Chapter 3

“He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat”

The inadequate, watery morning sunshine filtered feebly through the windows of the Secretary of War’s office, illuminating the faces of men who showed various combinations of exhaustion, despair, rage, and determination.

Edwin Stanton sat at his desk, clutching a still-damp poster announcing $50,000 for the apprehension of John Wilkes Booth. Also offered was $25,000 each for David Herold and John Surratt, making the total reward an unbelievable $100,000—four years’ salary for the President of the United States. Stanton’s people had been busy; the top of the poster was graced with high-quality photographic images of all three men, obtained from diverse sources.

Lieutenant General Ulysses Grant sat in a wing chair to the immediate right of Stanton, fiddling with his curious mechanical cigar-lighter. Normally, Halleck would have sat there. However, the Chief of Staff and his troublesome elbow had been banished to a chair by the window. Halleck had tried to derail Grant’s career early in the war and knew that Grant was aware of that. Halleck was aware it was only a matter of time before he was also banished altogether from Washington to some obscure command. To his own astonishment, he realized that he found the prospect rather attractive.

In a chair to Stanton’s left sat Colonel Lafayette Baker, who was occupied with scowling at Clay and Bierce, who lounged on the sofa in front of Stanton’s desk. Baker was all too aware that the attacks on Lincoln and Seward did not speak well for his stewardship of the capital’s security and was furiously thinking of how he could shift blame, preferably to Clay and Bierce.

“So, let me sum it up for you,” Stanton suddenly announced, his voice surprisingly free of traces of asthma. “We are very sure that Herold and Surratt acted as accomplices with Booth; Herold was identified lounging outside Seward’s house last night by someone who patronized the pharmacy where the bastard worked. And we have confirmed that Surratt was constantly in Booth’s company the last few months; that, combined with the fact that Powell was taken at the boarding house run by Surratt’s mother, pretty much nails his hide to Booth’s ass.”

“Are you certain Atzerodt and Powell are involved?” asked Clay quietly.

The Secretary of War nodded vigorously. “The killer at Seward’s was described as a monstrous, powerful man; you can testify to that yourself. The Provost noticed such a man outside the Surratt boarding house and decided that few could match such a … unique description so closely. Surprisingly, Powell allowed himself to be handcuffed quietly enough. The Provost troopers then ran him by Seward’s place; the young girl went hysterical at the sight of him. Also, Miss Duval has been by the jail and has identified Powell as the man who was trying to murder Seward. That is enough for me. As for George Atzerodt, several witnesses recalled a drunken Deutscher lurking around Vice-President Johnson’s hotel. One of Baker’s men remembered a German with a weakness for alcohol sometimes boarded at Surratt’s and went by to question him. When Atzerodt caught sight of the blue uniform, he started yelling that he hadn’t done anything, even before Baker’s man had a chance to ask a question. They are involved, and they will swing for it.”

“I understand Colonel Baker has arrested Mrs. Surratt and her daughter,” said Bierce. “Is it really necessary to add to a mother’s grief by imprisoning her and her child?”

“We need the son,” growled Baker ominously. “If he has any particle of family feeling, he will surrender in order to free his mother and sister.”

“What if he does not have family feeling?” asked Bierce.

Baker shrugged negligently. “Then a couple more Copperheads hang. Two more or less hardly matter in this war with more than half a million dead.”

“What is the prognosis for the Secretary of State?” asked Halleck, absently scratching his elbow.

“Major Bierce and I paid a brief visit to the Seward home before coming here,” responded Clay. “He is still not entirely out of danger, but he is at least able to sit in a wheelchair and talk for brief periods.”

“Best keep knowledge of Lincoln’s murder from him as long as possible,” said Stanton. “Emotional distress could cause a relapse.”

“I am afraid he already knows,” responded Clay. “When we visited him this morning, Secretary Seward asked to be moved near the window, to catch some fresh air. After a few moments at the window, he whispered, ‘The President is dead.’ Before I could think of how to respond, he added, ‘I can see the flag at the Executive Mansion is at half-mast. Someone is dead; if it is not Lincoln, he would have been here already, to check on my condition.’” Clay saw no reason to add that Seward had then begun to cry.

“Let’s hope that Seward is tough enough so that this does not cause a worsening of his condition,” said Stanton.

“Secretary Seward impresses me as tough enough,” replied Clay quietly.

“What is being done to capture Booth?” Grant asked Stanton in his quiet voice.

“We’ve already traced him northeast into Maryland. Goddamn guards on the road saw two horsemen answering the descriptions given for Booth and Herold ride by bold as brass, and they did nothing to stop them.”

“Couldn’t expect them to,” Halleck suddenly added, scratching his elbow. “No word could have reached them as to the assassination; it would be unjust to blame them.”

Stanton growled something under his breath but did not openly contradict his chief of staff. “Anyway, we have cavalry patrols scouring the Maryland countryside and patrol boats on the Potomac in case they try to slip into Virginia. Unfortunately, there are plenty of Copperheads in both states that would give them shelter. Furthermore, we cannot be sure of their ultimate destination. Are they going to make for Baltimore and try to take ship to Europe? Will they head into the Deep South and try to hide indefinitely? Hell, will they have the guts to try to cross the whole country and make for Mexico? We have to assume any and all of those possibilities. Right now, all we can do is wait until they are sighted.”

“Then what?” asked Bierce.

“If local troops can’t corner them, we will send a flying squad of cavalry after them. Baker?”

The saturnine Baker grimaced as he replied. “I have assembled a reliable force, small enough to move quick, large enough to overcome any likely resistance. I have waiting Captain Edward Doherty and a company of the 16th New York Cavalry. With them will go Luther Baker, a cousin of mine; I trust Luther to make sure that Doherty and his men stay in line. Most importantly, they must not give in to rage and kill the bastard. We need Booth alive, at all costs.”

Clay nodded. “It is unlikely that a vain, shallow theatrical like Booth came up with such a scheme on his own. It is vital that he live to tell us what he knows. Only after we are sure he is empty of information should the gallows be allowed to do its duty.”

The pale, emaciated form of General Rawlins appeared in the doorway. “Excuse the interruption, but there is a visitor for General Grant. Sam, I think you will want to see him.”

Looking irritated, Grant replied, “Well, who is it?”

Rawlins hesitated for a moment, and then said, “James Longstreet.”

Grant seemed genuinely startled. He got up, replacing his cigar lighter in a tunic pocket, and said to the room in general, “Well, if Lee’s second in command wants to see me, I better let him see me.” He began walking to the door but suddenly found his way blocked by Alphonso Clay.

“Sir, with deepest respect, I cannot allow you to meet alone with a high-ranking Confederate officer, not until we know the depth of the conspiracy.”

Grant’s features clouded over. “Doggone it, Clay. Pete Longstreet is one of my oldest friends. He was best man at my wedding. No matter how this war has separated us, he would never do me harm off the battlefield. Now, out of my way.”

Clay did not move. “With respect sir, I cannot.”

“Colonel, do you wish to face a court-martial?”

“If it keeps you from harm, I would count it a small price.”

Grant’s face had reddened, and he seemed about to explode. However, with a visible effort, he reigned in his temper. “Very well, Colonel. You and General Rawlins will be with me while I meet with Pete. Surely the two of you can handle one middle-aged veteran.”

Clay hesitated only a moment before replying, “That is acceptable, sir.”

“Glad to have your approval,” replied Grant in a dryly ironic voice. Turning to the rest of the room, he announced, “Mr. Secretary, gentlemen, please excuse me for a few minutes. I must go see an old friend.”

Grant led Clay and Rawlins into the large outer office where an armed sentry stood, eyeing the visitor suspiciously. James Longstreet was dressed in a neat but threadbare black suit and held a somewhat tattered planter’s hat in his right hand. He wore the clothing with the unconscious unease that those used to uniforms often display in civilian clothes. The formidable warrior whose motto was “Can’t lead from behind” showed nervousness never displayed on the battlefield. He seemed unable to decide how to start.

Grant saved him the trouble by thrusting his hand forward. “Pete, I am glad to see you survived … all this. It has been far too long.” Slowly, the massive Rebel took the much smaller Grant’s hand as Clay tensed.

Longstreet said, “I am glad you survived, too. Not only survived but proved what I told those Goddamn fools—that you were the Yank general from which we had the most to fear.” A deep, rumbling chuckle came from the massive chest, and he added, “Goddamn me, but I wished I had been wrong, and those idiot parade-ground soldiers had been right. I always could tell you had something in you; you did me proud.” Longstreet looked at the disapproving sentry. “Sam, could we take a walk? There are things I would like to discuss, for your ears alone.”

Grant shrugged. “So long as these two go with me. After what happened to Lincoln and Seward, Stanton insists I have nursemaids wherever I go.”

Longstreet focused his beady stare on Clay and Rawlins. “Stanton’s more than likely right. I recognize Rawlins from the newspaper descriptions. However, your colonel has me at a disadvantage.”

“Alphonso Clay,” replied Grant. “He is as discrete as Rawlins, and he has my complete trust.”

Longstreet bowed slightly to each of the officers, hesitating somewhat when he came to Clay. “Well then, shall we take a stroll over to where they will someday finish the Washington Monument?”

“Sounds fine to me,” replied Grant.

The four soldiers were silent until they had left the War Department building and had crossed the street onto the wasteland that was becoming known as the Capitol Mall. For some moments, they stared as they walked at the scattering of massive blocks that would someday come together as a monument to the nation’s founder. Grant was the first to break the silence.

“Pete, I heard how the yellow fever took three of your children, year before last. I’m sorry that … circumstances did not allow me to come to you. If it hadn’t been for the war, I would have.”

Longstreet grunted. “I know, Sam. I know. You were always a good friend.”

“Is your wife … all right?”

“She is a strong one, that lady. Besides, the Lord left us two.” He paused and then said with an odd catch to his voice, “I heard your family thrives. For a while, I resented it. But last year, when I was shot through the throat and had six months on my back to think about things, I realized that I was glad that you would not feel what I felt.”

“You always were a tough bird, Pete,” said Grant, attempting to lighten the mood. “How many times have you been shot now? Two, three? And you are still among the living.”

A rumbling chuckle again came from deep in Longstreet’s chest. “Three times, if you count Mexico. Once through the leg outside Mexico City, once through the arm early in the war, and once through the throat last year. Here I am, good as new, and I understand, you never got so much as a scratch.”

“Came close a couple of times, Pete, but that only counts in horseshoes.” The two old friends chuckled, the tension of their first meeting after the war dispersed. “So,” continued Grant, “why this particular visit? Not that you are not always welcome, wherever I am.”

“Same old Sam, always direct and to the point. Well, it’s about this business with Lincoln and Seward. I know the South is being blamed throughout the North, people saying Southern sympathizers were behind it, which is obviously true. Anyway, hardly any of my boys have headed home yet. I need to know that what … has happened is not going to affect the terms you granted Lee—and that they won’t be bothered none. Furthermore, me and the boys need to know that General Lee will be left alone.”

“I gave my word, Pete. None will be touched, so long as they live in peace and respect the laws of the United States.”

“Johnson and Stanton hate us Rebels. They might just refuse to ratify your terms.”

“If they do, then I resign,” said Grant simply.

Longstreet looked at Grant appraisingly. “And if you do that, the government descends into chaos. I expect you realize you are the most popular man in the North right now and that the Presidency is yours for the asking in ’68.”

Grant nodded. However, the expression on his face was melancholy rather than smug. “I expect you are right, Pete. Johnson will have a heap of trouble getting people to accept him as President; he is going to need my support. In any event, you have my word. Your boys will be left alone. Now, is there anything I can do for you personally? Do you need a loan until you get settled?”

Longstreet chuckled. “It’s going to be tight, Sam, but I’ll manage. Soon as my boys are all on the road, me and the family are off for Georgia, to see what Sherman left of the old plantation.”

“I truly wish it hadn’t come to that,” said Grant solemnly.

“No one wished it, but it did. Anyway, good to see you, Sam. I’m looking forward to seeing you in the Executive Mansion in three years.” The large Rebel chuckled, then suddenly gave Grant a bone-crushing bear-hug. Clay tensed as if to leap, but it was obvious it was a rough but genuine measure of the larger man’s affection.

“Go careful, Sam. The dangers of the battlefield are nothing to those of Washington. Give my best to Julia.”

“Pete, stay with us for the night. You can leave for Virginia tomorrow. Julia would really like to see you.”

Longstreet shook his head slowly, a sad smile on his face. “Not yet, Sam. Too early for that; it would hurt your career. Maybe later.”

“Well then, you go careful yourself. Take care of your family.”

With a wave, Longstreet lumbered off in the direction of the train depot.

Grant stood looking moodily after Longstreet for a long moment, then without a word turned on his heels and began walking back toward the War Department, accompanied after a moment by Clay and Rawlins. When they had reached the steps to the War Department, Grant suddenly stopped and faced them. “Clay, Rawlins, before we go in there, I’ve something for your ears only. You remember that army doctor, Leale, who was at Ford’s?”

Both Clay and Rawlins nodded.

“Well, he came by to see me early this morning. Seems he was afraid some blame might attach to you, Clay, for not stopping Booth. I assured him that none would, which seemed to put his mind at ease. He then went on to say something I thought you should hear. It seems Leale helped during the autopsy they had over at the Smithsonian; strange thing to have, since it was pretty clear how Lincoln died, but you know how doctors are. Anyway, it seems that Lincoln’s heart was diseased. Leale is of the opinion Lincoln had less than a year to live before his ticker gave out on him. Said he wasn’t too surprised; said that very tall, lanky men tend to get bad hearts, though no one knows why.”

Clay thought of the President’s consistent disregard for his own safety. “He must have known, somehow,” Clay murmured, as if to himself. “He must have somehow felt it.”

Grant spent some moments firing up a cigar. Expelling the first puff, he said reflectively, “Wouldn’t surprise me if he had a premonition. Wouldn’t surprise me if he preferred it this way; dying a martyr rather than a sick invalid.”

Clay remembered what Stanton had said, how Lincoln had once shouted at him that when the war was done, it would be the end for him. Solemnly, he replied. “General, I fear you may be right.”

Changing the subject, Grant said to Clay, “When we finally get on the trail of Booth and Herald, I want you and Bierce to be in on it. We need them alive, and I have a funny feeling that they might not make it back here. I would rest easier if you two were on the case. Go back to the hotel and get some rest; I’ll tell Bierce to do the same. When the word comes, I want you both fresh and eager.”

“Yes sir,” said Clay saluting both Grant and his chief of staff. The two senior officers returned the salute and proceeded into the War Department as Clay watched them go. After they had dis­appeared into the building, Clay turned and began walking in the direction of Willard’s. He would follow Grant’s order to go to the hotel, but he suspected he would be getting precious little sleep.

Clay opened his hotel-room door and closed it without bothering to turn up the gaslight. He took a step toward the bed; then, out of the gloom, a fist slammed into his jaw, staggering him backward into the wall. In the gloom, he could make out Teresa Duval standing before him, fists at the ready, eyes watchful, obviously prepared for a brawl.

“That was for the blow in the alley,” she announced, carefully looking for his reaction.

Clay thoughtfully rubbed his jaw; for a woman, Duval had a powerful right. “I deserved that,” he replied quietly. “However, I must object—not to the blow, but to your invasion of my privacy. You have a distressing tendency to come and go in my quarters; if nothing else, it could compromise your reputation.” Clay produced a friction match, struck it with his thumb, and lit the room’s gas jet.

Duval gave one of her silvery, chilling laughs. “Colonel Clay, you do amuse me sometimes. Knowing what you know of me, you still think I give a fig for ‘reputation’?” She stopped laughing and looked appraisingly at Clay. “It is interesting that you would think of my reputation, not your own. Anyway, there are a few matters we need to discuss.”

Clay gestured toward one of the room’s chairs, and Duval gracefully seated herself. Clay then seated himself in the remaining chair, his face showing curiously little expression.

“We should discuss the relationship we now have,” Duval began with brutal directness.

“I cannot marry you,” replied Clay with equally brutal directness. “Despite my inexcusable failure to control … my animal passions, I do not love you, and few conditions contain more misery than a loveless marriage.”

Duval threw her head back and laughed with uncontrolled amusement. Quickly recovering her composure but still smiling broadly, she replied, “Oh, you do indeed love me, although you may not be able to admit it, even to yourself. But let that pass. I ask you, Colonel Clay, have I mentioned a word concerning marriage?”

A look of puzzlement flitted across Clay’s face. “If marriage is not your object, then why did you …” The prudish Clay trailed off without completing the sentence.

Duval laughed again, a quieter, more confidential laugh. “You are fortunate, Colonel Clay, that you have touched something in me I would not have believed was there. You know more about me than any man … alive. Tell, me, what would you have expected me to do with an officer having your wealth and position?”

Slowly, Clay replied, “I would have expected you to have compelled him to marry you. Then, if he proved inconvenient in any way, I would expect his health to take a sudden turn for the worse, and for you to become a grieving, and wealthy, widow.”

Once again, Duval laughed, but this time ruefully. “You see what I mean. No living man understands me like you do. And no living woman understands you like I do. I know the truth of your ancestry. I have read enough of Dr. Dee’s book and your grandfather’s book to guess the truth—a truth that probably no one alive would believe—but me.”

A dangerous stillness came over Clay. “What do you think you know? Who do you think would believe you? And believing what you think you know, why do you sit there, calmly unafraid?”

“Because we are alike, and we both know it, although your precious ‘Clay honor’ makes you loath to admit it. We both feel the thrill of the hunt; we both feel the unspeakable pleasure in the spilling blood. These instincts may come from different … causes, but we feel the same. The only difference is that you are sincerely ashamed of what you are, while I embrace it.”

Clay was now looking at Duval with something akin to horror. “I am nothing like you. No Clay is like you.”

“Really, Colonel? Shall we ask the Deveareux family about that? How about the Confederate raiders in that cabin outside Knoxville? Perhaps we should interview the good people of Columbia, South Carolina for their opinions—those that survived the fire.”

Features trembling with rage, Clay leapt to his feet. Fists clenched at his side, in a voice that had suddenly deepened an octave, Clay growled, “For such statements I would kill …”

“Exactly,” replied Duval, who remained calmly seated in her chair. “And I do admire how you can control such overwhelming rage—most of the time. As do I. We do indeed understand each other.” With the fluidity of a cat, she rose from the chair and faced the short colonel, eye-to-eye. “That is why I will use no wiles to make you marry me. I certainly do not need a piece of paper to justify to myself taking my pleasure with you. You are not one of the easily-manipulated cattle who are our natural prey. We will meet as equals. Perhaps a day may come when we will both want marriage, but when that day comes, it will not be because you want society to bless your liaison with me—or because I want your wealth and position. It will be because we both want it, for itself, and for each other, alone.”

She reached up and gently caressed his cheek with her left hand; then, quick as lightening, she delivered a punch to his stomach with her right. Howling with rage, Clay hooked his right arm around her neck as if to break it, but with a deft movement, she had snaked her right leg behind him. Unbalanced, they both fell onto the room’s bed, where the fight quickly turned into something else.

Out of breath from his dash up the stairs, Ambrose Bierce pounded on the door to Clay’s room. After a slight delay, he heard Clay’s distinctive voice say from behind the door. “Who is there?”

“Clay, it’s me, Bierce! Hurry up! Colonel Baker has received word from Maryland that a doctor has treated a man meeting Booth’s description for a broken leg! We’ve got to get moving, while the trail is hot!”

After a pause he heard Clay murmur, “One moment. I need to dress.”

Bierce frowned; it was not like the fastidious Clay to be lounging around his hotel room in broad daylight in his long johns. Then the penny dropped, and Bierce grinned.

He unashamedly put his ear to the door; over a rustle of clothing, he heard Clay whisper, “I will count on you to watch for developments here in Washington; keep an eye on Colonel Baker if possible.”

Bierce stepped back before Clay opened the door just wide enough for him to slide through the opening and firmly shut it behind him. It was neatly done; Bierce could not catch a glimpse of whatever the room contained.

Casually fastening the top buttons of his blue tunic, Clay asked, “Are Captain Doherty and his men ready?”

“They are just outside the hotel, with a horse for each of us. Hurry; the doctor’s farm is about thirty miles northeast of here, and with luck, we can be there before sunset.”

The two friends swiftly descended the stairs and jogged out the front entrance, where Doherty, about twenty cavalrymen, and a black-suited civilian waited on their horses. Doherty touched his hat, introduced the grimly silent civilian as Colonel Baker’s cousin, and then gestured to the only two horses not carrying a trooper. “Best we could get on short notice, Colonel; they look good enough. With your permission, let’s make tracks.”

“Lead the way, Captain,” Clay responded as he and Bierce smoothly mounted. Doherty spurred his mount into a trot, quickly imitated by the rest of the party; he was too experienced to exhaust his horse with unnecessary galloping, and a trot was fast enough to cover thirty miles before dark.

As they trotted, Clay asked the captain, “What do we know about this doctor?”

Doherty shrugged. “Not much, sir. His name is Samuel Mudd. He apparently only practices medicine on the side; his main business seems to be the tobacco plantation where he lives.”

Clay pondered this for a moment. “He must have suffered severe financial losses when the slaves were freed. It would not be surprising if he were a Southern sympathizer. He might even be in league with Booth.”

“If he is, we’ll get the truth out of him soon enough,” responded Doherty grimly in a gravelly New York accent.

Both officers being absorbed in their conversation, neither noticed the painfully thin figure of Courtney Delapore standing on a street corner beside a medium-sized man dressed wholly in black, who asked, “That colonel beside the captain is Clay?”

Delapore stared after the horsemen and without turning toward his companion replied, “It is. He has more authority than his rank would indicate. I would not be surprised if they are hot on the trail of Booth.” Delapore finally turned to face his companion, an angry yet sad look on his face. In a soft voice that the occasional passerby could not hear, he said “Waite, you put Booth up to murdering Lincoln, didn’t you?”

Colonel Ephraim Waite of the Confederate Secret Service laughed nastily and replied. “What do you think?”

“My God, Waite, what were you thinking? This isn’t gathering information or smuggling supplies; this was cold-blooded murder of an unarmed man in front of his wife! On top of every other consideration, it is useless. The war is over; all you can do is bring dishonor on the South.”

Waite made a disgusted sound. “It is not useless. It is just the first step in snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. Any act, regardless of cost or ‘honor,’ is justified by that goal. Besides, I know something of the rumors surrounding your family and why your ancestor had to leave England for Virginia in 1620. Don’t talk to me about your precious honor.”

Delapore flushed red with anger at the obscure reference to the terrible family scandal. Shame kept him from pursuing that argument. Instead, he replied, “I may have lied to Clay about consciously helping the South, but I did not lie about my refusal to commit acts of violence. You above all know that I only agreed to help on the condition that it was only protecting people from Baker and his minions.”

Waite guffawed. “It is too late to whine about that. I own you, Delapore, own you like a nigger. What do you think Clay, never mind Baker, will do to you if they find out about your connection with Richmond?”

“I knew nothing about the plot against Lincoln,” protested Delapore, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

“Nobody will believe that. Don’t worry. Do as I tell you, and no harm will come to you. You will have the protection of the Confederacy. Even more importantly, you will have the protection of certain friends of mine, friends more secretive and powerful than ever the Confederacy dreamt of being.”

“Who are these friends of yours?” asked Delapore in an uneasy voice.

“No need for you to know right now. When the time comes, you will learn their identity, and I guarantee it will astonish you. Go home and wait for my instructions. I have certain things to do.”

Without saying goodbye, Ephraim Waite strolled down Pennsylvania Avenue, whistling cheerfully a tuneless melody.

The sun was just disappearing beneath the western horizon when the party of horsemen came up to a large, ramshackle farmhouse; even in the light of sunset, it was obvious that repairs and maintenance had been long delayed. A corporal appeared at the door, Spencer carbine at the ready. Seeing the blue uniforms, the soldier visibly relaxed and called over his shoulder. “Lieutenant Betz, Colonel Baker’s men are here!”

A thin, clean-shaven officer appeared at the door. Saluting, he said, “Sirs, Lieutenant Karl Betz, 112th Pennsylvania.”

Clay spoke for the party. “Colonel Alphonso Clay, on General Grant’s staff. These are Major Bierce and Captain Doherty; our civilian companion is Luther Baker who, ah, represents his cousin, Colonel Baker.”

“Your troopers can use the barn round back to take care of your horses; I expect they’re winded. You officers and the … civilian can come in and meet the good doctor.” Betz waited for Baker and the three officers to hand off their horses to various troopers and mount the steps, then led them into the house, telling the soldier with the Spencer, “Keep your guard up, Quinn. The war isn’t quite over in these parts.” He led the new arrivals into a short hallway, but before entering the parlor to the right, he turned and spoke in a soft voice. “I may be wrong, sirs, but I think Mudd is deep into this business.”

“Any particular reason for your opinion?” asked Clay.

The young man shook his head. “I can’t say. He seems to be co-operating, but there is something about him not quite right. Talk to him, and judge for yourselves.” He led the new arrivals into the parlor and made the introductions, “Dr. Mudd, Colonel Clay, Major Bierce, Captain Doherty and Mr. Baker have come up from Washington to hear your story.”

Samuel Mudd sat heavily in a wing chair. He was a middle-aged man with black hair and goatee shot through with grey, face marked by what appeared to be a combination of care and bitterness. His black eyes looked at the visitors intently, with what Clay believed to be ill-concealed hatred. A plump, frightened-looking woman stood to his left, her hand grasping his shoulder. He nodded curtly. “Gentlemen, I have told the young lieutenant all that I know. Must I go through this again?”

“Humor us,” replied Clay, walking over to look down on the doctor and making no move to take one of the several chairs in the room. Clay instinctively knew the advantage conferred upon an interrogator by looming over a witness. The other Federals followed Clay’s example.

“At least allow my wife to go upstairs. The children are alone and are frightened of the Yank … the soldiers.”

Clay’s eyes briefly lost their focus, and he murmured to himself, “The children.” Then slightly shaking his head as if to restore his alertness, he replied, “Of course, Mrs. Mudd may go upstairs.”

“Samuel …” the plump woman started to say.

“Go!” interrupted Mudd with force. She started, looking at him fearfully; Samuel Mudd obviously ruled his house with a rod of iron. Without another sound, she scurried across the floor and disappeared up the stairs.

“Now, repeat for us what you told Lieutenant Betz,” said Clay in a soft, emotionless voice.

“It is as I said. Last night, two men I had never seen before come knocking at my door near midnight. The older one complained of his left leg being broken. I cut away the boot and found he had a clean fracture of the fibula. I splinted it, let he and his companion spend the night, and they rode away this morning. Later in the day, I went into town, and heard for the first time about the assassins being in the neighborhood. I thought that they might be the men who came calling at my house, so I told the first Provost patrol I could find. Lieutenant Betz and his men were sent out, and I’ve been held a prisoner in my own home ever since.”

“Did you recognize either of the two men?” asked Bierce.

“Never seen either in my life,” announced Mudd with emphasis.

“Describe them,” asked Clay.

In an exasperated tone of voice, Mudd replied to Clay. “As I have said before, two men of average height and dark hair, both clean shaven, one about thirty, the other twenty.”

“Did either of them sport a moustache?” asked Baker.

“No, both were clean-shaven.”

“One would expect Booth to have removed his adornment as a simple act of disguise,” murmured Clay. “Still, his appearance is quite distinctive, and he would remain easily recognizable to anyone who knew him even slightly.” Clay paused, and then forcefully asked Mudd, “You are certain you did not recognize the man with the broken leg as Booth?”

The doctor emphatically shook his head. “Of course not! The word had already got around about the assassination. If I had known him, I would have denounced him immediately.”

“Would you now?” asked Bierce in a cynical tone of voice. He gestured to encompass the dilapidated house and the surrounding farm. “Looks like the homestead has seen better days. Must have been quite hard to keep your head above water—especially after Lincoln freed the slaves. You might not have been entirely … hostile to a man who struck down the emancipator.”

Mudd’s features showed a trace of fear for the first time, but only a trace. “It’s no secret folks hereabouts weren’t keen on the Republican cause. That doesn’t make us assassins—or the friends of assassins.”

“I imagine you go frequently to Washington,” said Clay suddenly. “It is only thirty miles or so.”

“From time to time,” replied Mudd with a puzzled frown. “Get most of what I need from the crossroads store.”

“Still, you probably cannot get everything you need there,” continued Clay. “A man with your farming commitments, especially a man with a medical practice on the side, would need to make a trip now and again to a large city, and Washington is much closer than Baltimore.”

“I suppose I go into town once a month or so,” came the grudging response. Mudd was not unintelligent, and he suspected where this line of questioning was leading.

“You are an educated man, Dr. Mudd,” said Bierce. “Two college degrees. Living in Maryland tobacco country must leave you starved for intellectual entertainment.”

“I have my books and my family. That is enough.”

“Come sir,” continued Bierce. “I am sure that on your trips to the city you are unable to resist the lure of cultural stimulation. The Library of Congress, the Smithsonian … the theaters.”

“Of course, my family and I give ourselves an occasional treat.” It might have been the warm humidity of the room that caused tiny beads of sweat to break out on Mudd’s forehead.

“But the theater,” continued Bierce. “Ah, the theater. Shakespeare especially. An educated man like you must enjoy viewing a good performance of Shakespeare. Still, good performances are hard to come by. Very few actors can do the Bard true justice. However, there is one, one who has done Shakespeare repeatedly in Washington. A very skilled actor, with a very distinctive appearance. It seems unlikely that someone would forget that actor, once having seen him.”

Mudd said nothing; he could not quite meet Bierce’s amused gaze.

“You knew,” said Clay in a quiet, almost conversational voice. “You knew it was Booth. You had already heard Booth was wanted for the murder of the President. And yet, you attended to his wound and sent him on his way, undoubtedly with your best wishes for a job well done.”

“I swear, I did not recognize him as Booth,” replied the doctor in a high voice. “I mean, his moustache was shaved …”

Like a rattlesnake striking, Clay lunged forward and backhanded Mudd across the face with such force that he tipped over, chair and all, crying out as his head struck the wooden floor. Bierce and Doherty each grabbed one of Clay’s arms, while Baker shouted “Clay, don’t kill that traitor! He may be able to lead us to Booth. Cousin Lafayette wants part of the reward and will have my hide if we lose the assassin.”

With a burst of furious motion, Clay shook off Bierce and Doherty, grabbed Mudd by his shirtfront, and rammed him against the wall, the doctor’s feet not touching the ground. “I will not kill this piece of offal,” commented Clay in his conversational voice. “However, if he does not tell me where Booth has gone, he will wish he were dead.”

“I don’t know!” stammered Mudd.

“Pity. I am a hard man to convince.” Clay kneed Mudd in the groin, to the utter shock of the other officers, who had never imagined the cultivated-appearing Clay could behave thus.

“Stop!” came a piercing female wail. All froze and looked to the top of the stairs where a wild-eyed, weeping Mrs. Mudd stood, flanked by a boy and a girl who fearfully clutched her skirts. “Please stop! Don’t hurt Samuel any more. I saw which way they went. I will tell you. Only please stop hurting him, in the name of God!”

“Don’t tell … the … bastards … anything,” slurred Mudd, almost semi-conscious from the pain.

“I don’t care what happens to Booth!” screamed Mrs. Mudd, more to her husband than the Federal officers. “He murdered a man in front of his wife! He’s not going to make another widow in this house!” She turned toward Clay and spoke in a more normal voice that was still ragged with fear. “They rode off on the main road to the southwest; I could just tell they then turned on a side-road going due south. There is nothing especial in that direction, so they could only be intending to reach the Potomac and somehow cross the river into Virginia. I have no idea what they intend after that, nor does Samuel. I swear on my hope of salvation before God that neither he nor I know anything else that could help you.”

Clay looked at her for a long moment, then released his grip on Mudd, who slid down the wall to a sitting position. Clay continued to look for nearly a full minute at the tearful woman and the two terrified children beside her. Then he strode over to Lieutenant Betz and said, “Take charge of Dr. Mudd and deliver him to Colonel Baker in Washington.” There was a pause, and Clay seemed about to turn toward the three figures on the stairs. With visible effort, he restrained himself and spoke directly to Betz. “He is to be treated as a prisoner but is not to be mistreated in any way.” Then he walked over to the door, saying over his shoulder, “Captain Doherty, I am afraid you must tell your men to saddle up again. Minutes are precious; we will stay on the trail this entire night, if possible.”

Clay was out of the door before any of his companions could say anything. Bierce shrugged and addressed the captain. “We better do as he says; Clay generally gets his way.”

Captain Doherty’s troopers were sprawled in exhaustion about the large fire that burned in the clearing, holding back the nighttime darkness lurking in the ghostly second-growth timber that surrounded them. For nine days, Clay had driven them mercilessly on Booth’s trail, refusing to allow more than a few hours’ sleep, snatched from time to time. Several times they had been near to giving up the hunt as hopeless. Relentlessly, Clay would not permit them to give up and always seemed to come up with some further indication of where the assassins had been. These clues had often been provided by recently-freed slaves, who were more than happy to aid the troops pursuing the man who had slaughtered their liberator.

All the pursuers were sleeping, save for Clay and Bierce. Clay was talking quietly at the edge of the forest with an elderly black man; Bierce lay close to the fire and watched Clay with curiosity. Everyone else in the party, including Bierce himself, was filthy and unshaven, not even having had an opportunity to change their clothes. Clay had permitted no time for the luxury of personal hygiene, and during their brief, rare stops, sleep took an absolute priority. Bierce felt a growing sense of awe at how Clay seemed to have acquired only a faint sprinkling of dust on his uniform and a slight downy stubble on his face; it did not seem possible, but it was true.

Clay finished his murmured conversation with the elderly black man. The colonel extended his hand to the informant, and something in the hand glistened yellow in the light from the bonfire. Slowly shaking his head, the elderly man turned and melted into the night without taking the proffered reward. Restoring the coin to his pocket, Clay went to the sleepless Bierce, stopping only to shake Captain Doherty and Luther Baker awake. The captain and the civilian staggered over to join Clay and Bierce, knuckling the sleep out of their red-rimmed eyes.

“It is time,” Clay announced quietly, a disturbing predatory look on his face. “My informant tells me two strange white men are guests at a farm less than half a mile down the track, and that one of them appears to have a lame leg. The farm is owned by a Rebel veteran who has just returned to his family, Richard Garrett.”

“We will sweep him and his family up also,” responded Baker grimly.

“Probably not necessary,” responded Clay. “My informant says the black grapevine hereabouts indicates Mr. Garrett is less than pleased with the presence of his guests. He wants them gone and will not let them sleep in the house; he has made them bed down in an old tobacco barn.”

“If he is not in league with Booth, why hasn’t he turned the murderer in?” asked Baker.

Clay emitted one of his barking laughs. “You have seen the country hereabouts over the last several days. The war may be over, but there is hardly a sign of Federal authority to be seen. The countryside is filled with former Confederates, some of which would undoubtedly respond with violence toward anyone turning Booth over to the hangman. No, I suspect the Garrett family will give us little difficulty, so long as we remove Booth from their farm without making it appear to be their doing.”

“So, how will this go down?” asked Doherty, a note of eagerness in his voice.

“These are your men, Captain,” responded Clay. “If I may be allowed, I suggest the following: divide your men into three groups of eight. Have your lieutenant take one of the groups and Mr. Baker into the plantation house, securing the Garrett family. You will take immediate leadership of the second group of eight and position yourself on the house side of the barn so that you can easily cover both sides. I will take Bierce, your Sergeant Corbett, and the final eight men to the far side of the barn, covering the other two sides.”

“Will we wait for dawn to attack?” asked Doherty

“We will not. We are under a disadvantage in that we need to take Booth and Herold alive. They are under no such compunction as to us. The boards of the tobacco barn undoubtedly are loose and have many gaps. My informant assures me that between the two of them, they have at least one Spencer repeating carbine and two Colt revolvers—perhaps more firearms that could not be observed from a distance. If we wait for daylight, they will have clear shots at us from cover. Once everyone is in place, I will move forward and set fire to the barn. They will not choose to burn alive. Of that, I am certain, and they will be unable to see us clearly in the dark, so we should be able to secure them with little risk to ourselves.”

Nodding to Clay, Doherty shouted, “All right boys, up and at ’em! The murderer of our president is half a mile away, and we are going to finish this thing before the sun rises!”

The exhausted men lurched into consciousness with surprising speed; grinning to each other, they gathered the horses from where they had been tied. As the men mounted their steeds and fell in, Doherty took Clay aside.

“Clay, I want you to be careful with Sergeant Corbett. He may need watching.”

Clay frowned slightly. “Over the last ten days, the man has performed his duties efficiently and correctly. He does seem to keep to himself and read his Bible to excess during rests, but those things are far from sins.”

Doherty grimaced. “Oh, Boston Corbett is a good soldier most of the time, but occasionally, he goes plain crazy, for no good reason.”

“Why haven’t you had him discharged?”

Doherty’s stolid Celtic face assumed an expression of sorrow. “We kind of carry him, in the company. You see, he served his country and suffered more than he should; more than if he had died.”

Bierce had been following the conversation with interest and interjected, “How so?”

Doherty looked at the young major and finally responded. “He was captured and sent to Andersonville.” A chill went through the three officers at the mention of the hellish Confederate prisoner-of-war camp, where over ten thousand Union soldiers had entered, never to emerge.

“Things were … done to him, in Andersonville,” continued Doherty. “Things that most folks would refuse to believe. Done by both Rebs and turncoat prisoners who sold their souls for crusts of bread. He was one of the few who escaped. He won’t talk about it, but the word is he hid in a pile of bodies for two days before they were taken out of the camp to be buried. He killed a guard once he was out and walked over a hundred miles to Union lines. By the time he got there, he was starved down to less than a hundred pounds—and crazier than a bedbug.” Doherty hesitated for a moment, and then continued. “I hear that when he was recovering in the hospital, he raved that he had deserved the things done to him—that his own sinfulness had caused God to allow … unspeakable things to happen to him. I’m no alienist, but maybe that was the only way he could reconcile his faith in God with what was done to him. Anyway, when the doctors weren’t around, he took a scalpel, heated an iron, and … castrated himself, cauterizing the wound before he passed out from the pain.”

Although Bierce looked revolted, Clay appeared to be merely thoughtful, saying “Interesting. In Roman times, the followers of the cult of Cybele often engaged in such self-mutilation. I admit it is surprising to see the practice recur in modern times.”

“Be that as it may, poor bastard should have been sent home,” continued Doherty. “But he insisted God meant him to see the Confederacy punished and that it was the only way he could ‘purge his sins.’ No one had the heart to send him home. He does his job and can be a good leader under fire, but sometimes, he gets a bit …” Doherty trailed off, using his forefinger to make a circling motion at his temple. “So just keep an eye on him, Colonel.”

Clay nodded. Then the three officers mounted their steeds and led the column of troopers down the rutted road dimly lit by a moon in its last quarter.

So far, so good,” murmured Clay to Bierce. The two friends lay on their bellies, observing the dilapidated barn in the faint moonlight; behind them, the eight cavalrymen, led by Sergeant Boston Corbett, lay prone, nervously clutching their Spencer carbines. Clay’s plan had gone smoothly. The Garratt family had been awakened without undue commotion and secured; although the sight of Union soldiers had made the ex-Rebel Richard Garrett surly, he seemed more relieved than not that his unwanted guests would shortly be taken off his hands. Doherty and his men were in position at the front of the barn. Everything had been done with a minimum of noise, and no sign arose from the barn showing that the fugitives knew anything was amiss, or even awake. The next move would be Clay’s. He turned his head and murmured “Sergeant, please come here, and bring the oil lantern we took from the house.”

“Sir,” whispered Corbett in a voice louder than was necessary. The emaciated, wiry sergeant stood and scurried forward, the lantern in one hand, a Colt revolver in the other. The moonlight was very faint, but Clay’s night vision was astonishingly good, and he noticed with some unease the wild-eyed, ecstatic look on Corbett’s face.

“Give me the lantern, Sergeant. You stay here with Major Bierce.”

“Colonel, please let me go with you,” said Corbett in an agitated, raspy voice. “In that barn is the murderer of Lincoln. It means more than my life for me to be in at the end.”

Clay shook his head. “Starting the fire will be the most dangerous moment. If Booth and Herold are alert, they could easily kill whoever sets the fire through one of the chinks in the boards, even in the dark. It is senseless for more than one to expose himself. As it is my plan, I must be that one.”

“Sir, you must let me share the risk,” replied Corbett in a desperate voice with a faint note of hysteria. “If you only knew what I have endured for the Union, you would grant me this favor.”

Thanks to Doherty, Clay did know. After a moment’s hesitation, he said “Very well. Carry the lantern for me. Remember, no noise. Above all, we must take Booth and Herold alive. If you must shoot, shoot for the legs.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Corbett eagerly. “It means the world to me.”

“Come then.” Clay crouched low and led the way, walking as softly as his expensive boots allowed. In moments, the pair had crossed the twenty yards of barren earth leading to the barn. As they reached the wall, Clay could see that his fears had been justified; the decrepit structure had gaps of an inch or more between several of the boards. He saw no light from inside, but that did not mean the assassins were not silently waiting to shoot them, once Clay and Corbett blocked their view of the night sky through the gaps.

Silently, Clay scooped up random bits of dry straw and leaves that were near the wall, forming a small pile of combustibles in direct contact with the ancient planks. Wordlessly, he gestured for Corbett to hand him the unlit lantern. The sergeant did so, keeping his cocked revolver in his right hand swiveling back and forth, as if searching for a target. Clay uncorked the oil reservoir of the lantern and thoroughly soaked the pile of straw and leaves. Then, after carefully placing the empty lantern on the ground, he took a friction match from his tunic pocket, struck it with his thumb, and applied it to the pile. Waiting only to make sure that the fire had truly established itself, he silently gestured to Corbett to follow him. The two quickly scurried across the yard and threw themselves prone on either side of Bierce. None of them said anything as they watched the fire grow.

In less than five minutes, the fire had clearly spread to the wall and was making quick progress through the dry, ancient wood of the structure. Muffled voices and sounds of movement inside the barn were suddenly audible over the crackling of the flames. Deciding that the time had come, Clay stood and spoke in a voice that was surprisingly deeper and louder than his normal speaking voice.

“John Wilkes Booth and David Herold! You are surrounded by over twenty Union cavalry, all armed with Spencers. Escape is impossible, and you will burn to death if you stay where you are. Throw out your weapons and come out with your hands high in the air!”

The muffled sound of voices came from the barn. Although the words could not be distinguished, it was obvious that an argument was taking place. Suddenly, the barn door was jerked open a couple of feet, and a soft-looking, frightened David Herold emerged. The light from the growing fire exposed the tears in his eyes and the wet stain down the front of his trousers, mute evidence of the childish terror of the youth who sought to change history through violence. Captain Doherty and Luther Baker darted forward, grabbed Herold by the arms, and roughly pulled him away from the barn; as they did so, the door was slammed firmly shut. Clay, Bierce, and Corbett rose to dash over to the sobbing prisoner, Clay pausing only to gesture to the remaining men to stay where they were.

The three quickly reached the place where Doherty and Baker were swiftly confining Herold with heavy iron handcuffs, the kind that in the recent past had been used for recalcitrant slaves. Herold was a pathetic sight—quaking with fear, reeking of his own urine, blubbering like an infant. Many would have been moved to pity by the spectacle. However, all of his captors knew the choices Herold had made to bring him to this place and felt no pity, least of all the stony-hearted Clay, who had seen Abraham Lincoln die with his own eyes.

Captain Doherty viciously backhanded Herold, saying venomously, “Stop your whining, traitor! Tell us, what weapons does Booth have, and will he surrender without a fight?”

The blow had shocked Herold into silence. Sniffing slightly, he whined, “Tried to tell Mr. Booth it were no good and that we should give up. He said if I wanted to hang on a Yankee gallows, he wouldn’t stop me, but as for himself, he would take a couple of blue bellies with him. Guess he could; he’s got a Spencer and two Colts and knows how to use them. Told him I couldn’t stand burning and would take my chance on the gallows.”

“You do that,” replied Doherty with a snarl. He turned to Clay. “Well Colonel, what now? We need Booth alive, but it seems like he intends to shoot anyone going through the door.”

“Eventually the fire will drive him into our hands,” replied Clay. “It takes a special kind of man to endure burning to death, and I do not believe Booth is that kind of man. The trouble will be when he comes out of that door firing. Good men will likely die taking him alive. Now that the interior of the barn is well-lighted, I think I need to make a reconnaissance and see if there is any possible way or opening by which we could surprise him.”

“That is extraordinarily dangerous,” said Bierce. “Booth is desperate and armed. Ask for a volunteer or let me go. You have risked too much already in this war.”

“I am sorry, Bierce. I must do this. The plan is mine; a Clay must take the consequences of his actions, not some well-meaning volunteer, much less a friend.”

With that, Clay spun on his heel and ran a zigzag course to the burning structure. It took Bierce a moment to realize that for the first time in the more than two years they had known each other, Clay had referred to him as a friend.

Clay reached the outer wall of the barn and peered in through one of the gaps, the interior well-lit by the rapidly-expanding fire. Inside, he could see John Wilkes Booth, clearly recognizable despite the absence of his distinctive moustache. A makeshift crutch under his left arm, a Spencer carbine tucked clumsily under his right, he stumped around the interior of the barn, sweating profusely from the heat of the fire, eyes darting about wildly, looking for an avenue of escape that did not exist. Clay decided that he would need to cripple Booth if he were to be taken alive without loss of Federal life. Quietly, Clay drew his Smith & Wesson Number 2 cartridge revolver and cocked it, having decided that he needed to shoot Booth in his good leg. Clay was aware that even leg wounds could be occasionally fatal, but the Number 2 fired a .32 caliber bullet, small enough that the damage to a limb was very unlikely to turn immediately fatal.

“Colonel Clay, how are we going to take him?” came Boston Corbett’s hoarse whisper from directly behind him. Clay jerked his head around involuntarily, astonished that the fanatical sergeant had followed without, indeed despite, orders.

He turned back to look into the barn, only to find himself staring down the barrel of Booth’s Spencer. Too late, he realized that Booth must have heard Corbett’s voice and glimpsed Clay by the light of the inferno that was now casting its rays outward through the gaps in the boards. Clay saw Booth’s hate-filled eye over the Spencer’s sights, saw Booth’s finger tighten on the trigger. Then an explosive detonation went off, seemingly in Clay’s right ear, and Booth crumpled to the ground. A furious Clay whirled to see Boston Corbett holding a smoking Colt.

“Idiot!” Clay screamed. “We needed him alive!”

“But Colonel, he was about to kill you,” replied Corbett ingenuously. “I couldn’t allow that.”

Holstering his own pistol, Clay yelled to Doherty and the others. “Booth has been shot! It is safe to go in.” Not waiting for the others, Clay rushed to the door, flung it open, and strode into the burning structure. He saw to his surprise that Booth was conscious, laying on his back and making choking sounds as he spat gobbets of blood from his mouth. Something puzzled Clay, and it took him a moment to realize that far from writhing in pain, Booth’s body below the neck was completely, lifelessly inert. Then Clay noticed the wound from Corbett’s bullet, a gaping hole in the neck. It oozed blood rather than spurted, so the artery was not involved; but Clay realized that Booth’s spinal cord had been severed, and the assassin was paralyzed from the neck down.

Suddenly the barn seemed to fill with soldiers. Clay turned to Doherty and said, “He still may live long enough to give us information. Have your men carry him to the porch of the house and do what they can to keep him alive.”

“If you say so,” growled Doherty. “Still, if I had my druthers, I’d be putting a bullet in his brain this instant.” He gestured to several of his men, who rapidly improvised a stretcher out of an old horse blanket. In a surprisingly short time, the task was done, and the soldiers in blue left the burning barn just before it became fully involved, bearing the inert form of Lincoln’s assassin.

Booth was settled as comfortably as his wound allowed on the main house’s veranda, just as the sky was beginning to brighten in the east. Richard Garrett came out of the house once to look at the scene, a carefully neutral look on his face; one glare from Captain Doherty sent him retreating back into the bosom of his family. It was quickly confirmed that Booth was completely paralyzed from the neck down and was even having trouble clearing his throat of blood and mucous. As a corporal who had served some time as a hospital orderly did his best to staunch the bleeding from Booth’s wound, Clay attempted to question the assassin.

“Booth, I know you did not act alone. This plot was too elaborate for a shallow and vain actor to conceive. And I do not mean minions like Herold or Atzerodt. I need to know who gave you your orders, who made the arrangements for you.”

Booth coughed weekly and uttered the single word: “Water.” Clay gave a quick nod of the head to the corporal, who offered Booth a sip from his own canteen. Small as the sip was, Booth choked on it. When he finally stopped coughing, he whispered, “Show me my hand. I cannot see my hand.” Frowning, Clay lifted Booth’s inert right hand into the actor’s field of vision. With difficulty, Booth focused on it, then muttered “Useless … useless.” With that enigmatic comment, John Wilkes Booth’s eyes glazed, and he died.

“He’s dead, boys,” announced the corporal with no little satisfaction. As the soldiers gathered around to stare at the body of Lincoln’s murderer, chattering all the time about how the $100,000 reward money was to be divided, Clay swiftly checked through the dead man’s pockets. He found a watch, some odd coins, a large sum in Federal banknotes, several pencils, and a small diary. He handed everything except the diary to Bierce, saying “Make a record of everything I have taken off the body. It may have some use later on.”

Clay then rose and walked some distance from the house. He seated himself on an upturned bucket and began to leaf through Booth’s diary by the light of the rising sun. At first his reading seemed casual. Then, something caught his eye. He read further and further; as he read, it seemed as if the world spun about him.

Ambrose Bierce trudged up to Clay, and said, “We better start packing up. Washington will want the body as well as Herold, and we don’t want to be on the road too long. The dead don’t keep too well in a Virginia spring.” He paused and noted that the normally well-mannered Clay was paying absolutely no attention to him. “Clay, you all right? I know it has been a rough couple of weeks, but it is over now. Clay? Do you hear me?” Bierce’s puzzlement had turned to concern; Clay showed absolutely no sign that he was aware of his friend’s presence. “Alphonso, are you all right? Are you ill?” Bierce gently placed his hand on Clay’s shoulder.

Clay started and glanced up at Bierce, who took a small step backward in alarm. It was not any sort of threat that alarmed Ambrose Bierce. Rather, it was the unexpected expression in the face of his reserved, self-contained friend.

The look on Alphonso Clay’s face was one of unutterable astonishment and horror.