The Curse of Cain One THE MISSION Richmond, Virginia February 1865 A muffled drumbeat rolled down the street. It echoed off brick buildings in counterpoint to the patter of rain. Matching bay horses draped in soggy black crepe stomped their hooves and sent impatient clouds of steam from their noses. People lining the street bowed their heads as a squad of soldiers filed out of St. Paul''s Church carrying a coffin through the steady drizzle. An old man watched from the sidewalk in front of the church''s massive portico as the funeral procession pulled away. To his right, an Irishman scratched absently at his thick, black beard. To his left, a minister from a nearby church silently recited the Twenty-third Psalm.
The hearse shed a stream of rainwater as it turned south onto Ninth Street. The old man passed a hand over his wet, flowinglocks. He shifted his gaze across the street to the statue of George Washington, which dominated the high ground of Capitol Square. He looked up through a latticework of barren tree branches to the flagpole atop the Capitol building. The Confederate national flag hung limp in the rain. There was no sign of the St. Andrew''s Cross in its upper left-hand corner. On this day, only its field of white was visible.
The old man sighed as he put on his tall black hat. "Anyone going out to the cemetery?" "Not I," the Irishman muttered, looking up into the leaden sky dripping cold drizzle. "Not on a day like this." "I can''t go either," the minister added. "I have to perform a funeral at my own church." "There''s been more than enough of those lately," the old man noted. His eyes followed the funeral procession on its stately trip down Ninth Street. "Just ask poor General Pegram there.
" The minister shook his head. "We are losing the bravest men of the Confederacy." "Don''t worry yourself." A grin spread through the Irishman''s whiskers. "Soon we''ll have the Negroes armed and in the trenches alongside our white soldier boys. That will teach the Yankees a thing or two, eh, Ruffin?" "You sound more and more like a walking editorial from that newspaper of yours," the old man answered. "Just doing me bit for the noble Cause," the Irishman sneered. The minister tugged at his frayed black velvet waistcoat.
"If ever there was a time for Christian charity ." "Charity won''t bring poor Pegram back," the old man observed as the drums died away in the distance. "Nor will it produce a new commander to lead our troops." "It isn''t officers we''re needing." The Irishman snorted. "It''s a commander in chief who knows how to fight a war." The minister''s eyes widened. "How dare you disparage the man who stands between us and the vile Yankees! Why, if the president were here--" "He is, Reverend Hoge.
" The old man nodded toward the church steps. The President of the Confederate States of America stood bareheaded in the rain with the late general''s family. Drizzle collected on the small tuft of beard at the bottom of his long face. His crown of gray hair gave him an air of distinction. He started to speak, then coughed. A racking spasm seized him. Two army officers rushed to his side and helped him back into the church. "There''s your savior of the Southern Cause," the Irishman spat.
"Can''t even take care of himself, much less look out for the rest of us. The minister peered down his long nose at the Irishman. "All the more reason for us to give him every ounce of support." "The Yankees are already at the city''s back door, man. Are we to follow him like lemmings off the side of a cliff?" The Irishman''s voice rose. "Are we to allow that fool to destroy the very last hope of our independence? Why, if there was a single member of Congress with an ounce of spine, Davis would be hauled before an impeachment proceeding." The old man spotted a familiar figure emerging from the church. He caught the man''s eye and smiled.
"Here''s the very sort of man you described. Hello, Congressman." The newcomer offered a wan smile. His ashen face and bloodshot eyes contrasted sharply with the rich green brocade of his vest. His finely cut black coat, like everything else in the Confederatecapital, had been patched often. He mumbled a greeting. "Perhaps you can settle an argument," the old man went on, nodding to the Irishman. "My passionate friend from the newspaper says our country needs a new president.
" He tipped his head toward the minister. "My compassionate friend from the clergy says our country needs more prayer. What do you think?" The congressman shrugged. "What we really need is a way through that damned Yankee blockade. With Fort Fisher fallen and Wilmington in a vise grip, we''re cut off from our lifeline to England and France. The hard times of this winter will seem a fond memory come spring." The old man frowned. "That''s a particularly harsh assessment.
" "Reality is harsh, Ruffin," the congressman replied. "We''re already hard-pressed to feed the people of Richmond, not to mention the army. In another few weeks, there won''t be a shop in the city with anything to sell." "My point exactly," the Irishman thundered. "The mismanagement of this government is criminal." He wheeled on the old man. "Is this what you planters saw in our future when you raised the banner of secession? Is this the vision that filled your mind when you pulled the lanyard on that cannon aimed at Fort Sumter?" "Don''t browbeat him, Mitchel," the minister objected. "He is entitled to his anger, Reverend.
" The old man squared his shoulders, then glanced at the Irishman. "Even if it is misdirected." "What do you mean?" "The source of our troubles is not to be found over there." The old man gestured toward the Capitol. "Were Thomas Jefferson himself to walk among us again, I have no doubt he would find the task of protecting the South every bit as daunting as PresidentDavis does. No, my friends, the true problem is not in the Confederacy." He lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. "It''s our enemy.
Our implacable, tyrannical foe who will not rest until he has crushed the skeleton of every Southern man to dust." "We must pray for deliverance," the minister intoned. "Pray if you like," the old man growled. "But the Good Lord helps those who help themselves." The Irishman threw up his hands. "What more can we do? We hurl our armies at them, but the Yankees keep coming." The old man stroked his chin. "We must find a more effective strategy.
Something that would strike at the very heart of the matter." "And slice it out," the congressman added. Ruffin cocked an eyebrow. "Yes. If there were only some way to remove the offending organ." A look of resolution settled on the face of the congressman. "That would require the services of a surgeon." A grim smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"A gifted specialist. If only there were such a man ." She was snoring. The flare of a match sent light dancing across her naked form. Her hair was a dark waterfall cascading over her shoulder into the pool that was her breast. Beautiful girl, he thought. She snored again. Pity, he told himself as he drew the smoke from a long Havana.
Unbecoming in one so lovely. And so talented. Slowly, he exhaledand closed his eyes. He recalled her laughter as he''d unbuttoned her dress, how eager she had seemed for him to take her, like so few women of her calling. He tried to remember her name as he pulled on his trousers. Annie? Amanda? Adelaide? Did it matter? Soon she would be a memory. Basil Tarleton seldom bothered to catalogue such memories by name. He cracked open the door, allowing a sliver of gaslight to slip into the room.
This woman might be worth remembering. She had kissed and caressed him with a passion he had seldom experienced. As he buttoned his fly, he thought of her hands. They seemed drawn to his body, eager to touch, to explore. Amy, he remembered at last. Her name was Amy. Tarleton reached into the pocket of his overcoat draped across a chair. His fingers slid quickly past an envelope and a pair of gloves to settle on what he needed.
He gripped it in his palm as he walked back to the bed and stood over her. She shifted to one side. Her breasts jiggled lightly. He smiled, remembering their soft texture. Her mouth fell open and another snore blasted across the room. In a single lightning movement, his left hand clamped down on her mouth as the knife in his right neatly sliced her throat. Her eyes bulged open. He pressed harder to suppress her scream, ducking to avoid a stream of blood.
Her frantic kicking quickly subsided to a feeble twitch. With a final gurgle, she fell limp, her brown eyes staring up at him. Tarleton wiped the knife on the sheet and returned it to his coat pocket. Then he finished dressing. There was a faint tap on the door. "Mr. Tarleton?" He walked over and opened the door. "Miss Rosalie," he said warmly.
"I trust everything was to your liking?" The owner of the highest-priced brothel on Cary Street stood with one hand on her ample hip. The other hand, heavily decorated with gold and silver rings, delicately held a smoldering cheroot. "As always." He smiled. "A fella showed up at the front door and asked me to give you this." She passed him a calling card. MAJOR ROBERT MORTON w.