Chapter 4

“Let the hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel …”

Alphonso Clay and Ambrose Bierce were once again in Stanton’s office at the War Department. Aside from Stanton himself, the only other person in the office was Ulysses Grant, wearing a clean yet rumpled uniform of a lieutenant general. Having paused at Willard’s only long enough to bathe and change his uniform, Clay gave his two superiors a mechanical accounting of the events of the last ten days, face expressionless, eyes focused on a point somewhere over Stanton’s head. Having described Booth’s death unemotionally, Clay concluded his narrative.

“In short, I failed in my primary assignment of capturing the assassin Booth alive. This failure is mine, and mine alone, and should reflect on no one else involved in the chase, least of all Major Bierce or Captain Doherty. I feel nothing less than my resignation will meet the case. However, before I resign, I beg your permission to follow up on several leads that came into my possession during the pursuit of Booth.”

Grant took a long pull on a freshly lit cigar, slowly expelling the smoke toward the ceiling. “Seems to me you did as good as a soul could. It was Sergeant Corbett who shot Booth.”

“I cannot allow the Sergeant to take responsibility,” responded Clay. “He is … unwell. I should have taken that into account and reinforced my instructions that Booth be taken alive.”

Grant’s mild, sorrowful eyes bored into Clay’s. “I did not mean for any blame to attach to Corbett. Seems to me he acted to save the life of a superior officer; it is doggone hard to blame a soul for that.”

“I understand you recovered Booth’s pocket diary,” wheezed Stanton. “I would like to see it.”

“With your permission, I would like to defer handing it over. The pages contain some evidence that there were … further ramifications to Booth’s plot. I have come here to ask your permission to immediately follow up on the hints of the diary and at least put my concerns to rest, before my resignation takes effect. I would also need your written permission to call upon whatever resources of the Army that I may need. Although I hope it is not the case, there is a possibility that minutes may count. I will never be able to forgive myself for not having been a single minute earlier at Ford’s Theater.” Clay paused and uncharacteristically took a deep breath. “It is possible that extreme measures may be necessary … very extreme. I wish to make certain that I am not impeded. After that, I will take full responsibility for my actions, but the good of this country, and perhaps much more, could require such … extreme actions.”

At first, Stanton appeared about to explode at Clay’s refusal to hand over the diary and at his outrageous demand for untrammeled authority. But for some reason, Clay’s final words checked a display of the infamous Stantonian temper.

“Might want to give Clay his head,” commented Grant to the red-faced Stanton. “Has his own way of doing things, but he generally delivers the goods.” The general-in-chief shifted his attention to Clay. “Colonel, I suppose this is like that time, just before Vicksburg fell. The time when you refused to tell me who had been murdering our officers but swore on your honor that the killer would never again be a threat to the Federal cause. I recall that the killings stopped. Oh, we got the occasional bushwhacker sniping at a picket, but our losses from such causes fell off, and stayed off. Is this that kind of thing, Clay?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” Clay looked at Grant, who stared back at him like the muzzle of a canon. Then the general seemed to make a decision.

“Stanton, cut an order for my signature, right now. Make it read, ‘By my order, and for the good of the country, Lieutenant Colonel Alphonso Clay shall be able to call on the use of any resources and men of the Department of War.’ Give it to me to sign.”

As a reluctant Stanton scribbled on a dispatch form, a horrified Clay blurted, “Sir, I cannot permit that. Things may go awry. I expected only a vague order to assist me, signed by some obscure Army official. I may have to do … extralegal things—things which could destroy you if they could be traced back to you. Should certain deeds come to light, it was always my intention to claim that I had vastly exceeded my orders, but the way your letter is phrased, everyone will think you approved in advance every one of my deeds.”

“And I do so approve,” replied Grant, taking the letter from Stanton’s slightly shaking hand and scrawling his signature at the bottom. “I am tired of giving orders and having others pay for them—of sending young fellows to die for my plans, my mistakes. three hundred thousand young Americans died because of my orders; that’s not counting the Rebs. If I can endure the burden of that, I can shoulder the burden of whatever you propose to do.” Grant leaned forward and handed the document to Clay. “Anything else, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Courtney Delapore was the first to mention Booth’s name to me as a possible conspirator. Although nothing less than a Copperhead, he agreed to assist us, providing that the civilians being held without specific charges in the Old Capitol Prison be released. He has honored the bargain; we have an obligation to do the same. I am certain Colonel Baker will not release the prisoners on his own; he has found ways to … profit from their imprisonment, and he suffers badly from the sin of avarice. I would appreciate a direct order to him requiring the release of all prisoners not yet specifically charged with actual crimes.”

Grant nodded, then looked at Stanton. “Mr. Secretary, you can sign that one.”

With a few rapid scratches of his pen, Stanton finished the second order, signed it, and thrust it at Clay. Clay stood and inserted both documents into an inner pocket of his tunic. He then clicked his heels in the European manner, saluted smartly, and strode out of the room without a word, Bierce hurrying to keep up. Stanton frowned uneasily, while Grant looked thoughtfully at the space Clay had recently occupied.

Colonel Lafayette Baker stood in his small office at the Old Capitol Prison, reading the brief order for a second time, and then, he spat out a creatively obscene phrase. Bierce glanced at Clay and noted to his utter amazement that the corners of his friend’s mouth tugged upwards into a ghost of a smile—the movement gone so quickly that Bierce could hardly believe that he had seen something so unlikely.

“The Secretary’s instructions are quite clear,” said Clay mildly. “The people in question are to be released now, this instant.” Bierce thought he once again caught the flash of that ghostly smile as Clay continued. “Do not take it too hard, Colonel Baker. You will still have a fair number of prisoners to exploit and oppress. Only now, you will be restricted to exploiting and oppressing those who truly deserve it. For instance, you have all of Booth’s conspirators; in addition, several killers and blockade runners, that sort of offal. No one will object to how harshly you treat such trash, least of all I. In fact, I need to interview one of your prisoners not subject to the terms of the release. I understand you are holding a Frenchman, Martin Laval, charged with smuggling munitions of war to the traitors.”

The angry expression on Baker’s face was replaced by a frown of puzzlement. “Yes, I’ve got the frog. I’m surprised you even know about him; he’s a filthy piece of work, even for a Frenchie blockade runner. Had his ship in Wilmington loaded up with cotton and was preparing to set sail when our boys took the harbor. He had already unloaded a cargo of percussion caps, Enfield rifles, quinine, laudanum, everything Lee and Johnston needed to keep our boys dying for a few more weeks. According to the Provost people, he had even brought in French postcards by the hundreds.” The coarse Baker seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. “It wasn’t just naked women; I’m no Goddamn Puritan. The Provost lieutenant who brought him up here showed a couple to me, and not for a bit of fun. They were … kiddies—kiddies doing things and … having things done to them. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, some were younger than my little daughter! I don’t know what is sicker, the degenerate frog who would sell such things or the Reb bastards who would buy them. Anyway, I’ve had a little fun with Laval. You want to have a go at him, too? I can assign a couple of my boys to hold him down.”

“That will not be necessary, Colonel Baker. In fact, I must insist on interviewing him alone. Just give me the key to his cell, and you and your men go about releasing those covered by Stanton’s orders. Bierce, you go along with him, and make sure that there are no complications.”

A look of concern on his face, Bierce asked, “Wouldn’t it be better if I were with you? Laval might give you trouble.”

“I appreciate your offer, Major, but I must insist on doing this completely by myself. Colonel Baker, direct me to Laval.”

“Your party,” replied Baker sullenly. He led Clay and Bierce out of the gloomy office into the gloomier corridor, lit inadequately by the occasional anemic gas jet. The light was so faint that the visitors could not clearly make out what occasionally scurried and squeaked along the bottoms of the filthy walls; independently, they each decided that was probably for the best.

After twisting through several dismal passageways, Baker finally brought them to the chamber holding the French blockade runner. Most of the rooms in the Old Capitol had solid wood doors with no locks, so guards could surprise the prisoners at any time of the day or night. However, Baker pointed to one of the very few where the wooden door had been replaced by a locked grillwork. Clay gestured for the key; Baker handed over a heavy iron item, and with a negligent salute, Clay wordlessly dismissed Baker and Bierce. They moved off, and in moments, Clay heard Baker’s harsh voice snapping orders to his men and the distant sounds of doors being thrown open. Clay waited only long enough to be certain that the sounds did not appear to be approaching this isolated cell before advancing to the grillwork, through which the prisoner was visible. The door had been secured by a heavy padlock. Through the grillwork, Clay saw a tall, filthy-looking man, dressed in tatters, pacing with nervous energy about the cell. Clay smoothly unlocked the door and entering the cubicle.

Martin Laval looked sharply as Clay entered. He frowned and in accented but serviceable English said, “My colonel, I am un­familiar with you. Has the embassy been in touch with Secretary Seward, and has Mr. Seward ordered an end to the farce of my imprisonment? Have you come to deliver the order for my release?”

“I fear not, Monsieur Laval,” said Clay, glancing about the filthy chamber, whose only contents were a lousy cot, a rickety chair, a slop bucket, and a gas jet. “My name is Alphonso Clay. I am here to confirm certain facts that have been indicated to me about the cargo you brought into Wilmington, just before your capture. I do not mean the armaments and ammunition, or even the … unusual art that you ran past the blockade.”

Laval chuckled ruefully. “Do not tell me you lack sophistication, like your Colonel Baker. He fancies himself a hard man who understands the world but show him something of the … sophisticated and decadent, and he responds like a provincial Quaker.” Laval paused to massage his jaw, where a large bruise was just visible under his stubble, and he chuckled again. “Well, perhaps not a Quaker, but like a silly and uncontrolled child. Be that as it may, your civil war is over, and there is no civilian law applicable to me which warrants my detention. I demand you inform your superiors that Napoleon III may respond with hostility to a French citizen being held under these conditions. I do not believe your country would care to face the wrath of France, so soon after such a devastating rebellion.”

“I will consider relaying your message,” replied Clay. “First, I need some additional information on the material that you personally delivered to Colonel Ephraim Waite, late of the Confederate Secret Service.”

Laval started with surprise and then scowled. “Who says I made such a delivery?”

“John Wilkes Booth. He wrote of it in his diary, which came into my possession.”

“MERDE!” snarled Laval savagely. Then making an obvious effort to regain his calm, he said, “The items were of no importance. Personal items that Colonel Waite had asked me to obtain for him in Europe. Surely Booth wrote nothing more?” Despite himself, Laval could not keep the last syllable from rising to a kind of pleading question.

“He did write something more. One of his last entries expanded on that. He had become aware that his chances of escape had vanished, and death would visit him sooner rather than later. He even boasted as to how the foolish Italian Professor Felippi Pacini had no idea he had delivered the South’s salvation into its hands.”

“Idiot! Vain, idiotic actor! Very well then, you know, but your knowledge will do you little good. Monsieur Waite has the packages, and you will never locate them in time. And even if you could, you should not dare to do so. There are … interests involved. Interests far more powerful, and with a far longer reach, than disappointed slaveholders and defeated generals.”

Clay said two words. “Starry Wisdom.”

The Frenchman’s eyes bulged slightly, and he glanced with fright at the open door. “Fool! Never mention that name where others might overhear,” he hissed in a strangled whisper. “Their reach is long, and they prefer to operate in the shadows. Even those who serve them do not speak of them to outsiders.”

“Oh, I am familiar with Starry Wisdom. I know that they were a prime mover in the tragedy of our civil war, aiming to create a country under their control, a country devoted to inequality and oppression, a country where they could more easily implement their plans than in a nation aspiring to freedom and equality. They have wealth, power, and connections developed over numerous generations; yet, their obscene practices and aims require them to live in the shadows. I know that they tire of the shadows and have manipulated good but foolish men into pursuing goals they would never consciously approve. Oh, the Civil War would have happened anyway, but it would not have lasted as long or been as horrific without the pushing and manipulation Starry Wisdom and its minions exercised behind the scenes in Richmond. And now, they have used you in a last-minute plan to reignite this horrible war and bring more death and destruction upon our bleeding Republic.”

“You know much, Colonel,” said the Frenchman slowly, not bothering to contradict what Clay had said. “Then you should know that the brotherhood cannot die, no matter what the fate of its individual members. The North appears to have won, but in truth, it was on its last legs and only barely outlasted the South. With the war suddenly reignited, I suspect few Federal soldiers will willingly undertake the horrors of war yet again, especially if the South rises—how do you say—reinvigorated. Join us; you cannot stop us, and if you assist us, wealth and power beyond imagining can be yours.”

Clay strolled over to the gas-jet and fiddled with it, apparently wanting to lessen the dismal gloom of the cell. While he delicately adjusted the jet, he said over his shoulder, “If this assignment has the potential that you say, I can hardly believe they entrusted this to one man, no matter how trusted. You must have had assistance.”

Laval smirked. “No more than lifting and carrying. No one but I suspected there was anything more than medicines or explosives in the containers.”

“Waite must be a very impressive individual,” said Clay, still fiddling with the gas jet and frowning with concentration. “I would expect his very appearance leaves an unforgettable impression.”

“There you would be wrong, my friend. He is a somewhat burly man of middle age and above average height; nothing truly remarkable about him save an affectation for dressing head to toe in black. Very useful in his profession; if anyone were to give him a second glance, they would concentrate on the clothes, not the face.

“I see,” said Clay mildly. Then, with the speed of a mongoose striking, he whirled away from the jet, caught the unprepared Frenchman in a headlock, and twisted mightily. Laval’s neck snapped with a sound not unlike a fresh carrot being broken in half. Clay then let the smuggler flop to the floor, and stepping back, he observed his handiwork. Laval was completely paralyzed yet conscious; his dark eyes darted about in horror as he vainly tried to compel his body to take a breath. Clay trembled all over and emitted a series of terrifying giggles. In a few moments, he brought himself under control and addressed the dying man on the floor.

“I do not apologize for what I have done, Monsieur Laval. Your story must go no further. Even if I succeed in stopping Waite, the mere knowledge by the public of what was attempted could do incalculable damage to my country. No, I do not apologize for the act of killing you. Yet, I must apologize for the fact that it was only partly for the good of the Republic that I have taken your life. I must say, in honesty and in penance, that I hunger to take lives, that I enjoy the act of slaying, and that you have just given me more pleasure than I have had since … well, since I last was with a certain lady.”

Clay looked closely at Laval’s motionless eyes and saw the Frenchman was truly dead. Then, moving silently and swiftly, he detached the dead man’s suspenders from his trousers and quickly tied them into a complicated knot. He heard steps coming down the corridor but did not panic; he swiftly looped the knot around Laval’s throat, then lifting the large man and boosting him up the wall with surprising ease, he looped the other end of the knot around the gas fixture. Leaving Laval’s remains dangling, he turned and strode toward the doorway just as Baker and Bierce appeared.

“A tragedy, Colonel Baker,” said Clay, his face now completely expressionless. “Monsieur Laval had apparently hanged himself just as I entered the cell. Pity. Come Bierce, we can learn nothing further here.”

As Clay made to leave the dingy cell, Baker angrily grabbed his arm. “Now just a Goddamn minute, Clay! This stinks like last week’s fish! I don’t mind seeing a blockade-running Frenchie degenerate beaten to within an inch of his life, but there is a limit!”

Clay turned his face toward Baker; behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, the slight colonel’s eyes seemed to glow with unearthly light. In the softest of voices, Clay said, “Unhand me, Baker. I will not ask again.”

Lafayette Baker was a coarse, insensitive man, but he sensed his danger and slowly released Clay’s arm. Never taking his eyes off Baker, Clay reached inside his tunic, and produced the paper that Grant had signed, handing it wordlessly to the larger man. Baker scanned it and visibly paled; he was intelligent enough to see he was on the edge of matters where it was dangerous to intrude. He handed the document back to Clay, who replaced it within his tunic, turned, and strode out of the cell, trailed by a troubled Bierce.

The two friends threaded their way through dismal corridors now crowded with gaunt, starved-looking people in lousy clothing, lugging their few pitiful belongings to the front door and freedom, while the occasional guard looked on with frowning bemusement. Once out in the spring sunlight, Clay paused, shuddered, and took several deep breaths, as if to clear his lungs of foulness. They walked quickly in the direction of Willard’s; Bierce silently keeping pace at his side. As they approached their destination, Bierce finally spoke. “You killed him in cold blood.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I did what had to be done,” replied Clay, not quite answering the question. “The man had knowledge that could cost countless lives, if he ever found a wide audience.”

“So you sent me off with Baker, so I would not be soiled by … whatever you did.”

As they approached the entrance to Willard’s, Clay refused to look directly at Bierce. “You fancy yourself a hard man, Bierce, and you laugh at the piety of the masses. You have seen degrading things and have suffered degrading things. Still, you have emerged from this war with a core of decency. I would not put a stain on that decency for all the world holds dear. This matter is far from over, and at some point, I may require you to give up your life for the good of the nation, but it will be in an honorable way.”

By now they had crossed the elegant lobby and were ascending the broad stairs to the fourth floor, which contained their rooms. After he had digested what Clay had said, Bierce replied, “I appreciate you taking all of what you perceive to be the … dishonor upon yourself. However, it is my country too, damn it, and I will do anything at all to preserve it. Anything!”

The two were now outside the door to Clay ’s room. Clay took his friend by the shoulders. “I know you would. Giving one’s life is easy. Any fool can die for his country. It takes a true man to give up his soul for his country. All the more reason for me to shield you from that sacrifice, if possible.”

“At least tell me what we are up against.”

Clay released Bierce and took the room key from his pocket. As he unlocked the door, he replied, “Very well. You will know something—something which the public must never know …”

“And what might that be?” asked Teresa Duval.

At the sight of her, sitting casually in a wing chair with Dr. Dee’s terrible book lying open in her lap, Clay was brought up short. Then hustling Bierce into the room, the slightly-built colonel swiftly locked the door and turned toward the woman with a frown on his face.

“Miss Duval, I really must protest. I wish you would not demonstrate so blatantly your skill with the lock-pick.”

She closed the heavy book, placing it carefully on the end-table while saying, “Come, Colonel Clay, we should have no secrets. A little bird told me that you may be leaving town quickly on important business. I wanted to make sure that we had a proper good-bye.”

An exasperated Clay turned to Bierce for support, only to see his friend grinning broadly; for some reason, this caused spots of red to appear on the colonel’s pale cheeks. “I must tell Major Bierce a tale, a tale which, even if Bierce and I are successful, must not become public. Anyone who knows of this will carry a burden for the rest of their lives—a burden that may be too heavy for all but the strongest to keep to themselves.”

Duval emitted one of her silvery, chilling laughs; Clay suddenly realized that where he had once found that laugh ominous, he now felt it to be rather endearing. “Colonel Clay, I will match you secret for secret. Now gentlemen, take the remaining chairs. We should be comfortable for the telling of such a tale.”

Clay hesitated and then sat stiffly in one of the two unoccupied chairs of the room, while Bierce lounged negligently in the other. Clay slowly, even reluctantly, drew a small leather-bound diary from an inner tunic pocket; a rusty stain was clearly visible on part of the binding. Still, Clay made no effort to open the volume. Instead, he clutched it tightly, as if it were a dangerous animal that could do horrible damage if released for but a moment. Without looking directly at Bierce or Duval, he began to speak.

“The bulk of Booth’s diary is taken up with his plans for the murder of Abraham Lincoln and his subsequent attempts to evade justice. If nothing else, it confirms the guilt of those conspirators Stanton has arrested, except for Mrs. Surratt, and that Dr. Mudd did indeed know Booth. However, that is not the true significance of this document. Towards the very end, when he realized he would not be able to evade capture, Booth sought to reinforce his courage. It is in these last pages that he makes clear what I had suspected—what I had feared. The murder of Abraham Lincoln was not a simple, though monstrous, act of revenge; it was the first step in a plan to reignite the war and to give the South one last opportunity at victory.”

“Booth was making such intricate plans?” asked Bierce with a frown. “He was a vain and shallow actor, unable to think beyond a dramatic event starring himself.”

“That is true. Booth was only an instrument; a willing instrument, but an instrument, nonetheless. Others gave him his orders through Colonel Ephraim Waite of the Confederate Secret Service. I have heard rumors of the man—a dangerous antagonist, devoid of honor or decency. Just one instance—he arranged for infernal devices, filled with gunpowder, to be shaped and painted to resemble lumps of coal. He then had one of his minions smuggle them to City Point, where General Grant kept his headquarters during the last part of the war and add them to the fuel of the boat intended to carry Grant to Washington. It worked; the bombs were unknowingly shoveled into the boiler by stokers, and the riverboat exploded, killing scores of people, including dozens of women and children who had been visiting their men folk. It was the purest luck that Grant had been detained at the last minute. Further, there are even suggestions that his true allegiance lay not to the Confederacy, but to another organization—far, far older, and infinitely more depraved. But that is beside the point. Have either of you heard of Professor Filippi Pacini, of the University of Florence, in Italy?”

Duval and Bierce shook their heads in the negative.

A sad, slight smile flashed across Clay’s face. “Such is fame. The world knows of dozens of brutal generals, scores of power-crazed dictators and monarchs—but a good, a kindly man working to save thousands of human lives labors in virtual anonymity. Cholera has been Pacini’s obsession. He regards it as the greatest current threat to the health of mankind. True, smallpox and bubonic plague have killed more, but vaccination is gradually eliminating the former, while the latter seems to be confined these days to the outer reaches of Asia. Cholera is different: no vaccine, no treatment, able to strike the high and the low, anywhere in the world.”

“True enough,” said Duval quietly. “I saw many die of it in the hospitals. It was not a pleasant way to die.” She did not add that if she liked the patient, she had often eased his path with an overdose of laudanum.

“I think something between five and ten percent of our boys die of cholera before the Rebs have a chance to draw a bead on them,” added Bierce.

Clay nodded. “A truly terrible way to die, without even the glory of having fallen in the service of our nation. Well, Professor Pacini knew what many peasants knew: that if drinking water was kept clear of human waste, and if you did not touch an infected person or his possessions, it is impossible to contract cholera.”

Duval nodded. “All the better doctors in the hospitals would only handle cholera victims with gloves and would insist that the privies be dug far away from the wells.” She smiled a chilly smile. “Those doctors who did not insist on such things tended not to last too long.”

Clay looked down at the diary in his hands and then looked up to the others. “I had known of Pacini before I ever saw his name in this diary. He had published papers in several European journals, claiming that he had isolated a microscopically small animal in the waste of infected people, an animal he calls a ‘germ.’ He believes that a single germ can enter the body of a man, infect him, and create many more of its own kind, which pass out of the body in the liquid … discharges from the infected person. Anyone who touches the victim contracts cholera, and even if no one does touch him, the … effluvia enters the ground and eventually the ground water supply. So, it is not human waste that causes cholera, but an animal that lives in that waste, an animal too small to be seen without a microscope.”

“That is all very well,” said Bierce. “I am more interested in the sciences than your average officer. But what does that have to do with Laval and Waite?”

Bierce glanced over to Duval for support. However, the cold-blooded killer had turned pale. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she whispered; the woman who had believed herself unshockable was profoundly shocked to the core of her being.

Clay nodded, a haunted look on his normally placid face. “Yes. Professor Pacini has isolated an especially potent variety of the germ, learned how to make it grow, even how to preserve it for transportation. He is hoping to find a vaccine for cholera, using his concentrated samples of the disease, but so far, without success. According to Booth’s diary, Waite had the late, unlamented Laval approach the professor, asking for a large quantity of concentrated cholera. Furthermore, not just any cholera. The Italian had gone to great pains to locate and grow a variety from Asia that is unusually dangerous, unusually infectious—invariably fatal. Laval insisted he wanted that variety alone. Pacini did not hesitate, for Laval had forged documents saying he was from Louis Pasteur, the eminent Frenchman who has already shown himself skilled in microscopic organisms. Pacini evidently did not care who made the discovery, so long as it was made. Before he … died, Laval confirmed he had delivered two carboys of the concentrated disease to Waite.”

There was a long silence in the room, finally broken by Bierce. “If a cholera epidemic breaks out in the North, and the South is blamed, the Federal Army, officers and men, will be uncontrollable, and the Radicals in Congress will not want to control them. Say good-bye to an easy peace; they will start a march through the South that will make Sherman’s look like a picnic. And the Rebs won’t stand and be slaughtered; they will fight back, and the devastation of the last four years will seem to be a mere prelude to the main event.”

Duval shook her head in disbelief. “Such a thing makes no sense. The South has already been beaten down. If the war restarts, it will be just that much worse for those English-loving bastards.” At the use of such an odd obscenity, the two officers glanced sharply at her, but she affected not to notice.

“You are probably right,” replied Clay. “However, Southerners with their backs to the wall may not see it that way. And I cannot be certain that they would not achieve the seemingly impossible. Look at their victories over the last four years, against an enemy with twice the population and ten times the resources.” Clay hesitated, then went on. “Besides, there are strange currents below the surface of our wounded country right now, and it is hard to estimate their power. There are Radical Republicans unhappy with the easy peace; some of them would be pleased for an excuse to grind the South into the ground and treat it as a conquered province, not a returning part of our country. Further, there are some … and I suspect Colonel Waite is among them … who would be delighted to see utter chaos reign, no matter who won. His masters would not care if they came to rule a country that had been destroyed from end to end; in fact, they might prefer it.”

Bierce looked steadily at Clay. “You think Waite works for the Starry Wisdom bastards.”

“What I believe is immaterial. The only material point is that he must be stopped at any cost. So, are you with me?”

“Certainly,” responded Bierce.

“I as well,” added Duval.

Clay looked at the woman with some hostility. “Let us have an understanding. You are not accompanying us. This man is far, far too dangerous, and I only have the sketchiest idea of what he looks like.”

Looking crestfallen, Duval rose. “I see. Well, good luck to you both.” Without another word, she swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Bierce looked at the still-vibrating door with a frown on his face. “Well, she took that better than I would have expected.”

Clay did not directly answer Bierce. Instead, he stood up and said, “Pack one bag lightly. We will be on the rails in an hour.”

Fifty-seven minutes later, the engine hit its whistle and slowly gathered momentum as it left the Washington station. Clay and Bierce shared a private compartment in first class. Bierce, reflecting wryly that it was always a pleasure to travel with the wealthy Clay, asked “Are you certain Waite is targeting New York?”

Clay stared out the window at Washington’s dismal working-class neighborhoods, not really seeing them. “Booth’s diary did not mention the specific target, but it must be New York. It is the most populous city in the North, and the wealthiest. Unleashing a plague there would paralyze the American financial and industrial systems, which are, to a great extent, controlled out of that single city. Furthermore, it is the transportation center of the North. Half a dozen major railroads, not to mention a score of shipping companies, emanate from New York. As the plague frightens the populace, many people who are unknowingly infected will flee, carrying the pestilence to cities throughout the North.”

Bierce sank his chin morosely down onto his chest. “When you put it that way, I can see it. Still, that description you got from Laval doesn’t mean much in a city the size of New York. How can we possibly track him down in time?”

“It will be hard, but not impossible. We do have one advantage. I am fairly sure that I know where Waite will unleash his weapon.”

Bierce perked up. “You do?”

“Yes. If Waite is intelligent, there is only one place he would choose. The Central Park Reservoir.”

“I have heard of Central Park, but why would its reservoir be so important to Waite?”

Clay gave another ghost of a smile. “Most people have been so preoccupied with the war that they have ignored much that is important to our country’s future. New York City has long suffered from foul and diseased drinking water; the very cholera that now concerns us has been a regular visitor, along with other diseases. Well, New York has finally addressed the issue. Two years ago, they finished the Croton Aqueduct to bring pure, untainted water from high in the mountains of upstate. It is brought to a reservoir in Central Park, then is drawn off through two great pipes into a series of ever smaller pipes, until virtually every structure has an unlimited source of untainted water. No more drawing your water from next to the privy. People admire the vast buildings and bustling factories of New York, but this water system is by far and away the greatest service the city has yet provided its people.”

“And the water from the reservoir goes into every building in the city,” whispered Bierce, a note of dawning horror in his voice. “This must be stopped, if it is not already too late.”

“I suspect … hope … that Waite has taken his time to cultivate additional batches of his germs. He cannot be certain how much it would take to completely poison a city the size of New York. We must go and watch the reservoir for suspicious activity. Of course, it would have helped immeasurably to have a true likeness of Waite, to show around the major hotels, but …”

The door to their compartment slid open quietly. To both men’s utter amazement, in walked Teresa Duval, dressed in a simple but expensive walking frock. Batting her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner, she said in a low, throaty voice, “Gentlemen, could you offer a seat to a lady? I feel a fit of vapors coming on.” Without waiting for a reply, she smoothly seated herself on the bench next to Clay; across from them, Bierce looked on with amusement as Clay’s pale face began to turn faintly scarlet with rage.

“Miss Duval, I expressly forbade you to join us in …” Clay’s voice trailed off.

Apparently from thin air, Duval had produced a carte de visite, the small photograph on a cardboard backing that the wealthy (and vain) were using in place of visiting cards. She extended it negligently toward Clay; his eyes widening behind his spectacles, he snatched it from her hand. The picture showed two men, posing with arrogant smiles as if to celebrate an important occasion. The one on the right was unmistakably John Wilkes Booth. The one on the left was an ordinary-looking, stocky man, dressed entirely in black; in fact, a man who matched the sketchy description given by Martin Laval. Clay handed the card to Bierce, who after a moment spat out an obscenity of amazement.

“How came you by this photograph?” Clay asked in wonder.

Duval seemed to positively preen. “At Mr. Brady’s photography studio. I knew that Colonel Baker’s men would have seized all pictures containing Booth alone but would have been less interested in those where he was posing with others. I also knew that Brady would realize the financial value of any image of a Presidential assassin and would have held such photographs back. Finally, I strongly suspected that someone as egotistic as Booth would want to commemorate his conspiracy, ideally with a picture containing himself and his master. I told Mr. Brady of my connections with the Secret Service, and that we knew he had withheld photographs of Booth. The poor little fool was terrified and showed me all he had. I found this one, confiscated it, and left him with a stern warning not to impede Federal investigations in the future.”

“How could you be sure this photograph would exist?” asked Bierce slowly, handing the card back to Clay.

Duval gave out one of her silvery, chilling laughs. “I could not be certain, but I thought it likely. An egotist like Booth must have hated having a master, any master. By having a picture taken with that master, side by side, they became equals—at least in Booth’s mind.”

“This will make things immeasurably easier in New York,” said Clay. “I owe you my thanks.”

“No thanks are necessary, Colonel Clay.” Duval then yawned in an exaggerated manner. “Now if you will excuse me. I am very tired and must be rested and at my best when we arrive in New York.” Before Clay could react, she snuggled up to him, made a pillow of his right shoulder, closed her eyes, and seemingly dropped immediately off to sleep. The face of the normally expressionless Clay showed a confusing mixture of emotions: embarrassment, outrage, and bewilderment. Still, he found himself unable to move, for fear of disturbing her.

Suddenly he heard a wheezing sound from the other side of the compartment. He looked over at Bierce and was outraged to see that his friend was convulsed with mirth, and the wheezing sounds were what remained of his laughter as it passed his tightly-compressed lips. Clay glared at Bierce, who stubbornly refused to disappear in a puff of blue smoke.

The morning sun peeped through New York’s smoky haze as the train pulled up to the station with a hiss of escaping steam. Tired passengers quickly exited their cabins, hurrying to lay claim to the few horse-drawn cabs that would be outside the station. In a remarkably short time Clay, Bierce, and Duval were the only ones left on the platform, aside from an elderly conductor too distant to hear their discussions.

Clay turned to Bierce. “Major, go locate a cab if you can. I need a few moments alone with Miss Duval.”

Grinning wolfishly, Bierce saluted, and strolled off, whistling “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

Clay then turned his attention to Duval. “Very well, you are in this. Will you accept my direction in how to proceed?”

“Within reason,” Duval replied sweetly.

“There is a critical task I need accomplished in Buffalo. Originally, I had not decided whether to ask Major Bierce to accomplish it while I proceeded alone against Waite. On the one hand, I could very well need his help in bringing down Waite; on the other, to delay the task in Buffalo could bring all our efforts to naught. I would like you to immediately take the train to Buffalo and perform a task … suited to your temperament. We both know you are more capable of … extreme actions than Major Bierce. He is brave, and resourceful, and would give his life without hesitation for his country, but he is more … human than either of us, and his honor might restrain him from doing certain distasteful things. Are you up to the challenge?”

There was no mockery in Duval’s voice. “Tell me what needs to be done, Alphonso,” she replied, an eager, shining light appearing in her eyes.

Ten minutes later, Clay jumped into a carriage that Bierce had with some difficulty secured. As they pulled away from the station, a puzzled Bierce asked, “Where is Miss Duval?”

“She is undertaking a separate but related matter on my behalf. Now, please instruct the driver that we will need to visit the major hotels closest to the Central Park reservoir.”

By the dim light of an oil lantern, Courtney Delapore heaved the last of a dozen milk can-sized carboys into the back of the wagon that stood to the side of the darkened, crumbling farmhouse on the still-undeveloped part of Manhattan just north of 77th Street.

From his post on the driver’s seat Ephraim Waite hissed, “Careful with that, Delapore. The wax sealing on the lids won’t take rough handling. It took a lot of effort to nurture the contents of the first two carboys—and breed enough to fill the twelve we now have. We don’t want to lose any of the contents before they can be put to good use.”

“No, and we would not care to befoul ourselves with their contents,” muttered Delapore morosely as he clambered up beside Waite. As Waite urged the horse gently into motion, Delapore added, “We must make sure that all of this reaches the women, children, the young and the old—make sure that every bit of it goes to causing horrible death.”

Waite chuckled. “Cheer up, Delapore. As the first Napoleon said, you cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs. The deaths are a regrettable necessity to creating a glorious future for the Confederacy—a Confederacy everyone is assuming dead and buried. More people have died for less. Besides, I would imagine a Delapore would not cavil at such measures, given what your ancestors did, back in England.”

Delapore started and turned to look at Waite, whose features were now being lit by the gaslights lining the main road leading to the settled parts of Manhattan. “Sir, what do you mean by that?”

Again, Waite chuckled. “You think that your little secret died, when your ancestor slaughtered all of his family and fled to Virginia in 1620? I have … associates who have discovered some very interesting facts about the old family mansion, what was beneath, and what your family did there since time immemorial. Oh, the old stories have largely faded away, but I imagine your ancestor had not been able to do much about the caverns, and what they contained. I guarantee that if some experts were told where to look, they would find things reflecting very poorly on the name of Delapore, very poorly indeed. Even after two hundred and fifty years.”

Delapore shuddered. He thought of the contents of the ancient letter shown by the head of the family to every male Delapore upon his coming of age, telling of the horror that had caused his ancestor to murder all his family within reach and set sail for the colonies. The letter that told why it was the solemn duty of every Delapore to work ceaselessly to retrieve the family honor. Knowledge of what was in that letter was terrible enough, even after two hundred-fifty years; to think that Waite could spread that knowledge to the world gave him a certain hold over Delapore.

New York was already known as the city that never sleeps, but even as the wagon moved into the heavily settled portions of the city, the confusing traffic of horses, cabs, wagons, and streetcars moved smoothly enough during the hours of darkness, and after a surprisingly short period, Waite turned the wagon left into a road that meandered through the still-unfinished Central Park. Waite and Delapore appeared to soon have the park largely to themselves, aside from an occasional quickly-walking figure. Central Park had already acquired a reputation of being somewhat dangerous at night and emptied out at sunset—a fact on which Waite had counted.

As the wagon rounded a copse of trees, the reservoir came into view, its surface shining in the ghostly light of the quarter moon. For much of its circumference, the road the conspirators were on hugged the shoreline. Waite followed the road until the wagon reached another small copse of trees; he then urged the horse off the path and under the largest of the trees. Waite leapt off his seat and quickly tied the perspiring horse to a branch; Delapore clambered down from the seat more slowly, with visible reluctance. Delapore suddenly cocked his head at a sloshing, gurgling sound from nearby. “Waite, is that one of the intakes for the water system?”

“Very astute, Delapore.” Waite glanced around, seeing no one near enough to clearly observe what they were doing. “Very well. Let’s unload six of the containers and empty them as quickly as we can at the inlet, before a late-night stroller comes along. Then we make for the other intake.”

Going around to the back of the wagon, each man grabbed a container of mass death, and with much grunting and huffing, they half-carried, half-rolled them to the point of the reservoir where an enormous, largely-submerged pipe greedily slurped at the pure water of upstate New York. Waite then took out of his coat pocket two pairs of heavy work gloves, throwing one of them to Delapore.

“Put these on. The last part is the trickiest. We must break the wax seals and carefully empty the contents. Not a drop must touch your skin—not if you do not want to contribute your life to the Cause.”

“That is quite far enough, gentlemen,” sounded a voice that was soft yet oddly penetrating. Waite and Delapore whirled toward the sound of the voice, to observe two uniformed figures stepping from behind trees at the far side of the copse, each holding a revolver in his right hand.

As Clay and Bierce advanced, Waite snarled, “Just what do you mean by pointing pistols at law abiding …” Waite’s voice trailed off. “Alphonso Clay,” he said in angry wonderment.

“You have the advantage on me, sir,” responded Clay with a slight frown. “I do not believe we have been introduced.”

“The people I’m with know a great deal about you.”

“It’s over, Waite,” interrupted Bierce in a harsh voice. “A clerk at the Fleur-de-Lys Hotel recognized you from a picture we showed him. We followed you discretely from the hotel to the farm near Harlem, observed where you brewed up your poison through an imperfectly curtained window, watched you load your deadly cargo, and followed you here.”

“I didn’t see anyone flowing us,” growled Waite.

The Federal officers by now were quite close to the two conspirators and stood covering them with weapons that did not waiver in the slightest. Clay said, “Let me introduce my companion, Major Ambrose Bierce. He has seen much action behind enemy lines as a scout a spy if you will—and knows how to follow without being noticed. I simply followed his lead.” Clay turned his attention to Delapore. “I am truly disappointed to see you participating in such a monstrous conspiracy. I had not taken you to be that kind of man.”

“It was not my choice,” replied Delapore, striving to keep a note of whining out of his voice. “I am ashamed to admit that I had deceived you as to the extent of my participation in Confederate espionage; it ended up far more extensive than I had intended. When I indicated my reluctance to participate in this … plan, Colonel Waite made it clear that he would see to it that my treason became widely known—my treason and a terrible old family scandal that would blight my family’s name forever.”

“And you think your participation in this unspeakable atrocity will not so blight your name?” responded Clay in wonderment.

“At least there would have been something to show for it,” answered Delapore in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper. “Freedom for people oppressed by a tyrannical government, proof that power exercised outside the bounds of the Constitution cannot prevail.”

Bierce growled out a number of choice obscenities, before saying, “You idiot! You think men like Waite care about rights and the Constitution? All they care about is power—not just power over the blacks, but power over all, including the precious clan of Delapore!”

“That will be enough, Bierce,” said Clay calmly. He turned his attention back to Waite. “It is now necessary for us to go to a quiet place, perhaps your farmhouse, where I will determine to what extent you can implicate Jefferson Davis and other leading Confederates in this atrocity. Your ultimate fate will depend on your usefulness to us, so I strongly suggest full co-operation. Gentlemen, please be so good as to load those containers back into the wagon and use the utmost care in doing so.”

Waite nodded and stooped to pick up the can in front of him. Then, quick as a lizard, in two hops, he had landed in water up to his ankles, just beyond where the swirling water indicated the presence of the intake pipe. Before either Clay or Bierce could react, he had turned the can so that its lid was pointing downward at an angle of thirty degrees, his powerful, meaty left hand grasping the handle of the lid, only the thin wax seal keeping the liquid death from flowing into the pipe that fed water to half of Manhattan.

Waite laughed cruelly. “Now, gentlemen, I know you can shoot me dead, but do you care to wager a hundred thousand lives I won’t be able to break the seal with my dying breath?”

The lenses of Clay’s spectacles glittered strangely in the moonlight. “There is not enough in that one container to cause an epidemic,” he replied slowly, his gun not wavering. “You yourself planned to release six such containers into each of the two intakes.”

“That was merely caution. I think one may very well be enough. Shall we see?” Waite paused for a long moment to see the reaction of the Federal officers; as they took no action, Waite laughed again. “I thought not. Now, surrender your weapons to Delapore, or I release the cholera!”

“Why should we do that?” responded Clay. “Then you will simply kill us and release the cholera anyway. The former is a secondary issue; we cannot permit the latter.”

Suddenly Delapore spoke up. “Colonel Waite, it is over, and it is for the best. Do the sensible, the humane thing, and give up.”

“Oh hell, the cowardly bastard is bluffing!” exclaimed Bierce suddenly. Revolver at the ready, he began striding to where Waite stood. However, before he had covered half the short distance, a small pocket Colt appeared in Waite’s free hand. Bierce hesitated, still fearful of causing the release of the cholera. Waite felt no such hesitation, and in a smooth motion, he cocked and fired the weapon …

Just then, Courtney Delapore’s body hurled across his line of fire. With a sound more like a sigh than a cry, Delapore collapsed to the ground at the feet of a shocked Ambrose Bierce. In the same instant, the crack of Clay’s .32 caliber Smith & Wesson sounded. Waite’s left eye disappeared in a spray of blood; his ruined brain caused his hand to relax from the handle of the can as he collapsed into the shallow water. Holstering their weapons as they ran, both officers leaped toward the container. Bierce reached it first, gently turning it upright.

“Let me handle that,” commanded Clay. “The fall may have ruptured the wax seal; it might be death to touch it.”

“You just saved my life,” replied Bierce, sounding calmer than he felt. “The least I can do is shoulder this particular risk.” After a moment’s examination, a relieved Bierce announced, “It appears to be unbroken.”

Meanwhile, Clay had knelt by the inert form of Courtney Delapore. Turning him on his back, he saw with some surprise that Delapore was barely alive, breathing raggedly. With his right hand he feebly toyed with the wedding ring on his left—the ring symbolizing the marriage to his long dead wife. A faint smile crossed Delapore’s lips, and then with a shudder, he died.

A police whistle sounded. The two friends spotted several figures in the distance, hurrying in their direction; apparently gunshots excited comment, even in Central Park.

“Quickly Bierce!” exclaimed Clay. “You take one container, I the other. Onto the cart and away before we are taken with evidence we dare never explain. And we still need to recover our hired horses and tie their reins to the back of the wagon before we can leave the park altogether.”

“Where are we headed?” puffed Bierce as he loaded his container gingerly into the wagon.”

“Waite’s farmhouse,” replied Clay as he untied the horse and leapt into the driver’s seat, viciously jerking the animal’s head in the direction of their horses.

The first glimmers of sunshine filtered through the tattered curtains covering the windows of the crumbling farmhouse. Waite had apparently converted the parlor to a crude laboratory; scores of containers, most with unknown contents, were scattered amongst the retorts, beakers, and distilling apparatus. It had been obvious to Clay and Bierce that everything in the farmhouse presented some risk of unleashing a deadly plague; it was equally obvious to them that there was only one way to deal with the threat. As Bierce lugged in the last of the twelve big cans from the wagon, Clay finished emptying the last of the two gallons of whale oil he had found in the barn about the parlor, being especially careful to soak the equipment and containers.

“That’s the last of them,” Bierce said, wiping sweat from his forehead with his tunic sleeve. “Is there anything else to do before we put this place to the torch?” Clay removed a batch of papers from the side pocket his tunic and threw them onto the oil-soaked work table. A puzzled Bierce asked, “What were those?”

“I found them when I first entered this room, in plain view, while you were securing the horses and wagon. I only glanced at papers, but that glance was enough—a lengthy manifesto proclaiming that the cholera epidemic was just punishment for what the North had inflicted on the South, signed by Courtney Delapore.”

Bierce frowned. “Delapore seemed to be a reluctant participant in Waite’s scheme. Why would he put his name to a document that would damn him in the eyes of posterity?”

“He did not do so,” replied Clay. “There was a suicide note, also signed by Delapore—as forged as the rambling proclamation. It was Waite’s intent to murder Delapore, make it look like a suicide, and fade into the shadows.”

Clay withdrew a friction match from an inner pocket, struck it with his thumb, and tossed it onto the work table, which quickly burst into flames, with a whooshing sound.

“Delapore probably sensed it. That may have been the reason he chose to take the bullet meant for you.”

“Or he may have genuinely repented and wished to make amends,” replied Bierce with a surprising lack of his usual cynicism about human nature.

Clay shrugged, as if the matter was of little importance. “I wish we had been able to take Waite alive. I believe that with vigorous … inducements, I could have made him implicate the Richmond government concerning Lincoln’s assassination, without raising the matter of this monstrous plot, which must never come to light.”

“That would have been very difficult, especially with a slimy bastard like Waite. Perhaps it is best he died.”

“Perhaps. Still, I would have so loved to tie the traitors in Richmond to Lincoln’s murder.”

The fire spread from the table, greedily licking at its oil-soaked surroundings. Bierce said, “We had better go; soon this will spread to the whole house, and people will start to come with questions we would rather not answer.”

Clay nodded. The two friends walked quickly through the kitchen and out the back door, where they had left their rented horses. Smoothly mounting, they trotted the short distance to the main road and turned south toward the smoke-wreathed metropolis that was just being illuminated by the rising sun. They rode along in silence for some minutes, the traffic becoming thicker the closer they approached the developed portion of Manhattan.

Finally, Bierce ventured a question. “So, once we have returned these nags, what next? Do we go and join up with Duval, wherever you sent her?”

“No. I believe she will need no help, and there is still more to be done in Washington before our matter is concluded. Much more.”

“Jesus, Clay. Will this ever end? How deep does this treason go?”

“Deeper than Americans will ever dream—or at least that is my hope. Still, I dare to hope we may succeed in keeping the lid on this matter. When we started, I feared it was the longest of long shots. Now I dare to hope the odds are fifty-fifty.”

“Fifty-fifty of what?”

“Of suppressing a scandal that if ever known would utterly destroy the chances for lasting peace.”

A thoughtful Bierce could think of no response to that comment. The two friends rode through the thickening traffic toward the bustling city.