Chapter 6

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord …”

Clay and Bierce walked through the lobby of Willard’s, the former in uniform, the latter in crisp, new civilian clothes.

“So, you are off to San Francisco,” commented Clay as they exited onto Pennsylvania Avenue.

“After a few days here to look up some acquaintances,” Bierce replied jauntily.

“Do you have any concerns about your new career?”

“You know, I believe that I don’t. My writing is excellent, and I should have no trouble becoming established in journalism.”

Clay permitted himself a small smile. “Modesty was never your strong suit.”

“He who toots not his own horn, the same shall not be tooted. Besides …” Bierce trailed off.

Clay had stopped dead in front of a newsstand, eyes riveted on the front page. Bierce could tell that his friend had read something that shocked him, from a distance of a yard; for the hundredth time, Bierce was amazed at the acuity of Clay’s vision, despite his spectacles. Suddenly Clay snatched the two-cent newspaper, threw a quarter down on the vendor’s table, and rushed away, not waiting for the change due him. Bierce rushed after Clay, who had stopped at the street-corner, intently scanning a below-the-fold story. Bierce peeked over Clay’s shoulder and read the following:

SHOCKING BUTCHERY IN BUFFALO

WOMAN TO BE CHARGED IN ATROCITY

We are informed that a woman giving the name Brigid Doyle is to be charged with a murder that has terrified all upstate New York.

Miss Doyle was found alone in a farmhouse with the remains of a man who had been brutally slashed to death. The arresting officer, Sergeant Amos Kendall, has adamantly refused to discuss the nature of the fatal injuries, but our sources in the Buffalo Coroner’s office have described them to us.

Delicacy forbids revealing the nature of the injuries in a paper that may be read by the fair sex, but our readers can be assured that they are of a nature that brings the perpetrator’s very sanity into question.

We are informed that Miss Doyle’s trial will commence in two days’ time before Judge Elijah Pabodie, who is notoriously stern with wrongdoers. Therefore, we can assure our readers that Miss Doyle will not be able to rely on her sex to avoid the ultimate penalty.

Clay turned to face Bierce, shoving the paper into his hands. Bierce was startled by the pallor of Clay’s face; normally pale, what little color it had was gone, and the small officer’s features resembled more those of a marble statue than a living being. Bierce was even more startled at Clay’s announcement.

“I must go to Buffalo now, this instant. You must do me a great favor. Contact Allan Pinkerton. He employed Duval and respected her. Now he has organized a national detective agency. Tell Pinkerton I am on my way to Buffalo, and to have whoever he has in Buffalo drop whatever they are doing and gather information on Elijah Pabodie. Cost is literally no object. Please send the telegram; I must go by the next train north.”

Bierce looked with concern at his friend. “Have you considered that this may be for the best? She may have served the country, but she is evil and dangerous. Should you not let justice take its course, and remove her from this Earth?”

Clay gave Bierce a hard look, blue eyes sparkling dangerously behind his spectacles. “I know that she is all you say. However, you forget what she knows of the Surratt business. She will undoubtedly try to negotiate a deal with the judge to save her life; the price would be that information. It would blow this Government to pieces—and trigger undying hatred of the North for the South. I am going to Buffalo to prevent that. Promise me you will send the telegram!”

Bierce silently nodded his assent. Without a word, Clay turned and dashed toward a nearby cabstand, leaped into an unoccupied two-wheeler, and shouted to the driver to make all haste to the train station. Bierce looked after him sadly, murmuring to himself, “All you said is true, but that is not why you are going to Buffalo.”

Teresa Duval was going through her morning exercises, rhythmically straining every muscle in her body through a series of pushups, sit-ups, stretches, and running in place. So far, no opportunity for escape had presented itself, and it looked increasingly unlikely that it ever would. Sergeant Kendall had told all the jail staff what he had found, and as a result, fearful care was used by all who approached her. Still, if fortune favored her with a chance, she was determined to be fit enough to make the most of it. She completed her routine, her breathing only mildly elevated. Hands on hips, she looked over her cell carefully for the hundredth time. Three of the walls were solid brick, containing not so much as a barred window; the fourth wall was a very solid iron grate with both a key lock and an outside dead bolt.

She was becoming resigned to her fate. She had not given her current name and dared not try to access the considerable sums of money she had in secret accounts to buy the services of a skilled, experienced defense lawyer. Contacting Jay Gould for help was out of the question; she smiled grimly to herself at how quickly Gould would arrange for her permanent silence, even in this jail, should she threaten a hint of connection between him and what had happened at the farm. She thought longer about Alphonso Clay but acknowledged to herself that he dare not appear to help her; that would lead people to trace a connection to Grant and Stanton, and people would never believe she had not done what she had done with their approval, much less their knowledge. No, Clay’s sense of duty would require him to sacrifice her, to protect the country and his commanders.

The thought crossed her mind of threatening to reveal in open court the whole tangled scandal unless she were freed, bringing chaos on the country in general and destroying the careers of Grant and Stanton. Even as she mulled the idea over in her head, she realized, to her own surprise, that she could never do that, for it would hurt Alphonso Clay, and although she was prepared for the country and Grant to go to Hell in order to save her own life, she would die before she would destroy Clay. She laughed bitterly and damned the thing called love.

The door to the corridor was suddenly thrown open, and the one-armed figure of Amos Kendall appeared, followed by two hulking guards. He approached the cell, threw back the bolt, and with his one arm, he deftly unlocked the grate. He did not enter but dove his hand into his side pocket and produced a pair of handcuffs, which he threw at her feet.

“Put those on Miss Doyle, or whatever your real name is,” he said in a voice filled with quiet menace. “Judge Pabodie is waiting for the preliminary hearing. You are in luck; he has cleared his docket, will have you formally charged within the hour, and appoint one of our fine, experienced public defenders to represent you, since you apparently do not have much money of your own.”

He chuckled grimly, and Duval understood all too well how mediocre her defense counsel was likely to be. Sullenly, she placed the handcuffs on her wrists.

After he finished his quiet laugh, Kendall continued. “You are really getting the express treatment. Pabodie expects to empanel a jury this afternoon and start the trial tomorrow morning. Given the evidence, you will be in for the high jump by the weekend. Oh, and by the way, I didn’t hear the handcuffs latch.” He stared with grim amusement at Duval; with a resigned shrug, she clicked the handcuffs she had carefully left almost closed into place.

With an exaggerated bow, Kendall indicated she should go in front of her escort. Sighing to herself, she did as indicated, mentally cancelling her half-formed plan to grab Kendall’s revolver, a plan which the handcuffs would only partly have hindered. A walk down several long corridors and through a side-door led her into a whitewashed courtroom. The room was not large; the spectator section could hold only about twenty and was already crammed to bursting, which was why the bailiff had already closed the main door. Two tables stood in front of the judge’s bench. At one was a young, sharply-dressed man with oiled hair, obviously the prosecuting attorney; Duval caught his hawk-like eye, and immediately pegged him for dangerously intelligent.

She was brought to the second table by Kendall and his men, who then left her to stand with her manacled hands for everyone to see; she held her head high, affecting not to hear the hostile mutterings from the gallery.

Suddenly the bailiff shouted. “All rise! This court is now in session. The Honorable Elijah Pabodie presiding.”

As the spectators rose to their feet, the dark-visaged, grey-haired Judge Pabodie entered from the side door in a swirl of black robes, swiftly taking his seat. Banging his gavel once, he glared at Duval and said in a quavering tenor, “We are here to consider the case of the State of New York versus Brigid Doyle. The district attorney’s office has asked to bypass the empaneling of a grand jury to seek an indictment. In view of the evidence and the demand of the community for justice, he has asked for a summary proceeding to indict and proceed immediately to trial. Miss Doyle, I assume that you have no representation. Do you choose to represent yourself, or would you prefer to claim indigence and have the court appoint counsel for you?”

Before she could answer, she heard a familiar voice from the spectator’s section. “Your Honor, I represent the defendant.”

The voice caused her heart to skip a beat; she whirled around and saw Alphonso Clay, his uniform freshly pressed, striding down the aisle toward the bench, a thin portfolio tucked under his left arm. He bowed slightly to Pabodie. “Your Honor, I am Lieutenant Colonel Alphonso Clay, United States Volunteers. I am admitted to the practice of law in my native state of Kentucky, as well as the states of Massachusetts and New York. I have evidence that will make the proceedings against Miss Doyle unnecessary. May I have permission to approach the bench?”

Startled by this development, Pabodie looked at the prosecutor to see if he would raise objection. The ambitious young district attorney saw no advantage in making trouble for a high-ranking Federal officer so soon after the victorious conclusion of the war; he had higher ambitions, and voters might object to his harassing a boy in blue. Slightly shaking his head, he busied himself with his notes and filings.

Pabodie then made a curt gesture indicating Clay should advance. The slight officer came up to the bench, opened his portfolio, and placed it before the judge, announcing in a loud voice, “These papers will show that Miss Doyle not only did not commit murder, but that she has rendered valuable service to the Union in ways that can never be acknowledged.” The spectators’ voices became an angry buzz. Clay’s voice suddenly dropped to a murmur, audible only to Pabodie and himself. “These papers are depositions from two of the young people—children, really—whom you have defiled over the years. Because they were poor and helpless, and because they knew the establishment would believe you over them, they have never before come forward. However, via various inducements, they have now executed the depositions you see before you. I am sure with more time, I can find more victims of your unnatural lusts.”

In a few moments, Pabodie seemed to visibly deflate, all color draining from his face. “Nobody will believe these,” he hoarsely whispered.

“Many will not,” Clay whispered back. “Many will. Your wife, for instance. Also, I understand you have an ailing, elderly mother. Such accusations could be a grievous blow to a woman in her position.”

Pabodie had seemed to age a decade over the last minute. “God damn you, Clay. What do you want from me?”

“The release of this woman in a way that will guarantee she will never be bothered again in this matter. Then you will have this documentation, and nothing further will be heard of your sick indiscretions. If it salves your conscience, the unidentified man found in the farmhouse was a Rebel spy, whose life was forfeited the moment he was caught.”

“What if … the people who signed these documents choose to follow up on the matter?”

Clay favored Pabodie with a look of withering contempt. “I am a realist, and know, as they know, that although they could destroy your career and reputation, you would never serve a day in jail. You have too many high-ranking friends who will refuse to believe what you have done. On the other hand, I am a man of property, and I will pay your victims for their continued silence. Money will never make up for what you did, but at least it will allow them to crawl out of the grinding poverty that would otherwise be their lot.”

Pabodie’s eyes drifted down to the papers, which he had clutched in his hands. Without raising his eyes, he suddenly shouted, “Bailiff! The case against Miss Brigid Doyle is dismissed with prejudice. Prepare the order!”

The bailiff looked amazed but quickly recovered himself, went to his small table, and began preparing the papers for the judge’s signature.

The prosecuting attorney was made of sterner stuff. Face reddened with outrage, he jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, I protest! Dismissal with prejudice means no charges may ever be brought against the accused on this matter, regardless of what additional evidence is produced! In the name of the public and the state of New York, I must …”

“The case is dismissed with prejudice!” Pabodie shouted back. “This court is adjourned!” Ignoring the angry buzzing from the spectators, he scrawled his signature on the papers the bailiff had placed before him. He then rose slowly, clutched the papers given him by Clay with both hands, and with staggering steps, exited the courtroom, eyes never leaving the papers in his hands.

Taking Duval’s arm, Clay led her through the same door, obviously anxious to avoid an incident with a hostile crowd. Pausing in the corridor, they heard Pabodie’s heavy steps as he slowly ascended the stairs to the second floor.

The door to the courtroom opened again, and they were confronted by the one-armed figure of Amos Kendall. Glowering at the pair, the policeman spoke in a voice charged with menace. “Don’t know what hold you have on Pabodie, but it has let you get away with a crime the likes of which I have never seen, and may God grant I will never see again. Now I put you both on warning. This is my town, and the people here are my responsibility. I want you gone by sunset. If I ever see either of you again, you will not be leaving this town—ever. Understand?”

Clay nodded his assent. However, Duval was unable to let it go at that. “Sergeant, I believe you should remove my handcuffs. They chafe.”

Glowering at her, he deftly produced the keys with his remaining arm and unlocked the manacles on his first try, stuffing them into a side pocket of his uniform.

Duval rubbed her wrists to restore circulation, and then spoke sweetly. “You have some property of mine. I would appreciate it if you gave it back.” Kendall’s eyes narrowed, but with only a slight hesitation, he did as he had been asked, producing from another of his tunic’s pockets first a wad of cash, then a Sharps pistol, and finally a Wilkinson straight-razor. Duval made them all disappear into pockets of her dress, saying, “I especially appreciate the razor. It has come to mean much to me over the years.” In her mind’s eye, she saw her burning childhood home, an image of the night she had acquired the razor and given it its first taste of arterial blood.

Clay touched her elbow. “Time to go,” he said quietly, as he guided her to the rear of the courthouse, while the one-armed Kendall stared at them with implacable grey eyes. As they passed through the back door, Clay pointed at a small carriage. “Quickly, into the gig. We must make haste and be on the next train to New York City.”

He handed her up into the passenger seat, then untied the horse from the hitching post, and jumped into the driver’s seat. As he took the reins and put the gig into motion, Duval placed her hand on Clay’s right arm.

“I did not expect you to come,” she said, smiling broadly at him. “I would have understood if you had left me to hang, given what was at stake.”

Clay spoke while continuing to look straight ahead. “It was necessary for the Union. I could not be certain that the fear of imminent death might have led you to implicate Grant and Stanton through me.”

“I see,” replied Duval, a smile on her lips, a predatory gleam in her eyes. Feeling suddenly tired, she rested her head on Clay’s shoulder; Clay stiffened but did not object. “I see,” she repeated.

Through an open second-story window of the courthouse, a muffled gunshot suddenly rang out. Clay and Duval were already too far down the street for them to notice the sound.

The couple worked their way through the crowds to the platform where the train from New York City to Washington waited. “You must give the credit to Allan Pinkerton,” Clay said, responding to a complement Duval had paid him. “I could never have gathered the information about the judge so quickly on my own. He is assembling a truly impressive national organization.”

“Still, it was you who thought to go to him, you who hired him.” Duval held Clay’s arm even more possessively, to her own surprise; the last thing she would have considered herself was a “clinger.”

Clay suddenly stopped, forcing Duval to do the same. “Why, that is General Halleck,” he commented with genuine surprise, pointing to a blue-uniformed officer slowly working his way along the platform. Then in a louder voice he called “General Halleck, sir!”

Henry Halleck came to a stop and swiveled his bulging eyes in Clay’s direction. Then he shuffled over to Clay and Duval, the former saluting, the latter making a sketch of a curtsy. “Colonel Clay, I hear congratulations are in order,” he said, absently scratching his elbow. “You are to become a major in the Regulars.”

“I have that honor, sir. May I introduce my friend, Miss Teresa Duval? She has been of invaluable service in my recent assignment.”

Halleck turned his watery blue eyes toward Duval and nodded. Duval came to the same conclusion as had Clay earlier: that the general was a habitual user of some opium compound.

“My pleasure, Miss Duval.” He turned his attention back to Clay. “At the risk of impoliteness, I must be leaving immediately. My train from Washington was late, and if the steamer to Panama is on schedule, I have only a bit more than two hours to get to the docks. It is fortunate that my family and luggage have already gone ahead.”

Clay frowned. “Panama?”

“It is the quickest way to San Francisco. The ax has fallen; Grant and Stanton have removed me as chief of staff and are sending me to California to head the Military Division of the Pacific.”

Although not tender-hearted, Clay felt a pang of sympathy for the fallen general; the Military Division of the Pacific sounded grand, but it was in fact a backwater command with few troops, who easily handled the occasional difficulties with the Modoc Indians.

“I am sorry to hear that, sir,” replied Clay.

“No need. My headquarters will be in San Francisco. Not only is it a delightful city, but I have nothing but fond memories of it. Did you know that before the war I was not only the most successful attorney there, but the best architect in California? I even constructed a building people said could not be built in San Francisco: an office building that was fireproof and earthquake proof. They said it could not be done, but I did it. I had nothing but praise and success, before the war. Then I rejoined the army, and … well, I know that history will speak ill of me. That is why I like to remember my accomplishments before the war.” His eyes had drifted from Clay and Duval, and it seemed as if he were talking to himself. “They said it could not be done, that the ground was too unstable, the materials too expensive, but I did it and made it pay. It will stand for more than a century. Symmetry was the secret; perfect symmetry in the load-bearing walls, the foundations, the fixtures. Symmetry left no weaknesses.”

He refocused his attention on Clay.

“That is what always bothered me about the Booth conspiracy. There was a lack of symmetry about it. Attacks on Lincoln, but apparently none on Grant or Stanton. Attacks in the North, but none on our commanders in the South. Perhaps that is why I failed as a general; I was expecting symmetry, when war involves individuals who do not apply the laws of engineering.” Halleck seemed to blink some self-pitying tears from his eyes. “My apologies; I am rambling. Clay, congratulations on a job well done. Good day to you both.” With a slight nod, Halleck turned and shuffled toward the front of the station where the cabs waited.

Duval smiled grimly as she watched him disappear into the crowd. “However did such a fool come to hold such a powerful position?”

Although her question was rhetorical, Clay gave her a serious answer. “Because until the war, he did indeed seem a remarkable man, succeeding at all he did. When he faced a job where he could not succeed, it broke him.” Clay drew out his watch and consulted it. “We must make haste or we will miss the Washington train.”

In less than a minute, they had found their train, boarded it, and entered their first-class compartment. Just as they seated themselves, the train lurched into motion with the scream of a whistle and the hiss of steam; there had indeed been little time to spare.

The events of the last few days had taken much out of Duval. Without so much as a word, she placed her head on Clay’s shoulder and promptly went to sleep. Clay frowned upon such intimacy in a public place, even if that public place was a first-class railroad compartment, but he found, to his surprise, that he did not have the heart to disturb her. Feeling exhausted himself, he made himself as comfortable as he could without disturbing her and began to doze.

In his fitful sleep, the events of the last few days flitted through his dreams, recognizable yet distorted in the way of dreams. His dream-self was puzzled by the way two scenes in particular repeated several times.

In one, Henry Halleck was a schoolteacher, dressed not in uniform but in a frock coat. Clay seemed to be a little boy sitting at a desk—and to be the only one in the class. In the dream, Halleck paced back and forth before the blackboard, addressing Clay. “I have kept you after, young Mr. Clay, because you do not understand the vital importance of symmetry.” He stopped his pacing and glared down on the dream-Clay disapprovingly. “I am disappointed in you, young Mr. Clay. Every animal, every plant on this planet is symmetrical. When you look into the skies, you see that the stars are distributed symmetrically. And yet, you do not appreciate the importance of symmetry.”

This would then be replaced by a dream of Mrs. Surratt’s hanging. In the dream, instead of the brightly-lit exercise yard and the hundreds of witnesses, the gallows stood on a vast, dark plain, with not a soul in sight except for Surratt, the hangman, and Clay. As the hangman started to place the silk hood over her head, the dream-Surratt smiled—the same triumphant smile he had glimpsed at her actual execution. As the mask went over her head, she said, “You did not appreciate symmetry, and that is why you will fail.” Several times this particular dream ended there. However, in one final repetition, the hangman threw the lever, Surratt fell through the trap, and a sickening snap jarred Clay awake.

The start of his body awakened Duval. She looked at him sleepily; then seeing the look of horror on her lover’s face, she came fully awake. “Alphonso, what is it? What is wrong?”

“Damnation! Symmetry! A plan of this nature would have symmetry. Why were all efforts at rekindling the war focused on the North, when there was such bitterness and resentment in the defeated South? Because there are indeed efforts in the South! The goal was to restart the war; it mattered not how or on what side.”

“But what could be done to cause the South to rise up again as a whole, after all the death and destruction they have endured?”

“I know of only one way certain to do so. I will take immediate action and pray that I am not too late. I will drop you in Washington and proceed.”

“Alphonso Clay, you are not going into any lion’s den without me. You know I can cover your back as well as any man. Now, where are we going?”

For a long moment, Clay looked at her; then, with an odd combination of emotions flitting across his face, he said one word. “Richmond.”

Robert E. Lee walked so softly into his wife’s bedroom that she did not notice his arrival. She lay flat above the covers, restlessly making small movements to adjust her spine to some position marginally less painful. Lee looked sadly at his wife’s hands, twisted by arthritis into a parody of what they had been when he had first met her, more than thirty years before. He glanced at the cumbersome wheelchair beside the bed, the prison in which his wife lived when she was not lying on the bed. He walked over and sat on the bed beside her; she turned her face toward him, the lines of pain softened by a look of the purest love. He bent forward and gently kissed her forehead.

“The pain is no better today?” he inquired, already knowing the answer.

She smiled weakly. “It is no worse, Robert. Any word on our sons?”

He smiled a genuine smile. “Custis, Rooney and Rob are well. They plan a rendezvous with our daughters and are coming to see us in a few days’ time.”

Mrs. Lee’s smile broadened. “We have such fine children, do we not, Robert? Especially the boys. They fought so hard and so well for the Cause; I thank God for His returning them to us whole.”

Robert Lee struggled to keep a look of melancholy from his face. If his wife’s prayers had been answered, God had been deaf to the prayers of so many other mothers of young soldiers. He felt he must not show his sadness and bitterness; his wife had so few pleasures these days, and he was determined never to detract from any of them.

“If they have become good men, it is entirely your doing,” he replied. “I was around so little while they grew; whatever is good in them must be from you.”

Mrs. Lee placed her crippled hand lightly on that of her husband’s and continued smiling. “Never underestimate the influence you had on them. They knew you were away because of duty, and they could see you always did your duty, always kept your honor, no matter what the cost.”

“Still, as I look back, I realize what it must have been like for you, all those years I was in Mexico or on the frontier, running the plantation and raising the children. It was wrong of me.”

“It was never wrong, Robert. You were always my knight in shining armor, and a knight cannot spend much time in his castle if he is to be a true knight.”

Lee chuckled ruefully. “Some knight I have been! The castle is gone. Arlington has been seized by the Federals and turned into a cemetery for their dead. It will now never be returned to us; we can never go back to the place where we spent the happiest times of our youth.” He gestured around them. “Here we are, guests in the house of an admirer who has given up his home to us—no servants except the washer-woman who comes every other day. I wish I could give my beautiful princess more.”

“We are together; that is enough. Still, we cannot impose on your friend for long. What will we do for money? Will you accept the offer from the Khedive of Egypt to head his army?”

Lee shook his head. “I will never order young men to their deaths again. Never. As for how we will live, today’s mail brought an offer from Washington College to be their president. The salary is not great, but the position comes with a house and servants.”

Mrs. Lee laughed softly. “You, a teacher? How could you stand the boredom?”

A melancholic expression came over Lee’s face. “Looking back on my military career, I now realize I was happiest during the short time I headed West Point. The army was a duty; education was a pleasure. Yes, it may be boring, but I want to spend the remainder of my days being bored with you.”

“Then we will go to Washington College.” She hesitated and placed her gnarled hand on her husband’s arm. “Robert, I know that you disapprove, but I really do need more medicine for the pain.”

Robert Lee kept his tone light, although his heart was breaking. “Now, you know you have already had a dose this afternoon. Another would send you to sleep for the rest of the evening.”

The withered hand clutched harder. “I know it is weakness, but the pain is especially bad today, and I would rather sleep than be awake with it.”

With a heavy heart, Lee rose from the bed and went to the dressing table by the window. He picked up a spoon and a dark brown bottle, uncorking the latter as he walked back to the bed. Carefully measuring the drops of laudanum into the spoon, he then gave the narcotic to his wife, hating the necessity, hating himself for feeding his wife’s addiction.

“Thank you, Robert,” she said. Then, as the narcotic began to take immediate effect, she sleepily murmured, “I will dream of better times, when we were young.” Then she closed her eyes.

Tears blurring his vision, Lee stumbled from the bedroom and into the large parlor. All the doors and windows of the house were open, and a slightly cooling breeze wafted through the front door. Lee stood in front of that door, letting the wind dry his tears. He noticed some women across the street, looking his way and talking among themselves. The sight depressed him; they were undoubtedly talking about him, about their glorious temporary neighbor, and what a noble and great man he was. They could not imagine, they would not believe, what the slaughter of the last four years had taken out of him.

Suddenly the women stopped talking, looked down the street, then quickly split up, going to their respective homes lining this street, one of the few upper-class streets in Richmond that had survived the fire. Lee turned his head and saw that a lone rider was coming into view. Lee’s vision was not what it had been, and not until the rider reached his house and turned his mount into the carriageway could he tell that it was a burly, clean-shaven Federal in a captain’s uniform. That explained the sudden departure of the upper-class housewives, Lee realized; the very presence of a damn Yankee could be contaminating.

The massive officer dismounted and tied his horse to the hitching post beside the front porch. Lee watched the captain take a deep breath, then slide a Spencer carbine out of the saddle’s scabbard. Then the stranger strode to the door, chambering a round as he went. A thoroughly alarmed Lee retreated several steps into the parlor, uncertain as to what this meant, and what he should do. Were the occupation authorities offering this an insult, trying to humiliate with a show of force? Was it something worse? Lee had no weapon within easy reach and would not run to find one. Resolutely, he took a position at the entrance to the hallway that led to his unconscious wife’s bedroom.

The large, clean-shaven man entered the parlor, saw Lee, and hesitated. The man seemed familiar, but Lee could not remember where he had seen the intruder before. With no fear for himself, concealing the terror he felt for his wife, Lee addressed the man. “What is the meaning of this outrage, coming armed and without permission into my house? How dare you, sir!”

“I dare because there ain’t no other way,” said the man in a deep, drawling voice. “All the sacrifice, all the blood—it can’t be for nothing.”

Lee’s eyes widened with shock as he finally recognized the voice. “Not you. It cannot be.”

“I wish there was another way, but things went wrong up North,” replied James Longstreet in a sad, mournful voice. “I even told Colonel Waite I would shoot Sam Grant to get the war back going. Sam is the best friend I ever had. But Waite told me it could only be you; only your murder by a Yankee would cause the beaten South to rise up and go at the North again. If Grant died, the North would be outraged, but the South wouldn’t really feel the spur to rebellion that they would if it were you.”

“You are working for Ephraim Waite? The man is an uncivilized butcher. I told Jefferson Davis repeatedly to dismiss Waite from his position.”

“And Jeff Davis never did,” replied Longstreet. “Davis may be a fool, but he and I agree on one thing: after all the blood that has been spilled, we must do anything to gain our independence. Anything. With the North blamed for your murder, the South will rise as one—and fight to the very last man, woman, and child. It may take ten years; it may take longer, but sooner or later, Washington will grow weary of bushwhackers and partisans, and we will win.”

“So, Waite told you to murder me.”

Longstreet seemed to square his shoulders. “I volunteered. It was the last thing I would have liked to do for the cause, so it was my duty to do it. I owe it to my boys—the boys who died at Gettysburg, the boys who died in a dozen battles, big and little, for the Cause.”

“Can’t lead from behind,” said Lee softly, repeating Longstreet’s famous motto.

“That’s right. So, I shaved off that rat’s nest of a beard I grew during the war so I wouldn’t be recognized by bystanders. I got a Yankee captain’s uniform that would fit, and a Yankee carbine that I will leave here after … I’m done. I made sure your neighbors saw a Yankee officer entering the house.”

Lee briefly closed his eyes and had a vision of a century of partisan warfare, countless bushwhacking, countless cavalry raids on civilians, fire and blood steadily sweeping across the South until it was another Ireland or Poland, full of oppressors and oppressed equally brutalized, equally devoid of Christian humanity. A South become a sick perversion of the land that he so loved. He opened his eyes and saw Longstreet had pointed the carbine at his chest.

“Pete, for myself, I do not care, but for the South I beg you, do not do this. I know more about Waite than do you; he is worse than a beast and never served the Confederacy as much as he served masters who do not care about our land. He is corrupt and is trying to create a land where his corruption will flourish.”

Longstreet said nothing; he simply continued to point the weapon at Lee. Lee knew Longstreet could fire at any second, so he made one last appeal to reason.

“Pete, you and I did terrible things for the Cause. We felt badly about them, but we did them. But we never did murder. Killing in battle is one thing; as horrible as it is, it does not degrade a cause. However, what you are doing now is simply murder. Has the Cause come to the point where it can only be saved by murder? Pete, I know that you are good man. Look inside yourself, and ask yourself if the Cause, any cause, is worth such means to achieve. If the answer is yes, then fire, and do not be ashamed.”

Lee looked calmly at Longstreet, as unafraid and dignified as a Roman consul. Longstreet seemed frozen in position, squinting down the carbine. The two stood as still as statues for nearly a minute, until Lee broke the silence.

“Let me make the decision easy for you. I am going to come and take that gun away from you. If you are going to ever pull the trigger, now is the time.”

Lee crossed the distance between them in four measured steps; Longstreet remained motionless. Slowly, Lee grasped the barrel of the Spencer, gently directing it toward the ceiling. With equal gentleness, he disengaged Longstreet’s hand from the trigger; Longstreet still did not move. Lee carefully placed the weapon on a sofa. Still holding his position, Longstreet finally spoke.

“I couldn’t pull the trigger. God damn me, I couldn’t pull the trigger. My mind said to do it, but my finger wouldn’t move. It’s over, all over. The Cause is lost forever.” Quietly the man who had suffered three serious gunshot wounds in his life without a tear or moan of pain began to cry.

Lee walked over to Longstreet and hugged him, as a parent would a desolate child. Suddenly, Lee heard horses galloping down the street to his house. Through the open door, he saw a young, blond officer with spectacles slide off his mount without bothering to tie it up; the man ran to the house, drawing a revolver as he ran. More amazingly, he saw a lithe, attractive woman, who was shockingly riding astride, gallop up, vault off her animal, and run with equal speed right behind the man, a small pistol somehow appearing in her hand. The two burst into the parlor and skidded to a halt. Lee could tell the intruders were swiftly taking in the strange sight of a grey-haired gentleman consoling a hulking brute in uniform, and the Yankee carbine lying on a sofa. The man was the first to speak.

“Mr. Lee, I am Alphonso Clay. There is good reason to believe that an attempt will be made on your life, with the intention of making it appear to be the work of the Union.” He looked meaningfully at the large man in the blue uniform. Lee separated from Longstreet, who brought a hand to his face to hide his tears.

“That is nonsense, Colonel,” replied Lee. “Even my good friend General Longstreet fell for such rumors. It explains why he is currently wearing a Union uniform. He had some silly idea that the sight of a Federal officer in my home would discourage an assailant. I was just assuring him that his fears were groundless. Is that not so, Pete?”

Not trusting himself to speak, Longstreet merely nodded his assent.

Clay looked hard at the two Rebels, then at the carbine, then back at the men. Slowly holstering his revolver, Clay replied, “I see. I suppose the threat is past. Do you concur, Mr. Longstreet?”

The large man nodded.

Clay shrugged and turned to Duval. “I suppose then that we should …” Clay trailed off.

Duval still had her Sharps pepperbox in her hand, pointed straight at Lee’s heart. Clay could see the strangeness of her eyes and suspected she was not entirely in this room, but back in Ireland, where dignified men with drawling accents had caused terrible things to be done to her parents. With a flash of intuition, he realized that for the moment she did not see Lee, but some long-dead English soldier.

Clay carefully placed his hand on her arm and spoke in a low voice. “Teresa, there is no need. It is over. All of it is over. What you are thinking of never makes it better. Never. Believe me; I know.”

She started and looked directly into his eyes. Suddenly the small gun was gone as if by magic. Clay turned to the now puzzled generals, bowed slightly, clicked his heels in the European fashion, and without a word, strode from the room, closely followed by Teresa Duval.

Duval was luxuriating on one of the massive, comfortable sofas contained in Clay’s impressive library, drinking coffee and holding polite conversation with Mr. John Rockefeller, the young oil magnate with whom Clay was a silent partner. A fire burned in the grate; although still late summer, Kentucky was going through a cold spell, and Clay always made certain his guests were comfortable. Clay had said he needed time to himself; he had not specified, but Duval knew that he was spending time at the tomb of his mulatto cousin Jeremiah Lot, born of a liaison between a dissolute uncle of Clay’s and a slave. There was also a tomb for Lot’s sister, Clay’s love from before the war; there was no body for the tomb to receive, but Clay had constructed it, nonetheless.

Rockefeller finished his coffee and placed the cup on the tray on a nearby end table. “I appreciate your hospitality, Miss Duval. However, I must get to Louisville within two hours if I am to make the train to Ohio.” He stood and made a slight bow to Duval. “My business with Major Clay is concluded, and I said my goodbyes before he went out this morning. Please thank him again for his hospitality.”

Duval also rose and executed a graceful curtsy. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Rockefeller. I know that despite his desire for his investments with you to remain anonymous, he has the highest regard for you, both as a businessman and as a gentleman.”

“And I have the highest regard for him, especially for his farsightedness. America’s need for oil is growing by leaps and bounds, but every year, the whales become fewer and fewer. The only substitute for whale oil will be petroleum distillates. Those like Clay who see that future will reap the greatest rewards. Do not trouble yourself by seeing me out; the stable boy already has my gig prepared. I hope we meet again.” With quick steps the rail-thin young man strode to the door, retrieved his hat and stick, and closed the massive front door behind him.

Duval walked over to the fireplace and stared into the flames, a thoughtful look on her face. Clay’s house was elegant and gracious: his landholdings enormous; his wealth skillfully finding its way into the businesses that would find favor in the decades to come. It would be so easy to make herself mistress of all this, she thought; the prudish Clay was uncomfortable with their relationship being unsanctified by marriage, and it would not take much to maneuver him into a proposal. Yet to her continuing amazement, she knew she would not do that. Partly that was because she fiercely valued her independence and found even the theoretical submission required of a wife to be distasteful. More importantly, however, she realized that she wanted Clay to marry her because he wanted to, not because he felt he should.

She heard the rear door open and close and the click of approaching boot heels. Clay entered the room, a desolate look on his face; Duval could guess the reason for that look. He walked over to the fire and stood beside her, staring into it. The silence continued for nearly a minute before Duval broke it.

“I have had a letter from Mr. Pinkerton. He wishes to employee me as a roving investigator in his agency, to be given the most delicate cases. The salary he offered is $250 per month, plus expenses.” She did not add that she expected to still take well-compensated assignments from Jay Gould on the side.

“He must appreciate your worth,” Clay responded. “A factory worker is lucky to get a fourth of that. Will you accept?”

“I believe I will. After all, a single lady must find some way to support herself.”

“What does this mean for us?” Clay asked, not looking at her.

“That will depend on you.”

Clay finally looked directly at her, pale blue eyes glowing weirdly behind the lenses of his spectacles. “There is so much you do not know about me. You may think that you know it all, but you do not. If you knew it all, you would flee my presence.”

“I have fled no danger in my life. In fact, I rather enjoy danger. Tonight, tell me all. Tell me what you think is so dreadful about yourself. You may be surprised at how little it will matter to me.”

Clay looked deeply into Duval’s eyes. “Very well, tonight you will learn all. You have earned that right. However, remember what you learn, you will not be able to unlearn.” Then something seemed to occur to Clay. From an inner pocket of his tunic, he drew eighteen crumpled pages—ones he had torn from Booth’s pocket diary, pages with the potential to blow the just-reunited country apart forever. He threw them onto the fire and carefully watched as they all blackened, shriveled, and turned to ash.

“What was that?” asked a puzzled Duval.

“A record of things that never happened,” replied Alphonso Clay.