Chapter Eight

The Glorious Faith

It was an hour before first light on July 4th, 1863. Sergeant Lot had just finished helping Ambrose Bierce pack up his knapsack, carpet bag, and map case by the light of a flickering oil lamp in Bierce’s tent. He gave a final tug on the strap securing the knapsack, saying, “There. I didn’t think we could do it, but we got everything you have into three pieces of luggage.”

“I appreciate your seeing me to the landing. You sure your dangerous little captain can spare you until the boat leaves at nine o’clock?”

“I believe so, Lieutenant. He has been doing little but lying on his cot, staring upwards, ever since that night. Except to write some letters and send a couple of telegrams, he has hardly left the tent. Seeing as I haven’t had as much time to talk to you as I would have liked, with your permission, I will stay with you until the steamer casts off.”

“Once again, I do appreciate that, Sergeant,” replied Bierce. Left unspoken was the fact few people felt comfortable around the map-maker. He knew he was something of an outsider and recognized the same trait in the black sergeant. To his amusement, he felt as comfortable in the former slave’s company as Lot was in his.

They lugged the bulging parcels out of the tent and rested them near the blazing campfire, lit more to provide light than to further heat the unpleasantly muggy Mississippi air. In the east, a hint of sunrise lightened the horizon, but the brighter stars still shone clearly overhead.

“Lieutenant, it is more than four hours until the boat leaves. Do you really need to get there that early?”

“Oh, yes. If Pemberton decides to go forward with the formal surrender this morning, there’s going to be all kinds of people making a mad dash for the landing—staff officers, couriers, reporters, sutlers—every one of them mad to spread the news. I want to be sure to get comfortable accommodations aboard.”

“It’s a true shame you cannot stay to witness the surrender, Lieutenant. It will be a truly historic moment.”

“I would have preferred it. But, alas, General Thomas is absolutely insistent I report immediately. That fool Rosecrans is at long last beginning to move the Army of the Cumberland against General Bragg and his men. Thomas is too good a subordinate to criticize his commander, especially in a telegram, but reading between the lines, you can clearly see he thinks Rosecrans will be reckless and stumble into some sort of trap. He is able enough to know quick, accurate scouting is going to be essential as Old Rosie moves south. I am complemented he thinks highly enough of me to demand me by name.”

“It sounds as if you truly respect General Thomas. Praise for a high-ranking officer is something I’ve not heard from you.”

“Sir, he’s the only one of Rosecrans’s three corps commanders who is worth a damn. Albeit, Rosie himself isn’t worth much himself: an excitable man who stays up most nights discussing Popery with his staff, if you will. He would do better to study maps of Tennessee. If Bragg hits him unexpectedly, he’ll skedaddle, and be glad he has George Thomas. The man may be slow, but he cannot be surprised or panicked. If attacked, he will stand like a rock. Like a rock!” Bierce caught himself; praising a general, even one deserving, did not fit with the image he liked to project. “Nevertheless, it’s not certain Pemberton will surrender. He is to send his final acceptance early this morning, but the damn feather-brained fool may decide the honor of the Confederacy requires his army to starve to the last man.”

Both peered toward the noise of two shadowy figures as they approached the campfire.

The light revealed one of them: Alphonso Clay, uniform clean, boots polished to a shine, carefully shaved. Both men wondered for the hundredth time how the captain maintained such an immaculate personage in the filthy confusion of an army camp.

It took a moment to recognize the other figure as Andrew McFeely. Heavy bandages had been wrapped around his head, from under the jaw to the stained wad covering the left side of his head and over the top to meet again under the jaw. He leaned heavily on a walking stick, a wee bit wobbly, and the left side of his face twisted upward into a permanent grimace, a consequence of forming scar tissue drawing toward where his ear had been. He was an unpleasant sight in the flickering light, but nowhere near as hideous as some survivors of this terrible war, whose mutilations were ghastly.

Somewhat shocked, Bierce gave Clay a mocking salute. “Captain, I didn’t think you’d be saying goodbye, and after all we have meant to each other.” He bowed slightly to the pitiful McFeely, his ironic prose dropping instantly. “Mr. McFeely, I am glad to see you. But should you be up and about? That wound you suffered was nasty in the extreme.”

“I dinna hear ya well,” came the response in a strong voice, contradicting his weak form. “Ya must be speakin’ to me right ear. Surgeon said, not only did that bastard’s gun cost me outside ear, but the part inside that hears.” McFeely stumbled for no reason but caught himself in time with his walking stick. “He thinks the damage to the hearin’ is what’s made me unsteady on me feet; no one rightly knows why.” The Scotsman began to chuckle ruefully.

Being careful to address McFeely’s good ear, Bierce said, “What do you find so funny about your wounds?”

McFeely could still display a pleasant smile, twisted as it was. “I was just thinking, Lieutenant, I endured eighteen months in the Crimea without a scratch, and left soldierin’ so I would never have to see such violence again. And here I am, marked for life, lucky to not have been blown to pieces. The Lord is usually inscrutable, but I think He can safely say He dinna approve of pacifism.”

“I asked Mr. McFeely yesterday if there was anything I could do to show my gratitude for his having saved me from the consequences of my own overconfidence about having Shea under control,” explained Clay. “He simply asked if I could arrange to send him far away. After a few telegrams, I was able to get him a temporary appointment as a civilian courier. He is to report to Fort Leavenworth, where a small army column is assembling. They will stop at various forts along the way, delivering payroll and mail, until they make their last stop at Fort Tejon in California. California is far from the war, and a place where people find it easy to make a new start. I tried to talk him into waiting until he was stronger, but he is adamant about being on his way now.”

“There be nothing holding me here,” replied McFeely with force. “It’s away I be wanting.”

“I would have thought you would want to stay for a spell and console the widow Shea.” Clay carefully maintained his neutral face. “She may not yet have been told of her husband’s death, although she undoubtedly suspects something by now. As there will never be an official report on the matter, she might appreciate an old family friend holding her hand.” Clay gave no sign he was thinking of how he, Bierce, Parker, and Lot had carried Amos Shea’s body through the darkness and thrown it into the river, watching the current swirl it away from the bank and down to areas where; even if recovered, it would not be recognized.

“I dinna want to see her!” exclaimed McFeely, refusing eye contact with Clay. “I be wanting her to remember me as I was, not as I am. I wasn’t bonny to start, and now I might scare little Zachary. Besides, there be other reasons, and that’s all I be saying.”

Clay stared silently at him for a long moment, then nodded his head. “Very well. What do you intend to do when you get to California?”

“Ach, odd jobs here and there; enough to keep me in food and a wee drop now and again. I’ll be trying to forget what man can do to man. Funny, I joined the army rather than go to work in my late father’s dry goods store in Edinburgh, thinking I would die of boredom there. Now, I see the pleasure of boredom.”

“Why not set up a dry goods store in Los Angeles—that town not far from Fort Tejon?” asked Bierce. “I hear it’s a sleepy little place just beginning to grow; might be a smart thing to get in on the ground floor.”

“Mon, it would take at least $500 to start up such a store, and where is a tramp like me to find such money? And, there is little point in striving to be a success when … ach, never mind.”

“Regardless, I want you to stay in touch with my estate manager at Dignitas,” said Clay. “Depending on what I learn about this John Rockefeller, I may wish to start expanding into this petroleum thing, and I hear Southern California has places where it literally bubbles to the surface. If things become promising, the Clay estate would be prepared to pay you handsomely to represent our interests. With it taking weeks to communicate back and forth, having an honest man on the spot would be invaluable.”

“Wouldn’t you wish me to write you directly?” asked McFeely, most gratefully.

“It will be hard to reliably contact me for some time to come. It is best for you to communicate directly with the estate manager.

“In any case, Mr. McFeely, Lieutenant Bierce, you had best be on your way if you want to secure acceptable accommodations on the St. Louis boat.” Clay bowed slightly but did not offer to shake hands. “Sergeant Lot, I understand you would like to help them settle in. Feel free to stay with them until the last moment. I have several matters to attend to this morning and will not require your services for some hours.”

Lot saluted. “Thank you, Captain.”

Bierce and McFeely muttered their goodbyes. Then the trio trudged off into the darkness, Bierce and Lot in the front with the luggage, McFeely limping behind. Clay stared after them long after they had gone. “Goodbye, my friend. I will be sorry to grieve you.”

“Why is that?” came a voice from behind him. Clay whirled around. Beyond the circle of illumination thrown by the fire, all he could see was a small glowing red circle, which advanced toward the fire. The source, a shadowy figure, developed into Ulysses Grant, holding a smoldering cigar.

“General Grant, I was not aware of your presence,” replied Clay smoothly, trying to cover up the fact he had actually been startled. “What brings you out so early?”

Grant took a final puff on the stub of his cigar and threw it into the fire. “Never went to sleep. Pounding headache wouldn’t let me. Thinking that doggone fool, Pemberton, might go back on his promise to formally surrender this morning weighs on me. If he doesn’t, I will have to starve the whole army in Vicksburg to death, along with all civilians. That is a heavy burden, Captain. Too heavy to let a soul sleep without—well, just too heavy to let a soul sleep.

“Rawlins was feeling poorly, so I sent him and Parker off to get what rest they could and have been wandering about, thinking on a number of things. Saw you folks gathered here but didn’t want to interrupt your farewells. I had already given my thanks to Mr. McFeely during his recovery, and I don’t particularly want to have much to do with Lieutenant Bierce.”

“Sir, do you really think Pemberton would be so mad as to renege on the agreement he reached with you under the flag of truce? Blockade or no, word must have gotten through to him that Lee has wrecked his army insanely assaulting General Meade’s dug-in forces in Pennsylvania. If Meade moves smartly, this war could be over by winter.”

Grant thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and began to jingle loose change and such. “Pemberton was never exactly the fastest rabbit in the forest, so maybe he doesn’t see how hopeless it is. Besides, he may have been born a Northerner, but he is a true Southerner now.

“Clay, you are Union-loyal, but you are a Southern aristocrat at heart. Would you surrender while there was fight left in you, even if all deemed hopeless?”

Clay analyzed his answer for several heartbeats. “I suppose not, sir.”

Grant began to search his tunic pockets until he eventually produced a cigar. “Anyway, while I’m here, might as well discuss certain matters with you. I’ve telegraphed General Meigs, asking him to assign you and Sergeant Lot permanently to my staff, and he has agreed to do so.” The general fidgeted with the unlit cigar, watching Clay for his reaction.

Clay was quite taken aback. “Sir, this was, um, unexpected. I do not know what I could possibly offer you. There are no vacancies in your official staff, and now that the traitor has been eliminated, there is no function for us.”

“If only hoping could make it so. I’d truly like to believe McClernand was one of a kind. But somehow, I suspect there are others who could do this country injury in our own armies. Before McClernand, I wouldn’t have believed it. After him …” He waggled his head back and forth. “I can’t leave this kind of thing in the hands of the Provost or the Judge Advocate. Too great a risk it would get out, become known to the army and the country. Country is tearing itself apart as is. If the McClernand matter, or anything like it, gets out, it would be a fatal blow to this country, and to the only real hope for a truly free people the world has ever seen. I think we can trust everyone who was in the room when you—They can be trusted.

“But even good people sometimes make mistakes; sometimes leaves things laying around; sometimes sees things by accident.” He’d been rummaging through every pocket on himself as he spoke. “Darn, must’ve left my matches behind.” Grant produced a folded document from an inside pocket; Clay recognized it instantly as McClernand’s signed confession. The general bent toward the fire and stuck the end of the paper into the flames, where it spontaneously ignited. Bringing the burning end up to the cigar he’d inserted in his mouth, Grant puffed vigorously until the tobacco began to smolder, and then he tossed the remainder of the document into the campfire.

“General!” exclaimed Clay, lunging for the precious paper, but it was too late. It was already curling into blackened ash.

“Could never dare publicize that; would do more harm than a fool like McClernand could do. Course, McClernand doesn’t know and will never suspect, the paper no longer exists. He would never give a thought to the good of the country, so he cannot imagine doing what I’ve just done.”

Clay stared at the fire for a moment. “Be that as it may, sir, I must respectfully decline your offer. General Meigs and I have unfinished business, unless, of course, you would care to save everyone time and delay and proceed on that business for him. In any event, the resolution of that business would render it impossible for me to serve on your staff.”

“Yes, the resolution of the business …” There was something between loathing and impatience in his voice. “You know, Meigs forwarded to me two newspaper accounts, without any explanation. The first one discusses how a trust fund was established for the widow and four girls John Brown left behind. Collections were not going well until an anonymous contribution arrived, in care of a Louisville bank, for $12,500. By itself, it should secure the family from want, if used carefully. On top of that, Mrs. Brown said she was most grateful for the fact the contribution was accompanied by a family photograph, one she thought lost forever. She has pleaded for the benefactor to identify himself, so she may thank him for both the money and the heirloom, but to date, he has not come forward.”

Clay was stone-faced.

“The second account Meigs sent me was an article from a newspaper in New Orleans: one so hostile to the military government, it is a wonder General Banks allowed it to publish. It urged the good citizens of Louisiana to come forward and contribute to a trust being formed for the Devereaux children, orphaned by a Union monster who walks unpunished. It encouraged the well-to-do to follow the example of an anonymous Confederate sympathizer who forwarded $7,500.”

Clay moved not a muscle.

“You know, at West Point, the only subject I really liked was mathematics. It has a comforting certainty in a world where everything is constantly shifting. Thought at one time I might become a teacher of mathematics at some small college, but somehow that never worked out.

“General Meigs is a pretty fair mathematician, and I’m sure he noted, like I did, the amounts were multiples of $2,500. In the case of Brown, the four children and the widow made five; multiply that by $2,500, and you have $12,500. Same with the Devereaux contribution.”

“There were only two orphans there,” said Clay, clearing his strained voice.

“There was the child who died in the fire; that makes three.” Grant was almost enjoying toying with the impenetrable Clay.

Clay refused to respond.

“Can’t buy your way out of responsibility for what you do, and I don’t just mean money. Your death will not bring that child back to life, or the parents of those orphans.”

“I would not imagine so,” Clay replied barely above a whisper. “It is difficult to endure a number of things, of which my responsibility for New Orleans is only one.”

“Don’t talk to me of how hard responsibility is! Don’t you dare!” exclaimed Grant with fire in his eyes. “You feel responsible for the deaths at the Devereaux plantation, and even of the slave woman who took her own life!”

Clay’s head snapped up. He could not imagine how the general came to know anything about Arabella.

“So, you can’t stand the burden of guilt, huh?” Grant’s anger flared as he walked to and fro in front of the fire, never taking his eyes off Clay. “And you would like to tell me about it? Do you know how many men’s blood are on my hands? Do you? Well, I don’t! How’s that for guilt, Captain Clay? I’ve sent decent young fellers to their deaths and had other decent young fellers killed, and there are so many of them I could not learn all their names if I tried! Fellers with wives, children, parents; fellers with dreams, hopes, ambitions. I guess a lot of generals never think of that; it’s my curse I do. You’ve come to the wrong shop to peddle your guilt, Captain Clay.”

“Sir, if you feel that way, how can you continue to do what you do?”

Grant stopped to think and fiddle with his cigar, then tilted his head in Clay’s direction. “Because without me, I fear this war may be lost. And if lost, all hope for a better world is gone forever. It’s beyond patriotism, Clay. America is the only hope for the people of the whole world. If we fail, slavery will be the lot of mankind until judgment day: not just the slavery of the black man, but the slavery of the peasant to the aristocrat, the slavery of the good man to the tyrant. I must go on, so long as I can be of use in the cause; and you must go on so long as you can be of use to me.”

Grant took a long pull on his cigar, then coughed and looked at it, making a face. “Doggone things will be the death of me; it must have gone out. Suppose it’s better than other things.” Reaching into his inner tunic pocket, Grant came out with another folded document, Clay’s own confession. Before the captain could respond, the general thrust the end into the campfire, where it ignited immediately. Stunned, Clay watched Grant apply the burning end to his cigar, and throw the flaming remnant back into the fire.

Clay took a moment to speak. “Sir, you should not have done that. It requires me to go to the trouble of writing the document again.”

“Write it as many times as you want, Captain. I will always have more cigars. General Meigs and I have reached an understanding. There will be no court martial, at least while hostilities continue. Afterwards, no one is going to be looking to try you. But if you are bound and determined to hang, then you will have your wish. But until then, you will serve this country by serving me.

“Since we have that out of the way, there is just one thing I would like to know concerning the events of the other night.” He took a long, contemplative pull on his cigar, expelled the smoke, staring directly into Clay’s eyes. “Just who did shoot Lieutenant John Brown?”

Clay could not believe his ears and took a moment before responding. “I believe that was made clear, sir. General McClernand felt Lieutenant Brown was getting too close to the truth and ordered his minion Shea to arrange the murder.”

“Captain Clay, please remember this; I can be wrong, and I can make mistakes, but I am not stupid. The shot that killed Brown was fired by a superb marksman: two hundred yards or so, by your own account. I’m surprised none of my other staff noted the squinty lines around Shea’s eyes, the sure sign of the nearsighted. That’s why he carried a shotgun, I imagine—to make up for his poor eyesight. Out of character for a scout to carry a short-ranged weapon.”

“There could be other explanations, sir,” responded Clay slowly.

“And then, of course, there was your own wound,” carried on Grant, as if Clay had not spoken. “Only one piece of buckshot hit you, from a load fired from only fifteen paces away; darn-near missed you altogether. He’d been waiting to see me backlit in the entrance to the tent, where even a nearsighted man could hardly miss with a shotgun, but when he heard you shouting from the raining dark, surprise and his bad sight saved your life. So, I ask again, Captain Clay, who shot Lieutenant Brown?”

Clay stood as frozen as a statue for nearly a full minute. Then, he said formally, “General Grant, a matter of honor prohibits me from imparting that information to you. Nevertheless, you have my word, as a gentleman, the killer will be of no further threat to the United States or its armies.”

Grant stared levelly at Clay for a long moment before saying, “You doggone Southerners and your honor. You are more obsessed with the form of decency instead of its reality.” The general sighed and began to massage his temples. “Very well, I guess I owe you this secret for unmasking the traitor, and for saving my life. It’s starting to get light. I best get back to headquarters, to be ready for whatever Pemberton has in mind. Wish this doggone headache would go away. We’ll talk later, Clay.” Grant slouched off into the predawn light.

Clay watched him go, a blankness to his eyes that belied his thoughts.

Amelia Shea sat hunched over the table, eyes red, her crude breakfast untouched, unmindful to the quiet sobbing of her son Zachary. Her head jerked up at the sound of approaching hoof beats, followed by the faint rustling of a horse being tied to a hitching post. Joy spread over her face, and she began to rise. But instead of who she expected, the small, neat figure of Alphonso Clay came through the door. Joy fled, and she collapsed back into her plank chair. “It’s you,” she said, voice surly and dejected at the same time. “What kin I do for you, Captain?”

Clay glared at the seated woman, lips curled in faint disgust. “Several things, Mrs. Shea. Let us take them in order.” He walked over to the seated figure of Zachary Shea. “Child, did you know your Uncle Andy is leaving this morning from the steamboat dock?”

“Uncle Andy’s leaving?” the boy asked, even more dejected than before. “When’s he comin’ back?”

“Not for a long time,” answered Clay, an unaccustomed tenderness in his voice. “He is going to California, and that is very, very far away. Do you know the path to the wharfs?”

“Sure. Not much more than a mile from here.”

“Then why don’t you go on down to see him off? Ask any of the sentries for the nine o’clock boat.” He handed the child a piece of paper. “Here is a pass, should any of them give you trouble. Tell them you are just seeing off a relative.”

“Ma, is it all right with you?”

“Guess so,” said Amelia in a monotone. “Come straight back when Andrew—when the boat leaves.” The child got up and pattered out the door, clueless, making haste to see his beloved uncle. Clay watched him go, then strode over to the table where Amelia remained seated, lost in some private misery.

“The child seems upset,” he said, remaining standing.

“His pa ain’t been home in a long time. Amos is a hard man, but Zachary loves his pa.”

“Indeed, he does, but perhaps not in the way either you or he thinks. Tell me, does he know Andrew McFeely is his real father?”

The tall, thin woman leaped to her feet and glared at Clay. “That’s a goddamn lie, you Yankee bastard!”

“Of course, one wonders whether McFeely himself knows, although he certainly suspects.” Clay ignored the woman’s curse. “The few times I have seen them together, one only had to observe them: the way he gazed at the child. And besides, there is the matter of the shape of the child’s ear. It is very similar to McFeely’s, but nothing like your late husband’s.”

Her blue eyes widened with shock. “Late?” was the single word she managed to choke out.

“Yes, Mrs. Shea, I must inform you, your husband is dead. I discovered his treason, you see, and shot him.”

The deflated woman landed in her chair, barely.

Clay’s informal voice melodiously went on, “I shot him low in the belly and watched him die. It took a long time, and he was in considerable pain, which I must say gave me much satisfaction to witness. After the traitor squealed his last, I drug him by his heels down to the Mississippi and threw him in for the fish and alligators to nibble; no soil in this country is vile enough to warrant holding such a swine.”

With a scream that would have done justice to a leaping puma, Amelia snatched a bread knife, knocked the table out of her way, and lunged at Clay. Deftly, the small captain dodged her knife, grabbed the wrist holding the weapon in a grip of iron, and slammed it against the wall. With a howl, she dropped it.

Then in a motion, almost too fast to follow, Clay struck her in the face with such force she staggered to the opposite wall of cabin, hit it hard, and fell to a sitting position, blood flowing from a split lip.

Stepping delicately around the mess from the overturned table, he grabbed one of her loose-fitting boots and tugged mightily, revealing a small foot encased in an Indian moccasin.

“It is as I thought,” commented Clay to the dazed woman simmering with animalistic fury. “I noted, when I first met you, the small size of your hands.” He stood back, tossed the boot aside, and studied her hands and feet. “I had seen child-size moccasin prints all over the spot from where the shot that killed Lieutenant Brown was fired. The fact your feet were probably proportionately small, along with your apparent Indian blood, set an interesting chain of thought going through my mind. It was really quite clever of you to always wear only the Indian footgear when engaged in your assassinations. How convenient to blame the red man for violence! Tell me; was that your idea, or your late husband’s?”

“It were mine,” came the mumbled response.

“I thought that likely. I rather suspected you would show more animal cunning than the dim-witted Amos. However, it was Amos that first drew you into this work, wasn’t it?”

Seeing nowhere to run nor anywhere to hide, the cornered woman confided, “He came back from a horse-tradin’ visit to the camp of the 13th Corps all excited-like, sayin’ there was a big general there who saw the justice of our cause an’ would pay us big for helping him. Don’t rightly know how Amos met him.”

“Ah, Amos made the deals, and you did the killing. What a pretty little family you were.”

“Amos wouldn’ a had me in on it ’cept his eyes were so poorly. Sides, we were bein’ patriots. That Union general said he wanted Grant to look bad by killin’ his scouts an’ makin’ his soldiers scared to go alone in the woods to take a crap. If he paid us to be patriots, what’s wrong with that?”

“If you ask such a question, it is a waste of breath to answer. I will say this much; it was not about the justice of the Confederacy’s cause, at least for you.” Clay strolled over to the crude mantelpiece, where the cheap copy of a Scottish castle rested; he casually picked up the object. “A memento of your short-lived fornication with Andrew McFeely, I am certain. Who else would have given you a Scottish-themed gift? Worthless in monetary terms, but it was as much as his circumstances permitted him to afford, and was a gift from the heart.” Without hesitation, he hurled it to the floor, shattering it into dozens of pieces, spilling the contents. A few coins rolled into corners, but the large mass of green papers remained where the porcelain had broken.

“Quite a sum in greenbacks, Mrs. Shea. Nearly a thousand dollars in the pay of Union scouts you killed: dead men from which you stole. In this valley, the only people with large sums in Federal paper money are the soldiers, since Washington cannot pay them in gold. You did not stop at the money, of course. You stole anything that was valuable, which could be resold, even boots if they were relatively new. It was a mistake to give that pair to McFeely. Tell me, did you just make a gift to a former lover, or did you intend to divert suspicion upon him, knowing even if arrested, he would go to the gallows rather than implicate the woman he loves?”

Arms now wrapped around her knees, Amelia spoke de­jectedly from her place on the floor. “I would never hurt Andy. It’s just, when he got back, his shoes were in pieces, and even though I could get a good price for them boots in Jackson, I hated seein’ him so ragged. He never cared enough about money and things. That’s why—”

“That is why you abandoned him for Amos Shea, the owner of this impressive estate,” said Clay sarcastically. “A handsome man, land of his own: security to trash such as you.” Amelia spun her head away as Clay went on relentlessly. “You did not need long to persuade yourself that you did not love McFeely but were passionate for Shea. It must have been quite a shock when you discovered how heavily mortgaged the property was to the bank in Jackson.”

Amelia snapped her head up sharply but said nothing.

“Yes, Grant ordered all records swept up on our pass through the charming capital of this state. I took the time to examine them recently, which openly disclosed the financial troubles of your husband. So, do not give yourself pious airs of patriotism; you are an assassin for pay.”

“Ah believe in the Confederacy!” declared Amelia. “An’ if ah can make money bein’ patriotic-like, who are you to judge me? A high and mighty traitor to the South, who’s never lacked for any luxury, never mind necessity?” She took a breath and huffed. “Ever felt your stomach against your backbone, Yank? Ever go completely without so kin would have a little something in their stomachs? Well, ah have! So don’t you go a-judging me!”

Clay walked over to where she was planted and stared down at her. Amelia Shea, who was frightened of very little, was terrified. “Yes, I was born to wealth and privilege,” he said. “And yet, the most valuable thing I ever had is now gone and cannot be re­purchased at any price. You had that precious item and discarded it. I would give everything I have, my life itself, for one day, just one hour …” Clay clamped his mouth shut, the muscles in his neck convulsing. Half-turning from Amelia, he staggered to the corner. Supporting himself against the wall with one hand and with the other, he scrabbled his watch out of his pocket, opened the lid, and forced himself to focus on the picture.

From where she sat, Amelia could see the picture of the beautiful mulatto. Hatred overcoming discretion, she exclaimed, “That’s what your precious Union will lead to—white men messin’ with nigger wenches!”

In a blur of motion, Clay whirled and lashed out with his elegant, hand-made boot, catching Amelia in the ribs with such fury, she rolled over twice and lay in a huddled heap on the floor, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out.

Clay visibly quivered all over. Gradually, the motion subsided, and restoring the watch to his pocket, he walked over to where she lay, staring at him with naked hatred, gasping like a fish out of water. “My apologies, Mrs. Shea. My actions were unpardonable. Clays try not to do dishonorable things. Even though you are in no sense a lady, it was provoked by your comment regarding a true lady, I must tender my regrets that I failed to better regulate my actions.

“Now, simply satisfy my curiosity. I believe on the day of Lieutenant Brown’s murder, after situating yourself where you had a clear view of stateroom windows, your husband went aboard Sherman’s boat, to the deck above the level on which Brown could be found and carefully paced off the distances until he was certain he was directly above Brown’s quarters. He gave you time to see him with those excellent eyes of yours, so you would know exactly for which window to aim. Then he knocked loudly on the hull just above the window—I found the slight abrasions he left. Brown, despite his nervousness, would have to approach the window to investigate, and with his head clearly framed by the porthole, the shot would not be too difficult for a superb markswoman such as yourself. That is how it happened, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said reluctantly.

“Yet your idyll of patriotic murder for profit came shortly to an end. It was easy to hate faceless Yankees—to kill them without compunction and congratulate yourself on a job well done. Equally, your husband had not made clear to you the identity of your latest victim. It must have been a rude shock when you found out it was John Brown of Rhode Island, the man who had put paid to the Starry Wisdom child killers. The whole country, North and South, sang his praises, with better reason than any of them knew. Instantly, your targets became more than targets, did they not? Even if they were not national heroes, it began to occur to you they could be decent people at home—respectful sons, loyal husbands, and kind fathers. It became harder to kill them. Back in April, when I first met you and your husband, it was you who fired the shot that so frightened us on the homeward journey.”

“And I missed you,” came the hoarse reply, from a cringing body.

“On the contrary, you hit exactly what you aimed for, which is to say, the branch. Your husband was certain he could continue to play Bierce, who was too cynically contemptuous of your husband to suspect him of such dark dealings, but feared I might be a threat. When we left, he ordered you to kill me but had not counted on you losing your belly for this kind of work. So, you aimed for the branch, correct?”

Amelia Shea bit her tongue.

“Then you told your husband you would no longer kill for him, which made him very angry. That is what led to the bruises you’d sustained the last time I visited this charming domicile, was it not?”

“Amos had a bad temper, but he always got over it.” Changing the subject, she asked, “So, Captain, what are you going to do to me?”

“Directly, nothing. No one knows better than I how hard it would be to get a court martial to accept my conjectures and suppositions, especially if it led to hanging a woman. Furthermore, now that you know that I know, your reluctance to engage in further murder will be reinforced by caution. Regardless, you should suffer some punishment. In my capacity as an officer of the Quartermaster Bureau, I have found a way to inflict that punishment.” From an inner pocket of his tunic, he extracted a folded document and dropped it into Amelia Shea’s shaky hands. “By my order, this property is seized as contraband owned by a disloyal person.”

As Amelia’s eyes widened and jaw dropped, Clay bent and picked up the wad of greenbacks, stuffing them into the side pocket of his tunic. “And this, I will contribute to the Sanitary Commission for the care of wounded Federal soldiers; no better use can be imagined, nor, under the circumstances, more ironic.”

In a low voice, half-pleading, half-threatening, Amelia said, “Captain, you cain’t do this. I don’t care so much for myself, but little Zachary will starve, and there ain’t no one else to look after him.”

“Not necessarily. There are a number of houses of assignation near the camp, set up by enterprising businessmen. I would suggest you offer your services to one of these capitalists. I believe if you tart yourself up properly, you may be able to net a dollar a visit. Perhaps I will call upon you there soon, time permitting. It would be truly entertaining to see just what you will do for money.”

Huddled on the floor, missing one boot, in dire pain, Amelia made a noise not unlike a hissing cat.

Her demise was no concern of Clay’s. “The most delicious irony of all is if you had stayed with Mr. McFeely, undoubtedly, you would both be happier and more prosperous. It is clear, even though he suspects your true nature, he still loves you, as unworthy as you are of that emotion. You see, he was shot in the face by your husband while defending General Grant …”

Amelia gave a small shriek Clay ignored.

“… which will heal, leaving a scar. I have seen far worse, but he feels his slight disfigurement would render him hideous in your eyes, and so he did not come to see you or his son before he left. No doubt, he correctly judges the shallowness of your character. Properly motivated, he will do much better in California. His mooning after you has left him quite unambitious. You see, he is one of those people who cares little for themselves, but much for those whom they love. Perhaps he will fall in love again and open a dry goods store like his late father’s. Of course, it will take him a long time to build up the $500 or so it would take to launch such a business; we can only hope he will meet a woman who will properly motivate him.

“In any event, best move your items out of this hovel quickly, Mrs. Shea. One of the cavalry regiments needs a place to quarter their horses, and I told them they could bring their mounts here this afternoon.” Clay bowed slightly, clicked his heels, and strode out of the house.

Amelia Shea leaned to peer out the open door, through which she could hear the receding sound of Clay’s horse. She leaped to her feet and flung off her other boot, which left her clad in moccasins, allowing her both speed and stealth. She grabbed the Enfield rifle from the corner, the same rifle with which she had killed John Brown and more Federal pickets than she wanted to remember. The rifle was already loaded. Quickly, she extracted a percussion cap from her hiding place in the disheveled kitchen, placed it over the weapon’s nipple, and then launched herself out the door at a full run.

She plunged into the second-growth timber, hair flying, heedless, never breaking stride as she dodged trees and saplings. Knowing the path along which Clay was riding took a big loop through the forest, if she was fast enough, she would reach, by a straight line through the woods, a ledge overlooking the trail before Clay had passed it. She ran as never before, the only thought in her mind, This Yankee monster must die!

She reached the ledge faster than she’d thought, well ahead of Clay, giving her time to catch her breath and establish her firing position. She found a tree with a branch crook: an ideal brace for the Enfield and an unobstructed view of twenty yards of road. By the time she’d steadied her rifle, she could hear the clopping hoof beats of Clay’s horse. Her heart pounding with a combination of rage and excitement, she shifted her left foot slightly, to achieve better balance, and inadvertently kicked a rock—But rocks do not jingle like … metal … She gasped. What she had thought a rock was actually a leather coin purse. About a foot away was a single footprint made by someone wearing an elegant, near-new boot. The jingle from the purse sounded suspiciously like gold coins. In a leap of logic, she knew, with absolute certainty, the purse held $500 in gold.

At that precise moment, Clay and his horse came cantering into her field of vision. She steadied her rifle and prepared for a leading shot, but to her amazement, Clay reined in his horse and came to a dead stop. The impeccable captain peered about—an odd air of contentment on his face. Then, from his pocket, he withdrew his watch, opened it, and admired the contents, the love of his life.

Amelia held off firing, hypnotized by the other-worldly spectacle, acutely aware of the small forest sounds all around her. Time passed; she would never be able to say how much. As it did, Clay pouted, as if impatient, then snapped his head up, and stared directly at her, completely aware of her presence. Instantly, she realized the captain’s eyes were exactly the same shade of blue as her own. His head shifted slightly, and his spectacles caught the morning sun, making his eyes blazes of fire and Clay a demonic creature. Then his head shifted again, and he was simply a man—an exasperated man.

Amelia Shea held her breath and took aim. Without conscious thought, she waited until the interval between her heartbeats to touch the trigger. The English-made rifle kicked against her shoulder, and the explosion was followed by a scream she would have expected to hear from a soul in torment. Triumphantly, she grabbed the purse and held it aloft. Then uttering a yell that spoke partly of victory and partly of pain, she began running, running for the St. Louis boat, running for California, running to the chance for a new beginning for her and her son, running to the best man she had ever known, and she realized now, the only one she had ever truly loved.

Fighting to control his mount, Alphonso Clay’s screams had been reduced to pitiful moans—not of pain, but of inconsolable loss. Amelia’s bullet had struck its intended target … the watch held in his left hand. That hand was now numb, although pain would soon follow. The bullet had passed harmlessly in the space between thumb and forefinger after going through the watch, but the watch itself had exploded into metallic fragments, lacerating his hand in a dozen places. Frantically, Clay scanned the ground, searching for the picture that had graced its inner lid. All he could see was a fragment showing a bit of shoulder and a muslin sleeve.

Clay giggled maniacally: a sound that would have terrified anyone that heard it. The whore, he thought. She was more intelligent than I gave her credit for. Somehow, she knew I wanted her to kill me; death from a sniper’s bullet does not bring the shame of suicide. How did she know the worse thing she could do to me is take Arabella’s image from me and leave me alive? Cracker whore! I still have enough feeling in my left hand to handle the reins. With my right, I can handle the saber. Run where she will, I can ride her down and with one blow … In his mind’s eye, he saw again a round horror sailing through the air, heard the screams of innocent children. His shoulders slumped slightly. He would not do that again, no matter how richly the slut deserved it. He would not leave a child with a memory of such violence. Then Alphonso Clay reluctantly acquiesced. The fates have spoken, he decided. There’ll be no easy, honorable path to rejoin Arabella. He might have to wait until he died of natural causes. And if what he had learned of his German grandmother was true, that might be a very, very long wait.

It was shameful to allow Amelia Shea to escape unpunished, but Clay was now certain she would not be killing Union soldiers again. And besides, McClernand was escaping retribution for causing the deaths of hundreds of his own men.

Very well then, he could serve Grant. There would be much to interest him in the meantime. The work Grant had promised him could prove to be both challenging and vital. And, he thought to himself, fate might yet deliver Nathan Bedford Forrest up to me. Content, Clay was thinking of the attentions he would like to pay to Forrest when off in the distance the booming of cannon brought him back to the present. Both he and his mount startled.

Did this mean Pemberton had launched some suicidal attack? Did this mean General Johnston had somehow managed to launch a surprise assault on the Union trenches? Clay listened carefully. Instead of the ragged massed volleys one heard in combat, these were single artillery shots, evenly spaced at regular intervals.

He spurred his horse into motion, desperate to be with Grant. He strongly suspected that even with the noise of the cannon fire, Grant’s headache had disappeared. The continuous, evenly-spaced shots could only be celebratory, and there was only one thing to celebrate, and that thing meant the beginning of the death of the Confederacy.

Vicksburg had surrendered to General Grant.