CHAPTER 2

“LET NO RUDE FOE, WITH IMPIOUS HAND, INVADE THE SHRINE …”

Ambrose Bierce grinned with delight at the half-revealed weapons; he had several flaws of character, but physical cowardice was not among them. “Damnation, I know we have had our differences over the years, but they have usually stopped short of violence.”

Clay and Duval had restored the weapons to their hiding places before the desk clerk could obtain a clear view of them. “Come over here before we talk more,” whispered Clay fiercely, gesturing to a deserted corner of the lobby where a couple of settees displayed their plush velvet finery. The smile swiftly disappeared from Bierce’s face, and he nodded his agreement. Clay then addressed the desk clerk in a loud, clear voice.

“Please have our bags taken to our rooms. We need to chat with our old friend here.” The three then went to the corner and settled themselves, where it was clear that they could not be overheard. As soon as they were seated, Bierce offered an apology, a rare event for him.

“Damn it Clay, Miss Duval, I made an ass of myself, and I beg your pardon. The moment I saw you in civilian clothes, I should have realized that you were on some sort of mission, and did not want to attract attention. Damn it, I was just too pleased to see the both of you.”

“Apology accepted,” replied Clay dryly.

“So, are you making any progress on emasculating the Klan?” asked Bierce casually. Clay started; he had forgotten just how intelligent Ambrose Bierce could be.

“How came you to know of our business?” asked Duval in her sweetest voice, a bare hint of unspeakable violence detectable in her tone.

“I assure you both I had no idea until I saw the two of you at the reception desk in civilian clothes. I asked myself what could bring the two of you to New Orleans. Could it be routine Army business? Not with Alphonso out of uniform. Could you two have finally tied the knot, and come here on a honeymoon? Neither of you wore wedding rings. Therefore, you were here on some confidential business for Grant. Such business was most likely to have something to do with the latest Klan depredations.”

Clay nodded approvingly. “You were always clever, Bierce. I only wish you showed a bit more discretion in how you use your cleverness. Given what you have deduced, may we count on that?”

“Of course. I know you wouldn’t be here except to break the Klan’s back, and you have my most hearty support in such an endeavor. In fact, that is what brings me here.”

“The Klan?” asked Duval curiously.

Bierce shrugged. “The sale of fiction is not providing enough to live on, so I have accepted employment with a San Francisco newspaper. The folks out in California get a vicarious thrill reading about the Klan atrocities. They should be more concerned with how they treat their own Chinamen. Anyway, the editor sent me out to do some digging and come up with some first-hand articles about the evils of the Klan; the more degenerate and cruel they make Southerners appear, the better. The editor even cut loose with a handsome sum for expenses. Usually he is a cheap so-and-so, I hope this generosity doesn’t give him a stroke. Why else do you think I am putting up in a place such as this?”

“So, how has your investigation been progressing?” asked Clay.

“Not as well as I had hoped,” admitted Bierce. “I’m sure lots of people know juicy things about the Klan, but they are well and truly clammed up. You shall see, the boys in the white sheets have folks so terrified that I can’t get any of the inhabitants of the bars, fancy-houses and such to give me anything useful. About all I could get out of them is that the carpetbagger officials hide behind army bayonets, trembling with fear; and the army doesn’t do much more than act as bodyguards to the politicians. The Klan goes where it pleases and does what it pleases.”

“It does not sound like much of a story,” commented Duval.

Bierce grimaced. “True enough, Miss Duval. That is why I decided to change my approach and beard the army in its lair—specifically Colonel Robert Buchanan, the army’s boss for all of Louisiana. I especially would enjoy hearing him explain why he isn’t able to do more to protect the freedman and Union sympathizers.”

Clay arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? We, ourselves, have an appointment to meet the Colonel tomorrow.”

“Damnation!” exclaimed Bierce. “I have been trying to get in to see Buchanan for more than a week, without success. How did you swing an audience with his august majesty?”

Clay shrugged. “I have a letter from Grant directing all army personnel to co-operate with me in any way. Buchanan had little choice.”

Bierce hesitated, then spoke almost apologetically. “Look Clay, I hate asking for favors, especially from friends, but surely I must ask. Could you take me in with you when you go to see Buchanan? I will be up front with you. I have been fired off two newspapers in the last year. The one I’m now working for now is the last major one in San Francisco that would have me. My own damn fault! My pride caused me to insult the boneheaded editors who presumed to edit my prose when they themselves could not push a noun against a verb without doing injury to the English language. Seeing as my personal funds are almost gone, this is make-or-break for me as a journalist.”

Clay paused for only a few seconds before replying. “Ambrose, I want to be of service, but you must know that anything we discover relating to our assignment cannot be disclosed in a newspaper, ever.”

“I am a patriot, Alphonso. You saw that in the war. I give you my word as a gentleman that you may see whatever I intend to send my editor, and delete anything harmful to Grant or the country. After all, I cannot imagine any journalist, much less myself, publishing a story that would harm his country.”

Clay pondered for just a moment, cast a glance at Duval, and gave Bierce his answer.

The headquarters of the Department of Louisiana was located in a barracks to the south of New Orleans. Clay noted approvingly that that there were clear fields of fire in all directions, and the wooden stockade looked well-maintained. A pair of alert sentries stopped visitors at the main gate. They checked the identities of Clay and Duval, confirming that the Colonel was expecting them. Ever cautious, they were puzzled by the third visitor; not only had they received no word to admit Ambrose Bierce, but the journalist had been turned away twice in the recent past. A mute display of Clay’s letter from Grant silenced their objections, and the trio was admitted inside the barracks complex.

The parade ground within the stockade was immaculate; the grass cut short, the pathways well graveled. The few soldiers in sight moved hurriedly and with purpose; obvious that Colonel Buchanan ran a tight ship. The three friends strode up to the stone building, a flagpole with a limply hanging Old Glory indicating it was the headquarters of the United States Army in Louisiana. Rapidly ascending the short flight of steps, they crossed the broad veranda and passed through the door that had been left open in a vain attempt to catch a cooling breeze. The door to the Colonel’s office was also open; they could see a grey-bearded officer talking gruffly to a portly, nervous young lieutenant. The Colonel shifted his dark, fierce eyes to the new arrivals, then indicated with a jerk of his head that the lieutenant should take his leave. Colonel Buchanan rose slowly to his feet, placing his arms behind his back. Although dressed in civilian clothes, Clay touched the wide brim of his planter’s hat in salute. The colonel did not return the salute. He stood glaring at his visitors without speaking, until Clay broke the silence.

“Colonel Buchanan, I do appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”

“I had no choice; the President’s order was clear,” responded Buchanan in a gruff monotone. “Nothing was said about two companions.”

“Allow me to introduce Miss Teresa Duval, an employee of the Pinkerton Agency, and Mr. Ambrose Bierce of San Francisco. They are providing discrete assistance in my inquiries.”

The Colonel’s dark eyes shifted toward Bierce. “So it has come to this, then. I cannot keep gossiping newspapermen out of my own headquarters. Still, my orders were to assist you in any way I can, and I follow my orders.”

“May we be seated, Colonel?” said Duval in a fair approximation of a Southern belle’s simper. “The heat is dreadful, and I have come some distance.”

Buchanan had a choleric temperament, but he was still an officer and a gentleman. Still scowling, he wordlessly came from behind his desk and moved one of the room’s heavy wooden chairs to where Duval could seat herself with a minimum of movement. Clay and Bierce, left to their own devices, drew up chairs on either side of her. Buchanan then returned to his own chair, placed his forearms on the desk, and looked at them intently.

“Well, what does the President want? It must be damn important to be handled in such an irregular fashion.”

Clay sat ramrod-straight, enunciating clearly. “The depredations of the Ku Klux Klan have intensified to the point that the President’s entire Reconstruction policy is threatened. He has sent me to gather information on why the Army has not been able to control the Klan, and to suggest ways and means by which he can restore peace and order throughout the South.” This was not exactly true, but Clay had decided this was how he would represent his mission to Buchanan.

Buchanan slowly leaned back in his chair, his face reddening. “I see. So Grant has decided he will finally drive me out of the service in disgrace; his revenge will be complete. Well, God damn him, and God damn you! I have done the best that can be done. I have less than two thousand troops to maintain order in the entire state of Louisiana! With the Klan so numerous and so secretive, it is flat impossible to protect all points. Hell, it is hard enough just to police New Orleans and Baton Rouge with what I’ve got. Yes, the Klan is running rampant, and as things stand there is not much that either I or that drunken bastard Grant can do about it!”

Clay’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Colonel Buchanan, I am a serving officer, as are you. Furthermore, there is a lady present. I would strongly advise you not to speak of the President in such a manner in my presence, or hers.”

Buchanan took a deep breath. “I do apologize for my language. However, I make no apology for the sentiment.”

“Why do you have such hatred for Grant?” asked Duval with genuine curiosity.

“It is about that business in Northern California, before the war, isn’t it, Colonel?” replied Bierce unexpectedly.

Buchanan’s hostile stare snapped over to Bierce. “What do you know about that?”

Apparently perfectly at ease, Bierce slouched deeper into his chair. “Oh, the story is still told all around California. Grant’s meteoric rise will not let it die.” Bierce ostentatiously turned in his chair to address Clay and Duval. “It seems that in the mid ’50’s a young, troubled officer was transferred from Oregon Territory down to an isolated coastal fort some distance north of San Francisco. The young officer had a sterling record for bravery during the Mexican war. He did not pay much attention to his appearance, and missed his family which he had refused to subject to the dangers of the frontier, and had left in Missouri. Most officers who leave their families behind console themselves by shacking up with some half-breed squaw, but our young officer would not do that, and instead consoled himself with John Barleycorn. The fort was commanded by a major, a stern disciplinarian with no sympathy for any weakness. I hear that he harassed the young officer continuously, which of course just drove him deeper into the bottle. Then he gave the young officer a choice: resign, or face a court-martial for drunkenness on duty. Of course, he took the former course.”

Buchanan glared at the nonchalant Bierce. “Yes, I drove Grant out of the service. He was a disgrace! Uniform askew, boots un­polished, stupid with drink more often than not. The army could not afford the luxury of such an officer; especially not at that fort, at that time, with the Modoc always on the verge of taking the warpath.”

Duval smiled unpleasantly. “I see. You ran out of the army the greatest general of our time. Speaks well for your perception.”

“And I have paid for it, Miss Duval! Who could have foreseen the War, or where his career would go once it started? As for being a great general, I am afraid I must contradict you. Luck, good political connections, overwhelming numbers explained his success. I am ten years older than him, and have been a far better officer than he ever dreamed of being. I should have had a major role in saving our country. Thanks to Grant, I only received a volunteer commission as general; never commanding more than a division, and at the end of the war I reverted to the rank of colonel, where I have stayed ever since. So don’t go feeling sorry for Grant! If I was hard on him, he has been doubly hard on me.”

Clay’s features had settled into a thoughtful expression. “It would seem to me, Colonel, you overestimate the hostility the President entertains concerning you. With the demobilization of the Volunteers at the end of the war, many professional soldiers reverted to lower ranks. I know of one case where a major general of the Volunteers became a mere captain. You have done better than many. In fact, if the President wished you gone from the Army, he would have no more trouble than you had yourself back in the 1850’s.

“Be that as it may, what would be your recommendations for enhancing the Army’s ability to combat the Klan in Louisiana?”

“Send more troops; many thousands of more troops. But Grant hardly needs me to tell him that.”

“Perhaps not. I will see to it your advice is forwarded to him. As it is, I fear that we have taken up too much of your valuable time.” Clay astonished Bierce and Duval by smoothly rising and saluting Colonel Buchanan, then turning and marching out the door. Wordlessly, they hurried to follow him, leaving Buchanan with a look of furious bafflement on his face. Clay refused to speak, and it was only after they had left the fort and were halfway to the streetcar terminus leading to New Orleans proper that Duval broke the silence.

“Alphonso, was it wise to leave so abruptly? We had hardly begun to interview Buchanan.”

Clay answered without looking backwards. “It is possible that I made a serious error by approaching Buchanan directly. In fact, I have to thank Bierce from saving me from even greater error.”

The lean journalist frowned as he matched Clay’s rapid walk. “I am always glad to be of help, but damned if I know how I helped.”

“My pride, my arrogant belief that I knew all that needed to be known kept me from properly researching Buchanan before I arranged for a meeting. I had no idea that he was responsible for driving Grant from the Army in disgrace before the war.”

“I do not imagine either of them would be anxious to publicize the incident,” commented Duval. “It reflects badly on both of them.”

“Still, I should have prepared properly. If Bierce could learn of it in saloon banter, I could have learned of it with ease.”

They had reached the bench that marked the end of the streetcar line that led into the city. A hundred yards off, a lone horse pulled a tired-looking car along narrow iron rails toward them.

Duval frowned and said, “I still do not understand why it was a mistake to talk to Buchanan.”

Clay turned to face his companions. “I am surprised that you do not. Then let me be explicit. The Klan has enjoyed considerable success throughout the South, but no where more than in Louisiana. Imagine how much easier such success would be if the commander of the Union forces was your secret ally.”

“Come on, Clay, I am as cynical about human motives as the next man,” exclaimed Bierce with considerable understatement. “But to imagine a colonel in the United States Army actively supporting the Klan, simply because a subordinate got promoted over his head, is going a bit far.”

“Not just a subordinate being promoted over him,” responded Clay. “A man Buchanan views as a worthless drunk. Buchanan is clearly a man proud to the point of arrogance. We must consider the possibility that wounded pride has driven him to treason, and adjust our plans accordingly.”

The streetcar had reached them, the tired horse obviously grateful for a short break. Wordlessly, thoughtful expressions on their faces, the three companions boarded the vehicle.

Ulysses Grant strolled the lawn of the Executive Mansion with General Daniel Butterfield; the pair quietly smoking cigars. They paused to contemplate the golden sunset as the blazing orb touched the Potomac. The President sighed, and turned to face Butterfield.

“General, you are probably wondering why I invited you for this little walk.”

“Indeed I am,” responded the short, compact Butterfield, who in fact knew precisely what was on the President’s mind. Butterfield exhaled a mouthful of smoke, and then stroked his carefully-groomed handlebar moustache, silently reminding himself to act surprised.

“I need a good man at the New York Subtreasury,” continued Grant. “Next to the Secretary himself, it is the most important job in the Treasury Department. It controls the bulk of the government’s gold reserves, and is vital for maintaining stability in international transactions. You have had great experience, not only in the War but in running your family’s Butterfield Stage Company. I need someone I can trust, someone not totally beholden to Wall Street, to take charge there.”

“You surprise me sir,” replied Butterfield carefully. “Why is the job suddenly so delicate? And if it is so delicate, why not appoint one of the experienced Wall Street insiders?”

“It is delicate because of the harvest season. The early word is that our crops are going to be enormously successful, producing far more than we can consume.”

“How can bumper crops be a problem?”

The President sighed. “That will mean enormous sales to European countries at unpredictable prices, during a very short period of time. That means payments crossing the Atlantic in a variety of currencies, with unprecedented exchange rates. That means various banks will end up with the currencies and will want to immediately unload them for American gold. And that means the supply of gold specie on the open market will fluctuate haphazardly. If it fluctuates too much, a panic can start on Wall Street, and Lord knows what that might lead to. I usually don’t hold with the Government intervening in business; the business of America is business, and the Government should let business take its course. This must be an exception. Gold underlies our currency, our financial structure. We have an obligation, a duty, to make sure that the supply of gold, and therefore the value of money, remains stable. As the Subtreasury in New York possesses most of the government’s reserves of gold, I need a good man there, a military man, who can act decisively and on his own initiative; by instantly selling gold if the price starts to rise, buying it if it starts to go down.”

Butterfield pretended to consider what Grant had said. “I still do not see why you have chosen me,” he finally replied.

“That much power over that much gold could be too much temptation for a civilian businessman; too many different ways he could dip his hands in the till. I prefer someone with unquestioned devotion to the country, someone with military experience. I’ve met an impressive businessman during a trip to New York named Jay Gould. I asked him if he could think of someone with a military background who had the experience to handle such a responsibility; yours was the only name he could suggest. I also talked to Corbin, my sister’s husband, to see if he could think of anyone since he has also had quite a lot of dealings on Wall Street. You may be as amazed as I was to hear that he came up with your name as well. That was good enough for me. Well, General, will you take the job?”

“I fear I must,” said Butterfield slowly. “I can hardly turn my country and my President down when the call comes.”

“Good!” replied Grant with emphasis. “I will send your name to the Senate tomorrow, but that is just a formality. Senators Sumner and Sherman will see you confirmed before the end of the week. Well, that is a load off my mind. Shall we go back? Julia should have the dinner ready by now.”

The two men began to stroll back to the White House in silence. Grant was thinking that at least one of the burdens on him was lessened. Butterfield was thinking of the wealth beyond imagining that would soon be his.

Teresa Duval awoke with a start, and was astonished to find herself alone in Alphonso Clay’s bed. Clay had apparently dressed and gone out without waking her. Normally, she slept as lightly as a cat, but she realized that the energetic exercises of the previous night had left her more exhausted than usual. She inspected several developing bruises on her limbs and torso, and remembered similar wounds she had left on Clay. She smiled chillingly with remembered pleasure.

Deciding that Clay must have gone down for an early breakfast, she quickly dressed and hurried down the stairs to the dining room. She could see no sign of her lover, but spotted Ambrose Bierce sitting alone at a table, reading a newspaper over the ruins of his breakfast. He spotted her as she glided up to his table.

“Good morning, Miss Duval,” he said in greeting, folding up his paper. “May I order you some breakfast?”

“Not at the present,” she replied, eyes searchingly around the room. “Have you seen Alphonso?”

“Yes, he left just minutes ago. He told me to tell you that he had some personal business to which he must attend, and that I should let you know he would not be back until this afternoon.”

The chill wind of jealousy began to creep through Duval. Clay had left without telling her where he was going, and New Orleans was a city notorious for its houses of carnal pleasure. The cold, logical part of her brain told her that after the previous night, Clay would not feel the need to seek feminine company, but to her own amused amazement, she realized that she was not feeling logical. An overwhelming urge to find out where her lover was and what he was doing coursed through her. Nodding briefly to Bierce, she strode out of the dining room and out onto the busy street, leaving the young journalist frowning with surprise.

She immediately encountered a stroke of luck. Just as she emerged from the hotel, she spotted Clay in the traffic, riding a black mare that he must have rented from the nearby livery stable. Clay seemed preoccupied, and did not see her. Duval frantically motioned to a passing two-wheeled cab, which shuddered to an unexpectedly sudden stop as the driver jerked back on the reins. Duval swiftly entered the cab, handing a greenback up to the cabbie on his perch behind the passenger compartment.

“Stay within view of the man on that black mare, but do not let him see you following him,” she said briskly. The dusky cabbie saw that the denomination on the bill was five dollars; shrugging, he flicked his whip lightly onto the back of the horse, and proceeded to do as he had been told.

They followed Clay for some ten minutes, easily threading the bustling traffic until Clay suddenly turned into a quiet side-street near the beginning of the French Quarter. Clay stopped before a large stone building with graceful ironwork shutters. Smoothly dismounting, he tied his horse to the hitching post under a massive cypress, and strode in through the front door, passing several young people being escorted by an ascetic-looking man in priestly garb.

Duval lightly jumped from the two-wheeler, and silently glided into the building. The driver, well-paid in advance, shrugged in­curiously as he turned his cab back toward the main thorough­fare; having lived in New Orleans all of his life, he had seen stranger things.

Duval found herself in a long marble-floored corridor, just in time to see Clay knock on a door halfway down the hall, entering after the briefest of pauses. There was a half-open closet door to her left, through which she spotted cleaning supplies and the shapeless smock left by some charwoman. After a quick glance revealed no one in her immediate vicinity, she slipped into the closet, silently closing the door behind her. In less than half a minute the door opened and a woman emerged from the room; not the vibrant, elegantly-dressed Teresa Duval, but a middle-aged drudge, shoulders slumped from years of heavy lifting, shuffling along with the weight of a bucket filled with soapy water, dull eyes focused on the floor before her. When she reached the door Clay had used, she lowered herself to her knees with a sigh, then took out the soapy brush and began to scrub a slight discoloration on the floor. She slightly opened the door, giving the impression she wanted to be sure the stain was scrubbed away on both sides.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clay sitting in front of a plain desk, behind which a grey-haired cleric sat. The priest gave her a sour look, but immediately turned his attention back to Clay, who did not bother to look at the intruder. Duval scrubbed her way back into the hall, being careful to leave the door partly ajar. Through the opening, she could clearly hear what was being said. The priest spoke with a deep, disapproving baritone.

“Dr. Mudd, it has been a long time since you graced us with your presence.”

“Father, I have business obligations throughout the country, and can seldom come to New Orleans,” answered Clay. “My principal is confident that the Society of Jesus is taking good care of the Devereaux children. He only desires me to visit in order to make the payments for their support in person. Transmitting money via the post is problematic, given the unrest throughout the South.” Duval heard a slight rustling, as if Clay had removed a paper from his coat pocket.

“A five-thousand dollar bearer bond on the United States Treasury,” murmured the Jesuit. “Frankly, this is far more than is needed for their immediate support. In fact, it will go some distance toward paying for the college education that both Jerome and Marie seem to desire. I wonder why your … principal chose to make payment in this fashion. The buyer’s name appears nowhere on the bond, and anyone with physical possession can present it for payment, no questions asked. This is a somewhat dangerous document to have on your person; men are killed for far less in New Orleans.”

“That is my concern, not yours,” answered Clay. “My principal feels this guarantees him anonymity. All he requires is a receipt from you acknowledging payment.”

Duval heard the priest sigh, then the light scraping of a pen against paper. “There you are, sir. Now, would you like to meet Jerome and Marie, so you can report to your … principal on their health and condition?”

There was a long pause. “No thank you, Father; I would rather they not know of my connection with their support; they might mistake me for their benefactor.”

“I felt that might be your position,” Duval heard the Jesuit say dryly. “Nevertheless, I have arranged it so you can observe them from a distance without being seen. When you sent the message asking for a meeting at this time, I arranged for their mathematics instructor, Father Albert, to have them on the bench under the tree just outside this window. Come, Dr. Mudd, they are undoubtedly still there.”

Through the open door Duval heard the scraping of chairs. There was a long pause before she heard the priest again speak to Clay.

“Both of the Devereaux children show a strong liking for mathematics and the natural sciences. Look how they hang on Father Albert’s every word. Our other charges are good children, but are sadly bored by the more abstract subjects. I have no doubt that the scientific world may come to hear much of Jerome Devereaux in the years to come. Even Marie may come to leave her mark, although of course it is much harder for a woman.”

Duval heard a long pause, finally broken by Clay in a strained voice. “Their ages are now fourteen and fifteen. A difficult age for young people; they are often beset by gawkiness and even surliness, yet those two show no signs of that. It is often a mistake to judge by one impression, especially at a distance, but they seem to have sunny characters and to be quite fond of each other. Amazing, given their history. It pleases me.”

“I would think it would … Major Clay.”

A shocked silence burst from the office like a physical wave. Duval was stunned for a moment, but then her hand smoothly sought the straight razor concealed under her borrowed clothing, determined to aid her lover in silencing the meddlesome priest. Before she could spring into action, she heard Clay speak in a low voice.

“I must congratulate you, Father. I presume you guessed my identity from the various stories drifting around Louisiana.”

“It was not hard. Do not underestimate how you have entered the local mythology. The stories usually describe your … distinctive appearance, down to the wire-rimmed spectacles. Your resemblance to the butcher of the Devereaux family, combined with the Kentucky accent I noticed on your previous visits, and the fact that ‘Mudd’ is a type of ‘Clay’, left me with little doubt.”

“You have not told anyone of your surmises?”

“No, Major Clay. Although no charges were ever brought against you, there are some die-hard Rebels who would gun you down like a mad dog if they knew your identity. It is neither the purpose of the Church, nor my personal desire, to see yet more violence in this already too violent land. Besides, knowing that you are still in the Army, I suspect you are investigating the Ku Klux Klan with a view to curbing their outrages. Although the Church has no official opinion on that subject, as you know, Catholics remain a despised minority outside places such as New Orleans and New York, and can empathize with the plight of the freedmen. You have my personal best wishes in your task.”

“Father, although I have no right to demand it, I have a favor I would require of you. I would ask that the Devereaux children never learn the identity of their … benefactor.” Duval noted a hint of pleading in Clay’s voice that she had never heard before.

“They will probably someday learn it, but it will not be from me.”

“Then our business is concluded.” Duval heard the scrape of chairs being drawn back, and then the Jesuit spoke.

“Son, before you go, would you care for me to hear your confession?”

Clay responded with a barking laugh. “I am not a member of your faith,” he responded.

“It is a pity. I believe your soul needs unburdening.”

“Clays bear responsibility for their actions. I do not wish to be unburdened of my responsibility.”

“That must be a heavy burden indeed. You will permit me, at the appropriate time, to say a prayer for your soul.”

Again came the barking laugh. “You may do as you wish. Good day, Father.”

Duval quickly lowered her head and made a show of busily scrubbing just as Clay left the office, completely closing the door behind him.

He took a number of quick steps down the hall, then stopped, breathing heavily. He carefully adjusted his spectacles, which Duval had learned he tended to do when feeling extreme emotion. Then, without turning his head, he said, “Teresa, I will wait for you outside while you get out of those ridiculous rags.” Then he strode toward the front entrance. Duval froze for an instant, and then responded with one of her silvery, chilling laughs.

Wade Hampton sat on the veranda of his favorite mansion, watching the blacks tending the cotton fields. Slavery may have ended, but he held many of his former slaves in his service by ties stronger than chains—ties much, much stronger. Actually, this mansion had once been his second favorite. The very favorite of his several homes had been burned to the ground back in 1864 during Sherman’s March, torched by some unidentified Union officer. Of all that he had lost in the war, that was the hardest. He had kept his main library—his special library—in his incinerated mansion; a library filled with the rarest and most arcane of books, most of them impossible to replace.

Lost also were the special chambers where he could conduct peculiar ‘studies’ in complete privacy. The chambers were of less importance, as they could be, and had been, replaced with time. Time he could ill-afford to lose, time that could never be regained. Hampton began to fantasize about the unknown Union officer who had inconvenienced him so, and about the attentions he would wish to pay that officer should he learn the man’s identity.

Hampton’s reverie was interrupted by the sight of a lone rider cantering his horse up the graveled driveway. Hampton drew out his pocket watch and nodded approvingly; precisely on time. The stranger reached the hitching post to the side of the front entrance. As the man secured his stallion, Hampton rose to greet him.

“Dr. Tillinghast, thank you for agreeing to make the trip down here personally.”

Tillinghast turned to greet his host, unbuttoning his long linen duster to reveal a well-cut Brooks Brothers suit, seemingly inappropriate for a horseback ride through a South Carolinian summer. He took off his wide brimmed hat, revealing a full head of raven-black hair, ascended the steps of the porch, and bowed slightly to Hampton. “Your New York associate indicated it would be financially well worth my while to make the trip. Even so, I was disinclined to come, but he mentioned the involvement of Starry Wisdom. That placed the matter in a different light.”

“As it should, Dr. Tillinghast. The goals of the Order …”

“Are of absolutely no concern to me,” interrupted Tillinghast smoothly. “I know enough about Starry Wisdom to wish to know nothing more, until they themselves tell me. I will do as they wish, providing the remuneration is appropriate, but I desire no knowledge of the reasons for the commission.”

“Fair enough. Come join me in the library for some refreshment.”

Hampton led his visitor to his new, richly furnished library, marred only by the absence of the ancient books he had spent so much time and money assembling. A sharp order from Hampton brought an obsequious, elderly black man into the library, with drinks and cigars on a silver platter. As Hampton and his guest settled into comfortable leather arm chairs, the old retainer left the room, closing the door behind him. Some might have lingered at the door to overhear the conversation, but the old man had been with Wade Hampton since long before the War, and knew well what could happen to a black man showing curiosity over Hampton’s affairs. He scurried to the pantry as quickly as his arthritic legs could take him.

Hampton and Tillinghast spent a few minutes enjoying their cigars. Finally, Hampton broke the silence.

“I propose to offer you the most money you have ever received for an assignment.”

Tillinghast blew out a puff of smoke and favored Hampton with a tight smile. “I seriously doubt that, General Hampton. You can have little idea of the value placed on my services by the select community which knows of them.”

“No disrespect, but I believe I do. I am prepared to offer you $200,000.”

Tillinghast had been about to bring his cigar to his mouth. Instead he froze for a moment, then carefully returned it to the ashtray. “Yes, you are quite correct. I have never been offered anything approaching that sum. Since I presume you do not do so from philanthropic motives, there must be something very special about this … assignment.”

“Of course there are conditions. You will be paid half in advance, with the remaining half to be paid only upon successful completion of the assignment, which must take place before the second week in September. Further, even if the target is eliminated by that date, there must be no hint of my involvement or that of Starry Wisdom. If there is, forfeiture of the remaining fee will be the least of the consequences.”

Tillinghast grimaced wryly. “Do not worry; I have not the slightest intention of incurring the wrath of the Order. Now, who is the target?”

“Ulysses Grant.”

Tillinghast leaned back in the chair. “That explains the fee,” he commented dryly.

“Will you do it?” asked Hampton impatiently.

“There is little difficulty in killing the President; Booth showed that. The challenge would be to avoid implicating your friends, and above all myself. It would not be enough to get away, if my identity became known. The Federal Government would never stop looking for me. I would rather enjoy the fruits of my success in peace and quiet, without looking over my shoulder continuously. If it were not that this is something the Order would want, I would decline the commission. Seeing as I have longed for admission to their formal ranks ever since they gave me my first assignment, when I learned something of their long-term goals, this is an assignment I will accept with pleasure; providing that you could assure my induction into Starry Wisdom.”

“I will discuss the matter with the Elders. Should you accomplish your assignment successfully, there will be no opposition.”

Tillinghast rose abruptly. “I think it would be better if we not meet again. I will shortly be in contact with you by post on how to pay the first $100,000. You will receive a similar message after the assignment is complete. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” responded Wade Hampton, offering the thin man a firm handshake. First giving a slight bow, Dr. Tillinghast turned and strode out of the library. In mere moments, Hampton heard the crunching of hoof beats down his gravel drive. Hampton reflected upon the fact that although the emotionless, machine-like nature of the killer for hire should have frightened him, it had not. After all, thought Hampton, someone who deals regularly with the Ku Klux Klan on the one hand and Starry Wisdom on the other could scarcely be frightened by a mere assassin.

Clay, Duval and Bierce had met in the hotel’s small but excellent restaurant for an early dinner, each ordering one of the spicy, but appealing, seafood dishes for which New Orleans was justly famous. Bierce was the first to move beyond bland pleasantries and speak on the business at hand.

“While you two were doing … whatever it was you were doing, I made the rounds of several of the less exclusive drinking establishments in the French Quarter,” he said around a mouthful of spicy catfish and rice. “At the cost of buying several rounds of drinks for everyone, I picked up a likely lead. A few denunciations of ‘free niggers’ convinced several of the disreputable denizens that I was a kindred spirit. A combination of bigoted comments and free liquor loosened some tongues. The barflies did a lot of complaining about how things are being run in New Orleans by darkies and Yankees. They complained even more that the Klan couldn’t recruit as many as they like in New Orleans proper, and was having to import members from the sticks. It seems that despite the recent riots, hatred of the freedman is less here than almost anywhere else in the South.”

“New Orleans had a thriving black business community before the War,” commented Clay. “Some had become wealthy, even to the point of themselves owning slaves.”

Bierce nodded. “I’d heard the same. Anyway, one of the old drunks mumbled that I should talk to Hiram Needham about joining. One of the drunk’s friends jabbed him hard in the ribs, but I had been feigning increasing drunkenness for the last hour, and pretended not to hear. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the drunk’s friend look real hard at me. For a moment I was worried I might not get out of that dive alive, but the suspicious one finally seemed convinced I was too far into my cups to understand what his friend had said.”

“It is fortunate you have had extensive experience with inebriation,” commented Duval dryly.

Bierce chuckled at her comment. “True enough. In any event, as soon as I could gracefully stagger out without raising too much suspicion, I made for police headquarters. It seemed likely that someone important in the Klan had been in trouble with the law in the past. As it was, I came up trumps. A sergeant I talked to was very aware of Hiram Needham; a gambler, sometime pimp, all the time scoundrel, suspected of being involved in a number of robberies, less reliably rumored to be important in the Klan. A few dollars procured me Needham’s address. I took a stroll by it; a small, grimy warehouse in the worst part of the docks.”

“If this Needham is such a scoundrel, why have the police not arrested him?” asked Clay.

“Ah, it’s the connection with the Klan. My friend the police sergeant would not say as much, but you should have seen the look on his face when he mentioned the Klan.”

“A coward,” sniffed Duval, who feared nothing of this Earth save poverty.

“Some fears are reasonable,” replied Clay unexpectedly. “The man may have a family, and the Klan has shown no hesitation in attacking the families of its enemies. Well, it sounds as if I must pay a visit to Mr. Needham tonight.”

“When do we go?” asked Duval.

“You mistake me. I will be going alone.”

Duval uttered one of her silvery, chilling laughs. “You have no idea if he will have friends, or how many of them. You think you can handle everything yourself. One day that will be the death of you, but not while I am there.”

Bierce chuckled. “Well, I guess that makes it a threesome.”

Clay looked appraisingly at his two companions. “Very well, Teresa will come with me. Ambrose, I must decline your offer. There is an urgent need for any information this Needham may possess. There is no time for the niceties of due process. This is a war, and must be fought like a war. I remember how you were disturbed at certain things that were done to procure the silence of Mrs. Surratt before her execution. I respect your scruples, and would spare you the pain of participating in such methods.”

Bierce had stopped laughing; the smile on his face disappeared to be replaced by a look of intense unease. He remembered that hot summer day in 1865, and the confrontation in Surratt’s cell. He remembered all too clearly Clay showing her a photographic plate of what Duval had done to a Confederate agent in Buffalo, and telling her that a similar fate awaited her son John unless she maintained her silence on the gallows. Despite the fact that she possessed knowledge that could have destroyed the Republican Party, the horror she had seen in that photograph convinced her to keep her silence. Bierce remembered how, veteran of the horrors of Chickamauga and Shiloh that he was, he had vomited at the sight of what Duval had done to a human being.

“I suppose I could do the rounds in the French Quarter, see if I can come up with something more on the Klan,” Bierce said, his eyes not quite meeting those of his companions. He had especially not liked the sensual expression he had seen on Duval’s face.

Hiram Needham looked at the small pile of jewels on the scuffed table in front of him, and frowned at the lumpish Rice brothers standing uneasily in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, and curled his mouth into a sneer. “This all? From a family as rich as the Penderghasts?”

“’Fraid so, Mr. Needham,” said Sam Rice, nervously wiping his nose on the sleeve of this threadbare jacket.

“Mebbe sold some of them off during the War,” added Joshua Rice, a smaller, burlier version of his brother. “Sam and me would never hold out on you.”

Needham studied the brothers’ faces closely, and saw no signs of guilt, only fear. He sighed to himself, rubbing the stubble on his unshaven chin. The Rices were skilled burglars, but otherwise as dumb as posts; too dumb to even think of cheating the man who used his connections with the Klan to keep the police away from them.

“All right,” Needham said. “I believe you. God help you if I find out you ever cheated me. You might just end up on the next two crosses the Klan burns. You’ll get your usual cut when I have these trinkets sold up river. Now get out!”

The Rice brothers scurried out the door, banging it hard behind them. Needham laughed quietly at his two minions. Such cattle, he thought. He looked down at the pile of jewels on the table before him and smiled, reflecting that the smartest thing he had ever done was to join up with Klan. It was not just keeping the uppity niggers in their places, although that mattered very much to Needham. As the underworld, and therefore the police, became aware that he had become something important in the Klan, his small criminal empire began to grow. He had gone from being a street pimp, to owning a high-end fancy house with a connected gambling parlor, one where the rules of chance played only a small role. He had gone from being a sneak thief and footpad to an employer of professional burglars who concentrated on easily portable jewels. The police knew about his activities, but never intervened; the knowledge of his position in the Klan made sure that they concentrated on criminals with less violent patrons. At this rate, thought Needham, before long I will start becoming respectable. He laughed at the thought.

His reverie was interrupted by a knocking at the door of the warehouse, accompanied by the sound of a drunken woman’s laugh. Needham frowned. The riff-raff that constituted his neighbors knew better than to disturb him late at night, or any other time for that matter. He threw open the door, and saw an ill-assorted couple in front of him: a lithe, well-dressed woman who was nonetheless drunker than a fiddler’s bitch, and a small, slightly built man, planter’s hat cocked at an odd angle, wire-rimmed spectacles crooked on his face. He was used to the sight of drunken couples in this neighborhood, but not ones so obviously well-dressed. Needham grimaced; some rich young Creole buck taking his woman for a cheap thrill by showing her the docks.

The woman surprised him by asking: “Hiram Needham?”

Without thinking, he answered “Yes.”

Moving faster than Needham would have thought possible, the small man punched Needham in the face, breaking his nose. Needham tried to pull out his gun, despite the pain and the blood streaming from his face, but with an economy of motion the small man had produced a massive Smith & Wesson, bringing it down on the wrist of his gun hand so hard that Needham could hear a bone in his wrist break. Meanwhile, the woman, now completely and obviously sober, had stepped inside the warehouse and swiftly closed the door, securing the lock in one smooth motion.

Coughing on the blood from his broken nose, Needham began to curse the visitors, but despite his pain and rage, he stopped immediately when the small man cocked the large revolver and pointed it in his face. “Mr. Needham, please sit in the chair at that table. My associate and I intend to ask you some questions.”

With fear gripping his chest, Needham took only a moment to comply; the excruciating pain in his now-useless right hand was unbearable, and he was in no position to resist. The moment he was seated, the woman produced a length of rope from somewhere under her dress, and with amazing speed deftly tied him securely to the chair.

“Mr. Needham, we need to know everything that you know concerning the activities of the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Don’t know nothin’ about the night-riders,” was Needham’s surly response. This earned him an agonizing blow to the jaw as Clay struck him with the barrel of his revolver. Needham felt several teeth crack.

“We do not have time for foolish games,” said Clay. “We need information on the Klan. We know you are important in its New Orleans operations. You will provide us with the information. How much pain will be involved in the process depends entirely upon you.”

“Go to Hell, Yankee bastards!”

Clay sighed, and restored the Smith & Wesson to its holster under his frock coat. “I feared that might be your response. Well, we must do it the hard way.” Clay now produced from under his coat a Bowie knife.

Needham’s eyes widened when he saw the Bowie. He then looked at the woman who had produced a straight razor from somewhere. His eyes widened farther, but not at the sight of the razor; rather with dawning horror at the look of purest pleasure that was on her face.

Clay and Duval rose from the cold floor of the warehouse, stark naked. They quickly donned their clothes; Clay with some signs of embarrassment, Duval with a complete lack of self-consciousness.

As they had gotten more and more into the interrogation of Needham, as more and more blood flowed, Duval became more and more aroused. She was hardly able to contain herself until Clay had said he believed Needham had truly told them all he knew. At that point, she attacked Clay with a fury and intensity that had little to do with love. Clay resisted for only a moment, then they were tearing off each others clothes and committing acts on each other that had more to do with violence than affection. The noise they made would have drawn attention in most neighborhoods, but in this part of the riverfront it did not, nor more than had Needham’s screams; which simply did not warrant attention in this part of New Orleans.

“So an Army officer is indeed involved,” remarked Duval as she rolled on one of her stockings. “Do you believe him when he says he does not know the traitor’s name?”

“I believe that I do,” replied Clay, smoothly slipping on a boot. “If he knew, he would have told us.” He spared a look to the chair, where a bloody figure whimpered incoherently.

“Do you think it is Buchanan?”

“Perhaps. I do not intend to make any assumptions.”

“I still find it hard to believe he knows as few Klan officials as he does,” mused Duval, primping her hair back into place.

“Actually, it makes sense,” replied Clay, restoring his white planter’s hat to its accustomed position.

Duval glanced over at the moaning figure. “I suppose it does not matter for your investigation, but I still find it interesting that mere membership in the Klan gave this filth such protection. You heard his list of crimes. He even raped a fourteen-year-old mulatto and placed her in his whorehouse.”

“Yes, a man who seems hardly human,” replied Clay.

Duval had a sudden flash of memory. Of a burning house, with a man hanging from a tree in the front yard. Of red-coated men bent over a woman on the ground, committing an obscenity. “One moment, I’ve forgotten something,” she said.

She walked around behind Needham, then in a flash of movement the eye could hardly follow, she made her razor appear, flicked it open one-handed, and cut Needham’s throat to the bone. A cascade a blood washed forward over the table, but it did not last long. Duval wiped the razor clean on the back of Needham’s shirt, and restored it to its hiding place.

Clay looked at her disapprovingly. “Was that necessary? We obtained the information that he had.”

Duval smiled weirdly. “That was for the mulatto he violated. Now, what will be our next step? Talk to some of the local Klansman he named?”

Clay shook his head. “Perhaps later. I think we should first meet with the man he claims to be the head of he Klan in the Mississippi Valley.”

Duval nodded. “I suppose that means we take the cars to Memphis tomorrow to track down … Oh, Hell! What is the English-loving bastard’s name?”

“I wish you would not swear, ever when we are alone. As for the name, it is Forrest. Nathan Bedford Forrest.”