9781504078085-5

Chapter Three

“John Brown’s body lies a’oldering in the grave …”

Clay and Lot stood together in the bow of the riverboat as it chugged wheezily toward the western shore of the Mississippi. The side-wheeler’s goal was clearly a series of rickety piers where several nondescript steamers were berthed, with a sporadic leavening of the ugly, deadly ironclads. Near the piers displayed a cluster of tumbledown, unpainted wooden buildings—what remained of the original little river town of Young’s Point, Louisiana. In the muddy acres surrounding them set evenly a sea of army tents. Blue-clad figures, mostly on foot but sometimes on horseback, scurried with apparent randomness, dodging the random lumbering army wagon.

“Not much to look at, is it, Captain?” commented Lot, peering at his friend for confirmation.

Clay responded not, only grimaced slightly, intently studying the approaching chaos as if trying to solve a deceptively difficult equation in mathematics. Clay, who was never very talkative at the best of times, had said little since the incident just outside Cincinnati. A conductor had made some rude remarks about Lot’s ancestry and attempted to eject him from the train. Without speaking a word or blinking, Clay had punched the heavy man in the stomach, rabbit-punched him in the temple as he leaned over retching, and threw him unceremoniously from the train. Sd the train was moving slow at the time, the conductor would undoubtedly recover, so Lot felt he could gloat with a clear conscience, but the incident had depressed Clay, resulting in one of his moody, prolonged silences.

Lot tried again to draw Clay out. “Why do you suppose Grant has his army here? This is the west bank of the Mississippi, and Vicksburg is on the east bank—about ten miles downstream. Doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“Nor to me,” replied Clay, eliminating the awkwardness. “Yet, there must be some reason. You can ignore the nonsense the newspapers say. I don’t know if Grant is a drunk, but so far, he has shown no sign of being a fool. I must confess; it will be intriguing to see what the man is really like, especially after reading all the rubbish the scribblers have been putting out.”

Bumping and scraping, the riverboat slid slowly along one of the piers, then the paddles came to a stop and reversed, killing most of the forward motion, and some soldiers helped the crew with the mooring ropes. Clay and Lot gathered up the large carpetbags containing their few belongings, mainly changes of garments, and were the first of the varied passengers, mostly soldiers of various ranks, to cross the fragile gangway onto the pier.

They just set foot on the pier when the air was split by a booming shout. “Captain Clay! Captain Alphonso Clay!”

Both Clay and Lot looked around, locating the source of the ruckus, a tall, broad-shouldered major cupping his hands around his mouth to magnify the force of his voice.

The two friends went directly to him, saluting formally. “I am Clay. This is Sergeant Lot, who is acting as my personal aide.”

The major returned the salutes. “Ely Parker, staff officer, Army of the Tennessee Headquarters. General Sherman is engaged with General Grant and unable to get away. He asked me to meet you and conduct you to him, so he may speak with you as soon as possible.”

Clay emotionlessly scrutinized the burly major. Parker, a full-blooded Indian, wore an immaculate major’s uniform with easy grace, and his deep, cultured voice, completely without an accent of any kind, indicated a college-educated man.

Parker noticed Clay’s puzzlement but only responded grimly, saying, “Gentlemen, if you will follow me, I will conduct you to General Grant’s tent.”

The three Federal soldiers navigated the muddy byways surrounding the docks, dodging the occasional galloping courier whose horse would splatter mud for yards in every direction.

Clay muttered under his breath as his immaculate boots became encrusted, then asked, “Major, is it always this muddy in these parts?”

Very solemnly, Parker replied, “Oh no, Captain, we’ve had quite a dry spell the last week.” Then more seriously, “You cannot imagine how we have come to despise the mud. An unusually wet winter has developed into an equally wet spring. The rebels have destroyed the dikes in many areas in an effort to impede, forcing us to crowd the army onto scarce dry ground and the levies. General Grant tries to keep the men from dwelling on their discomforts by giving them constant tasks and drills. Even so, morale is not what it should be.”

“Because of the mud, sir?” asked Lot.

Parker hesitated. “That, and the sheer frustration of not being able to come to grips with the enemy.

“Nevertheless, that’s not why you are here. On top of all his other concerns, General Grant is beginning to lose patience with the insane antics of General Sherman’s man Brown. I, too, am losing mine. He’s been locked in a stateroom on Sherman’s riverboat, refusing to open the door for anyone, even demanding his meals be left on the floor in the corridor, and the steward leave the corridor, before opening the door. It is passing strange. He is doing something for Sherman, but I will be damned if I can figure out what it is. General Grant is quite fond of Sherman and indulges him in most things, but I think that is coming to an end. Ah, here we are.”

They had reached a large tent pitched on a relatively dry knoll.

“Leave your bags here with the sentry. I will see they are delivered to wherever we end up quartering you.” Parker nodded to a sentry, threw back a flap, and led his guests into the center of a furious argument. An agitated Sherman was half-shouting, half-pleading with a slightly built, bearded general, as four other officers watched in uncomfortable, quiet respect.

“Damnit Grant, I need more time! I know Brown is acting crazy, but hell, the papers call me crazy, too! You know his reputation. Half the damned country knows what he did back in Providence, even if most don’t know the details.”

“Sherman, I have been patient long enough,” said General Ulysses Grant in a tone as calm as he could muster. “The whole army is beginning to talk about the madman we have on your headquarters boat. Rawlins tells me everywhere he goes he hears the wildest rumors, each more curious than the last, and all concerning what a demented detective could be doing in that stateroom.”

“Grant, you know neither of us has any reason to pay attention to what—” Sherman halted, noting the new arrivals. His baleful, restless eyes opened wide as they lit upon Sergeant Lot. “Son-of-a-bitch! What is that nigger doing in the uniform of the United States?”

Lot looked as if he had been slapped. He’d, of course, heard the epithet many times but did not expect it to be hurled at him by a general in the very army he served. With controlled effort, he did not respond; he simply stiffened his posture and stared straight ahead.

In the embarrassing silence that followed, Clay spoke softly but clearly, “General Sherman, I assume? General, you have insulted a serving noncommissioned officer of the United States. Further, you have insulted my friend. It is obvious manners were not taught to Ohio scrubs, but I assure you they were taught to Kentucky gentlemen. If these were times of peace, and if it were not for the disparity of our ranks, I would know how to deal with such disrespect.”

The horrendous shock in the tent was palpable. Lot touched Clay’s elbow, saying urgently, “It’s nothing, Captain, nothing. I don’t mind, so let it be.”

“Damn you, you pipsqueak bastard!” the enraged Sherman managed to choke out. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“Captain Alphonso Clay, United States Quartermaster Bureau, on detached service, at your disposal for whatever purpose.” The pale blue eyes behind the spectacles blazed. making those in the tent uneasy, for no reason they could easily name.

Grant pulled his beard. “Alphonso Clay … that name’s familiar. Something to do with New Orlea …” he trailed off with the memory of what he’d read, considering the new arrival with a combination of loathing and interest, but perhaps surprisingly, without a trace of fear. Grant was a man of many strong emotions, but fear was not among them. He chastised his favorite general. “Sherman, you were out of line. You knew the day was coming when free Negroes would be allowed in our army. Stanton is authorizing colored regiments for rear-echelon duty. Why not? They can take bullets as well as white men.”

“So can sandbags, and they aren’t half the trouble,” muttered Sherman sullenly.

“Cump, you know what’s right,” said Grant in a low voice, staring at him, waiting.

Sherman eyeballed Grant strangely. More than one person in the tent thought of how a loyal dog would look at a beloved master after an unpleasant command. Then he squared his shoulders, faced Clay and Lot, and said in a surly voice, “I offer my apologies, Captain and … Sergeant. The disrespect was unintentional. There is much on my mind at present.”

Lot replied most respectfully, refusing to make eye contact, “It is nothing, General.”

Clay, on the other hand, said in an even tone, eyes forward, “I accept the apology in the spirit with which it was offered.” The words were perfectly correct, but Sherman had not missed the underlying sarcasm.

“General Sherman told me someone was coming out from Washington on the Brown matter,” Grant spoke directly to Clay in a blatant attempt to diffuse the tension.

“No need for a damn, paper-collar soldier from back East,” said a craggy major general, with a crawling beard high up on his cheekbones and narrow, cold eyes. “Grant, you and Sherman are playing something close to the vest, and I suppose it’s your business, but it’s time to break into that cabin and send the little lunatic off to the nearest Bedlam!”

“General McClernand, perhaps we can keep everyone happy.” There was something cold and distant in Grant’s voice, subtle but unmistakable, indicating that Grant did not care terribly much for him. “Captain Clay is here at the request of Lieutenant Brown, as relayed through Sherman. We will respect his rank, and his duty.” With a nod of his head in the direction of the general, he continued, “Captain Clay, the officer who has just indicated a preference for Western over Eastern soldiers is John McClernand, Commander of the 13th Corps, Army of the Tennessee and my senior corps commander, who commands the army in my absence. General Sherman commands the 15th Corps, while this gentleman is General James McPherson, commander of the 17th Corps.” Grant gestured to the younger, prematurely balding officer to his right. His voice had softened. Clearly, he liked the cheerful McPherson as much as he disliked the morose McClernand. “Major Parker you’ve already met, which only leaves my Chief of Staff, Colonel John Rawlins.” Grant cocked his head to the emaciated Rawlins whose deadly-pale skin and dark, burning eyes gazed at the world with feverish intentness.

Introductions over, Grant let everyone know, “All right, we’ll have Clay go and try to pry Sherman’s man out. Clay, if he won’t come out, I would like you to break down the door and see what ails our nervous lieutenant. Major Parker, show Captain Clay and Sergeant Lot to Sherman’s boat.”

“One thing, General Grant, sir,” said Lot nervously.

“Yes, Sergeant?” Grant looked directly at Lot, who realized there was a subtle but disturbing asymmetry to Grant’s eyes. They were quite uneven. Through some trick of placement, one eye appeared very melancholy, the other fierce and pitiless. Lot wondered briefly if this reflected Grant’s true character, or was simply a coincidence.

“General, General Meigs strictly charged me to place a document directly in your hands. With your permission, I will now do so.” With reluctance, he drew the paper from the inside pocket of his tunic.

Grant took the paper, unfolded it, and read the contents. A quick reader, in less than a minute, he was done. His thoughts illegible, he stared deep in to Clay’s eyes, trying to decipher, to break him, but Clay did not even blink. Grant carefully refolded the document and placed it inside his own tunic. “Captain Clay, we will discuss the contents of this remarkable document at another time, in private. Major Parker, please conduct this gentleman to Lieutenant Brown.”

“Yes, General,” said the tall Indian, saluting smartly. Clay and Lot saluted as well.

As they followed Parker out of the tent, they heard Sherman say, “Back to the matter at hand, Grant. It’s mandatory we pull the army back to Memphis and start over. Take the overland path on east bank of the Mississippi. We’re doing no good here.”

“Sherman, what makes you think we wouldn’t have the same supply-line problems we had last year with Bedford Forrest?” Clay stopped so abruptly Lot nearly ran into him; being so close, he was the only one who heard Clay breath the word “Forrest.” Clay recovered immediately, and the last thing they heard as they left the tent was Grant saying, “What is the point of trying to maintain a supply line with Forrest’s cavalry able to cut it at will?”

As the three churned their way through the muddy paths leading to the docks, Parker made some small talk. “You heard what they’ve been saying about Bedford Forrest. A cold, dangerous cavalry leader, they say he is almost illiterate, yet, oddly, a genius for mounted operations behind our lines. Made millions before the war trading slaves and speculating in real estate, and pays for much of his outfit’s equipment out of his own pocket. Grant was trying to come down the east bank last year, having built up a huge supply depot at Holly Springs, when Forrest came out of nowhere and sacked the whole town, burned everything we could use, shot several of our local supporters, and fled before we could turn around. Grant had to go back to Memphis and come down the west bank of the Mississippi; at least his supplies were safe from Forrest, with the river between us. Of course, now we’re on the wrong side of the river. Grant’s big problem is where and when to cross.” Parker was leading the way and did not notice how Clay’s eyes burned and lips pressed so together they were devoid of color, but Sergeant Lot did, and concealed his unease as best he could.

The three had reached one of the rickety docks and ascended the frail gangway leading to a riverboat that had seen better days.

As they entered a narrow corridor leading to the first-level staterooms, Parker said, “As nearly as I can tell, it has been more than a week since anyone has laid eyes on Brown, except for Sherman, who got into the cabin once or twice to talk to him. It will probably be necessary to …” The major trailed off and came to a halt. A flimsy cabin door stood ajar in front of them, the area around the small knob shattered. “That’s Brown’s room. Looks like someone lost patience before us.”

The three entered the cabin.

A small man in a lieutenant’s uniform lay on the floor, feet to the open porthole, and what was left of his head pulped blood and bone toward the door; the rest coated the walls and floor. Standing over the body, staring at it with calm contemplation, a tall, handsome, sandy-haired lieutenant’s posture and manner were weirdly incongruous with the gruesomeness of the cabin.

Before anyone could react, Clay moved with the shocking speed of a striking rattlesnake, ramming the surprised lieutenant up against the wall of the cabin. Deftly extracting the young officer’s Colt revolver from its holster, he jammed the barrel under the lieutenant’s jaw and cocked it.

“Don’t Alphonso! Don’t!” screamed Lot. “Smell the pistol!”

Clay paused then brought the gun up to his nose. “Quite right, Sergeant. This revolver has not been recently fired.” He lowered the pistol and sniffed again. “No gun has been fired in this room.” Clay questioned the lieutenant without releasing him. “Who are you, sir, and what are you doing in here?”

Parker answered for him, “He is Ambrose Bierce, a mapmaker on loan from the Army of the Cumberland, who arrived here just last month. We have found the local maps to be almost useless. General Grant asked Rosecrans to send us an experienced cartographer.”

“And just what is he doing on this boat?” asked Clay, never taking his eyes off the lieutenant but releasing him.

“I am quartered here,” replied Bierce in a mellow, baritone voice. “They couldn’t find a dry tent for me to share with a fellow officer. I have papers and instruments that do not respond well to moisture. A very disgruntled second lieutenant is now shivering in the sloppy tent, which originally was to be mine.”

“Very well, sir. Can you explain your calm presence in a room with a murdered man?”

Bierce readjusted his uniform. “My cabin is the next one down, so I was all too aware of Lieutenant Brown’s abnormal behavior. In fact, I never saw the man in life, just heard weird comings and goings in the middle of the night. Be that as it may, a few minutes ago, I heard a loud cry, then the sound of a heavy object falling. I came out of my cabin and knocked on the door. Although it really was none of my business, I feared perhaps he’d had some lunatic fit and had done himself an injury. There was no response to my repeated knocking, no sound at all. So thinking he was in need of some help, I put my shoulder to the door. The builder of this boat certainly did not lose any money on its fittings, as the door gave way at the lock as if it were made of paper.” He looked down at the body. “A very curious sight, indeed. At first, I thought he’d shot himself, but I heard no gunshot. And besides, his revolver is still in its holster.”

Clay glared coldly at him. “Very plausible, Lieutenant Bierce, but we all saw you calmly standing over a murdered man—your only reaction to be one of quizzical interest. A very peculiar reaction under the circumstances.”

Bierce sniggered, an odd thing to do in such a grave scene. “Ah, that. I was trying to commit every nuance to memory. Quite unusual. I have seen many men killed by horrific violence in the field of battle but never one in the snugness of his bedroom. I wanted to be certain I could later remember every aspect of this sight.”

Parker, repulsed, asked, “And just why would you wish that, Lieutenant?”

Bierce smiled broadly, bizarre how diabolical a response could be from such a handsome man. “The war will not last forever. Should I live, I intend to earn my bread by writing. Already, I have found this wonderful war a literal gold mine of inspiration for stories, and of unforgettable scenes to put in them. I was in the act of speculating how I might use this incident in a work of fiction at the very moment you saw fit to manhandle me.”

Clay tilted his head in a most distasteful manner. “Wonderful? You find this national catastrophe wonderful?”

Bierce appeared amused at Clay’s question. “Of course, it’s wonderful, Captain. Look at the folly of it, the endless opportunity to view human stupidity and vice at close hand. Look at all those Confederate soldiers who bravely throw away their lives, thinking they are dying for states’ rights and liberty when, in fact, they are protecting the financial interests of the one-in-twenty-five Southerners who own slaves. Look at the ignorant Midwestern farm boys and jabbering immigrants who are nobly sacrificing themselves so industrialists in tall hats can become rich, and corrupt suppliers can buy seaside mansions with the proceeds of rotten salt pork and weevily crackers. And do those farm boys and immigrants care about making the darkies free? They would sooner die than live next door to one. Look at the women on both sides who encourage their men folk to run off and make them impoverished widows. Look at it all! Look at it all! Is not it all a wonderful source of material for literature?”

Parker shook his head with disgust. “You can see, Captain Clay, why those who deal with the Lieutenant have taken to calling him “Bitter Bierce.” All I can say is he has the reputation of doing his duty admirably.”

Bierce examined Clay with renewed interest. “Captain Clay? Captain Alphonso Clay? The one who taught the slavers such a lesson at Devereaux plantation? It is a genuine pleasure, Captain.” He extended his hand to Clay who ignored the gesture. “I followed story in the papers, but I would really like the opportunity to hear more of the details—” Bierce stopped midsentence. Behind Clay’s spectacles, his eyes were glowing weirdly, and the pistol in his hand was rotating toward the center of Bierce’s chest.

Gently, Lot touched his friend’s shoulder and calmly said, “Captain, it looks like the Lieutenant had nothing to do with this. Return his revolver to him.”

Clay snapped out of it and silently handed the Colt, butt-first, to the lieutenant, then contemplated the mutilated body on the floor of the cabin. Without looking at Parker, he said, “Major, I would suggest you notify the provost and General Sherman. They will need to know of this immediately. Sergeant Lot and I will stay with the body, to see what can be learned while we wait.”

“Captain, I must confess, I do not look forward to that. General Sherman was quite fond of Lieutenant Brown.”

“That is the first thing I have heard of General Sherman that impresses me,” said Clay, his eyes glued to the corpse.

Gently, Lot touched his friend’s shoulder and calmly said, “Captain, it looks like the Lieutenant had nothing to do with this. Return his revolver to him.”

“Captain, I must confess, I do not look forward to that. General Sherman was quite fond of Lieutenant Brown.”

“That is the first thing I have heard of General Sherman that impresses me,” said Clay, his eyes glued to the corpse.

Parker threw the captain a scandalized glance, but saying nothing more, he left the cabin.

“Five minutes, Jeremiah! Five minutes! If I had been five minutes earlier, I might have prevented this,” said Clay in a low voice. “On such small things does human fate ride—a boat is slow leaving the dock, a train is delayed briefly on a siding, and a good human being dies …” Back in the moment, he held up his forefinger. “Now, let us see if we can determine how this happened.”

“Do you mind if I stay to observe?” asked Bierce with sordid eagerness in his voice.

“Not only do I not mind, I would insist you stay,” said Clay coldly, squatting on his haunches, intently scrutinizing what was left of Brown.

“Captain, do you suppose there is any chance this is not Brown?” asked Lot. “The features are so mutilated, it could be almost anybody.”

Clay paused. “Quite a valid question, Sergeant, but I am afraid there can be no doubt. The size of the man is the same I knew. And besides, I remember noting the ear.

“Some years ago, I read a paper by a German researcher citing certain characteristics of the human body that are truly individualistic. He theorized every human being had a specific structure to his ear. More subtlety, he suggested the patterns of skin ridges on fingertips are unique and might be of use in tracking criminals who try to change their identities to evade capture. I am not sure patterns on fingers will ever be a practical method of identification. But since reading the paper, I have been observing people’s ears, and, to my surprise, the theory is profoundly valid. So far, I have not seen one I could not have distinguished from anyone else. I remember the particular patterns of cartilage in Brown’s ears. Much as I regret saying it, there is no question: this is John Brown of Providence.”

Clay stood and examined the porthole from across the room. “No one else in the room, the door locked, and no weapon fired within the room,” he mused aloud. “The bullet must have come through the porthole and struck him in the face—note how he fell backward. He had gone to the window, but why? An accident, or had he heard or seen something drawing him to the porthole? Questions with no obvious answers, Sergeant.” Crossing the small room quickly, he fearlessly peered out the opening, apparently not considering or caring that where one bullet had entered, another might do the same. “No boats or structures nearby, over one hundred yards to the shore, and quite a jumble of trees and brush. The bullet probably passed through his head.” He swiftly shouldered an amused Bierce out of the way and inspected the splattered wall, door, and doorjamb. All at once, Clay exclaimed, “There, Sergeant! See that hole in the jamb? About five feet up? I see the bullet. Please remove it.”

Lot stepped forward, removing a pocketknife from his trousers and began to dig out the bullet. It did not take much effort. The sergeant peered at the flattened lump of lead, then stated, “A rifle bullet, probably from one of the British Enfields the rebels prefer but similar caliber to the one fired by our Springfields. Yet, there is enough of a difference that I am pretty sure this came from a Confederate Enfield. Must have been fired from quite a distance, though. The Enfield packs quite a wallop, and this thing was close to spent when it went through Brown, or it would have gone clean through the jamb into the corridor.” He handed the lump of metal to Clay, asking, “I don’t suppose this was just a stray shot that by pure accident killed the man we were about to see?”

With melancholy contemplation, Clay pocketed the deadly fragment. “No. No chance whatsoever. Brown acts like a man in fear of his life, telegraphs a desperate message mentioning treason to Washington, asking especially for me, barricades himself in a room, and is shot to death minutes before I reach him. No, that stretches coincidence far past the breaking point. Let us see what papers or other source evidence of his fears he may have left.”

A few minutes search of the small cabin revealed nothing of relevance. Reluctantly, Clay informed the two men, “I fear we must search the body. Help me, Sergeant.”

Bierce excitedly volunteered, “I can be of help here.”

“No! You shall not touch this man. You just make sure no curiosity seekers get a view through that door. One of your ilk is quite enough.”

“Surprisingly, Captain, I have often thought one like me is more than enough.”

Both Clay and Lot spared the ghoulish Bierce a disgusted look but quickly and gently went through the dead man’s pockets. When they were done, all they had to show were two handkerchiefs, a dog-earned notebook half-filled with cryptic jottings difficult to decipher, three pencil stubs, $27.35 in a combination of greenbacks and coins, and a pocketsize portrait case.

Clay undid the clasp of the case and found a heartbreaking family portrait. John Brown was staring nervously straight into the camera, slick hair parted down the middle. Seated directly in front of him was a petite, blonde woman, who would have been pretty, save for an over-generous nose, and four little girls, two on each side of their mother, varying in age from two to eight.

“I did not know he had a family,” admitted Clay in a low voice. “He never mentioned it. A widow and four orphans. After all he did for his country. People think they know all he did; people are wrong. It wasn’t just a matter of all the children who will now have a chance to grow up and grow old because he fearlessly pursued the rich and powerful. No, the world will never fully realize what they owe this man, and the fact he never realized the full extent of what he had done does not lessen the world’s debt to him.”

Both Bierce and Lot were puzzled by Clay’s enigmatic comments, but only Bierce chose to speak. “Just what do you mean by the world’s debt, Captain? I mean, everyone knows how he put paid to Slaughter and his thuggish child killers. What more is there to know beyond his exposure of Starry Wisdom?”

Clay looked at Bierce with distaste. “Nothing, Lieutenant, nothing. My mind wandered for a moment, is all.”

Just then, Parker came back, followed by Sherman and Rawlins. The wild-eyed Sherman took in the scene in an instant and then did the most surprising thing—he began to cry—not a quiet trickle of tears, not a couple of sobs, but a bawling, howling, cursing stream of grief. He crossed to the cabin’s far wall and punched it repeatedly until his knuckles bled, all the time crying incoherently. The other soldiers in the room exchanged shocked uneasiness. Now they understood how some questioned the sanity of the commander of the 15th Corps.

Gradually the storm subsided, and Sherman noisily blew his nose repeatedly on a handkerchief. Then, yet further astonishing the others in the room, he screamed, “I killed him! Damn me to hell! I killed this man!”

The pale, intense Rawlins was totally taken aback. “General Sherman, you cannot mean that.”

“I believe the general is speaking metaphorically,” replied Clay logically.

“I don’t give a shit what you call it!” Sherman’s spittle flew as he spoke. “I knew there was a traitor—knew the traitor would be desperate—and yet, what did I do? I put this man, this nonprofessional soldier, in harm’s way. Brown was a good man, with a good family, and now he is dead. If it isn’t my fault, whose fault is it?”

“It is the fault of the man who pulled the trigger, and whoever was behind that man,” Clay stated with cold reason. “I was too late to save his life; blame me if you like. Regrets are pointless. But to find his murderer, is to find the traitor he sought. That will at least give some meaning to his death. We owe him nothing less.

“With respect General, your extravagant grief is an indulgence. You are a general whose duty is to place men in positions where they may be killed. I know far better than you what is owed to John Brown. It is insupportable, absolutely insupportable, that this should happen to him, of all men. It is … It is …” Clay’s voice cracked and trailed off as he quickly drew the large pocket watch from his tunic, opened it, and stared intently at it far longer than was necessary to ascertain the time. In the span of less than ten heartbeats, Clay closed the watch, stuck it in his tunic pocket, and spoke as if nothing had happened. For everyone there, time stood still until words proceeded again from his mouth. “The bullet came from outside. If you will excuse Sergeant Lot and myself, we must see what can be learned before evidence is disturbed. I am sure the murderer is long gone, but we may just find something that will lead us to him.”

“Of course, Captain.” Sherman cleared his throat and composed himself. “I will take care of Brown’s body. Dismissed.”

Leading Lot out into the corridor, Clay reflected on the door opening to the outside stairs and the second level of the boat. “Before we go ashore, I want to see up there. Come.”

They shouldered past a growing knot of soldiers and civilians attracted by the commotion surrounding Brown’s cabin. Swiftly ascending the stairs, Clay paced off careful steps along the upper level deck. At a certain spot, he commented, “I believe we are now directly above Brown’s cabin,” then leaned over the rail, listening. Sherman’s distinctive voice could be heard coming from the cabin directly below him.

Tossing his forage cap on the deck, Clay commanded, “I need your help, Sergeant. Hold my legs as I examine the area around Brown’s window.” Lot firmly grasped his booted legs, and Clay leveraged himself over the rail. Showing no doubt in his friend’s hold, Clay hung full-length upside-down. The murmur of voices coming from the open porthole showed no signs the officers inside had any idea Captain Clay was hanging like a bat at rest just outside their window.

Clay thoroughly assessed the wood around the top and sides of the window, running his fingers lightly along the surface. When satisfied, he softly instructed, “I’m done, Sergeant. Help me up.” With some difficulty, Lot pulled Clay back onto the deck. Picking up his forage cap and fitting it snugly on his head, he headed toward the stairs. “Now we will examine the shoreline in direct line to Brown’s window.”

Clay and Lot swiftly descended to the main deck, crossed the gangplank, and gained the shore. At point, Clay turned right and picked his way along the muddy paths and clearings nearby, regularly looking back to see how Brown’s porthole lined up with his position. His destination was unmistakably the dense patch of second-growth trees and bushes he’d spotted from the riverboat.

“Captain, why are you so sure the assassin fired from that patch of trees?” asked Lot as they made their way.

“Simple geometry. The bullet came through a rather small porthole and entered the doorjamb almost directly opposite. The trajectory of the shot creates, roughly, a right angle with the side of the boat. Tracing the imaginary line back indicates to me the shot must have been fired from that patch of wilderness. The fact it is the only place in a crowded camp someone could fire without being clearly seen reinforces my hypothesis.”

“Perhaps no one saw the murderer, but surely someone would have heard the shot.”

“Of course, they heard it, Sergeant, but whoever heard it would not realize its significance. There are over twenty thousand armed soldiers in this immediate area. Sentries could accidentally discharge their weapons, and individual companies engage in target practice all the time.

“Here we are.” They paused at the edge of the little thicket. “Whoever used this firing position was not far back since foliage would interfere with aim. We will investigate the area just opposite the boat, a short ways in. Please walk directly behind me to minimize disturbance of the area. We are looking for boot prints, perhaps used cartridge paper, anything out of the ordinary.”

Blue eyes darting behind his spectacles, Clay cautiously, carefully led the way, scanning the turf and bushes. After a few minutes, passing around trees and bushes, near the very edge of the river, Clay froze. “There, Sergeant! You see? Footprints.”

Lot studied the markings in the muddy soil uncertainly. “Captain, are you sure they have anything to do with this? Whoever made those marks wasn’t wearing boots or brogans. Might have been Indian moccasins. Also, look at the size; those marks belong to a young boy, not a man.”

“Good points, Sergeant. Let’s file this information away in our brains and see where it leads us.” Just then, Clay spied something stuck in the packed grass, a shredded piece of paper; he picked it up between two fingers. “Ah, part of a paper cartridge. We cannot tell the caliber; it’s only a scrap. But without a doubt, this is where the killer stood, regardless of the footprints. You see how it must have been. The assassin chose this point with a clear view of Sherman’s riverboat, and the crook of this small tree made an excellent firing position on which to rest the barrel of his weapon for greater steadiness. There!” Clay virtually leapt at the tree to which he referred. “Look, Jeremiah! Look!” he exclaimed, pointing to the crook of a branch about four feet from the ground. “See the slight abrasions in the bark? This might have been done by some animal, but I am certain it was done by the murderer as he adjusted his aim during a long wait.”

“How do you know the wait was long?”

“Do you see all the blurred footprints just around this tree? Some are no doubt yours, but others are too smeared to tell what kind of foot made them. Point being, someone stood here for a long time. He must have carefully loaded the Enfield right here. He bit off the top of the cardboard cartridge, spat out that bit of paper you saw me recover before pouring the gunpowder down the barrel, ramming the bullet down, using the remainder of the paper cartridge as wadding. A further mystery is how he knew which window to shoot through. The marksman was expertly trained to kill at this distance, but at this range, he could not possibly have identified Brown as Brown. How did he know which porthole, out of the dozen or so facing him, was the one where Brown might show his face? A question with no answer, at least none I care to think about at this moment. Now, from where did the killer come, and where did he go?”

Once again, his eyes glued to the ground, Clay scoured every square foot of the surrounding area. Confounded, he said, “All I see coming or going are your prints. Could the killer be a redskin child? I understand the Confederates have been successfully recruiting Indians to their cause under Chief Stand Watie. Yet, his troops are not known to be active in this area.”

“Just because someone wears Indian moccasins doesn’t make him an Indian.”

“True enough, Sergeant,” Clay agreed, eyebrows scrunched together. “Damn! It is as I feared!” He gestured to a confused patch of muddy ground at the edge of the river. “This is where our trail ends, at least for the time being. A small vessel landed here: either a rowboat or a canoe. The murderer could have come from downriver …” he directed his gaze one way, then another, “… or upriver for that matter, which is officially under Federal control. And, of course, there are bushwhackers and irregulars freely operating behind our lines. They even could have come from across the river, although that is a long haul. We need to make inquiries, but I doubt we’d get anything useful from eyewitnesses; you’ve seen for yourself how many small boats are going back and forth in this vicinity. Alright, back to Sherman’s boat.”

By the time Clay and Lot trod the rickety dock, Brown’s body had been brought out on a canvas stretcher and laid on the forward deck next to an empty oblong crate: one constructed to ship rifles. Sherman was gone. Only Rawlins, Parker, Bierce, and a couple of idle soldiers stood as witnesses. Clay bounded up the gangplank just in time to hear Rawlins give the order to place Brown in the box.

“What are you doing with Lieutenant Brown?” asked Clay in an ominous voice.

“We can’t leave the body lying around,” replied Grant’s pale chief of staff. “Human remains do not do well in here. Sad but necessary, we must get him over to where the burial details are currently working.” He indicated an area on the shore where several soldiers were lowering another rifle box into a muddy hole. “I’m glad for my faith, or otherwise I would despair. Even without combat, we have several burials a day. Brave, patriotic, young farm boys who volunteered to serve their country.” He inhaled deeply through his nose, holding his composure. “If they thought they might die, it was hoped to be gloriously in battle. Most don’t even get that consolation. How glorious is it to die of bloody flux, or malaria, or measles? Measles, in the name of the Lord!” Without warning, Rawlins was racked with a round of coughing, not loudly but deeply and repeatedly. He drew out a handkerchief and coughed several times into it. When the fit passed, he stared intently at the piece of linen as if it were a cryptic message of vast import. As he restored it to his pocket, melancholic relief flitted across his face.

“You are not burying John Brown in a Louisiana riverbank,” said Clay with cold intensity. “That is unacceptable, sir, unacceptable. He shall be sent home. His family should not have the final insult of having nothing to grieve, nothing to bury.”

Parker gently tried to intervene, “I understand your concern, Captain, but the body will not keep without embalming, and the army simply has no money for that.”

Clay glared up at the tall Indian, insulted on Brown’s behalf. “This army must have a number of those parasitic sutlers, those unscrupulous civilians who provide small luxuries at outrageous prices to homesick soldiers, hanging about camp. It is my understanding, at times, one will make available undertaking services for well-to-do officers. Is there such an individual in the area? I shall take it upon myself to pay for this.”

“I know one,” said Bierce unexpectedly, diverting all eyes in his direction. “Paid a visit to him not long ago—thought it would be instructive to see the process. I can take you there, but I must warn you, his services are not inexpensive by any means. Are you sure you can afford them?”

“I assure you, I can afford them,” he said with confidence. “Lieutenant Bierce, I would like you to help me. Major Parker, if you would be kind enough to help Sergeant Lot, the lieutenant, and myself, I think we can handle this matter.”

“Certainly, Captain Clay,” replied Ely Parker. Some majors might have regarded this as beneath their dignity, but Parker was not among them.

Together, they gently lowered Brown’s remains into the rifle box. He was so frail and light, there was no need to call for a wagon. The four easily carried the box the short distance to where a slovenly civilian in filthy clothes stood outside a tent reeking of formaldehyde.

“How much to preserve this officer?” demanded Clay in a peremptory manner as they set the box down.

The gaunt civilian appraised the remains inside the box and rubbed a stubbled chin, pretending to consider the matter. “$200 in paper or $100 in gold.”

It was an outrageous price. Privates received a meager $18 in depreciated greenbacks per month. Nevertheless, Clay did not haggle. Wordlessly, he reached into his tunic and withdrew a leather satchel, from which he removed five gold coins, dropping them ceremoniously, one at a time, into the civilian’s outstretched, filthy hand.

Unable to believe his good fortune, the sutler grinned broadly. “Yes sir, Captain. Pleasure doing business with a real gentleman. I’ll see your officer friend here gets a real smart job. He’ll look handsome enough to marry a month from now; I guarantee it.”

Parker and Lot were repulsed by the ghoulish merchant, knowing Brown hadn’t anything left to make better.

Clay glared at him with an emotion that was hard to define, then drug his eyes away and addressed Parker, “Major, I understand there is a regular, evening steamboat departing for St. Louis from the southernmost pier. Is this information correct?”

“Yes, Captain Clay, in about two hours’ time.”

Clay asked the mortician, “Can you have Lieutenant Brown’s remains delivered to the southernmost pier, without fail, in two hours?”

“Oh, without doubt, sir, without doubt! Best undertaking services to be found in the Army of the Tennessee. You have my word on that!”

“Then please be so good as to do so. Major Parker, please take us to the St. Louis boat. I need to make certain arrangements with its captain.”

Nearing sunset, Parker introduced Clay to the side-wheeler’s skipper, a grizzled but capable man. Clay asked for pen and paper, scribbling out instructions for the captain, authorizing him to obtain the best coffin money could buy for Brown in St. Louis and arrange for its shipment by rail to Rhode Island, billing all costs to his bank in Louisville. He then wrote and sealed a short letter to the Louisville bank, sanctioning them to pay, without question, all bills relating to Brown the captain might submit. Last, but not least, he wrote a long letter to Mrs. John Brown of Providence, allowing no one to catch a glimpse of its contents. He gave this to the captain as well, who gravely promised to see it posted in St. Louis; you could clearly see he’d performed such duties in the past.

With the business concluded, Clay, Lot, Parker, and Bierce stood on the dock, impatiently waiting for the undertaker. The time for the boat to cast off was rapidly approaching, and Clay was heating up by the minute.

Just as the deck hands were about to cast off the ropes, the gaunt civilian galloped up, the rifle box jouncing on the bed of a rickety buckboard drawn by an overworked horse. He greeted the waiting officers gaily. “See Captain, a great job done, and on time.” He jumped down and threw open the box—the wafting odor of embalming fluid nauseating everyone. “Not much I could do for the face, I’m afraid. His missus should have a closed casket service.”

“Thank you for your advice,” snarled Clay, on the verge of losing control.

Oblivious to the blonde captain’s rage, the sutler gestured to some deckhands who unloaded the box and carried it up the gangplank, then down into the hold. Smiling and tipping his hat, he backed off the pier, directing his rig back toward his place of business, clearly cheered by the hope of more such custom.

The deckhands emerged from the hold and quickly threw off the mooring ropes. Slowly the paddles began to turn, and the boat edged away from the dock. Gradually, they gained purchase, the water under them churning with white froth as the vessel headed north. It was then Alphonso Clay began to do the most peculiar thing. He began to sing. The song was the abolitionist anthem “John Brown’s Body,” set to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of The Republic.”

“John Brown’s Body lies a-mouldering in the grave,

John Brown’s body lies a-mouldering in the grave,

John Brown’s Body lies a-mouldering in the grave,

But his soul goes marching on.

Glory, glory hallelujah,

His soul goes marching on.”

Lot, Parker, and Bierce looked uneasily at one another. Clay was singing in a clear, attractive tenor, eyes riveted on the rapidly moving riverboat. It was not just the weirdness of the singing—it was apparent to all: Clay was not with them. None were sure they would like to be exactly where Alphonso Clay was either.

Clay started singing the second verse, and for some reason, which he would never be able to describe, Jeremiah Lot joined in with his own clear tenor.

“He’s gone to be a soldier in the Army of the Lord,

He’s gone to be a soldier in the Army of the Lord,

His soul goes marching on.

Glory, glory hallelujah,

His soul goes marching on.”

As the northern-bound riverboat briefly caught the last rays of the setting sun, the running lamps began to shine. For reasons he would never be able to clearly articulate, Ely Parker added his uncertain baritone to the next verse.

“John Brown’s knapsack is strapped upon his back,

John Brown’s knapsack is strapped upon his back,

His soul goes marching on.

Glory, glory hallelujah,

His soul goes marching on.”

The St. Louis boat was now just a twinkling light in the descending dusk. For the sheer hell of it, an amused Ambrose Bierce joined his unpleasant voice in the final verse.

“John Brown died that the slaves might be free,

John Brown died that the slaves might be free,

His soul goes marching on.

Glory, glory hallelujah,

His soul goes marching on.”

The boat to St. Louis was gone.