He saw inked crosses, each labeled. Those in the cellar said coal bombs. In a suite of second-floor offices identified by the letters J. D., the label was INCIND. DEVICE. The enormity of it left him weak with awe.
He waited long enough to be sure the collapsing implement building wouldn't threaten the other structures. The wind was blowing flame and smoke out above the James, where he envisioned Elkanah Bent's body drifting seaward in the current. He saw an imaginary picture of cockeyed General Butler on a pier at City Point, struck dumb by the sight of a corpse floating by.
Once Orry started to recover from the shock of Bent's death, a different kind of shock set in. It involved Orry's own behavior. He clearly recalled knowing Bent was whipped, able to be taken prisoner without further struggle. Old grudges had driven Orry's arm then, kept him hitting his tormentor unnecessarily, until Bent fell through the window. He had gone far beyond the demands of self-preservation. He had lost control. As he stood in the glare of the fire, he wondered how a human being could feel so glad someone was dead and so guilty and ashamed at the same time.
The exploding ammunition reminded him that people would be drawn by the noise and flames. He didn't want to waste time on explanations to farmers or military patrols in the area. He forced himself from his shock-induced lethargy, starting toward the farmhouse and discovering that in the fight he had twisted his left ankle. It hurt and made him limp.
Nevertheless, he conducted a rapid search of the house. In the attic he found confirmation of something that had come to mind earlier. The attic was arranged with a few furniture pieces and a square of old carpet — a living area. A large crate standing on end served as an open-sided press for three suits. A few books lay on a smaller crate beside a cot: The Prince, The Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe, and his Tales as well. Beneath these, Orry found gold-stamped, leather-bound copies of the proceedings of the Georgia and South Carolina secession conventions.
Israel Quincy, then, had also searched the house, intentionally failing to discover Powell or his hideaway. Orry didn't know whether Powell would be caught. Perhaps not. But the conspiracy had been aborted a second time and, more important, Orry could now show proofs of its existence.
He limped down the attic stairs and out the back door. All that remained of the implement building were mounds of bright embers. With no more ammunition exploding, he heard voices and horses from the direction of the road.
As fast as he could, he retrieved his evidence and hobbled back across the plowed field to his horse, tethered in the orchard. Mounting, he saw a farmer's wagon pulled up beside the burned building. Three men sat in the wagon, clear as black-paper stencils against the light. Orry reined his horse's head around and took the road to Richmond.
Wearing a striped nightshirt, a sleepy Seddon stared at the man whose pounding on the street door had awakened him. Orry shoved a roll of heavy paper and a lump of coal into the secretary's hand.
"These prove the whole story — these and Quincy's body. He was one of them. When the fire's out, I'm sure we'll find unmelted pieces of the Whitworth rifles. Enough evidence for any reasonable man," he finished, unable to keep bitterness entirely contained.
"This is astounding. You must come inside and give me a fuller explanation of —"
"Later, sir," Orry interrupted. "I have one more task to do to close the books on this affair. Be careful of that coal. If you try to burn it, you'll blow yourself up."
He limped away, vanishing in the dark.
When he drew the empty navy Colt at the front door of the house on Grace Street, Orry noticed dark speckling on the butt. Bent's blood. With a shiver, he grasped the muzzle and beat on the door with the revolver. The bell had drawn no response.
"Someone open up." He leaned back to roar at the upper story. "If you don't, I'll blow the lock off."
That got immediate response, but it came from the other side of the street where gas lamps shed a pale, misty light. A grumpy householder flung up a window, snatched off his nightcap and shouted, "Do you know the hour, sir? Half past three in the morning. Stop that racket, or I'll come down and horsewhip —" The front door opened. Orry shouldered inside, expecting to see Huntoon's face. Instead, it was Homer's, half illuminated by an upraised lamp.
"Tell them I want to see them, Homer. Both of them."
"Mr. Orry, sir, they aren't —"
He ignored the old man and stalked to the stairs. "Ashton? James? Get down here, damn you."
The wild echo showed him how close he was to losing control again. He gripped the banister post and held tight, calming a little. He sensed Homer behind him; a light pool spread around his feet. Then a second glow, upstairs, preceded Huntoon, who cautiously approached the head of the stairs. Ashton followed, carrying the lamp. Neither was dressed for bed.
Orry looked up as she gripped the white-painted wood of the rail to the left of the landing. It was one of the few times he had ever seen his sister frightened.
"An old scene repeats itself, doesn't it, Ashton? I sent you away once in South Carolina and now I'm doing it in Virginia. This time, however, the stakes are higher. You don't just risk my anger if you stay. You'll be arrested."
Huntoon made a little retching sound and stepped back from the top step. Ashton seized his sleeve. "Stand up, you rotten coward. I said stand up."
She hurt him with her hand. But he steadied. Leaning over and looking down, she fairly spat, "Let's hear the rest, brother dear."
A cold shrug. "Simple enough. I have delivered evidence to Mr. Seddon sufficient to hang you both. I'm referring to a coal bomb and the marked plan of the President's offices. I imagine the provost's men are on their way to the farm, where they'll find the remains of the rifles, Powell's personal belongings, and Israel Quincy's body. Your informant, the one who called himself Bellingham — he's dead, too, drowned in the river."
"You did that?" Huntoon whispered.
Orry nodded. "The one thing I have not yet done is implicate the two of you. I don't know why I should grant you the slightest immunity just because we're related, but I find myself doing it. Although not for long. You have one hour to remove yourselves from the city. If you don't, I'll go straight back to Seddon and charge you with treason and attempted assassination."
"Lord God," Homer said in a shaken voice. Orry had forgotten he was there.
Ashton shrieked at him: "You damned nosy nigger, get out of here. Get out!" He did, taking the light with him.
Ashton's effort to smile through her rage was grotesque. "Orry — you must appreciate — even to begin to prepare to leave will take far more time than —"
"One hour." He pointed to a tall clock ticking away, its face a metal shimmer in the gloom. "I'll be back at a quarter to five. You ought to hang, the lot of you — I include your scummy friend Powell, wherever he is. If any of you are in Richmond an hour from now, you will."
He walked out.
When he rode back to Grace Street at half past four, the predawn air was cold. He shivered again, starting to feel genuinely sick from the shocks and exertions of the preceding hours. He reined in before the brick house. The windows were dark. He tied the horse, climbed the stoop, tried the front door. Locked.
On the side terrace, he broke a pane of the French windows with the Colt muzzle, reached through, and let himself in. He roamed the rooms. Empty, every last one.