Scene Eleven Maryland House Hotel,Baltimore MD September 19, 1872
Less than one day later, Courier entered the Maryland House Hotel in Baltimore's central business district, in the full dress regalia of a major in the defunct Army of the Potomac. The uniform was West's own, one he hadn't worn or thought of wearing since the Grand Review in Washington, soon after the war ended. But neither had the man the uniform belonged to thought to act the courier again, until Aynsley took all but that role from him. Now he could not act outside that role.
Courier was as unaware of his surroundings now as if he were the blind beggar he'd' counterfeited months ago. He thus had no notion that his clothing or his mannerisms seemed odd to those who saw him, and thought they recognized Jim West. He had no idea that the gaily-chattering girl who met him at the hotel's steps, and now clung possessively to his left arm, was Liesl Branoch. As she'd planned in the weeks since Courier's emergence, Liesl was once more dressed head to toe in the deepest mourning garments she owned. For over a year Aynsley had insisted she change her garb, and make some plans for a future. The maddened young woman had no more interest in future events than the automaton beside her. Today, she'd slipped out of her uncle's home, unbeknownst to Aynsley, and waited for hours, for first Ulysses Grant, and then Courier to appear. She would not be deprived of seeing her consuming vengeance fulfilled.
Courier was barely conscious of the bright-haired, black-gowned girl. Her madness could not touch the darkness of his own. Only the deadly patterning remained real to him. And one misstep would throw him off that faultless path into mindless, inconceivable terrors. Failure in this endeavor would destroy him completely. Moreover it would be the betrayal of all his oaths to his architect, Stephan Aynsley. Therefore, he would not fail. On the hotel's top floor, outside the Presidential suite, Courier and Liesl were met by polite, but firm young agent, who recognized Courier as West, and knew him, slightly. Liesl was an unknown quantity here. The young agent insisted she wait in the corridor, while Courier was admitted through to the inner suite. Inside, Ulysses Grant, along with advisors, aides and some Marylanders warmly welcomed 'James West'. Courier had no time to notice others. He had to speak to Grant, urgently and alone.
''Is it that important, James?'' the President asked, interrupting the patterning's flow.
Courier stared for a long moment at the man he'd been sent to. Already, Aynsley's patterning was threatened by outside realities. This is not how he's supposed to react. Courier thought. The patterning …He's jeopardizing the patterning!''Vitally important, yes, Sir.'' Courier replied, clutching at the answer he must give.
"Well, then, James, of course we can talk." Grant agreed, and the pattern fell back into place.
" Thank you, Mr. President."
"It's some while since I saw that uniform, Major." Grant said, as the others filed out.
"Five years, give or take, General, that is, I meant,…''
"Never mind that. You look exhausted, James. You look as if you'd been…what is that favorite phrase of Thomas'? Rode hard and put up wet? Are you well?"
"I'm quite well, Sir, thank you, Sir." Courier responded automatically. "I'm fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking, Sir. I'm fine."
" Well, what did you wish to tell me, James? What was so urgent?"
"Sir, I think, I don't know why I put this on.Be careful, the patterning instructed here, don't slip out of West's customary way of speaking I know that you don't care for discussing the past. . But I've been haunted by the War, lately. Mr. President, you will already know, Sir, from Colonel Richmond, that I've been investigating the deaths of a number of, veterans, street beggars, for a number of months now, and without success. I'm sorry to say. Ten men, all of them former Confederates were killed, in the District, starting last fall, going on into the winter. And we were unable to find out who the killer or killers were."
"So this is what you've been working on, this case is what had you out of touch with your team, and with Colonel Richmond, all these months, James?''
"Only indirectly, Sir. Because in that time, I also uncovered a matter of immense urgency. These men, Sir, died after becoming involved with renegade groups of former Confederates. They were murdered, Sir, after failing in loyalty, I learned, not to the Union, Sir, but to a plan for the violent resurgence of the Confederacy. And their murderers, Mr. President, also former Confederates, are now involved in conspiracies, vast conspiracies. Sir. against your administration, and against your life. They do not want the peace you won at such high cost, Sir. They never have. They want the world back as it was before the War. And of course any sane man knows that can never happen, now. Mr. President, I have since spoken to many other people in and around the District, and I have found them to be loyal citizens, who have, taken the loyalty oath. And they . ."
" Also former Confederates, then?" Grant asked.
"Yes Sir. They seem to believe that these conspiracies can only be halted by specific, immediate Executive orders from you, of course, Sir. They firmly believe Sir, that you are the only one who can halt these plots."
"How am I to do that, Major? I cannot imprison every bitter ex Rebel in the District, much less in the country. Nor can I enforce the commitment of any such possibly insane persons who may wish me ill. That kind of thing would be illegal, unconstitutional, on the face of it. And added to that, is the plain fact that I would not do either of those things, if I could."
"No, no Sir, of course you wouldn't. You are a kind and compassionate, patient and fair, completely fair man." Courier stammered on. He's outside the patterning, again! Courier realized He's to be irate here, abruptly, seriously angered by what I'm telling him. And instead he's being ironic, even sympathetic!
"Mr. President, these people are erudite, intelligent, and as reasonable as yourself, Sir. They asked me, to bring you their petition. It bears I believe, some 700 or 800 signatures as it stands, and they are still gathering signatures."
"Including yours, Major?'' Grant demanded sharply, throwing the patterning off again.
What is he up to? We can't let him throw us off the patterning. "No, Sir, No. I am only their Courier, as it were. Please, Mr. President, will you accept, will you read their petition? These people are not disloyal. They are not conspirators. They .. They mean , mean you no harm, Sir."
"James!" Grant exclaimed, as the younger man staggered and nearly fell, dizzied by the conflicts and confusions in his damaged mind. "Are you ill?"
No, Sir!" Courier immediately denied. "I .I am, somewhat tired. I .I haven't slept, well," In fact, West was beginning to tremble with tension and exhaustion. He could not keep Stephan's rigidly precise patterning flowing in the face of this living, breathing, unpredictable and much loved human being. He won't be moved onto the patterning! He won't step onto the faultless path! And I cannot move, I dare not speak outside it! He could not force Grant to the patterning. Nor could he erase it from his own mind at this late date. . An impasse was building between these contradicting ideas, and seeing it, feeling it, the patterning's control was shattering, shaking Courier like a high fever.
"Mr. President." he went helplessly on. "Sir, I gave my word, my oath, in fact, that I would that you would, please Sir, read their petition. Will you, please, Sir?" Courier pulled out the document that made him a courier in fact and held it out to Grant.
"Certainly I will, James. But I insist you sit down, and take a brandy, to calm yourself, while I read this "vital' petition."
"With your permission, yes, Sir, of course, Sir. Thank you, Mr. President."
Grant signaled his valet and waited until Courier held a small glass of brandy and obediently sipped at it. Ten more minutes dragged like years for West, now. As Grant found his spectacles and carefully read the document.He's stalling now! He has some Yankee treachery in mind! Five more years long minutes went for the list of signatures.
"Have you read this, James?" the President finally asked
" Yes, Sir, I memorized it, out of long habit, Sir, in case the document itself were lost."
"Then, you already know my only possible reply."
"Sir?"
"I cannot do as these people ask, James. The White House took on extraordinary, sweeping powers during the Crisis, habeas corpus and due process were suspended, many times. Those powers have since, and rightly so, returned to the Congress, and the Courts. These people surely know this, as well as we do."
"Mr., President, Sir, Mr., President, you, you are refusing them, Sir?"That's on pattern, at least, the patterning said he'd never agree to the first set of terms!
"No, no not at all, James. I'm simply going to refer the matter to Congress, which body once again sole authority in this. I don't have that authority. And I have no wish for it, either. No one man, unless he be as near to sainthood as Mr. Lincoln surely was, can safely or sanely hold such powers."
"Mr. President." Courier, feeling West begin to try for his place, began to plead, "Please, Sir, you mustn't, you mustn't refuse."
"I have no other choice, James. These loyal, reasonable intelligent people have badly mistaken the means and the source of the true power in this government. We are a Republic, not an autocracy. They should be petitioning Congress, or taking their case to the Federal courts."
"Sir, these people, and their children, Sir, are still suffering the effects of the War. They are, Sir, they are only asking for…"
"They are asking me for an Executive Order, declaring and immediate repeal of Reconstruction. That is not possible. Not possible at all. If I wrote it, the Congress and the Courts would have a field day, along with the Press, tearing it and my Administration to ribbons. We would effectively be giving up our ability to accomplish anything of any real use to the nation, the entire nation, and still fail to achieve what these petitioners are asking.
Even if I proposed such a thing as legislation to the Congress tomorrow, it would take months, maybe even a year to go through the processes. And it would be voted down, with the same results as I just mentioned, if not more. We both know that and so do these petitioners. They are asking me to bypass the Congress in such a way, that I would not if indeed I could.
So I am, in fact, rather suspect of the earnestness of these petitioners, James. I think they have been disingenuous with you, to say the least .I think anyone who has been heeding the difficulties and disputes, the debates and the debacles around this one issue, must in fact know with what trouble and how long it will take to be remedied. I am more aware than these petitioners can know of the corruption that has grown up around what was supposed to be peacemaking and reunion. And now, it carries the same stigma the war did, of pitting brother against brother, South and West. Also, our Republican leadership in the House and the Senate has no mind to forgive those in the South who went from asking to leave the Union in peace, to firing on Sumter. Mr. Lincoln's assassination made sure of that.'''
There, there you see, he thinks Lincoln was wrongly killed. He said that mongrel was near to sainthood! He is our Great Enemy! Destroy him! Destroy him!
''And I sometimes wonder if our reunited Southern brothers realize that. Well, never mind that now. I alone cannot do more than ask Congress to revisit and, renew Mr. Lincoln's commitment to rebuild the Union, to make us one people again, in our hearts as well as in our laws. I believe it may take and outside threat, even a foreign war, perhaps, before that can or will happen."
"Sir, I understand. I will go now and relate your response." Courier said, knowing he could not leave.
"Wait, James. You are plainly exhausted and despite your protests, I think gravely ill, and deeply troubled. And until this week, I haven't heard from you in months. Something is clearly not well with you, my friend, tell me." the President protested.
Courier rushed on, desperate to ignore Grant's open concern. The patterning said the father authority older brother friend figure should be aloof, now, and coldly mistrustful, not worried, or compassionate.
"Sir, I serve at the pleasure of the President. And I will gladly do so to my last breath if I'm allowed that high privilege .I don't think I could possibly put into words, Sir, what that's meant to me. Your loyalty, your trust, is more than I ever hoped for in my career. And nothing, nothing in my life has honored me more, Sir, than your call to service, unless it was your friendship, Sir, please, believe me. Sir, these people, the ones who wrote and signed this petition, are disenfranchised, still, barred from schools, from voting, from, their lands, their homes.
They are watching their world the world they grew up in, the world many of us grew up in die. They are watching their children and grandchildren growing up, now, Sir, paying the price for a War that they never looked for. And G-d knows, Sir, they understand that the evil that world was founded on had to die, had to be expunged in blood. But they see the War as needing to be genuinely, finally over, now, Sir. They see the land they love, and in their own way have always, always genuinely loved, still torn and bleeding with dissension. Because there are still those in both sections of the country who seem to want that War kept alive. And they see the sectional disputes and debates, quarrels and discord growing back towards the level at which the Union split in two, Sir.
They are in fear, Mr. President, for their children and their grandchildren's future, naturally. But they have persuaded me, Sir that they are also in tremendous fear of the potential for that Conflict being renewed, and soon. These are, these petitioners, Mr. President, are eager for the Peace you sought, and you fought for so hard and so well to become real throughout the nation, now. And they don't see that it will, and they claim, Sir that they are still not, citizens even now, nine years after the War began. Their honor, Sir, their dignity, as a people has been stripped away. Sir, they want nothing more than to forget the War, as do we, Sir, ourselves. But how can they , when they are still thought of as our enemies? The War, Sir, never ended for them. It never. It never will end. How can it? How?"
Breathing as hard as if he'd lost a footrace, Courier choked on a sob of pure fear. He's refusing the petition. He's refusing, rejecting the petition. Courier thought. At least in that he's following the patterning, keeping within the flow. And when we turn again, facing this stubborn old soldier, we will, we must set the final terms in place. Nothing else was ever possible. Nothing was ever going to change. There was no hope for the Yankee's Great Hero, now or ever. This is within the flow, this is the firm track of the patterning, we must follow it to it's proper ends, and soon.
"James, you, and the other men on my staff during the War, know, better than most, how I hated the War, You know I hate the suffering it caused and still causes. And you, with every man who served with me, know that I worked with all my strength and every ounce of my will, my only goal being to end the Conflict. But one man, no matter who he is, cannot move alone against matters which were set on course a hundred years ago. Of course, you may tell these petitioners that I am taking every possible step to stop the abuses you mention. I daresay that won't satisfy them. It doesn't satisfy anyone I know or speak to. It certainly doesn't satisfy me. But it's my honest answer. And I am far more concerned with you, James, than with a petition I am not empowered to satisfy. These people have clearly disturbed you, greatly, my friend, and I want to know how and why."
"No, n no Sir, I only, as I said, haven't … Sir, this actually goes, to my point. I haven't able to sleep without dreams " Courier said, clinging to the patterning he'd learned at such cost. "Without dreams of Antietam, the Bloody Lane there, the boys, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm genuinely sorry even to mention it…"…"This will trigger his rage, just as the patterning says
"What, James?"
" But the boys…dying between the lines at …Cold Harbor…the fires in the Wilderness, Sir, and …Marye's Height's Sir. The sunken road, at the base of the cliff, or a few yards forward, the stone wall there, Pelham's guns, the charges, one after, another ,.after .another,. And another, each bloodier than the last, over and over again Sumner's men and Hooker's, and so many more …climbed back out of that swale and marched…And never once did they get more than twenty five yards from that wall!
It was the middle of December, Sir and yet their bodies… piled one on another, on another… I can't … I can't seem to get the sight, the sounds, and the. …Whole nightmare of it, out of my thoughts. And then we just slunk away, in the fog, in the night, as if we were thieves and vandals instead of an army. We snuck away, only to find our artillery, and our supply train and ourselves completely mired. Sir, I know you have genuine respect for the generals you commanded in the War, Mr. President. But when I remember that 13,000 men died in one day there, Sir. And that after six charges, the man who then commanded the Army of the Potomac got up the next day saying he would not just order but was ready to lead a seventh charge at that sunken road, at the base of that Cliffside, Sir! That bloody, impregnable, unreachable cliffside!
When I think about that campaign, Sir, when I began to dream about it, again, Sir, I felt as if I were the one calling for those charges, one after another, after another. I felt as if I were the one sitting in a headquarters bivouac, well back from the river, from the cliffs. sending a few thousand better, more valiant, and much more worthy men to die, and then a few thousand more and then…I wake up from those dreams, Sir, with the undeniable feeling that there must have been something, and something I could have done. That there was something …and officer could have done to …Mr. President, I beg your pardon, Sir. That must have sounded as if I were passing judgment…Sir. And of course I'm not, Sir, not at all. I'm not. It's not anyone else's responsibility I feel the lack of in these dreams, Sir…it's my own, completely, completely my own. I apologize, Sir, that must have sounded…"
"It sounded like the candor and duly respectful honesty I need and expect, and always have received from you, James." Grant said, shaking his head. "It sounded like a West Point graduate, stating his unshakable belief in the responsibility he was trained to accept and carry out, and honor. Code, James, Honor, Duty, Country. That is not anything I don't and never will dislike hearing, when it's offered with the sincerity I see in your face and hear in your voice.
He's still not angry! This whole part of the patterning should have enraged and insulted him deeply, personally. He commanded at Cold Harbor and the Wilderness! We just came close to calling him a Butcher to his face!
''No apology is required in my administration for the kind of loyalty and honesty you have always given me. As for the judgments to be passed on what we all did during the Conflict, well, I feel certain history will lay a hard hand on us. No one in that time was without error. How could we be? We were only men, thrust into a kind of tumult no one foresaw or even dreamt of. We did what had to be done. We did our duty."
"Yes, Sir. Th-thank you, Sir. I…that was, I suppose, the rest of what I was going to say, Mr. President. I felt, waking up from those dreams, Sir as if I stood on both sides of the river, sending them from Stafford's Heights, and raining fire on them from Marye's Heights. And I think that dreams carry some truth in them, Sir. I think those of us who had the training and understanding and responsibilities of and officer …might have, could have…and absolutely should have done something to stop that massacre. I suppose that's disrespectful, Sir. If you find it so, I apologize, and will of course apologize to General Burns…"
"We're all three of us retired, to some extent, at least, from the Army, now, James. I don't see the need to follow those protocols quite so strictly, not in the setting of a private conversation. What more is on your mind, Jim? Tell me."
"Thank you, Mr. President. It's only that…that was just one, of the, worst, times, I can't close my eyes, it seems without seeing, the ground, Sir. You likely read the, the reports, We couldn't see, the ground everywhere, wasn't brown, or green or red with blood, like Antietam Creek, because it, carpeted with, with blue, uniformed bodies, corpses. all. in. blue, I can't sleep now, without seeing all that killing. Without seeing again, all those dead boys. I can't Sir. I can't get it out of my head that I …I have their blood on my hands. I can almost see it…on my hands. I can almost feel it… Please, Sir, I have to," Courier turned to run out, but once more Grant broke the pattern and clasped his shoulders.
"James," he whispered, clearly astonished at West's trembling, barely coherent state. "If you've been made this ill by these, so called petitioners than I will certainly not approve anything they may want."
"No Sir. No they, no Sir. I'm sorry Sir, truly, very sorry, truly, sorry, Sir…I'm " But now, as if by it's own volition, a revolver appeared in Courier's hand, from the hidden pocket in his sleeve. Courier began raising it towards his own head, as the patterning demanded he do, but in the next instant, it was Jim West not his alternate, who stared at it in blank horror.
What …what am I doing facing the Man, with a revolver? How did I get in here? How, when did I get here? What …what am I doing holding a loaded gun, facing the President?
At this range, any shot fired would be fatal. But when West looked up, thinking to find anger, reproach or betrayal in the President's deep set eyes. Instead, he found only sadness, pain and worry there. Not an instant's distrust or disbelief, fear or self-concern could be found. Even in his half mad state, West knew now that Grant could not and would not believe his protégée capable of harming the President.
And even as he was losing the battle for his remaining sanity, Jim knew he could not harm, much less kill this sternly kind mentor and friend. He lowered the gun to his side. It felt like a hundred pound weight at the end of his arm, and he nearly dropped it to the floor.
Leave the field, Courier, Jim's stubborn albeit terribly weary, weak voice demanded in his thoughts. Retreat, call retreat and leave the field. Take what troops you can save and fall back, fall back!
No, no! You can't be here! Courier insisted, recognizing the mind of the one he sprang from, weeks ago. You can't! You don't belong here, this is our field and we will be the victors here! You must fall back! you don't belong on the firing line anymore. You don't belong here at all.
I don't belong ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, more than I do here right this minute, now, today, Courier. We're soldiers, we're officers. And that means many things. But right now it means we can't and we don't and we won't kill anyone, not ANYONE in cold blood! You are part of me, Courier, and in that sense, we both took oaths, solemn oaths, Courier, long before this last nightmare year. And those oaths weren't to any one man, not even this one. They were the same oaths he took to the Union, to the Army and before that to the Code at West Point. Honor, Duty, Country. West, passionately argued, feeling the strength of Grant's loyalty to him, intensify his own resolve.
But he's refused the petition! He's refused, just as the patterning said he would! The final terms, the final terms must be given him! He is still the Butcher. He is still the Enemy! He is the one who ordered our world destroyed! If he is not destroyed, we have betrayed our oath to the grand endeavor, and to the One! And rather than betray…rather than betray…we must die!
The patterns were exploding around Courier now. He had no faultless path to follow, no safe pattern to tread. He was fighting himself, literally, and this other self was suddenly stronger, so strong now, and so determined. Had he betrayed the One? Was he forgetting the oath, the grand endeavor, the One for whom it was all to be done? That wasn't possible. That was insupportable. The One, who had been always at the core of Courier's life, who stood silent, in the shadows, but still at the center of his life nearly as long as he could remember, who had shaped him over the course of his life, must be shielded, protected, screened and at all times and in all places, never, never, never betrayed!
His hand and arm were shaking violently but still this shell of a man fought to raise the weapon to his own head. The patterning instructed he should do so, as a ruse to bring the Great Enemy close enough to kill. But the patterning was failing Courier now, crumbling all around him, and he was crumbling too. Instead, as he looked once more at the revolver, a new amalgam of James West, Courier and a sunny-haired, cheerily disposed, four year old named Torry, as well as his stunned, remorseful five year old brother-self was taking shape, even in this terrible moment, as if in a kiln. The old, bitter remorse was rising too, threatening to drown this emerging self. Once more the chasm yawned between the man, the automaton, the child and the father figure. With each second that passed, using the revolver to take his own life was all he could imagine doing now. He'd failed the patterning, and fallen from the faultless path. He'd failed the creator who'd set him this glorious task. He'd betrayed the One! And even in the midst of that betrayal, he still stood patently threatening West's 'second father'. He'd betrayed all he knew, as West, as Courier, as Aynsley's Subject and as the child, Torry. And that was intolerable, that was appalling, insupportable.
"I am… Jim heard himself saying in a memory he couldn't place. I was a soldier…I am…I was and officer…and there are rules, there are oaths, there are conventions and traditions we must …we have to uphold… We have to. We can't…go against…we can't…I can't…I tried…I tried…and I can't…" He was speaking just barely aloud, but caught, fallen back into a time and place that were unrecognizable to him. And he was raising the revolver to his forehead. "I've defied, you, I know, I've defied, you and I …can't…I tried…and I can't …"
"James!" Grant called out over his shoulder. stepping back to call his aide, without daring to turn from the younger man, "McCauley, get in here, Get in here now! James is ill! McCauley! James, my friend, listen to me, listen to me now, son…James…"
The uniformed man made no response. He was far from being James West and could not respond to that name. Not ill! Courier's fragmenting patterns insisted. I'm not.. we're not ill! And we vowed, we gave our solemn vow, never to step from the faultless path, again! He is our Great Enemy! You may be our brother, our origin, Turncoat, but this is our field, our place and our time! We are not here to debate our past, or our future, and neither of those has any significance now! If the Butcher is not to die today, then we are forsworn and must at least keep our oath to die ourselves, rather than betray! ! We must complete the patterning, we must complete the terms, or we are lost!
A sudden, violent wish for his own death now wrote itself vividly in West's eyes. He had nothing else to want, to long for, or to achieve. This kind of death wish not any part of the man Grant knew; but that man barely existed now. And empty shell resembling him stood in Grant's temporary office, resting his aching forehead on the barrel of the gun. ''No, no, " he whispered. "Must end, must end, please, please end, end, never, war never only, only for that war to finally, finally end! PLEASE, PLEASE, END, END, END PLEASE END PLEASE END."
"James, you have come through some kind of ordeal that much is plain. You need never be ill at ease with me, my friend. We went through a great part of our Nation's greatest ordeal, working together." Grant said quietly.
He's shattered it! The old soldier's shattered the patterning! He's destroyed the path He's negated the path! ! It's gone! It's gone! We have no pattern! We have no path! We have been betrayed and we have become betrayers! ! We are lost!
"Major West, hand over your revolver to me, and at once, sir," Grant now ordered him, sharply.
West's head snapped back on his neck. His eyes opened wide and then wider still. He seemed to see Grant in that instant as if for the first time in years. "Sir?"
Grant put his hand on the safety mechanism of the revolver before another moment passed, before his aides rushed into the room.
"You are relieved of duty, Major. You should not have reported in at all, once you became ill. And you have mistaken your orders. But we will leave that discussion for another time, will we not?"
"Y yes, Sir. I apologize, Sir." the empty man said, utterly bemused by Grant's stern kindness.
"And I accept. Now, I will escort you to the field hospital. You will allow me to, Major. I do not brook argument from my staff officers, as you have cause to know."
"Y- yes, General" West said, having somehow slipped back years.
"Give me your weapon." Grant calmly ordered.
"Y yes, yes, Sir." The amalgam, still confused in all its parts, nodded and complied.
Grant took the revolver and led West out the double doors of the suite. There, Liesl Branoch waited vividly excited by the shouting she'd heard. Then she saw Ulysses Grant, still very much alive, and she screamed. "Traitor, Traitor! The Butcher lives! You had time to kill him ten times over! Now, I shall dispatch him myself!"
"LIESL, NO!" West cried, unaware of how he knew the girl; only seeing her gun and her headlong rush at Grant.
"DAMN YOU! ''she cried ,"HE IS OUR GREAT ENEMY, HE MUST DIE!''
"NO!" West broke from Grant, tackling the mad woman, but wildly, so that they both fell to the carpet. Now, a cordon of guards finally reached Grant, West and Liesl. But she could not be restrained, and the soldier- President would not be moved from the scene.
"Who is she, James? Great G-d! She's only a child!"
" You are quite wrong, Butcher, quite wrong indeed! I am a woman grown now! My name is Liesl Marguerite Branoch, of Atlanta, I'm the last survivor of my family, Butcher, and I'm fully eighteen years old. I WAS A CHILD, BUTCHER, A CHILD NINE YEARS OLD WITH SISTERS WHO WERE FIFTEEN AND SIX THAT YEAR, THAT BLOODY YEAR … WHEN YOU AND MASSA LINCOLN SENT YOUR MADMAN SHERMAN AND HIS ARMIES TO DESTROY OUR WORLD. MY SISTERS DIED WHILE ATLANTA BURNED AROUND US, MY PARENTS DIED, TRYING TO KEEP US ALIVE, TRYING TO FIGHT OFF STARVATION, DISEASE AND COLD IN WHAT WERE NO BETTER THAN PRISON CAMPS, AFTER SHERMAN EMPTIED OUT ATLANTA, MY PARENTS TRIED, THEY DIED TRYING, BUTCHER, TO GET US AWAY TO SAFETY WHEN THERE WAS NO SAFETY ANYWHERE! OUR WORLD WAS DESTROYED AT YOUR ORDER, BUTCHER, AND NOW I WILL DESTROY YOU, AND YOURS!'' Liesl, thoroughly enjoying her own histrionics cried out. ''WHAT WILKES-BOOTH DID FOR YOUR TRAITOROUS TO HIS OWN ROOTS, TO HIS OWN PEOPLE, MONGREL- LINCOLN, NOW I WILL DO FOR YOU!'' '
She held another revolver, an Army Colt , well cared for and shining in the morning light. It had been taken from Jim West months ago. But she was no hand with firearms and West lunged for her and the heavy weapon again. Liesl struggled, spitting curses at West and Grant. But now Jim caught her in a hold she could not easily break, his right arm fully around her torso, and he took the gun, with his left. One small, methodical corner of his mind noted that the firing mechanism was effectively jammed, or broken, either way, primed to start a chain-fire, under any sort of pressure.
In a matter of seconds, West found himself trying to do half a dozen things at once, and it was nearly more than his still battered mind could manage. Holding the girl, he sought to turn her bodily away from Grant, towards the door across from the President's , towards a window a bit further down the hall. And while fighting Liesl, trying to move and keep her fingers from the revolver's trigger, the soldier-agent/amalgam was also trying to urge the President to quit the scene, with no success. And lastly, as the corridor started to fill with curious civilians, West was more successfully ordering Grant's guard to send them away, back down the hall.
But now, still screaming, fighting with all the strength of her mania, Liesl tried for the revolver's trigger once again. And now she held it, for just the instant it took to pull the trigger back. Fire leapt from the weapon, brighter than Liesl's hair, brighter than her sapphire. A roar like fifty cannons firing at once in the closed hallway shook them all. The frail figure in Jim's arms dropped from his broken hold. He cried out and clutched at his face, which as in the mesmeric session that sent him here, was a mask of fire. Liesl's screaming ceased, but now seeming as amazed by this turn of events as Grant, as Jim, kept on with her part to the last. With her last breath she whispered the last of her monologue, words written, memorized and calculated, to destroy all traces of sanity in West's ruined mind.
"Torry, you did it, Torry, you did it! You killed him for me. You killed the Butcher, Grant." she whispered, "Torry, Torry, Torry…''
''No, no, no…'' Subject/Courier/Jim and Torry cried out and let her go. . Truly blinded now, he amazed everyone still watching, by pulling himself away and bolting back through the President's suite. He ran through it to the adjoining hall, as if still fully sighted.
His shattered patterning told him to escape, it told him to follow the strictly memorized route through the suite that had been his maze to tread for months, functioning as a blindman. With only fragments of the patterning left, he ran on, down a back staircase, to the alleyway behind the hotel. He would have run on until he collapsed, with no idea of where or to whom he ran. The ruined patterning told him to escape. It no longer told him where to escape to.
In that alleyway, always one to look out for contingencies, Remiel Julien Boudin stood waiting for whoever ran down those stairs. Courier's patterning was meant to send him out of the hotel by the front entry, down into the wide main street there. Liesl Branoch, who'd happily accepted Boudin's help in leaving her uncle's house, was the one he expected to walk sedately down these stairs. Any changes in those expectations, however were part of the Georgian's contribution to this 'grand endeavor', to clear away any traces of Liesl or Courier's presence at the Maryland House, today.
Boudin considered himself to be far better at reacting to unexpected consequences than Aynsley, or most of the people involved in their grand endeavor. And so he showed not a scintilla of surprise when not Courier or West, but five year old Torry, still in horrid pain and deeply mired in renewed remorse, ran down the stairs and into the alley, now. Boudin had known this child all his life, although neither the child nor the grown man, Jim West, had any conscious memory of the Georgian. Boudin therefore believed he knew exactly how to take control of a situation that otherwise might spiral into a maelstrom. Now the blinded, terrified child tripped and sprawled on the alley's cobblestones, sobbing uncontrollably. Torry was edging towards hysterics, having seen and endured horrors he could not begin to comprehend.
Now Boudin bent down and grasped the child's shoulders. ''Torry, '' he said, ''Torry, listen to me and answer me. Where is Liesl? Where is she?"'
''Liesl, no, no, Liesl.'' The child sobbed, echoing the man's cries.
'' Yes, Liesl, Torry. Where is she, now?'' Boudin asked taking up Aynsley's impersonation of Stephen West's calm, considered voice and tone.
''Poppa?'' Torry asked in turn, lifting his burnt, blind face towards that voice.
'' That's right, Torry. Now answer me, little boy. Where is Liesl, why did she not come down the stairs with you, now?'' Boudin asked, well aware of how this situation resonated with the night Anne Randolph West died.
''Poppa, there went up a… 'spolshun, Poppa. There was a big 'spolshun, like … pretty many much like dem fireworks we sawed… all over … four' o' July… an' was so very many much owwied, den, Poppa'' the child told him, gulping and sniffling. ''An' Liesl.. she falled down, Poppa. She falled down and kept so many much still… She falled down an' lay so very many much quiet. An' den she whi' pered to Torry, Poppa. She whi' pered… 'Torry, Torry, Torry… an den.. Poppa, mees finks she falled asleepin', den.''
'' Very well, Torry. I understand. Come along with me, Torry. Come along, now.'' Boudin now took the maddened child to an old warehouse complex in the less well kept up part of Baltimore. He had a business interest in this place, which had become in recent years, a sort of dumping ground for unwanted, indigent men with no other recourse, no other shelter or place they could be even minimally cared for. It mattered not a wit to Boudin or the other 'share holders' in this 'Baltimore State Asylum' if those men lived or died. It only mattered that they maintained their contract with the county. Here the Georgian left the mad child in the hands of his own agents, some of them claiming to have medical training, others not making even that assertion. Boudin carefully instructed his employees as to the 'care' they would give the mad, blind child/man. Then he turned his attention one last time to Torry.
'' You will remain here, Torry. You will wait on my return and be completely obedient to these gentlemen, as I have instructed them to act on my behalf. Remember, Torry, it is only your disobedience and nothing else that causes you these hurts and frights. Remember that you must speak to no one, unless these gentlemen permit it. Remember that you must behave as young gentleman, yourself. In fact, you must do nothing, Torry, without their expressed permission. You are becoming a big boy, now, Torry. You must not shame your Poppa with your past willful, wayward, babyish behaviors. If you shame me, Torry, I don't' see how I can come and bring you home from here. Therefore, stay stock-still, stay quiet, and be utterly obedient to my surrogates here, at all times, little boy. If I hear that you have obeyed me, Torry, I shall consider that you might come home. If I hear otherwise, you shall remain here, Torry, until you've learned to obey. Have you understood my instructions, Torry? Answer me, and do so correctly, now.''
''Is on'y mees dis' bedien makes Torrys hurts an' skeeredys, an' nothin' els, Poppa. So… Torrys stay stoc' steel, stay quiyat, an be 'bedien all of times.'' The child numbly recited. ''an if Torrys does be steel, an' be quiyat an' be 'bedien nuff, mebbee Poppa will .. mebbee Torrys can came on home, 'gen. Is answerin cor… correc', Poppa? Is?''
'' it will do, for now, considering you're somewhat …No, I think you must be quite tired out, now, Torry. These gentlemen will see to it that you sleep. And again, you will obey them as you do me, myself. Go with them, now, little boy.''
Nodding, too frightened and weary and hurt to dare offend this even harsher sounding 'Poppa'. Torry let the 'gentlemen' lead him into the open courtyard that was the main ward, except during the rainiest days of the winter season. Here he was abruptly stripped, dumped into a tub of cold water, harshly scrubbed, and dressed in a ragged shirt and trousers.
That being done, while the child/man waited in dread for them to decide he was being dis' bedien, he was roughly carried to another place, poked, prodded and shoved about on a rough table.
Someone who never spoke to the child now stuck something sharp in his arm. Someone else who remained just as silent, then dabbed at his face and eyes. They hadn't waited long enough by half for the sedative to work. Their supposed treatment of his burns caused the child to scream helplessly until he was hoarse. And that was his first dis'bedien, Torry knew. More sharps, more pain, and more punishments and treatments for his disobedience were the core of the child's existence from that time on. In time Torry withdrew as far as he was able from all but the harshest voices, the roughest touches, and the terror of being found 'too much a bad boy to ever, ever 'came on home 'gen.' TBC
END, NIGHT OF THE BLIND BEGGAR, VOLUME ONE OF TWO by Rielle