; with a shock he saw it was Lieutenant Flournoy.

The woman’s screams now became articulate. “My baby, my baby!” she wailed. “Thought I had time to move all the wounded we’d taken in; left her for last upstairs. Then the fire flared. God, I’ve killed our daughter!”

Hugging his wife fiercely, Flournoy looked over her shoulder and saw Clay. With naked hatred in his eyes, he said “My dearest, you have done nothing wrong; the assassins in blue have done this.” He thrust her aside,. “It may not be as bad in the back, I will make the attempt …”

“Professor Flournoy, I begs you,” said the black maid. “Look at that.” She pointed to the open front door, through which a flight of stairs wreathed in flame could be seen. “Poor child is gone; won’t help your missus if you be gone too.”

Dawning horror on his normally expressionless face, Clay murmured “Again. I have murdered a child again.”

Staring avidly at the burning house, Duval said casually. “Do not concern yourself. The runt is a Reb baby; nits make lice.”

Clay looked briefly at Duval, then without a word he launched himself at the front door of the house. The Flournoys and the rest gaped as Clay flew through the front door and was swallowed by the flaming stairs. Duval heard a woman screaming, and looked at Mrs. Flournoy; only when she saw the woman silently watching where Clay had gone did Duval realize the screams were her own.

Suddenly a form shot out of the second story window. As if everything was moving in slow motion, she saw it was Clay, kepi missing, patches of his uniform smoldering, tunic loosened, with a small round head peeping over the top of the tunic. He sailed through the air like an acrobat, slowly turning so that he would land on his back; she realized he intended to take the full force of a twenty-foot fall onto the cobblestone street in such a way as to cushion the child. With a sickening thud Clay landed on the street; screaming “Alphonso!” she ran to his side.

Clay lay motionless, his eyes closed. Under his tunic a tiny bundle squirmed and cried. Duval wanted to take the child and snap its neck, and would have done so had not Clay’s eyes suddenly flown open. The Flournoys rushed to Clay; with fire-blistered hands Clay loosened his tunic, allowing the parents to gently take their daughter from him. “I believe she has sustained no serious injuries,” he said.

The mother covered the tiny, squirming face with kisses, while Lieutenant Flournoy looked on in wonder. Turning to Clay, he said “I had never seen my daughter; for a moment I feared I never would.” With a pause, he began to speak formally. “It would appear that I am under an obligation to you.”

Duval had knelt beside Clay and frantically felt his skull, trying not to look too hard at the red burns developing on his handsome features; she detected abrasions but no obvious fractures, although a more subtle one might be killing him at that very moment. Fearing the answer, she asked “Major Clay, can you move your arms and legs?”

Slight motions of all his limbs followed. “Yes, Miss Duval,” he said in raspy voice. “However, I believe I have broken at least two ribs, and have a bullet wound in my leg. Also, there may be internal injuries. It would be unwise of me to rise.”

“Don’t dare think of it, you stupid bastard,” snarled Duval, having briefly returned to her Irish brogue. “As soon as some soldier boys arrive, I will have you carried on a stretcher to where Dr. Fetterman is setting up the hospital tents.”

Looking exhausted, Clay nodded slightly. Then, turning his attention to Lieutenant Flournoy. “Lieutenant, I believe you escaped from custody.”

“I felt I had no choice. When I heard your troops were taking Columbia, having seen what you had done in Georgia, I felt no compunction in breaking my word to seek out my family and do whatever I could to protect them from harm.”

Clay looked at him for a long moment. “The servant called you ‘professor’.”

“Yes. Before the war I taught mathematics here.” He glanced at the fully engulfed college building, the expression on his face pure bitterness.

Clay nodded slightly. “Miss Duval, I believe you carry a notepad and pencil. Please be so good to remove them and write what I say.”

Puzzled, Duval did as she was asked. When he saw she was ready, he began to speak. “Dated the 17th of February, 1865. The bearer, Samuel Flournoy, former artillery lieutenant in the forces of the Confederacy, has been taken prisoner. He and those wounded Rebel soldiers under his protection are as of this date and by my order regularly exchanged and paroled, and not to be molested by the United States of America so long as they respect the peace and obey the laws of the United States.” With a flick of his wrist Clay motioned Duval to bring the paper and pencil to him. Duval holding the notebook, slowly and painfully Clay signed “Major Alphonso Brutus Clay, United States Volunteers.” Closing his eyes with exhaustion, Clay said “Miss Duval, tear out that sheet and give it to Professor Flournoy.” After she had done so he then added “Oh, and give him the gold coins you were carrying for me. He and his family will be facing hard times, and the money could not be better spent.”

For a second, Duval froze. She had no idea Clay had seen her pocket the gold in Hampton’s basement, and was less than thrilled with having to give up such a sum. However, under the circumstances there was nothing for it but to give Flournoy the money. She briefly considered holding back a few coins; surely Clay did not know the exact amount she had scooped up. She then considered Clay’s astuteness, and in the end produced every last one for the astonished Flournoys.

Eyes still closed, Clay said “Lieutenant, the war is over for you; you and your family have survived. Cherish them and rebuild your life and your community. Above all, do not let the horrors of this war embitter you. No good can come of brooding on past wrongs. Believe me; this I know.” Clay stopped speaking, and within moments soft snoring indicated he had lapsed into sleep. Duval sat down, and gently nestled Clay’s head in her lap; surprising herself, she began to gently stroke his forehead.

The Flournoys and those with them watched the touching yet oddly disturbing scene, while around them Columbia burned.