The bundle was a black man, raggedy and still. The pockets of his pants had been turned out. Two red-edged holes marked his forehead like a second pair of eyes.
Andy shivered, swallowing and studying the brush on both sides of the lane. On his right, he saw a large area trampled down. He walked there, rousing half a dozen noisy salt crows farther back among the trees. Looking that way, Andy invoked the name of Jesus under his breath.
In the humid breeze, something that was not a festoon of Spanish moss swung slowly from a water oak limb around nine feet off the ground. Andy recognized Francis LaMotte, in his Ashley Guards uniform — or the remains of it. LaMotte hung by a rope around his wrists. His top boots had been stolen, and his stockings, too. His feet were bare.
Andy could have been staring at some fantastically colored bird. LaMotte's bright green chasseur's jacket was ripped in many places, creating a feathery effect. The jacket and canary-colored trousers showed patches of red still brilliant because they were still wet.
The sagging limb creaked. LaMotte's body turned slowly, pierced by stab wounds. Andy stopped counting the wounds when he reached thirty.
That same April evening, Orry approached the farm Mrs. Halloran had sketched for him. Thin clouds dulled the moon and stars. That would make it easier for him to cross the unplowed field as his informant had suggested.
Orry wore the black broadcloth suit he had packed away when he arrived in the capital. Into the sheath on the outside of his right boot he had slipped a bowie knife, but he was otherwise unarmed. Should something go wrong, he would claim to be a traveler who had lost his way.
He tied his horse to a fruit tree at the side of the field farthest from the four buildings on the bluff above the James. It was a long way down to the river. By day, the view must be spectacular.
The old house, main barn, and chicken coop all showed as solid black masses. A pronounced V-shaped break in the roof line testified to the barn's disrepair. But the structure Mrs. Halloran called the implement building, perched on the side of the bluff, seemed to have its near side marked with vertical yellow lines — a trick of lantern light shining through gaps in the siding.
On the night wind, Orry heard the whicker of a horse. He drew the back of his hand across his damp upper lip and started a slow, quiet walk toward the lighted building.
There was no cover, no way to remain unseen unless he crawled. When he was halfway across the field, its weedy soil broken here and there by the indentation of rain gullies, he thought he saw a match flare out beyond the house, a good distance to his left. A sentry on the road? More than likely.
Now he heard the horses, softly stamping. A ten-yard strip of thick, tall grass separated the building from the edge of the field where he hunkered down and counted the animals: four saddle horses and a fifth hitched to a covered buggy. Based on this evidence, Mr. Lamar Powell's revolutionary army was minuscule. But Orry had read his Julius Caesar as a boy, and he knew it didn't take an armed host to commit a political murder.
Riding out from Richmond, through the picket posts where he had presented his pass like any other traveler, he had begun to feel sheepish, even gulled. At one point he almost turned back. Now he was thankful he hadn't.
Remaining crouched, he started to work his way toward the siding where the light shone through. He grimaced at all the rustling and crackling of the weeds, struggled to advance more cautiously, minimizing the noise. Halfway to the wall, he heard muted conversation. For a moment he doubted his own senses. Mixed in with the male voices, he detected a woman's.
Because he was surprised, when he moved again, he shifted his weight too quickly. His right boot broke an unseen twig with a loud crack.
"Wait, Powell. I thought I heard a noise outside."
"Probably a rabbit — or a rat. They infest this place."
"Shall I take a look?"
"No. It isn't necessary. Wilbur's on watch at the road." In the voice of the man identified as Powell, Orry heard absolute authority. As fast as he dared, he crept the rest of the way to the wall and pressed his eye to one of the gaps.
Damn. Powell's back was turned. Orry could see nothing but fawn trousers, a dark brown velvet coat, and graying hair, pomaded. Boots stuck into Orry's line of sight to the left — someone seated, legs stretched out.
"Our most important arms shipment arrived yesterday," Powell said, walking toward crates piled on the straw-littered floor. Reaching them, he turned around.
In his late thirties, Lamar Powell had the kind of face Orry supposed most women would term handsome. He posed in a theatrical way, one slim hand clasping the right lapel of his coat. He gestured to a rectangular crate resting on two square ones, both smaller. Painted on the rectangular box was the word WHITWORTH. "As you can see, we will be equipped with the finest."
"Whitworths are goddamn expensive —" someone began. Powell's eyes showed sudden fury. The speaker mumbled, "Beg your pardon, ma'am."
"Expensive indeed," Powell agreed. "But they're the finest sharpshooting rifles in the world. The .45-caliber Whitworth has a mean radial deviation of one foot or less at eight hundred yards. If there are only a few of us taking aim at the enemy" — a humorless smile jerked his mouth — "each must achieve maximum accuracy."
By uttering just those few sentences, Powell managed to unsettle and alarm Orry. Unlike many fanatics, the man had an air of competence. He would not fail through stupidity, Orry suspected.
Powell continued, "I don't believe any of you would care to hear how many illegalities were necessary — how many costly bribes — to obtain this shipment. The less you know, the safer you are. And we'll be risking the rope soon enough as it is."
"I didn't hazard the long ride out here to joke, Lamar."
Orry's mouth opened, silent shock. The voice belonged to James Huntoon.
"I want to get to the issue," he said. "When and how do we kill Davis?"
Then Orry thought he truly had lost his mind. The next speaker who approached Powell was the woman.
"And who dies along with him?"
There, clearly visible beside Powell, he saw his sister Ashton.
Kneeling by the wall, he shook his head, then again. But of course truth couldn't be banished so easily. Undoubtedly she had become involved through her husband. Madeline had recognized the possibility, but he had dismissed it. He owed her an apology.
He must identify the other conspirators if he could. He changed position, thus able to see a different part of the interior. A man leaned against the wall that overlooked the river. On each side of him, a large window framed a rectangle of darkness dulled by the grime of the glass. The man was a rough, burly sort, unfamiliar to Orry.
Anxious to see more, he put his palm against the wall and pressed his other eye to the crack. The siding creaked under his hand. Huntoon said, "Someone's out there."
Powell ran across Orry's line of vision. Orry scrambled back, almost losing his balance as Powell shouted, "Put the lanterns out."
The verticle slits of yellow turned black. Orry lunged up and ran toward the field, bent low. A door rolled back. He heard voices outside the implement building, Powell's the loudest.
"Wilbur? We need you. We've been spied on."
Orry's chest already hurt from running. Halfway across the field, he heard a horse galloping up the dirt road to the buildings, loud voices again, a confusion of questions and orders. The rider turned into the field, firing a shot.
The bullet slashed through weeds two feet left of Orry. His boot caught the moist earth, and he lost his balance. The shot frightened his own horse, who neighed. Orry slid on his knees, then pushed up so hard he felt a spasm in a muscle in his arm. He ran on, reaching his horse and mounting as his pursuer passed the field's midpoint.