CHAPTER 5

“SING IT WITH A SPIRIT THAT WILL START THE WORLD ALONG …”

“Major Bierce with orders for General Sherman, sir,” said Colonel Orlando Poe.

Sherman had been hunched over the papers on the ancient desk placed directly under the capitol dome. At the words his head jerked up. Next to the saturnine Poe stood Ambrose Bierce in a newly-minted major’s uniform, carrying a large carpet bag, looking the picture of health; looking, thought Sherman, much like Willie would have looked, had the child lived another twenty years. Sherman wanted to leap to his feet and hug Bierce; instead, he merely nodded at Bierce’s jaunty salute, and began to speak in a gruff voice. “Good to see you Bierce. How the Hell did you get back here?”

“Best way possible sir; by boat. Charleston has fallen. Evacuated, really. Once Hardee heard you had taken Columbia, he had no choice but to pull out and head for North Carolina as fast as his legs could take him. The Navy has taken over the harbor, and organized supply convoys. I came in with the first one.” Bierce looked around the controlled chaos in the capitol rotunda. “Ah, if Richmond could only see you now, the terrible Sherman setting up his headquarters in the seat of government of the first state to secede. They would surrender in an instant.”

“Had no choice but to set up in here,” replied Sherman. “Everything burned that wasn’t built of stone or brick. This is one of the few places large enough to handle headquarters that’s out of the rain. Didn’t mean any symbolism by using it.”

“Nevertheless sir, very symbolic. As symbolic as the ruins I saw. Who torched this seat of treason? I ask merely out of idle curiosity, not from any disapproval.”

“No one gave the order. Already I hear the Rebs are saying I am the new Attila, and deliberately destroyed Columbia. If I had done so, I would have been within my rights, and proudly claimed credit. However, the fact is that some bales of cotton the idiot Rebs used in barricades caught fire, and the wind spread burning material throughout the city.”

Bierce nodded thoughtfully. “Colonel Poe tells me that Major Clay was gravely injured in the fire. I would like to see him, once I have delivered my verbal message.”

Sherman jackknifed out of his chair. “Hell, I’ll take you to Clay myself. You can give me the ‘verbal message’ on the way. Poe, hold down the fort; won’t be long.”

The two lean, long-legged officers moved quickly out of the largely undamaged capitol building and out into the devastation that was Columbia. The streets were largely free of debris, and busy with Federal wagons and soldiers. The blocks outlined by the streets were pictures of charred desolation, relieved only by the occasional stout brick building, with morose civilians picking through the remains, looking to salvage anything of use.

“So, what message have you got for me?” Sherman asked as they walked.

“Your coded letter got through. Grant, Halleck and Stanton are of one mind. Since Kitching is dead, let him stay a dead hero. No point in depressing morale with the war’s end so close. They even decided not to tell Lincoln; Abe’s a good man, but he simply cannot keep secrets.”

Sherman scowled. “Mac died, Lot died, so did a whole passel of my boys. You nearly died, and so did Clay. And Kitching will be remembered as a hero?”

Bierce shrugged. “I see Grant’s point of view. Kitching is dead, and beyond the ability to do further harm. The truth would only hurt the Union now.”

Sherman glanced at Bierce as they briskly walked. “So why did Grant send you, instead of a coded message? Don’t get me wrong; glad to see you up and about. But why the special trip?”

Bierce got a far-away look in his eyes, and took his time before finally speaking. “There is a bit of … trouble, relating to my last visit to my parents. My last visit in every sense of the words. I had certain matters to discuss with my father. After he was … able to send a telegram, he wired Grant, demanding I be court-martialed on, well … a personal matter. Grant called me in for a private chat, and demanded to know why certain things had occurred. I informed the General-in-Chief that I must respectfully decline to discuss the origins of the dispute between my father and myself.”

Sherman laughed harshly. “I don’t expect Sam liked that.”

“No sir, he did not. Still, Grant is a strange, deep man. He looked at me for near a minute, then finally said he would send me with messages to you, to get me out of Washington until certain things were, I believe he said, ‘squared.’ Told me that by the time I came back he could guarantee there would be no charges from anyone, army or civilian courts. That surprised me; I was fully prepared to take the consequences of my actions.”

Sherman almost asked just what those actions had been. However, he glanced at the hard, set look of the young officer beside him, he decided to let the matter go. If Grant had decided Bierce could keep the matter private, then that was enough for Sherman. Instead, Sherman pointed to a cluster of tents. “Our hospital tents; Clay is in the second from the right.”

Solemnly, Bierce asked “How is he taking Lot’s death.”

“Not well. Miss Duval says his burns are healing with astonishing speed, and appear to not even be leaving any scars. However, he refuses to talk except to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Miss Duval says she fears he may … do himself an injury.” They had reached the entrance to the large tent, and Sherman paused, took a deep breath, and said “Listen here, Bierce. You were closer to Lot and Clay than anyone else. Maybe you can snap him out of this Goddamn funk he’s in. I’d be in your debt if you could.” Sherman threw back the flap to the tent, and the two officers entered.

Inside were four cots, but only one was occupied; Teresa Duval hovered over that cot, which contained Alphonso Clay, stripped to the waste and with his left trouser leg slit, showing a glimpse of bandage just above his knee. Duval was applying a salve to red splotches on his hands and face. Clay’s bright blue eyes stared blankly through the lenses of his spectacles; he showed absolutely no reaction to Duval’s ministrations. The woman heard the officers enter the tent and turned. She nodded familiarly to Sherman, and then paused slightly at the sight of Bierce before saying “General, Major Bierce. I wish we met under better circumstances.”

“How is the patient?” asked Sherman gruffly.

“Physically, amazingly well. The healing of the bullet wound in his leg is without complication; while his severe burns are fading with no sign of scarring. Frankly, if I had not witnessed myself, I would not have thought it possible.”

“Clay was always a fast healer,” said Bierce, as he set down the carpetbag he carried. “I remember when he took a shotgun slug straight through the upper right arm, just before Vicksburg fell; hardly slowed him up half a day.”

Duval’s nostrils flared slightly, and she stole a quick glance at her patient to see if her memory played her false. It did not. The flesh of Clay’s arm was absolutely unblemished, entirely free of the slightest sign of a wound.

Suddenly Clay began to move. Slowly he stood, and saluted Sherman. “My apologies, General, for my state of undress. I have not been in perfect health of late.”

“Hell, Clay, you’re lucky to be alive. Have a seat and rest yourself.”

“I would prefer to stand, general. I am all too aware of how … inadequate my performance on this assignment has been. I bear enough of a burden, without having to bear your condescension.” Naked down to the waist, one leg of his trousers in tatters, Clay carried himself with the dignity of a Roman senator. Duval looked at the perfection of Clay’s torso, and felt arousal—and something else.

“Enough of that horse shit, Clay!” responded Sherman angrily. “You put an end to Kitching when no one else could; no telling how much more harm that Goddamn traitor could have done if you hadn’t stopped him.”

Clay shook his head. “I should have seen it much, much sooner. Jeremiah saw it sooner than I. Because I did not see it as soon as he, my … he died. My failure is something I can never forgive myself. Furthermore, in my … disappointment with myself, I undertook ill-considered actions which …”

“No more of that crap!” interrupted Sherman loudly, who had his suspicions of how the fire that consumed Columbia had started, and frankly did not care. “You are ordered to leave any actions … arising from your discovery of Kitching and Lieutenant Lot in the past.”

Frowning, Bierce said “One thing puzzles me, Clay. Kitching must have seen the South was losing the war, even before Atlanta fell. Why did he persist in his treason and murders?”

Clay shook his head sadly, a far-off look in his eyes. “His goal was never to give ultimate victory to the Confederacy. He had a twisted, unhealthy hero-worship for General Hooker, who he must have been convinced had been denied his rightful place by army politics. Kitching was willing to murder, to even give temporary successes to the Confederacy, in order to embarrass and disgrace those who had supplanted his hero. Probably he expected Hooker to be returned to command, and his rise would end only in the White House. Of course, he expected that he would rise with Hooker.”

Sherman shook his head with wonder. “Must’ve been a Goddamn madman.”

“With respect sir, I doubt it. Simply evil; believe me, evil explains more wrongs in this world than does madness.”

Bierce nodded, then changed the subject. “Clay, Grant entrusted me to deliver two documents to you.” He removed a paper from inside his tunic and extended it toward Clay. “This is the promotion of Jeremiah Lot to full captain, United States Volunteers, backdated to the date of the fall of Savannah.” When Clay made no move to take the paper, Bierce continued. “Grant charged me to say that of course this will not salve the pain of the loss you must feel. He means it as an acknowledgement from the country to a courageous patriot, who gave his life not only for his country, but for his friend.”

Clay closed his eyes briefly; when he reopened them they were watery, although no tears flowed. “I will accept it on his behalf,” Clay said in a soft voice as he took the document. “His remains have been sent temporarily to a receiving vault at my estate, awaiting the time when I can prepare a suitable memorial. His new rank will be reflected on that memorial. You said you had a second document.”

With visible reluctance, Bierce produced a second paper from within his tunic. “This is your commission as Lieutenant Colonel of Volunteers, backdated to the date of the fall of Columbia.” He extended it toward Clay, who made no move to accept it.

“With respect to General Grant, I cannot accept. It is underserved. Further, I do little honor to my current rank, much less a higher one.”

“Whatever you think of your performance, I assure you Grant thinks you did better than anyone had a right to expect” said Bierce. “Furthermore, he has an important new assignment of great delicacy for you. I am not at liberty to describe that assignment. In respect of your talents, Grant feels that a higher rank could ease your path in it.”

Clay shook his head slowly. “The General is showing poor judgment. I am of no further use to the cause, or to anyone.”

“God damn you to hell, Alphonso Clay!” Bierce suddenly exclaimed. “Jeremiah Lot was the finest man, black or white, I ever had the privilege to meet. He knowingly put himself in the path of danger to save you; to preserve you for the greater good. Will you insult his memory by making his sacrifice a vain one? Do you think he was a fool, an idiot? How dare you imply Jeremiah Lot did not know what was best, for you and for the Union?”

Clay’s fists balled, and he stepped forward until only inches separated him from Bierce. “I have killed men for less,” replied Clay in a conversational voice.

“Kill me and be damned! It will make what I say no less true. So, Clay, which will it be? Will you honor the memory of Jeremiah Lot, or prove him to have been a sentimental fool who wasted his life?” Bierce looked directly into Clay’s glowing blue eyes, and tried not to show fright at the inhuman aspect they displayed. Sherman and Duval remained silent, not daring to interfere.

Finally, Clay’s eyes seemed to dim, and assumed a more human aspect. He extended his hand and took the paper that Bierce still held. “I will accept the commission, on one condition,” Clay said in his soft voice. “There is a private matter that I must attend to in Washington, a matter requiring less than a day. If at the end of that day I am still physically able to accept General Grant’s assignment, I will do so.” He looked at Duval, “Please see what you can do to obtain some presentable clothes. I am well enough to proceed immediately to Charleston and from there to Washington.”

“Some commissary wagons and their escorts are starting off for Charleston within the hour,” said Sherman. “If you feel well enough, he can depart with them.”

Dubiously, Clay said “I hardly have the apparel for a journey …”

“Not to worry,” replied Bierce breezily. “I took the liberty of bringing a new uniform for you.” He opened the carpetbag at his feet, and extracted a wrinkled tunic, pair of trousers, and a boiled shirt; on the shoulders of the tunic gleamed the golden oak leaves of a lieutenant colonel. “Fit is probably not that good, but you will undoubtedly do better when you get to one of your fancy-dan tailors in Washington.”

Clay looked at the clothes, then at Bierce. “Your thoughtfulness shames me. I apologize for my … ungracious remarks. You are a true gentleman, and should be treated as such.”

Duval felt a stab of panic at the realization Clay was leaving. Forcing herself to display calm, she addressed the commander. “General Sherman, I would like to request permission to accompany Colonel Clay on his trip north. I am not fully satisfied as to the completeness of his recovery; besides, it has been very long since I have seen my mother.”

Sherman looked strangely at her, but finally said “Of course. You have been of more service than I expected a woman to ever be. Thankfully our casualties have been light of late. Dr. Fetterman and the rest of his staff should be able to handle everything.” Clay glanced at her, the faintest of smiles on his lips, but said nothing.

“Then let me through a few things into a bag. I will be ready by the time Colonel Clay is dressed.” Duval went to where her own carpetbag was stashed and quickly filled it with a few essentials and medical supplies. While she did this, Sherman scribbled a pass granting them access to Army and Navy transportation on a pad he found on an examination table; meanwhile, Clay irritably shrugged off Bierce’s attempts to help him dress, and with slow, stiff movements put on his new clothes.

As Clay smoothed the creases in his new tunic, he asked Sherman “Who else knows the truth of Kitching?”

“You mean aside from those of us here? Grant, Halleck and Stanton in Washington, and Generals Slocum, Howard, Logan and Davis. Had to tell the last four, if only to make sure they knew enough to stop inconvenient rumors among their boys. Anyway, I have never liked long goodbyes.” Sherman thrust the pass into Clay’s hand, then gruffly muttered “Take care of yourself and Miss Duval.” Sherman turned and strode out of the tent, pausing only to say “You too, Bierce,” as he exited.

Bierce laughed sardonically. “Well, I guess we are not supposed to let the door hit us in our rumps. Still, Grant was anxious. Is everyone ready?”

Duval nodded her assent. Clay walked to the cot he had occupied, where his own carpetbag for his own personal possessions stood open, two books barely visible among its contents. He fastened it shut, hefted it tentatively, then turned to Bierce and replied, “No time like the present.”

“Colonel, Madam, our carriage awaits,” said Bierce with an exaggerated bow, holding the flap of the tent open for them. The three exited the tent, only to be brought up short by the sight of the cadaverous General Davis riding up on horseback, trailed by several aides. Bringing his mount up sharply, he looked at the oak leaves on Clay’s shoulders, and nodded slightly. “Already leaving us Clay?”

Clay saluted. “Duty requires it, General.”

“I see you made lieutenant colonel. Made it the hard way.” No allusion was made to Kitching, or the humiliation Davis must feel at having harbored a traitor on his staff.

“Harder than you can imagine, sir.”

“I expect I can imagine, Colonel. Listen, I know you don’t care for me; truth is, I didn’t care much for you, neither. Maybe it could be we’re too much alike; sometimes we act before thinking, and then have to bear the consequences. Be that as it may, you did a good job for the country … and I’m sorry for … what happened to Lot. Such things are hard to bear; believe me, I know.” Suddenly, the corpse-like Davis thrust out one of his hands; after a moment’s hesitation Clay reached up and accepted the offered hand, shaking it firmly. Then, with no further words, Davis released Clay, jerked the head of his mount around, and spurred the animal into a gallop, trailed by his obedient staff. Clay stared after Davis, saying nothing.

“Well, that was damn strange,” said Bierce. “What was that all about?

Clay continued to stare after Davis, and said nothing.

Ambrose Bierce lurched to the rear of the side-wheeler steamer, grabbed the railing, and heaved mightily. Nothing actually came out of his mouth; he had lost his stomach’s contents a long time ago. However the motion of the tired boat as it pushed its way through the rolling Atlantic left his stomach unconvinced. Finally, the wave of nausea passed and Bierce stood erect, trying to focus on the horizon; he had read somewhere that helped sufferers from seasickness, and Bierce was willing to try anything.

Out of a passageway stepped Teresa Duval, appearing to be the picture of health and contentment. Bierce looked at her and sourly thought that the sea appeared to agree with her entirely. Duval joined him at the railing, and with a sadistic gleam in her eye said “We missed you at dinner, Major Bierce. Is anything amiss?”

Returning his eyes to the horizon, Bierce replied “A minor indisposition. How goes Colonel Clay’s recovery?”

Duval lost her sadistic look. “He is not eating, and stays in his cabin, which concerns me. Physically, however, his recovery is astonishing. The burns have almost disappeared, leaving absolutely no scars; I would not have thought that possible, given their extent. His leg wound is not only healing, it seems it will leave almost no mark.” She paused, and said with a touch of awe in her voice asked “Are you certain he was shot in his left upper arm?”

“I am. I witnessed the wound being dressed.”

Duval hesitated for a long moment, then said with reluctance “There is absolutely no sign of such an injury. None. That is not possible.”

“With Alphonso Clay, I would hesitate to say that anything is not possible.” Bierce looked around to confirm they were alone at the stern; those passengers who were out of their cabins were apparently on the forward upper deck, from which snatches of banjo music and singing drifted down to the stern. Having confirmed they were for the moment alone, Bierce steeled himself for a conversation he had long dreaded.

“Miss Duval, this is an opportunity for us to discuss certain matters undisturbed. Rather, I should say, ‘Miss Doyle—Miss Brigid Doyle’.”

Duval froze with shock; she had not heard that name since she had begun working for Jay Gould, back in ’61. “Who is this Brigid Doyle?” she asked with apparent indifference, while her hand slowly crept to the pocket where she concealed her razor—the razor with which she had killed the English corporal, so many years before.

Bierce turned and leaned against the railing, facing the ocean. “Come, Miss Doyle, let there be no pretence among old acquaintances. You have been both clever and skilled in your activities, but not quite as clever and skilled as you believe yourself to have been. During my leave, I spent some time in New York City among the newspapermen. I have been giving some thought to taking that up as a profession, after the war. In any event, I asked some questions, made some inquiries—even talked to some police officers. It seems that you have acquired something of a reputation among crime reporters, and certain officers of the law. Oh, you never leave enough evidence to support an indictment or prosecution, especially since a jury might find it unbelievable that a woman did some of the things they believe you to have done. Still, to certain people you are known, in New York; if it gives you any pride, you are spoken of with some fear.”

Her hand had closed on the razor in her pocket. To her own surprise, she responded lightly. “And just what is this Doyle, who has nothing to do with me, alleged to have done?”

Bierce smiled grimly at her. “Oh, Miss Doyle has had much to do with you, ever since she entered New York without the formality of an interview with the immigration authorities. I have paid a visit to Madame LeFevre’s in the Bowery, you see, and described you. You were younger then, of course, but they recognized you from my description. Oh, Madame remembers you well. She remembers what you did to that customer who had paid for what she described as ‘rough trade,’ and what it cost her in bribes to keep her establishment open after the unpleasantness of that nature.”

Duval’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘LeFevre had talked, damn her eyes! I must pay her a visit when I am next in New York.’

Bierce continued speaking in a quite conversational manner. “A brace of police officers introduced me to a former member of a Bowery gang, recently out of Sing-Sing after serving six years for robbery. He is just a shade of the young man he used to be; Sing-Sing will do that to you. However, he perked right up when I described you to him. He had some choice things to say about his doxie Brigid, who had planned the robbery, then turned he and his gang in for the reward, neglecting to tell the authorities she had spirited away most of the proceeds.

“There are only glimpses of you through the years, until something happens in 1861 and you form some sort of association with Jay Gould. You must have been quite a find for him. Gould is even less governed by morality than the typical Wall Street capitalist, and someone like Brigid Doyle could be useful to him, if she were not such a Mick guttersnipe. It seems a remarkable thing happened about that time. The guttersnipe Doyle disappears, never to be seen again; in her place appears society lady Duval, bearing a remarkable resemblance to Doyle. Duval’s manners and poise give her entrance to the homes of the most prominent New Yorkers, including those whom Gould might regard as rivals. Synchronistic ally, the innermost plans of those rivals seem known to Gould; in a few cases, the most troublesome seem to meet unfortunate accidents.”

Duval flicked her eyes left and right; no one could see the two of them at this moment. From the upper deck a man with an indifferent tenor was beginning to sing, to the accompaniment of banjo music, “Marching to the Sea,” a song celebrating Sherman’s victories that was sweeping the North.

Sing the good old bugle boys, we’ll sing another song

Sing it with the spirit that will start the world along

Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong

While we were marching through Georgia

“You puzzle me, Major Bierce.” Duval smiled thinly as she removed the razor from her pocket and flicked the blade open. “Knowing what you know, you choose to reveal your knowledge to me here, on the rear deck, with no witnesses, yourself unarmed and weakened with sea-sickness. Strange, I had not placed you for a fool.” Suddenly the smile disappeared to be replaced by a frown, and she made no move toward Bierce. “And you are not a fool, are you?”

From the upper deck the amateur tenor reached the first chorus.

Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee,

Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free!

So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea

While we were marching through Georgia!

“No, I am not. All I have learned has been recorded and notarized; three copies have gone to the most unlikely places, with instructions to forward the contents to the United States Attorney should any accident or failure of health result in my demise. You might be able to track down one copy and neutralize it, perhaps even two; but not all three.

A new verse had started.

Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears

When they saw the honored flag they had not seen in years

Hardly could they be restrained from breaking out in tears

While we were marching through Georgia!

With a note of doubt in her voice, Duval said “Why should I fear such disclosures? You yourself said there is insufficient evidence to prosecute.”

“True enough. However, the publicity would end your usefulness to Jay Gould. In fact, it would draw unwanted attention to him. I have never actually met the man. How do you think he would respond to such a situation?”

Duval smiled ruefully. “Not well.”

“Besides, there is the matter of Alphonso Clay.”

Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee,

Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free!

So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea

While we were marching through Georgia!

A lump formed in Duval’s throat. “What do you mean by that?”

Bierce smiled lewdly. “If there is one thing I understand, it’s women. You want Clay—want him bad. You already know he has the pride of Satan. Do you think he would have anything to do with you, once your actions and origins became public? Besides, I owe Clay, and do not want to see him injured in any way.”

Anger welling in her breast, she asked “So what do you want? My promise to leave Clay alone?”

Bierce smiled sadly. “Far from it. I can tell he is drawn to you, even though he may not entirely realize it himself. Against my better judgment, I will tell you one thing, which you must never under any circumstances repeat to him. He once loved Jeremiah Lot’s sister. She was taken away from him, sold South, and killed herself after being abused by slavers. It has already twisted him; now that he has lost her brother, I fear his descent into madness.”

So we made a thoroughfare for freedom and her train

Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main,

Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain,

While we were marching through Georgia

“Clay is a dangerous, violent man,” continued Bierce. “It is just possible that what he needs is a dangerous, violent woman. Normally, I would worry about you arranging an ‘accident’ for Clay and coming into his substantial estate, one way or another.” Bierce again smiled sadly. “Without a doubt, I suspect that although you would like the money, it is the man who interests you more, God help him. So, set your cap for him, if you like, but be warned: if I ever suspect that my judgment was misplaced, and Clay comes to harm, I will see to it that you are utterly destroyed. If you do not end on a gallows, you will spend the rest of your life hiding under false names in places such as Madame LeFevre’s.”

Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee,

Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free!

So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea

While we were marching through Georgia!

Duval looked steadily at Bierce for a long moment; then without any obvious motion the razor disappeared from her hand. “Very well, Major Bierce, we have an arrangement.”

An unusually large wave slapped the side-wheeler. Suddenly Bierce’s stomach spasmed and he bent over, clutching the railing until his knuckles were white. Duval looked at him with contemptuous amusement.

“Well, Major, it sounds like the singing on the upper deck has ended. I was going there, but since there is a lull in the entertainment, I believe I will go to the galley and see if they have some of that excellent pea soup left. I still feel peckish.”

At the mention of pea soup, Bierce uttered a strangled cry and recommenced the dry heaves. Smiling, Duval turned and went back inside the main deck.

Alphonso Clay stood before a full-length mirror in his suite at Willard’s, carefully inspecting himself. An amused Ambrose Bierce was an onlooker. Clay minutely inspected the tailored lieutenant colonel’s uniform with which he had replaced the ill-fitting one donated by Bierce. Sky-blue trousers were tucked neatly into boots polished to a mirror gleam. Long blond hair carefully pomaded to his satisfaction, he placed his kepi precisely level on his head. He slightly adjusted the holster that contained his Smith & Wesson No. 2; then he carefully evened his spectacles on his face. Finally, Clay nodded in satisfaction and said “I am ready.”

“About damn time, you peacock,” said Bierce. “Most officers put on the dog before seeing the Secretary of War and Chief of Staff Halleck, but you have carried things a tad too far.”

Clay turned to Bierce, his face even more expressionless than usual. “You are mistaken. I am preparing for an important meeting, but not with Stanton and Halleck. As fate would have it, General Hooker has a suite here at Willard’s, as well. Apparently he is in town to lobby his friends in Congress, even at this late date attempting to regain high command. You should proceed to the War Department and inform our superiors that I am detained, and will join them … when I can. If they ask, tell them my business with General Hooker will not consume above a quarter of an hour.”

Dubiously Bierce replied “Well, keep it short, Clay. If you keep those bigwigs waiting too long, there will be hell to pay.” With a jaunty wave, Bierce exited the suite. After a moment, Clay quietly said, “Hell to pay, indeed.”

As Bierce exited Willard’s, he spotted Teresa Duval about to enter the famous hotel. With an exaggerated bow, he declaimed “Ah, the angel of mercy. Arranging more supplies to ship to Sherman’s army; or were you paying a visit to the Secret Service in the Treasury Building?”

Duval replied coldly. “None of your affair, Major Bierce.”

“Wherever you have been, I hope that you were able to come up with some more cash. Willard’s is shockingly expensive, so expensive I was surprised to see you lodging here. Certainly I couldn’t afford it, if Clay hadn’t insisted I stay in his suite.”

“I have no financial worries, as well you know. Where are you off to now?”

Bierce smiled. “State secret, Miss Duval. I can tell you that Clay and I will be shortly meeting with Stanton and Halleck at the War Department.”

“Where is Colonel Clay? Shouldn’t he be with you?”

“He had some business with General Hooker, who is also staying here, and told me to go on ahead. Well, I bid you adieu. The war waits on no one.” Bierce facetiously clicked his heel, and strolled off in the direction of the War Department, whistling “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

Duval stood partly blocking the entrance to Willard’s, looking thoughtfully after Bierce. Suddenly, a half-formed notion leaped into her brain. She strode quickly across the lobby to the front desk, and repeatedly struck the bell until she had the clerk’s attention.

“I have an important message for General Hooker, to be delivered in person. Which is his suite?”

The clerk, a narrow-chested specimen with a manner as oily as his hair, looked Duval up and down before saying “Ah, another one of Hooker’s Auxiliaries,” using a popular slang term for prostitute. “They all have important messages for the General. Well, feel free to try your luck. He is on the fourth floor, Suite 417.

“Thank you,” Duval said coldly. Hurriedly she strode to the stairs, and ascended four flights two steps at a time; it was a testament to her physical fitness that she was not winded by the time she reached the fourth floor. Quickly determining which way the numbers ran, she hurried to the door of 417, which was partly ajar. Stealthily she maneuvered until she could see through the opening the room’s two occupants, both of whom were standing.

The floridly handsome Hooker looked angry. As he fiddled with a pair of green-lensed spectacles, he spoke. “Damn you Clay, I haven’t time for this. I’m supposed to meet with Senators Sumner and Wade this afternoon. They think that there is a chance they can force Abe to get rid of Grant, and give me back the Army of the Potomac. What’s Grant done with it, anyway? Sat on his ass outside Richmond for six months, that’s what. I know Grant is among my enemies, and he is trying to bring me down again; like Halleck and Meade did, like Sherman did. Well, you can go tell you lick-spittle master …”

“I am not here to discuss your current plans, as … interesting as they may be,” interrupted Clay. “I am here to discuss Colonel Kitching.”

Hooker now stood very still. “Heard Kitching died a hero at Columbia. Always felt he was a good man. Very devoted to me.”

“Yes, very devoted. Very few people will ever know how devoted. So devoted he sabotaged Sherman’s attack at Kennesaw Mountain, hoping Sherman would be dismissed and you would assume command. Of course, he had worked his treason through whispering in the ear of the trusting McPherson, so he murdered McPherson to eliminate any trace of his crime. Ambrose Bierce saw enough that he might piece together what happened, so he tried to murder Bierce, twice. In attempting to escape, he was responsible for the death of the finest man I had ever known. Kitching’s demise was deserved, and timely.”

A muscle in Hooker’s left jaw began to twitch. With hands that trembled slightly, he placed the green-lensed spectacles on a table.

“I am shocked to hear such a thing. Are you certain of your facts?”

“I am certain of most things, sir. There is, however, something of which I cannot be certain. I hope that you will be able to help me arrive at certainty.”

“And what is that, Colonel Clay?”

“I strongly suspect that Colonel Kitching did not arrive at his scheme on his own. I believe he was responding to the direction of another.”

“Who do you suspect, Clay?”

“I believe that you know the answer.”

Hooker’s florid features visibly reddened. “Just what the Hell are you driving at, Clay?”

“I believe you planted the cancer of treason in Kitching’s brain. The fool was so filled with admiration for you he may not have entirely realized you were manipulating him. Whether he realized the origin of his schemes, I suspect you were quite aware of what he intended—and did nothing.”

“You’re mad, Clay!”

“Perhaps. That does not detract from the validity of my suspicion. You have always had a very high opinion of yourself. I remember the talk earlier in the war about how you would tell anyone who would listen that Lincoln was a fool, and that what the country needed was a dictator. You left little doubt who you thought that dictator should be. You are a man who must have believed yourself a new Napoleon; yet you found yourself serving a man everyone said was half-mad, and finally dismissed in favor of a youngster less than ten years out of the Academy. How the injustice of it must have burned. If an admirer could make your enemies look to be incompetent fools, better yet kill them, you could only rejoice. And your dictatorship could still yet come about, you must have thought. Never mind McPherson, Bierce … Lot … the countless brave soldiers who fell at Kennesaw.”

Hooker’s blue eyes had acquired a glassy, half-crazed look. “You haven’t a shred of proof. Not a shred!” His voice became louder, his words slightly slurred. “You are just like the other fools and charlatans … envious blacklegs who … who were keeping me from my destiny! Well, I’ll tell you something Colonel Baby-Killer Clay! Yes, I know all about New Orleans! Think anyone would believe what someone who did what you did might say, especially with no proof? I still have friends in politics, friends who want to ride my coattails. I’ll let them take that ride. I can be generous to those who help me gain what is deservedly mine!” A series of tremors shot across the left side of Hooker’s face.

Clay sighed. “You are probably right, sir. All the suffering caused by your incompetence, and by the malice of your minion Kitching, may not be enough to keep you from recovering on your march to power. The law may not be able to stop you. However, there is a still a remedy. Do you know my middle name?”

“Eh?” The furious Hooker was brought up short.

“There tends to be significance in how the Clays name their children. They are expected to live up to those names. For instance, my cousin Cassius was named by his abolitionist father after the Roman Cassius, the fanatic defender of personal freedom. My middle name is Brutus—the man who assassinated a tyrant.” Casually, Clay unsnapped the flap of his holster and drew his revolver.

“You would not dare! You cannot stop … Ahhhhhhhhhhhh …” Hooker suddenly clasped his head with both hands, and began staggering to the chair by the table. He threw himself into the chair, still clutching his head, and moaned “Damn you Clay! First the light makes my eyes ache, and then you come in and dare … and dare …” Suddenly Hooker’s hands dropped limply to his sides, the left arm noticeably trembling. Trying to focus his now-glassy eyes on Clay, Hooker said “I was saying … I was saying … something … what the Hell was I saying …” Hooker lapsed into silence, and now stared into the distance with unfocused eyes, Clay apparently forgotten.

With a puzzled frown on his face, Clay advanced on Hooker until he stood directly in front of the general. An odd reluctance in his actions, he cocked the revolver in his hand. At this point Duval glided swiftly into the room, and lightly placed her hand on his gun-arm. Clay started, and looked at her with surprise.

“There is no need for you to kill him. Do you recognize the symptoms?”

Clay looked back to the oblivious Hooker, and slowly said “I believe he may be suffering from a, ah, chronic infection.”

Duval laughed heartily, heartlessly. “Come, Colonel, there is no need to spare my delicate feelings. The bastard has the pox! Syphilis, to well-educated toffs such as yourself. I saw the symptoms often enough when … well, I saw them. When the disease really has a boyo in its grip, their eyes become so sensitive to light they need to start wearing tinted spectacles. They get tremors in one or both arms. They get to feel they are gods, and capable of doing anything or accomplishing anything. And then, they will get sudden, blinding headaches, lose their train of thought, and even seem to go idiot for awhile. Does that not sound like the pig you have there?”

“It does indeed. Perhaps it would be just as well to shoot him; he will undoubtedly recover from this attack and survive for years to come, his life becoming more and more hellish until he becomes a raving lunatic and dies of the rot inside of him. It would be a mercy to end his life.”

Duval tightened her grip on Clay’s gun arm. “And that is why you should not do it. Killing this bastard would be a favor to him, a favor for which you will swing. Let him live; he has years of agony and terror ahead of him, years of suffering which he richly deserves, and it looks like he will never be well enough for long enough to ever get a high position again. His friends in Congress will learn soon enough what ails him; they will not push the cause of a poxed-out madman.”

Clay stood absolutely still for nearly a minute; then he carefully uncocked and reholstered his revolver. Without a word, Clay turned and left the room. Duval followed him, pausing only to quietly shut the door; as she did so, she heard Hooker begin to mutter “Goddamn Clay cannot stop me … no one can stop me … not the best commander the world had ever seen …”

Duval had to walk swiftly to keep up with Clay, who headed straight for his suite without acknowledging her existence. He unlocked the door to his room, entered and nearly closed it in Duval’s face. Unaffected by the absentminded rudeness, she slid deftly into the room and finished closing the door herself. Clay looked dully at her, and asked, “What do you want?”

Surprising herself, Duval said “I thought you might appreciate some company right now.”

Clay smiled sadly. “I appreciate your concern. However, I am not fit company right now. Besides, after I have composed myself I must attend to some business at the War Department.”

“Yes, Major Bierce mentioned something of that. It can wait. You are blaming yourself for Jeremiah’s death, are you not?”

“That is none of your business,” replied Clay coldly.

“Well, I’m making it my business, you arrogant bastard,” said Duval, her anger also surprising her. “Just who do you think you are, God? You and Jeremiah did a brilliant job in smoking out that Southern-loving traitor Kitching; and you even figured out that paralytic bastard Hooker was behind him. Jeremiah took his chances in war, as did you; you were luckier than he, that’s all. If you are looking for someone to blame, blame Hooker, blame Kitching … don’t blame yourself.”

“Who else could I blame?” replied Clay morosely. “Jeremiah Lot was my last connection to … her. He was her brother. I not only failed him, I failed … her.” Clay’s face was impassive, but unshed tears glistened in his eyes.

“So that’s what this is really about,” snarled Duval with sudden viciousness. “Some gentleman you are, mooning after your dead nigger whore …”

Although they were nearly of equal height, Clay was able to grab Duval by the throat with only his right hand and slam her against the wall. In a voice that seemed to have dropped two octaves, Clay boomed “No one, not even a woman, may speak that way about …”

Duval gave a powerful kick to Clay’s groin. Gasping with pain, he released his hold on Duval’s throat and staggered back two steps. The razor appearing in her hand as if by magic, Duval slashed at Clay’s face. He dodged mostly out of the way, but a thin red line appeared on his cheek. With a guttural cry he leapt at Duval, seizing the arm holding the weapon and slamming it against the wall, causing her to drop it with a grunt. However, she instantly snaked her left leg behind Clay and shoved, causing him to lose his balance and fall backwards, striking his head on the bedstead. Grabbing an unlit lamp as a weapon, she threw herself at Clay, who at the last instant raised a booted foot and kicked her in the stomach, the force of the kick along with her own momentum carried her over Clay and onto the bed. Instantly, Clay leapt to his feet and sprung upon her, pinning her arms.

Panting heavily, faces glistening with sweat, the two strange individuals looked into each others eyes for a long moment. Duval saw something that had the form of a man, but could tell that within he was something more or less than a man. There was something overwhelmingly attractive about the danger he posed. Clay saw a woman who was less than human, a woman who was the antithesis of everything he had adored about his long dead Arabella, a coarse, uncivilized hellion. Despite all that, there was something overwhelmingly attractive about the danger she posed.

Suddenly Duval broke one of her arms free, roughly seized the back of Clay’s head, and forced his mouth onto her own, kissing him repeatedly and with wanton abandon. Clay knew he could resist, that he should resist, but the part of him that was not human howled for release. Soon the two were entangled on the bed, their union resembling more a mutual rape than an act of love.

Ambrose Bierce was embarrassed and angry. After Halleck and Stanton had waited for nearly an hour, they had demanded Bierce take the short walk to Willard’s and find out just what was detaining Clay. In a foul mood, blaming Clay for being humiliated before the Secretary of War and the Army’s Chief of Staff, Bierce strode quickly through the lobby and ascended the stairs rapidly. He reached Clay’s door and was about to knock impatiently when he paused. From inside he heard sounds. His amatory experiences left him in no doubt as to what the sounds signified. Surprisingly, it seemed that the people on the other side of the door were going about matters with more than the usual enthusiasm.

Quietly, Ambrose Bierce retreated from the door. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I better go back and tell Halleck and Stanton that Clay is unavoidably detained for another hour.’ As he descended the stairs he thought some more about the sounds. A smile tinged with melancholy crossed his face. ‘Better tell them two hours.’