Maishia

Richard Irvine

Prologue

I looked on impassively as my two companions headed off into the undergrowth. Tom kept glancingback and had to be pulled on by his sister. It was beginning to get light. A few more minutes andperhaps I would have been safe.

When they could no longer be seen, I looked for Maishia, but to my surprise she was gone.

A flicker of hope pulsed through my veins.

Then I felt a hand touch my shoulder... and shuddered.

The Vampire led me back through the tangled undergrowth of the forest to the burning wreck of theold plantation house. She took me into the midst of the inferno, both of us immune to the flames,which incredibly felt cool. Soon, we were deep below the house, in the network of tunnels, and then inthe temple. Thick sandstone pillars, painted walls, statues of Egyptian gods, among them Anubis, thehead of the jackal on the body of a man, and incense, frankincense and myrrh.

Reed torches flaming on the walls.

Her eyes, almond shaped, framed with long black lashes. Her eyes brown, dark, hypnotising,making me to obey.

Her mouth, sensual, inviting.

Her lips, red, glossed.

Me tasting her, locked in her embrace.

She offering me a gold goblet.

Wine.

She bade me to drink.

Then she led me into an inner chamber. Holding me, her body close to mine, she searched my eyeswith hers. No longer did I see the fire of hell, the snarl of the beast, but beauty... and the love of awoman. Her eyes seemed to widen, and, for a brief moment, I was aware of the danger.

But then I was hers again.

She whispered, “Hanis, my prince, I have waited for you, for so many centuries. Walked the desertalone in search of your love. I am yours and you are mine, for all eternity.”

Her lips met mine.

I did not resist.

She said she loved me.

Yet I had a love, and I tried to remember, but couldn’t, the memory stolen. Was I a soldier? Adoctor? But in which army? The Pharaoh’s? Was I his physician? “No, I am Robert Gray, SurgeonUnion Army. Annabel, Annabel, don’t leave me!” The memories of my being were so distant, and,closing in around them, were others; the temple in the desert, the limestone walls glowing in themoonlight, the cool wind blowing the curtains ragged, a lone beast standing amid the jagged rocks thatrise up on either side of the valley.

She gazes deeply into my eyes. She is bewitching me. She fills my heart full of her aura. She speaksto me in an ancient tongue, and I understand. “Hanis, my prince, I have waited so long.” And in herwords I can feel a sorrow of loneliness which seems to blow in my face with the coolness of the desertwind. Her hands are caressing my nape, her fingers working through my hair. Her touch is cold asfresh snow, the smell of her breath foul, yet I want her.

Again she forces me to look into her eyes, pools of mystery and seduction. I see more images of thepast - the people in the markets, the sails of the fishermen’s boats amid the papyrus bushes and reedbanks. Then suddenly the snarl of the beast, the fangs, razor sharp and dripping with fresh blood, and Iturn away from her, try to escape. I am running through the desert but the beast drives me back to her.

She draws me closer, her hands undoing the brass buttons of my army jacket. They slip underneaththe white linen shirt, caressing, long nails digging into my flesh. She helps pull the shirt over my headand shoulders, nestling her painted face into the bare flesh of my chest. Her tongue licks at my nipplesas her hands caress my upper arms. I hold her to me, no longer an unwilling participant, any resistance,and memory of someone else, gone.

She bids me to finish the wine, and I do. I drink feverishly.

She takes the goblet from my hand, she casts it away. She pushes her gown off her shoulders, thesheer pale blue fabric slipping from the smooth olive skin, over curvaceous hips, to the floor andaround her sandalled feet. She steps out of the crumpled heap of material. Draws me to her, the stiffnipples of her breasts crushing against my chest. So cold, she is so cold, as cold as death. Yet I have nofear, I love her.

BOOK 1

My dress was ruined, the lilac silk fabric covered in mud and wet leaves. My flat-topped, longribboned riding hat lay on the ground nearby. Not since I was a little girl had a horse thrown me. Andsuch an undignified fall! And in front of him! For weeks, I had hoped to gain his attention, and now Ihad. He was sitting on his grey, amid the big trees on the rising ground, leaning slightly forward in thesaddle, exhibiting, I noted, his usual indecisiveness.

Was that all he could do, stare?

Then, to my surprise, he kicked on and galloped down the hill, up past Frog Pond, towards me.

‘You in any difficulty?’ asked he.

‘No,’ replied I. ‘I simply adore crawling around in the mud. It’s a favourite pastime of mine.’ Ihoped he did not detect the quiver in my voice.

Attempting to stand, I felt a searing pain in my ankle and winced.

‘You’re hurt!’ He dismounted.

‘I can manage,’ I said, shrugging off his attempt at supporting me.

‘It would be advisable to sit down, Miss. Here, you can use my coat.’

At once I found myself looking into his eyes. Pale blue, flecked with grey, bright and intelligent. Hiswas a kind, even- featured face, with a faint blond moustache, and a cute dimpled chin. Strands of hisfair hair, slightly wavy, stuck out from under his wide-brimmed straw hat. His looks were a touchboyish. But it was those eyes, I decided, that made him handsome.

‘If you would permit me, I should like to examine that ankle.’

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘You... you seem surprised.’

‘It just seems a bit odd. I should fall from my horse and you are here.’

‘Fate perhaps?’

Our eyes met briefly.

Perhaps it was fate.

‘Anyway, strictly speaking I’m not a doctor. Leastways, not yet. I’m an intern,’ he explained. ‘AtThe General, on Blossom Street.’

‘I’m not sure if I should let you examine... After all, you’re not...’

‘Qualified? Well, it’s your ankle, Miss.’ He turned to get back on his horse.

‘I...’

‘Yes?’

‘Oh, I suppose you will do.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Perfectly,’ I answered sharply.

He took a step closer. Suddenly I was frightened a little, as if about to enter a new world, not the oneI had been conditioned for, but one where I might not have control. No man had ever looked at me inthe straightforward manner he did. Although shy, there was an air of confidence about him that comeswhen someone is particularly good at something, I presumed in his case, doctoring.

He removed his blue frock coat and laid it on the grass underneath the spreading bows of the oak. Isat down, trying to avoid using my ankle. I noted a playfulness in his pale blue eyes as he asked,

‘It’s painful?’

‘Yes, yes, it is.’

‘Then we’ll have to do something about it... won’t we?’

‘You’ll ruin your coat.’

‘A small sacrifice for one so beautiful,’ he smiled, his voice distinctly theatrical. ‘And besides, it’snot much of a coat. Can’t see a little mud and a few wet leaves doing it any harm.’

‘Will you hurry!’

Kneeling, he unlaced my ankle boot, eased it off my stockinged foot. As he swivelled the joint tocheck the mobility I felt myself tingle. My anger and frustration quickly disappeared, replaced by astrange glowing sensation that spread all over my body, culminating in an exotically wonderfulwarmth in the pit of my stomach. For a moment, I imagined myself held securely in his arms, gazingdreamily into his eyes, his lover.

‘You ride on the common often?’ He spoke tentatively.

‘Yes, every day.’ Then I quickly added, ‘But I’ve never noticed you.’

A flicker of disappointment showed in his blue-grey eyes, the sad puppy-dog look of a childdeprived of a favourite toy.

His attention returned to my ankle. Each time his hand brushed against the silk of my white stockingI felt my heart react. Indeed, I had become so conscious of him and fearful of blushing that in the end Iretracted my foot.

‘Is it serious?’

‘No.’

‘You have taken away the pain.’

‘We’re not always so good at that.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a mild sprain. I’ll lace the boot up tight, to helpreduce the swelling. It will cause discomfort. Use a stick if you have to. But it will heal faster if youtry and use the ankle. No more riding for a while, I’m afraid.’

‘That should please my Father. He has never approved of my riding... Says it’s too dangerous.’

‘When you ride as fast as you do, I’d say he might have a point.’

‘Nonsense! Monroe was spooked. Probably saw a squirrel or a rat.’

The young gentleman’s eyebrows raised in query.

‘It was not my fault.’

He tied the brown lace of my boot in a neat bow, then stood up, looking about himself like an artistsurveying a paintable scene. A fine mist shrouded the ground and hovered above the black mirrowysurface of the pond. Bronzed, flamey leaves were strewn across the grass; they seemed to fall out ofthe big trees and flutter downward with an almost dreamy slowness. It was like a strange revelation tome to suddenly behold all this beauty, as if I had always ridden on the common blindfolded.

He had his back turned to me. His skin-tight beige riding britches were tucked inside his boots,revealing perfectly the contours of his lower body. I had never had a lover but had heard plenty on thesubject from my good friend Emma, and even had instruction on how to acquire one. Even so, I wasn’tentirely sure I cared for the way he dressed; he seemed a touch scruffy.

‘An interesting scarf,’ said I, referring to the long orange woollen scarf coiled around his neck andpart tossed back over his shoulder; judging by its dilapidated condition moths had feasted on it.

‘It belonged to my older brother. When Jack took up his captaincy on a New Bedford whaler, hegave it to me.’

‘It’s...’

‘Yeah, a bit tatty. But I couldn’t get rid of it. Besides, an intern’s pay is a pittance. Mostly, you’relucky if you can feed yourself. I can’t go to my parents; my Father cut off my allowance when Idecided to train as a doctor. He seems to feel medicine is for the lower classes, barber surgeons and all.But this is a new age. One day medicine will be a respectable profession.’

‘You’re a crusader!’ I giggled.

‘What’s so amusing?’

‘You are. You seemed so intense when you said that. You had a wild look about you... as if onceyou are set on doing something, nothing can stop you.’

‘That’s the way I am. I see the poverty and the suffering, and want to be able to make a difference.Isn’t that what life is truly about, making a difference?’

‘Life is also about enjoyment.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You mean to say you don’t enjoy yourself?’

‘As the next man. Do you?’

‘No offence, but I rather imagined you being on the outside, looking in, a kind of wise observerwatching the rest of us at play, no doubt looking forward to your next experiment,’ I paused, unsurewhether to continue, ‘and seeing a party or social gathering as an unwelcome intrusion.’

‘Do you always analyse people you’ve just met?’

‘Only if they interest me.’

‘What if you do not interest me?’

‘I think I do.’

His face reddened.

‘You haven’t introduced yourself,’ I said.

‘Gray. Robert Gray.’

‘Are you a Bostonian, Mr Gray?’

‘I am.’

‘So, what is it like being a doctor?’

‘Frustrating.’

I was puzzled.

‘Medicine’s in its infancy. Most of the time we are powerless to help. More often than not, we makea patient worse. We’re more feared than the hangman. Generally, people only come to us as a lastresort.’

‘But do you really think you can make a difference, Robert Gray?’

‘Are you jesting with me, Miss?’

‘It was a perfectly straightforward question.’

‘Then yes.’

‘So sure?’

‘I don’t have to justify myself to you.’

‘No. No, you do not.’

‘My apologies.’ His tone lightened. ‘And we do have our moments... We can fix the odd sprainedankle. Things will be different one day. We won’t be called ‘Old Sawbones’. Who knows, my Father may even become proud of me.’

‘Parents, they are a curse. My Father wants me to marry a banker. He’s forever matchmaking. Hesays I’m old enough to marry!’ I picked another disgusting wet leaf off the lilac fabric of my dress.‘You should see the wooden gentlemen he brings to the house to court me.’

‘Family tradition? Keep the line strong? Good blood and all?’

‘You are an idealist!’

‘A fat wallet and a big mansion on Beacon Street and I’ll forget those ideals soon enough. Howmany young men start out in life determined to change the world, then become corrupted by itstrappings? The world has a canny habit of changing us, rather than we changing it.’

‘Maybe you will prove to be the exception, Mr Gray.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Providing you manage to have some fun along the way, of course.’

This time he did not spar with me. He withdrew into himself, as if he were contemplating a greatburden weighing down upon his shoulders, which he had fought, wrestled with day after day. As hepaced, the silence closed in on me but I resisted the urge to speak. Then, at last, he stopped pacing.What he said was utterly astounding.

‘Our world of order and routine and so-called civilisation is about to be thrown into chaos, and all of us will be irrevocably changed.’ His voice had a despairing sadness, almost eerie in its projection, likea cool wind blowing through a churchyard in the dead of night, cold enough to chill the bones andmake me shudder.

‘You make it sound like the end of the world. Surely, nothing could be so bad?’

‘It may reduce the number of parties you attend. The number of young men available to court you.No more snug security. It will be a time for sacrifice. The nation searching its soul. A time for all thatintensity you find so disagreeable.’

‘You’re beginning to bore me, sir. There is only so much gaiety in one afternoon a young lady canendure. I had rather hoped when you rode over here you would cheer me up.’

‘That is why it will happen... because no one wants to listen. The evidence is all around us, yet weturn a blind eye.’

‘Now you’re talking in riddles.’

‘There’s a war coming.’

‘Don’t be absurd?’

‘Do you ever read the newspapers? Listen to the speeches of our political leaders, here in this city?Stephen Douglas, Wendell Phillips, Charles Sumner?’

‘And who will this war be between?’

He was silent, then said,

‘The North and the South?’

Maybe this wasn’t so daft a proposition. The two sections had been squabbling for decades. But theyhad always squabbled and had always managed to compromise. That was why we had politicians.

‘A civil war?’ I said sceptically.

‘Oh, it’ll be a while yet. But it will come. When it does, they’ll need doctors. Need doctors asthey’ve never needed them.’

Men would never cease to amaze. Observing the young gentleman from a distance I had imaginedhim as someone quite different. I was unsure what to make of him.

‘You don’t care for the truth?’

‘I prefer to have fun.’

‘I just get so mad.’ He was pacing again, his hands clasped behind his back. He reminded me of MrBlair, the head clerk at my Father’s warehouse on Atlantic Avenue. Whenever I had visited he waspacing the office, clay pipe in mouth, dictating a dozen different letters to as many clerks, allindustriously scribbling away behind their desks.

‘I said I like to have fun. That doesn’t include being waist-high in a prophetic sea of blood.’

‘No one can see what’s happening here.’ There was great passion in his voice. He could have beenstanding on a platform addressing a large crowd. ‘The politicians are steering us directly towards it.’

‘Oh, really.’ The words escaped my lips with a deliberate yawn, as my attention turned to my dress,to remove the last of the leaves, but he went on.

‘Did you hear how Preston Brooks beat with a cane Charles Sumner to within a hair’s breadth of hislife on the Senate floor? Bullyboy Brooks was declared a hero in the South, put himself up for re-election and was duly voted back in. Then there’s the fanatic John Brown, in Kansas, stirring uphatred, massacring pro-slavery settlers. And who will raise the immense sum of money necessary tocompensate Southern plantation owners for freeing their slaves? We’ll fight, have a war, because that’sthe easy option.’

He was silent.

‘Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes.’

‘I hope you make a better doctor than you do a reader of the future.’

The moment for us to part approached. I felt uncomfortable in his presence, yet in an intriguing,almost compelling way. When he spoke, I could feel great energy. I wondered what Emma wouldmake of him. Whether or not I should permit him to call upon me, should he ask. It could be weeksbefore our paths crossed again, perhaps never.

‘I think your horse is returning,’ he said gazing in the direction of Frog Pond.

‘Yes, you’re right.’

‘Looks as if he’s had a good bit of exercise. Nice looking animal.’

‘Father bought him.’

‘But you said he...’

‘He doesn’t approve of my riding, but if I must, I should at least have a good horse. And he feels itis improper for a young lady to be out without a chaperone.’

‘Well, you never can say who you’ll meet. You met me, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘You mentioned you ride out every day?’

‘Did I?’

‘Perhaps we could ride out together, one morning?’

‘I’m sure that would be nice but my ankle will keep me off a horse for a while. And I may beleaving the city to go and visit my sister in Philadelphia.’

‘Perhaps I could call on you? Then we could arrange something?’ He was looking at me intently. Ifearlier on he had appeared not to notice my feminine charm, he had now.

‘You had better recapture my horse, before he gets to running off again.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Evidently embarrassed, he started off to meet the chestnut stallion galloping towards us. I wasn’tcertain if he would ask to see me again but a lady should never make herself too available.

Warm breath plumed from my horse’s nostrils as it pawed at the rain softened ground. It’s coat waslathered in sweat, the bridle reins hanging loose. Grabbing hold of them, the young gentleman tookMonroe on a short rein, gently pulling on his ears to steady his nerves, then led him back. I stood up,using the knarled trunk of the old oak for support, suppressing the pain from my ankle, which I couldfeel swelling up in the confines of my tightly laced boot.

‘Are you sure about lacing this boot so tightly?’

‘Doubting my professional judgement?’

‘It doesn’t seem to make sense. And it’s so painful.’

‘Well, you can undo it if you wish. But personally speaking, I wouldn’t.’

‘Oh, what do doctors know?’ I retorted snappishly.

‘Like I said, not a lot. But we can deal with the simple things.’

‘If your war comes, you will have a wider scope for experimenting.’

‘Next, you’ll have me digging up graves in the middle of the night. What did I tell you about thereputation of doctors?’

He picked up my riding hat and passed me the crop, then helped me up into the saddle. Istraightened out the hat’s long black silk ribbons, elegantly sweeping them off my shoulder.

He passed me the bridle reins.

‘Nice meeting you.’

‘And nice meeting you, Robert Gray.’

‘You never gave me a definite answer about the possibility of us riding out.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘How about Sunday?’

‘Do you promise to forget your scalpels and stethoscope? And not to speak of war?’

‘Then you’ll be here?’

I laughed. ‘You’ll have to wait and see, Mr Robert Gray.’

I gave the horse a smack on its flank and galloped off in the direction of the State House. Its goldendome was just visible through the trees at the far end of the common.

Seven years had passed since I met Robert on that misty October morning on Boston Common, andthree since I stood shivering at the railroad depot, seeing him off to war.

I put the letter down on the dressing table and peer outside. For weeks the ground has been covered bybleak snow. Now it is the turn of cold rain and biting winds. The branches of the big trees are naked,the sky leaden. But in a few months it will be spring, and the common will be beautiful again. But thatwill mean, with the roads dry, artillery and baggage trains can once more take their route to the killingfields in Virginia - that short stretch of soil between our two capitals that has soaked up so muchblood. The feet of winter-fattened armies will tramp the roads, drums will beat their mournful tappingrhythm, leading those who follow to their deaths, like rats following the Pied Piper.

Grant must take Petersburg and Richmond. Then maybe the boys, my Robert, will come marchinghome, flags waving, bands playing. Once again we can ride out together, looking forward to our future, so cruelly robbed.

But what if the war doesn’t end? Can I endure another summer of fighting, dreading the arrival of atelegram or a letter of condolence from a commanding officer? Lee might work another one of hismiracles and save the Confederacy from its impending doom, as he has so many times. Oh, if only he were ours.

I stare pensively into the oval mirror of the dressing table. I care not to gaze into that piece of shinyglass. The war has robbed me of all gaiety and happiness. The sapphire eyes no longer sparkle, but arepuffy and shadowed. My long blonde hair is limp on my shoulders. My skin is pale and dry. Too muchwork. Too many sleepless nights, and if sleep comes at all, it does so in the early hours when it isnearly time to begin my work. I cry into the small hours, calling out his name as I clutch my pillow,pretending it is he I am holding.

I sigh.

I glance round my bedroom with its tall plaster ceiling, large four-poster and pretty floral wallpaper.On the armchair, near the fireplace, is a copy of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was this novel that helped awaken our nation’s conscience to the wrong of human slavery. It sparked awave of outrage, fiery speeches, demand for reform. I had shared in this, passionately committed toequality and justice for America’s coloureds. Now I hate that book, and, if ever I turn its pages, do sowith a sense of loathing, for it symbolises everything that is wrong in my world.

I remember the great speeches of the abolitionists in the city; Senator Charles Sumner, WendellPhillips and William Lloyd Garrison; the expression of awe upon the faces of spellbound audiences.But now... now I am just another war-weary person. I seek to reassure myself that the sacrifices areworthwhile, but all I can see are endless rows of white markers, the pathetic, tragic faces of the dying,the hopelessness of the displaced, the widows and orphans, with neither shelter nor sustenance. I amunashamedly selfish, no longer able to be sustained by abstract notions of saving the Union andEmancipation. In moments of extreme weakness I say out aloud, ‘Let the South go! The price is toohigh. Let the Rebels keep their slaves.’

How I miss Robert’s smile, his kind blue-grey eyes, his sensitivity and sincerity. How safe andsecure I felt in his arms. How happy we had been. If only we had married before he left. At least then Imight have his child, a part of him that would forever be mine, should the worst happen.

A tear trickles down my cheek. I fear the worst. The worst.

I could not forget Robert’s last letter. He’d been promoted to the rank of major and had finally got thebattlefield posting he had so long sought. He’d spent two years in New Orleans. But there was nofighting there, danger from sickness and disease yes, but not danger from shot and shell. I had readreports in the newspapers about heroic surgeons killed while performing their duties with the Army of the Potomac. Robert had been assigned to General Sherman’s medical corps; the general had beenbesieging Atlanta. But at the very last minute Robert’s transfer had been cancelled.

Shortly afterward, he had written the letter. It was dated September 12, 1864. Robert had apparentlybeen transferred to an Ohian regiment operating in the Bird’s Foot Delta, a sparsely inhabitedswampland south-west of New Orleans. According to the regiment’s commanding officer, a ColonelRalph Picard, some of his soldiers had died in a ‘strange’ manner.

Five months and not a word. Robert and I used to write daily; long, loving letters. Of course, theletters seldom arrived in the correct order, frequently in bundles of a dozen or more. I had gone weeks,two months once, without hearing from him, but five misery packed months.

Naturally I had tried discovering why, writing first to Robert’s friend, Colonel George Somerby, thesenior medical officer in New Orleans. I had also written to the War Department. Neither had replied.Practically half the women in the cities of the North were worrying after a loved one. All I could dowas sit and wait, growing more and more anxious by the day.

Thank God for my work. Working, I could temporarily put my troubles aside. There was always awar-torn body to soothe or bandage, a soldier’s hand to hold before an operation, a sick soldier tobathe or feed, or write a letter for. I had once made fun of Robert for being a crusader; if only he couldsee me at work in the hospital, he would be so proud. And when I wasn’t nursing, I petitionedbusinessmen and prominent citizens to help raise funds for the US Sanitary Commission, to help theneedy in the South End, and hungry refugees. On the odd occasion when I was not busy helpingothers, I visited Florence, Robert’s mother, and over tea we would share our worries, which was a true blessing.

Florence had looked so pale the last time I went there. Following a bout of influenza she haddeveloped bronchial pneumonia and was fortunate to recover, especially with a weak heart; the doctorhad insisted she stopped worrying. Sometimes we talked about old times, and even found laughter.Mostly, we were sad, two women who loved the same man. There is so much of Robert in his mother. But there was still no telegram, and while there was no telegram, there was still hope.

The bronze mantel clock chimed eight. The mail, thought I, my heart pounding against my chest asit did every day when I rushed from my room and raced downstairs. As the days had become weeks,and the weeks months, I had learned to restrain myself, at least for a few minutes. A brief spell of self-deception when I convinced myself that the letter I sought lay on the mat. Until I could bear to wait nolonger and would go and check and then feel the sinking feeling of disappointment settle heavily in thepit of my stomach. Today, I resolved not to check. If there was news, then one of the servants wouldtell me.

I had to get ready for my shift at the hospital. Because my father forbade such work, I had to wearnormal clothing and change into my nurse’s uniform at The General.

I quickly brushed my hair, taking care not to confront the reflection in the looking-glass. As Ifastened my blouse, however, there came a knock at the door. My heart missed a beat, followed by anattack of breathlessness.

‘Mail done come, Miss Annabel,’ said Millie as she stepped into the room. ‘One of dem look like itarmy mail.’

With a deep sense of foreboding I took possession of the letter. I had confided much in Millie thesepast months. If anyone could understand my heartache, surely it was Millie, who, prior to her arrivingin Boston via the Underground Railway, had been sold off and separated from her kin, though Milliespoke little of her past life on a Southern plantation, and it remained a barrier between us. I wished shewould let all the hurt out, for even now she was free, part of her still remained in the South. She neverspoke ill of Southerners, which I had always found hard to understand.

‘Ain’t ya gonna open it?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘But...’

‘I don’t think I have the courage. And what if it is bad news?’

‘How you gonna know unless you open it?’

I looked at the letter, noting the patriotic stamp. It was from the War Department. At least while itremained unopened, I could pretend the news was good, that Robert was safe.

I asked Millie to leave, put the letter on the mantel, then sat down on the stool before my dressingtable. Perhaps Robert was sick or wounded, languishing in a Washington hospital? Perhaps he hadbeen taken prisoner and finally news of his whereabouts had filtered through and he had been returnedNorth? Perhaps he was dead? No! He had to be alive. And if he were a prisoner, perhaps he had beenparoled? No, President Lincoln had stopped the prisoner exchanges a year before, because it helped theRebels, who, with their smaller population, could not so easily replace battle losses. Robert could beincarcerated in one of those desperate places the Southerners called prisons. Rumours abounded aboutan evil prison stockade in Georgia, called Andersonville. It was reported that our men had no shelter,no medical care; the men were being slowly starved and dying in their thousands.

I stood up, picked up the letter.

Enough theorising.

I had to open it.

Whatever the consequences, whatever the news inside, I had to face it.

Noting the date, December 13th, 1864, I quickly read the first line, and as I read down the page hopegave way to despair. I felt dizzy and sick, my legs threatening to buckle beneath me.

Almost trance-like I folded the coarse yellow army paper, put the letter back inside the envelope andreturned it to the mantel.

I picked up the silver-framed daguerreotype, the picture of Robert taken before he left for service.He looked so vulnerable in that blue cloth, like he shouldn’t be wearing it. He did not go with the firstwave of volunteers in June, 1861, so there had been no naive notion that he would be back in my armsfollowing a short and victorious war; the pattern of the war, the losses were well-established by then.Indeed, the tragic plight of the Union wounded at Antietam made Robert decide he had to enlist, andnow he was a victim himself. I remembered the smile on his face in the photographer’s studio, then hislast smile to me at the railroad depot.

A solitary tear trickled down my cheek. Sniffing, I brushed it away. ‘Another day without you, mylove. How I miss you.’ I held the silver-framed picture to my bosom. ‘But I shall not give up on you,not while there’s still hope. I shall wait for you, and I shall do anything, my darling, to help you if youare in danger. I will go anywhere. I would gladly sell my soul to the Devil to see you safe again.Whatever it takes.’

There was a knock at the door. I returned the picture to the mantel. Wiped away another tear, thensaid in a tight voice,

‘Come in.’

My mother swept into the room. ‘Oh you poor thing, you haven’t been crying again!’ Her eyes fellon the opened army envelop wedged between the wall and the carriage clock. ‘Millie told me. Is it...?’

‘He’s not dead. Or as far as I know. He’s listed as missing.’

‘Oh, I don’t know what to say. Oh this... this beastly war. How did we ever get into it? So many fineyoung men taken, and every day we hear about more.’

‘He’s not dead, Mother. Robert isn’t dead.’

I collapsed into the safety of my mother’s embrace, she stroking my hair and addressing me in asoothing tone as she might a distressed infant. Why had Colonel Somerby chosen Robert to go into theDelta to investigate those deaths? Why had he not let him have his transfer? He would be safe. Isobbed and sobbed.

‘There, there, dear, don’t cry. Of course Robert isn’t dead. He’ll come back, you see if he doesn’t.Take Mrs Fairweather’s son, Joshua. He was listed missing at Second Bull Run and turned up a fullyear later, and none the worse for it.’

‘They were exchanging prisoners then Mother. I hate to think of Robert in one of those dreadfulprisons. He has to be held prisoner. Why did the President have to stop the exchanges? Why, when itcauses so much hardship?’

‘Because he believes, I suppose, that it will help end the war sooner. I know that’s little comfort tous and so many others who have loved ones absent, but... And Robert will be all right, I know he will.He’s strong and he’s resourceful.’

I looked up. ‘Do you really believe that, Mother?’

‘He’ll come back. The war can’t last forever. The country will return to normal, the soldiers willbecome civilians again and...’

‘But things won’t be the same, will they?’

‘They were after the Revolution. Your grandfather rode with Henry Light Horse Lee. General Lee’sgrandfather, I believe. People were scarred then by the horrible experience of war, but they camethrough, and so must we.’

My mother gently raised my chin, forcing me to look at her. She swept away the traces of the tearsfrom beneath my eyes, using her fingertips like a fine-haired make-up brush. I found a smile, feeling atouch better. What would I do without her? Oh, if only I were stronger.

‘Now,’ mother said, ‘shouldn’t you be running along? You’ll be late to the hospital.’

‘You know?’

‘Mrs Russell saw you in your uniform when she was visiting her wounded brother.’

‘Does Father...?’

‘No. And he mustn’t. You know his views. Between you and me, though, if I wasn’t so old andrespectable and married to your Father... I would be nursing myself. I think you’re terribly bravefacing the horrors you must find in that place. I’ve heard stories of men chopped up and epidemics ofgangrene. And some of the men, they are so rough, the lowest types from the slums. You must promiseme that you won’t take any unnecessary chances, especially if there is cholera or smallpox.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Good. Now run along. And wrap up. It’s cold this morning. And I want you to eat more... you’relosing weight. I want to see some colour in those cheeks. That’s what Robert would want. He wouldn’twant to see you unhappy.’

Normally I took a hackney carriage from the stables in nearby Charles Street to the hospital, but todayfelt a need to walk and breathe fresh air before my lungs were assaulted by the stench of bedpans andgangrene. Matron Stevens, who had never thought well of me, was forever criticising me about poortime-keeping, but today the old bat could go to hell, I was a volunteer. As I entered the main entranceOld Joe, the grey-haired black janitor, tipped his cloth cap and bade me good morning. With no time totalk to him, I hurried down the cold stone stairs to the basement and kitchens, then crossed the yard tothe nurses’ rest room.

It was empty. Determined to put my problems aside for a few hours I changed into my uniform; agrey pleated dress with a white starched apron and hat. Fumbling with the top buttons, I sighed. Idreaded facing Sergeant Plunkett. He had lost an arm in the field to a shell burst and the officiatingsurgeon now feared the other arm could not be saved. There was no more heartrending sight than theforlorn look of the sawed-up as they came round following an amputation.

Creeping past Matron Steven’s office, I entered the narrow gas-lit corridor leading to Ward No.5. Itwas approaching ten o’clock. Having breakfasted, the men were undergoing bed washes. My friendCathy attended to Private Jenkins, a rugged mountain man from West Virginia. The soldier sworeincessantly and chewed tobacco, which he spat on the floor, given half a chance. I had provided himwith a basin for this purpose, and the thought of that black soggy juice turned my stomach.

Even so, the ward was infinitely more comfortable for the men than the conditions Robert haddescribed in the military hospitals in New Orleans, though he had not spoken at length of the horrorshe had undoubtedly faced. Here, there was a copious supply of drugs and food. The linen was clean.The floor was scrubbed and swept. The ward was well ventilated. The cots had mattresses andblankets. In the centre, there was even a woodstove for when it was cold, the network of pipesspiralling upward into the roof. For morale, battleflags and other patriotic regalia hung on the wallsand from the rafters. But for all the so-called comforts, the men still died, and most mornings a poorunfortunate was carried from the ward to be buried in the cemetery at the rear of the hospital.

‘Late again,’ smiled Cathy.

‘You’ll have that peevish Matron stirred up worse than a hornets’ nest,’ grinned Jenkins.

I grimaced as a lump of wet tobacco splattered into the basin beside my feet.

‘Yep.’

‘Do you have to do that?’

‘Yep.’ He did it again.

Cathy was helping Jenkins back into his blue flannel night-shirt, he, as usual, cussing about all thefuss. He’d taken a Minie ball in the left shoulder at Petersburg, but was making a good recovery.

‘Has she been asking after me?’

‘What do you think? That beastly woman has already scolded me for tying the bandages onCorporal Johnston’s leg too tightly.’ Cathy mimicked the elderly matron’s high pitched voice, ‘Don’tforget the bedpans. Don’t forget to turn the corner the way I taught you. Don’t mollycoddle orfraternise with the men. Don’t forget... she treats us as if we were conscripts in the army.’

‘Worse,’ grinned Jenkins, a gleam in his eyes and obviously about to deposit another well-aimedlump of chaw in the basin.

A reproachful glance from myself persuaded him otherwise.

‘It can’t be easy for her being responsible for the administration of five wards,’ I said. ‘I’m sure shedoes her best, and, under different circumstances, would be more amenable, I’m sure.’

‘You’re too charitable.’ Cathy placed a pillow behind Jenkins’ back so he was able to sit up on hiscot. ‘You won’t be saying that later, believe me.’

I stared down to the far end of the ward. A screen had been positioned around the cot of SergeantPlunkett.

‘How is he?’

Cathy, who had gathered up a pile of soiled bedding to put in the laundry trolley, paused to look atthe pale yellow screen; it was always an ominous sign to see a screen around a cot.

‘Dr Rochester had to take his other arm off late last night, to stop the gangrene spreading. TheSergeant hasn’t taken breakfast... He won’t touch a morsel. He vomited during the night. He’s lost alot of blood. Even so, Dr Rochester seems to think he could pull through, if only he had the will.’

‘I must go to him.’

‘You mustn’t get too involved, Annabel. There is only so much we can do.’

First, I went to the kitchens to fetch a bowl of broth. Fortified with goodness, it was used to boostthe strength of run-down patients. All too often men simply wasted away after surgery. There was anuncertain future for cripples in a world not given to easy living. The Sanitary Commission did what itcould to ease the hardship of veterans but there were never enough funds.

Standing beside the Sergeant’s cot and away from the watchful eyes of the other patients, I cameface to face with the harsh reality of the war. Instinctively I tried to ignore the ugly red stump, redfrom overnight haemorrhaging. I had sponged and drained pus from that torn, white puckered flesh,lacerated by Rebel iron. For weeks, I had changed the dressings on that arm, hoping it would heal. Butthen came that ominous small black spot. The size of a mole at first, which spread quickly, until thewhole limb was rotten, black diseased flesh. Gangrene was less prevalent since we had abandoned thepractice of washing and reusing bandages, but still claimed many lives, and was all the more depressing because it struck down men who had fought so hard to recover.

The forlorn expression on the non-com’s ashen face mirrored my feelings of inadequacy. All I hadto offer him were words. And what use were words?

‘Cathy said you haven’t taken breakfast.’

For a tense moment the non-com’s puffy, bloodshot eyes met mine, then he went back to staringblankly into space. Inwardly, I sighed, but I had at least to try. What was the point? Who was I to tellhim to be cheerful? But it could so easily HAVE BEEN Robert. My darling Robert, so far away. Theycould all be Robert.

‘Why don’t you let me die?’ he said. ‘Let me have a little dignity, instead of chopping me up, pieceby piece.’

‘Now you listen here, Thomas Plunkett,’ I said as sternly as my voice would allow. ‘I wrote yourwife and she will arrive by a paddle-steamer from New York any day now, and I want you shipshape. Iwon’t have you saying such things. People have tried hard to keep you alive.’

‘Yeah. What’s left of me. Why don’t you cut off a leg? Both?’

‘I understand how you must be feeling.’

‘No, you don’t. Iffen you did, you would darnwell leave me be. I’d rather take my chances with theRebs. Get the fuck out of here! Get back to your sewing and socialising in tea-rooms. I don’t need yourpatronising form of charity. Since when did your kind ever care about the likes of me? You can goback to your comfortable mansion. It’s a rich man’s war, poor man’s fight.’

‘My fiancee is with the army.’

‘He’s a sawbones, ain’t he? Safely chopping men up in the rear. I bet he never had to face no shotand shell.’

‘You’re... You’re so wrong. Robert’s listed as missing. He wasn’t safely in the rear, as you socruelly put it. He was trying to save men’s lives... men like you. He didn’t have to go. He volunteered,because he wanted to make a difference.’ The words trailed off, suffocated by a sadness swellingwithin. ‘You might feel you’re the only person who’s suffered. I can’t pretend life will be easy foryou. But you still have a life Sergeant, and there are plenty lying in the cold earth of the cemeterieswho would gladly change places with you. Now, you will take some broth?’

He remained impassive as I tucked the bib inside the collar of his army night-shirt.

‘It’s really quite good.’

I dipped the spoon in the broth and introduced it to his mouth. He turned his head away.

‘You said my arm was healing.’

‘And I believed it was.’

‘From now on, I’ll just be a burden to my wife, another mouth to feed. Who’ll earn money for food?And in the wintertime fuel, for warmth and shoes for the kiddies? I’m a dockman. I work... worked with my hands. I ain’t got no fancy learning to get me through this.’

‘There are charitable agencies. There is even talk of war pensions for crippled veterans from theGovernment. Mr Lincoln is a caring President.’

‘Looky here, Miss, you’re intentions might be good. And I’m sorry that your man is missing, truly Iam. And I hope for your sake that he comes back to you safe and in one piece, but as for me, thereain’t nothing to be done. If I’d not lost that second arm, I might-a pulled through, but I don’t wannalive my life like this. If a man ain’t got his pride, can’t provide for himself and his family, then what’she got?

‘Now you run along now. I’m weak as new-born. I lost plenty of blood, and I can feel death a-coming for me. I ain’t afraid to die, Miss. I seen too many fellas shot dead to be afraid of death. Asoldier comes to expect it. And I don’t know how long this-here war’s gonna go on for. The Rebs lost a pile of men, too.’ He paused, the strain of talking great. ‘Miss, there’s one thing you can do for me.You get me a good bottle of bourbon, and I’ll leave this-here world a happy man.’

My stomach muscles clutched up. My hand was trembling, the spoon knocking against the bowl. Ihad never felt more humble.

‘Miss, you gonna do that for me?’

I nodded.

‘Now you run along, Miss. Just you remember, you done your best for me. And don’t you get tothinking I don’t appreciate that, ‘cause I do.’ He gave me a wink. ‘Now go get me that bourbon,because when I walk through those pearly gates I wanna have a smile on my face. And if the Lord’swhat he’s cracked up to be, he’ll give me back my arms, even though I be a sinner.’

After accompanying Dr Rochester on his rounds I helped Cathy sort the dirty linen in the laundryroom. As we worked my friend engaged in gossip about Emma Lambert; we had all met at a seminaryfor young ladies in Cambridge, across the Charles River. Emma wasn’t one for nursing, though. Heridea about comforting our fighting men was somewhat different to ours, though she considered herselfindispensable to their morale. It was her duty, as she put it, to keep the brave lads happy and contentwhen home on furlough, and her parties were the most notorious in the city, with a seeminglyinexhaustible supply of French Champagne, cognac and Havana cigars.

‘She’s beginning to get a reputation,’ said Cathy. ‘And she thinks nothing of going out without achaperone. Has she told you about the sea captain? His ship’s called The Black Pearl. She doesn’t care a toot what her mother thinks. She says that with all these handsome young men in uniform in the citythat it would be sinful not taking advantage of the situation. Oh, I wish I could be so daring. He takesher to the most exciting places and buys her expensive dresses from Paris.’

Cathy stopped folding the soiled sheets she was attending to.

‘Are you listening to me, Annabel?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You should get out more. Go to some parties or the theatre.’ She hesitated as if she knew sheshouldn’t say what was on her mind. ‘I know Lieutenant Garfield is positively dying to ask you towalk out with him, if only you would occasion him the slightest encouragement. And don’t tell me youhaven’t noticed how he looks at you or how handsome he is.’

It was true, I did like the young lieutenant. We’d grown close over the weeks. There were times,moments of weakness, when I could wilfully have fallen into his arms. But to see someone else, however innocently, was tantamount to admitting all was lost, and that Robert would not return.

‘I think I’ll visit Florence after I finish my shift,’ I said picturing myself sat next to Robert in theGray’s dining room as we played a duet on the Chickering piano by the French windows. Whenever Ivisited Robert’s parents I felt closer to him. ‘To see if there’s any news.’

‘Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately, Annabel? You’re beginning to look every bit assick as some of these men. You constantly worry about Robert or work yourself into the ground. Youalready do more than your share. You’re getting too involved. Look at the way you are with SergeantPlunkett. You can’t carry the burden of the war on your shoulders. Robert may come home, I pray hedoes. But he may not and you will have to get on with your life. Go out with Lyndon. See what he’slike, let him spoil you.’

‘No!’

‘You may have to face the truth Annabel... one day. I’m your friend. I worry about you. I want tosee you happy again, if any of us can be happy after living through this nightmare. It’s like a vision ofhell on earth. Blood and death. Corpses and mutilated men. Have you seen the rats in the cellars and inthe yard. It’s as if they are growing fat on the corpses.’

‘Now who’s being morbid.’

‘That’s my whole point. You have to get away from this. You can always come back.’

‘It’s my life.’

‘You cannot hide behind your work indefinitely, Annabel.

A silence descended on us. Deep down I knew Cathy was right. Silently, I folded the linen sheets,placing them in the trolleys for washing. They were covered in gore; blood, grime from unwashedbodies that had slept on hard ground and fought in broiling heat, men’s flesh that had been rained onand torn by enemy shot and shell. I thought of Robert, languishing in a Rebel prison. Or worse, laid torest in an unmarked grave.

Later I was summoned to see Matron Stevens. Standing in the gas-lit corridor outside her office, Ifixed my chignon in position and smoothed out the folds in my white apron, which seemed absurd, forit was covered in blood, but the Matron was a stickler for the good appearance of her nurses. I wastempted to go home. I had had enough for one day. Matron always seemed to be harder and lesstolerant of the younger and prettier nurses. Indeed, in Washington, Dorothea Dix had specified that nosuch women should be allowed to join her nursing corps, because it might arouse the men. Elderlyspinsters were preferred, and the more unattractive the better.

The Matron, wearing a drab brown dress and laceless bonnet, was sat behind a large desk near thewindow that faced out onto the garden and engrossed in paperwork. She was one of those tirelessadministrators who never seemed to stop working and who expected everyone to reach her own highstandards. If she had a personal life, she kept it well hidden.

‘You wanted to see me, Matron?’

She did not look up from her paperwork and continued scribbling, the tip of the ink quill scratchingher small neat writing onto the piece of paper, probably a requisition for hospital stores.

Pausing to dip her quill in the inkwell, finally she looked up at me.

‘You were late again.’

‘I’m sorry. I... I had a letter.’

‘The work we do here is important. There is no place here for slackers. I need total commitmentfrom my nurses.’

She scratched away at the paper, the noise grating on my nerves. I wanted to tear that quill from thatwrinkled old hand and break it up before her beady eyes and tell that old, cold-hearted creature what Ireally felt.

‘And it’s not just a matter of time-keeping... it’s your methods I question. You gave whisky to apatient this morning. Alcohol is to be used strictly as a stimulant for the treatment of shock. Or to helpdull the pain when a rundown patient is not strong enough to be given full anaesthesia.’

‘He was dying. It was a last request.’

‘Rules are made for good reason, and must be enforced. They are necessary for order, and withorder comes efficiency, and with efficiency, I assure you, comes the saving of lives. It is not thedoctors who save lives here. It is administrators who run the Medical Department. We are the oneswho make certain that the drugs are where they are most needed, that clean sheets and pillow cases andbandages are there.’

I stood before her as impassively as I could, trying not to listen or to react.

‘It doesn’t come as a surprise that a young woman such as yourself attracts the wrong kind ofattention. That is why Dorothea Dix, in her wisdom, selected more mature women for her nursingcorps. Our duty is to get these brave fighting men back to the army and front-line duties as soon aspossible, and with the minimum of fuss. We must not, under any circumstances, allow ourselves tobecome emotionally involved. When men are in hospital, wounded, separated from their wives andtheir sweethearts, they are likely to be weak-willed and harbour certain desires, and they must not be encouraged.’ She paused. ‘Now take that young lieutenant in Ward No.3... Lieutenant Garfield. I’veseen the way he looks at you. And I see the Devil at work.’

‘The Devil!’

‘Yes, temptation.’

‘You see my kind of nursing as inappropriate,’ I said unable to restrain myself, ‘as if to show a littlekindness is a sin. I say it’s sinful not to show compassion.’

The elderly Matron lifted the round-rimmed wire spectacles off the bridge off her narrow, crookednose and cast me one of her famous critical looks, but I refused to be silenced.

‘The men need to know a woman can still care for them, especially if they have been horriblymutilated. They need to be treated as human beings not as a number on a chart, that may or may notreturn to the war. They need the same love and tenderness that their loved ones would afford themwere they here.’

‘Have you finished, Nurse?’

‘No!’ My voice raised, demonstrative of high emotion. ‘I have a fiancee... and if he were in astrange hospital, far from home, I’d like to think that some kindly woman would treat him so.’

The room began to spin and my legs felt weak. I hadn’t slept for days, I’d done extra shifts andhardly eaten a square meal. I felt myself stagger and had to lean on a chair for support.

Matron Stevens rose up from behind her desk. She was a blur. Vaguely, I heard her say,

‘For goodness sakes, child, take a seat.’

‘I know it’s fraternisation... but what harm can it do?’

‘Oh, you silly thing. Forget that.’

She reached out to feel my brow. ‘Well, you’re not running a temperature. Now take a seat and rest.’

I did.

‘What are we to do with you, Nurse? You are a good nurse, mostly. You work hard, and save foryour abysmal time-keeping, carry out your duties with a high degree of efficiency. Yes, you arezealous and get involved, but I suppose you are very young. Are you feeling better now?’

‘Yes, I... Yes, I think it’s passed.’ I blew hard into a handkerchief.

Matron returned behind her desk. ‘Well, Nurse, if you can assure me that you will try in future tokeep better time and not be overly friendly to our wounded charges, I think we can overlook thisepisode of insubordination. We are at war, Nurse - a war we must win, and unfortunately one that hasa high cost. Now go home and get some rest.’

About to leave the office I suddenly remembered the Sergeant.

‘Matron?’

‘What is it, Nurse?’

‘Sergeant Plunkett. Is he?’

‘No. He’s drunk. Very drunk. It would appear he has discovered that remaining in the world offers afew benefits, after all.’

I changed back into normal clothing. The war was taking from me what it had taken from so manyothers. I wanted to do something to help Robert - but what?

Unable to risk being seen leaving the hospital, as usual, I headed for the back entrance. The hospitalgarden was large and ringed by a six foot tall brick wall, running along Blossom Street. It was cut offfrom view from the rest of the city, perhaps appropriately so. There were benches on the lawn andwillow trees, and when the weather permitted we nurses pushed patients about on the grass inwheelchairs or helped them take those first tentative steps on crutches. Now, the garden was deserted,yet as I made my way along the stone path to the sturdy wooden gate set in the wall I heard a familiarvoice call out to me.

‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’

‘Told me?’

‘That I’m leaving here this evening. I would have at least thought you would come and say goodbye.’

Lyndon was dressed in his best uniform, a well tailored blue woollen frock-coat adorned with tworows of shiny brass buttons and gold braid shoulder bars. He cut a dashing figure, as I had imagined hewould. He was roughly the same height and build as Robert. There, however, the comparison ended.Lyndon was dark haired and swarthy complexioned, with a closely clipped moustache and brown eyes.

‘Leaving here? Matron Stevens made no mention of this, and I was in her office but a minute ago.Nor did Cathy.’

‘I’ve been given a few days furlough, before reporting back to my regiment at Petersburg. Lookslike I’ll be there at the finish.’

He appeared distant.

‘I’m not sure that going home is the right thing to do. I might not be able to return to the war ifreminded about the world I left behind. I don’t want to let people down. I complained like crazy whenI caught that chunk of Rebel shrapnel in my stomach, but I was one of the lucky ones, wasn’t I? If Ihadn’t been an officer, they would have left me to die at the back of the surgical tent. We lost 7,000men in less than half an hour at Cold Harbor. Rebs never had it so easy. ‘Butcher Grant’. End the war.I read that after we were beaten in the Wilderness Grant told a correspondent to tell the President thatwhatever happens there’ll be no turning back. And now the army has 60,000 less men to feed. Theyonly gave me a medal because there was no one else left in our regiment they could honour.’

‘Oh, Lyndon, we’re all caught in the same miserable trap. It’s so depressing.’

His eyes met mine briefly and I felt his desire, and for once did not feel guilt but welcomed hisattention, it made me feel like a real woman.

‘It doesn’t have to be that way,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t it?’

‘We could have ourselves a moment’s respite.’

‘You’ve been talking to Cathy?’

‘Cathy. What’s Cathy got to do with this?’

‘It’s, I just thought.’

‘My American Cousin is playing at the Savoy on Tremont Street. I hear it’s rather good.’

‘I heard that too.’

‘Perhaps you might care to accompany me.’

I felt myself tremble. Biting hard on my bottom lip, I could not prevent a solitary tear slip from thecorner of my eye and trickle down my cheek. I turned away from him, selfishly not caring whether ornot I was embarrassing him.

‘It was thoughtless of me to ask. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’

‘Still no word then?’

‘The War Department has confirmed Robert is missing, but beyond that there is no knowing whathas happened to him. Sometimes I think it would be easier if they just said he was dead.’

‘No news is good news.’

I turned to face the Union officer, our eyes again meeting. I half hoped he would take me into hisarms and hold me close, if only for a moment.

‘I try to be brave and positive,’ I said croakily. ‘Yet every so often the despair seems to creep up onme and catch me unawares and drag me away into a dark world where there is no hope. All I can seeare gravestones and half-starved prisoners and scruffy Rebels with big bayoneted rifles, and laughingeyes.’ I sighed. ‘Oh this war. I swear none of us will come out of it sane. And have we accomplished anything? The Rebels are still fighting.’

‘We freed the slaves. And we preserved the Union.’

‘Not much of a consolation to a man with no arms and who will probably spend the rest of his lifebegging.’

A silence descended on us, like a mist cloaking the headstones in a graveyard. Wiping another tearfrom my eye, I glanced round the garden, at the weeping willow trees, at the cold wet grass andpatches of snow, at the sparrows landing and taking off from the bird table.

‘You must think me terribly morbid.’

‘Very human, I would say.’

‘I must be going now. Lyndon, I wish you... I want you to keep yourself safe. Don’t take anyunnecessary chances. You don’t need another medal. And we do not want to see you back in hospital,’I found a smile, ‘much as we’ve enjoyed looking after you.’

I gave his hand a quick squeeze, then gathered up my dress hem and headed along the stone pathtoward the large oak door set in the garden wall.

‘Annabel, wait!’ called out Lyndon. ‘I might know a way to help you find Robert.’

Heavy rainfall had turned Pennsylvania Avenue into a mud pit, the thick mud gouged and churnedup by the large wheels of the congested horse traffic. It was still spitting but there was a promisingbreak in the clouds. As we walked the short distance to the War Department, I found myselfnervously clinging to Lyndon’s arm. The appointment arranged by his uncle a (Republican Senator)was for 9.30. I had made a special effort with my appearance, eager to create the right impression,for there was no doubting men’s willingness to put themselves out for an attractive woman; it hadtaken me a while to discover that a woman’s main function in life was to manipulate men. Today, Iwould have to be the consummate actress, hiding behind a mask of red lip gloss and rouge.

As we passed by the White House, my thoughts turned to the President whom I imagined to besitting inside and surrounded by a large group of cigar-smoking generals and politicians, yet profoundly alone. The portrait I’d seen of his aged face in the Boston Post the week before bespokethe anguish of the man. He’d sent many thousands of fine young men to their deaths in search of adecisive victory, and still had not got it within his grasp. He had looked so sad.

The War Department building was set well back from the pavement. It was old and ringed bytrees and had a large porticoed entrance, and as Lyndon and I went up the steps, past the twosentries, who were impeccably dressed in blue frock coats and holding bayoneted rifles, I felt mystomach muscles clutch up, but also a sense of pride for being the fiancee of one of Mr Lincoln’ssoldiers, fighting to preserve the Union.

Inside, an army of officious clerks with portfolios or rolled up plans, travelled from doorway todoorway on mysterious errands. The benches were crowded with anxious-looking civilians, allhoping, praying, for news. Lyndon led me across the foyer and up a flight of stone stairs to thesecond floor. When he stopped a young captain and asked for Colonel Lucius Clay’s office, I foundmyself exchanging a tense look with a particularly desperate-looking woman. She was cradling anew-born, with two little ‘uns tugging at her dress. Two strangers, were we, united in our grief.

The Colonel rose up from behind his desk as we entered and greeted Lyndon with a warmhandshake, then told us to be seated.

He proffered Lyndon a fat Havana cigar, which the young lieutenant politely declined, for he didnot indulge in the habit.

The Colonel wore his beard long. His hair was swept back off his forehead, revealing recedingtemples. He reminded me of the worst doctors in the hospital, cold and dispassionate, his eyespiercing, almost black. I tried not to stare at his empty sleeve, once lovingly tailored, and nowdangling uselessly. I had seen too many ugly empty sleeves.

‘Lost it at Gettysburg,’ he said. ‘Cemetery Ridge. The stone wall. 71st Pennsylvania Infantry.Hancock’s II Corps. If I close my eyes, I can still see the Rebs sweeping across them yellow fields,hollering that high-pitched schoolboy yell, their scarlet battle flags stabbing the air, their musketbarrels flashing resplendently. When we win this war, that’s where they’ll say we won it.’

He was distant.

I could almost hear sounds of battle myself, truly absurd, because I’d never been anywhere near abattlefield. Yet through my nursing, mending those crippled bodies, I’d come to imagine the soundof cannons and the rattle of musketry.

‘Your Uncle said you were at Gettysburg, Lyndon.’

‘Yes, sir. Culp’s Hill. We didn’t get to see quite so much mischief in that sector.’

‘Nonsense, my boy. False modesty. Won’t hear of it. Not inside these walls. Never seen so manyshirkers and backsliders, all wearing stars on their collars and gold braid on their sleeves. Closestmost of them ever got to a live Johnny is staring over the walls of a prison stockade.’

I grew impatient. I hadn’t come here to listen to men talk about the war, I already knew more thanI cared to about that. Meanwhile, some reading material on the corner of the Colonel’s desk hadcaught my attention. They looked like Southern Newspapers.

‘Important sources of information, them, my dear. Damn sight more reliable than our spies... notto mention a good deal cheaper. If Allan Pinkerton hadn’t filled McClellan’s head with such exaggerated reports about the enemy’s strength, that general might have found some courage andended this war two and half years ago, and saved us all a lot of bother. But all McClellan was afterwas the Presidency.’

The Colonel, leaning casually back in his red leather armchair, took a drag on his cigar, then blewout a mouthful of blue-grey smoke.

‘Have you any news for us?’ asked Lyndon.

He flipped open the light brown file on his desk and briefly studied the contents. ‘Gray. Gray. Captain Gray.’‘Major,’ I corrected. ‘Robert was promoted to the rank of major shortly before he was listed asmissing.’‘Well, it says captain here. That’s paper-pushers for you. Should send them all out to fight the Rebs. Scare the be-Jesus out of them.’

‘What about Robert?’ I reminded him, fast losing patience with his eccentricity and cavalierattitude. Dressing up for him, I now realised, had been a complete waste of time; the only thing he’dnotice would be an order to advance across a muddy field with a brigade of infantry. The war gaveour men the opportunity to nobly fight for ideals, honour, glory and excitement. It was us womenwho remained at home, patching up the survivors and those torn apart by the true cost of those heroic charges.

He coughed unhealthily.

‘It says here that you were recently notified.’

‘Yes. But naturally I assumed that there would be more information. You only said he wasmissing. You must know more.’

‘My dear, you overestimate the Army.’ He chuckled to himself, his attempt at diffusing the tension. ‘The Rebs don’t care to keep us too well informed about the whereabouts of prisoners.We’re giving them one hell of a beating, but we’re losing a lot of people along the way.’

‘But there must be something you can do. You’re a Colonel. I’ve travelled from Boston to be heretoday. And I’ve waited patiently and been patient.’

He coughed again, turned the pages of the file. Speaking out loud, he read the contents,

‘Robert Gray. Enlisted, November 1862. Reported to Washington, January 1863. In May, wentsouth to join our forces in New Orleans. Served at the Benjamin Butler Hospital. Repeatedly put infor a transfer... which was denied. Finally granted one in, September 1864. Then, at the last minute,was assigned to assist the surgeon of the 28th Ohio Volunteers, then operating in the Bird’s FootDelta, south-west of New Orleans. Was reported missing October 18th.’

He closed the file. Leaned back in his armchair, puffing on his cigar.

‘Is that it?’ I prompted.

‘Yes, it is. Have a read for yourself, if you don’t believe me.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Lyndon. ‘Is there anything you can do? Are there other channels? There issome contact with the enemy, unofficial through the lines.’

‘Cotton trading, maybe. Look, I wish I could help. But things have changed. The war’s got uglier.When men die by the thousand, who the hell cares about one more life lost?’

‘I do,’ said I tearfully. ‘There must be something. There must be!’

‘You have my sympathy. But practically half the nation is looking for a misplaced person. Yousaw downstairs.’

He reopened the file and re-examined the pale yellow pages as if he might suddenly see a clue. Iknew it was a pointless gesture.

‘I’ve tried writing to Colonel Somerby,’ I said.

‘Major Gray’s commanding officer?’

‘He doesn’t reply to my letters. And he and Robert were such good friends. Now why would henot reply to my letters? Don’t you think that strange?’

‘My dear, the mail is notoriously unreliable.’

‘And then there’s Robert’s last letter.’ I took the crumpled letter (which I’d read so many times)from my purse and handed it to him. ‘It’s dated September 16, of last year. The way Robert talksabout it, it doesn’t sound like a normal army mission. There seems to be a presentiment of disaster,something dark and sinister afoot. I’ve been having these dreams. In them, I see the desert and theNile. And a woman, who commits unspeakable deeds against humanity, taking the lives of new-borninfants. There are strange dog-like beasts with red glowing eyes. I know how it must sound... butI’m most perceptive Colonel, and I know Robert is in mortal danger, and that he is not dead. He keptmentioning the deaths of these soldiers, which apparently happened in very mysterious circumstances. And their commanding officer, Colonel Ralph Picard.’

‘Picard?’ echoed the Colonel as if he had suddenly had a very important thought. ‘Picard, yousay?’ He rose up from his chair and went to the row of filing cabinets set against the office wall. Ashe rummaged in them, I felt my heart racing. I exchanged a nervous smile with Lyndon. He was sokind. What would I have done without him?

‘Aaah, here we are. Picard. Colonel 28th Ohio Volunteers. Listed as missing... October 20, 1864.Practically the same time as your man. Says the entire company disappeared. Not a trace. No recordof any action with the Rebs.’

He put the file back.

‘What did I tell you. I knew something was wrong.’

‘Well, not exactly, Miss. Units go missing all the time.’ The Colonel was seized by another boutof coughing which took him away from us. ‘And I hate to say this, but it has been known for units ofmen to desert en mass.’

‘Robert’s not a deserter!’ I said firmly.

Appearing flushed, Colonel Clay returned to his chair, inhaled the weed deep into his lungs, thenagain slowly exhaled the blue-grey smoke and watched it break up as if he were watching amiraculous occurrence. Removing the fat cigar from his mouth, he blew on the end and made it glowred.

‘I understand your concern. Really, I do. But I can’t see how I can help.’ His gaze strayed to thewar map on the wall above the cabinets; it was dotted with miniature Union and Confederatebattleflags, marking the latest positions of the opposing armies. ‘This rebellion must be put down,and I’m afraid your fiancee, Major Gray, is a low priority in the scheme of things.’ He paused, thensaid, ‘You could always go,’ he smiled conceitedly to himself, ‘travel South yourself.’

‘A preposterous idea,’ countered Lyndon.

‘Of course, and exactly my point. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing I can do. We mustwait until the war is over. Or we get news from our forces in New Orleans.’

I left the War Department building feeling disconsolate. I had rehearsed exactly what I might say,but the words had escaped me and my ardent defence for Robert amid an uncaring military hadpetered out into a pathetic personal plea as it must have for so many other broken-hearted souls.Over lunch at Willards Hotel Lyndon did his best to raise my spirits. He couldn’t. I stared pensivelyat my meal, contemplating spending another six months, longer even, of sitting at home waiting fora telegram. The prospect appalled me.

We were seated by the window. On the table next to us was a group of, I assumed, war correspondents, engaged in a lively debate about General Grant’s campaign in Virginia last summer.There was talk of Butcher Grant. And one oafish fellow, balding with close-set eyes, was defamingthe President. They were probably Copperheads; Northerners who wanted peace, even if it meantletting the South leave the Union for good. It was so depressing hearing them talk about the wargoing on, the genius of Robert E. Lee and the continued, unbreakable good morale of the Southern army.

‘This veal’s excellent,’ said Lyndon. ‘I’d almost forgotten what good food tastes like. Don’t youthink you should try some? You losing your strength isn’t going to help, Annabel. And I’m sure it’snot what Robert would want.’

‘I had hoped he could be more helpful.’

‘It was worth a try. And at least you have satisfied yourself that you have done everythinghumanly possible.’

‘I could go to New Orleans.’

‘The Colonel was jesting with you,’ Lyndon said animatedly. ‘And have you any idea how farNew Orleans is? No unescorted woman could undertake such a journey. And what would be thepoint? The Army is the Army, wherever you are.’

‘Colonel Somerby... I could see him in person.’

‘If he’s still alive.’

‘I would be closer to Robert.’

‘Yes, and to his grave.’

‘So, you do think he’s dead.’

‘I don’t know. It’s not my place to say.’ He paused, looking sad, then spoke in a most sincere andtouching way, ‘My youngest brother, Edward, was killed at Antietam. My only other brother, Adam,in the Wilderness. We enlisted together, and I had to bury them both myself.’ He reached across thetable, taking my hand in his. ‘You must be patient, however hard that may seem right now.’

I took my hand from Lyndon. I glanced round the busy restaurant with its white-clothed tablesand chandeliers and rich vermilion curtains. In the corner, by the rubber plants, a young couple satstaring dreamily into each others eyes. On the next table a corpulent general forked oysters into hisfat mouth, washing them down with champagne. The war correspondents had finished their meal and were smoking cigars as they continued to argue their points. The noise of their boisterousdiscourse seemed to slam against my eardrums, becoming louder and louder, until it was unbearable.

I looked down at the cut of veal on my plate, and felt ill at the mere thought of touching it. Itreminded me of the pieces of human flesh I had sponged from the operating tables after the surgeonshad done with their cutting and sawing.

‘I’d like to go for a walk. It’s stopped raining, and I’d like to see a little more of the city before weleave.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘I would... prefer to be alone.’

‘It’s too dangerous. The city’s packed with thieves, deserters and prostitutes.’

‘My dearest Lyndon, you’ve already sacrificed the better part of your furlough trying to help me.There must be many things you would rather be doing, before returning to your regiment.’

‘I enjoy being with you, Annabel.’

‘And I you... But as we both of us know, I’m not free.’

There was a deep silence between us, in which we sat, he and I. Our eyes would meet andinstinctively our flesh yearned to be one, but I knew that was impossible. I had obligations, loyaltiesthat mustn’t be overcome by temptation. I could not as I walked through the Garden of Eden, as Idid, after all the many months of sacrifice, now take the forbidden fruit.

‘See that very pretty lady over there?’ I said attempting to relieve the tension. ‘The one sitting atthe table beside the piano? Have you noticed how she keeps looking over here? You do cut ahandsome figure in that uniform, Lyndon, and I expect if you were to go over there and introduceyourself... I’m sure.’

‘No match-making, please. Spare me that. It’s my fault. I had ulterior motives. I was hoping...Bah, I can’t say what I was hoping for. Do you think ill of me for it?’

‘No. But you know how deep my love is for Robert, and that I could never betray him. In astrange way, you remind me of him. You’re a gentleman.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘Better a gentleman, than a cad.’

‘I remember the first time I saw you in the ward. I had this daft feeling we’d be together one day.I guess I hoped... Well, I guess that’s not important. And when a woman talks openly about theirlove for another man in front of you, I guess you know you’re on to a round defeat.’

‘I met Robert first, Lyndon.’

He found a smile. ‘I should try and enlist the help of the Rebs, they’re expert at managingseemingly lost causes.’

‘Why don’t you go and ask her her name?’

‘No.’

‘Lyndon.’

‘I might, later.’

I’d hurt his feelings.

Oh, why, why, why?

‘Well, if you’re set on going out there alone,’ he said, ‘you had better take this.’ He felt inside hisfrock coat pocket, then covertly slid a small two-barrelled Derringer pistol across the table. ‘A bit ofsecurity.’

‘A gun?’

‘It’s necessary.’

Strolling along the sidewalk, breathing in the cool air, I began to feel slightly better. Going for longwalks gave me a chance to clear my mind. After a couple of miles brisk walk any trouble usuallyseemed halved, my mind full of new ideas and solutions. Except no matter how far I walked, thistrouble remained there - an ugly black shadow as dark as the clouds overhead.

On the corner of Louisiana Avenue, a boy wearing a tatty scarf up to his jaw and a peaked clothcap tugged down over his eyes, waved newspapers in the air, crying out in a shrill voice,

‘Read all about it! Read all about it! Grant shells Petersburg.’

His high-pitched voice echoed inside my head, the war coming back, THE WAR, THE WAR. Atonce I felt weakened and detached from my surroundings. Everything around me - the people, thehorse-drawn traffic - became remote, as if I could reach out and touch them, but would feel nothing.I saw Robert’s eyes, his even teeth, as he smiled kindly at me.

I walked faster, brushing impatiently past folk and ignoring reproachful glares that might bereserved for a drunken whore. At one point, I stepped out in front of a wagon, the black teamsterbarely able to rein in his team and stop

‘Missy, you gonna git yerself killed.’

‘I don’t care.’

I walked on, passing by a train of mule-drawn canvas-topped army ambulances no doubt en routefor one of the city’s many military hospitals. I did not see the noble ideals; emancipation andequality for the black man. Only death and suffering, the terrible cost, and my beloved Robert, heldprisoner, or worse, dead.

He’s dead, I thought. He’s dead. Why should I keep up this pretence? He’s dead, and the sooner Iface up to it, the better. If he were alive, we would have heard something.

I passed by the National Hotel. It was starting to rain again, the cold drops whipped by a briskwind into my face. The light was fading. I kept walking. At the end of the Avenue, I came to theCapital Building. Fashioned from white marble, with tall columns, a huge iron dome and grandarched windows, it was the most magnificent building in Washington. Robert had described it in aletter home not long before he departed for New Orleans. It wasn’t finished then, but the Presidenthad apparently insisted that work on the project should not be interrupted by the war, for thebuilding signified that the Union would go on.

Looking through the railings, I pictured President Lincoln standing on the steps delivering to alarge crowd his first inaugural address. That was in 1861. The people were happy then. He’d beenre-elected for a second term, despite fierce opposition from the Copperheads and the peace candidateGeneral George B. McClellan, and in twelve days time, on March 4, would deliver his secondspeech for office. Years of bitterness came to my eyes as tears as I stared at that white buildinwondering if the President cared about me and my suffering, if I, if Robert, meant anything to him.

It occurred to me that I should search the city’s hospitals. There were men who’d forgotten theiridentity, lost souls believing they had no home or loved ones. A cold thought chilled the blood in myveins. There were other reasons why a wounded man would not want to be found. I’d seen the horribly mutilated not wanting their kin to see them so. Sergeant Plunkett, for one. But whateverRobert’s difficulty, no matter how mutilated his body was, no matter what unspeakable horror hadbefallen him, he would still be Robert, my darling Robert, whom I would nurse back to health, atany cost. But Washington was one vast hospital; it could take weeks to inspect each one and I onlhad a few hours.

I sighed.

NEW ORLEANS.

It would not be easy for a single woman to obtain passage into a war zone. And my father wouldbe, perhaps, an even greater obstacle than the military. How angry he would be when I returned toBoston. My mother could not hide the truth of my activities from him indefinitely. He was a powerful man, with influential friends.

I needed a drink. I needed to forget, to stop thinking, to dull the pain, to lose control, to beunfettered and to laugh at something silly. I thought about Lyndon. I had used him to get what Iwanted, used him like a cripple uses a crutch. And if Robert was dead, I would have to rebuild mlife, start afresh with someone new, perhaps Lyndon? I could not remain honourable and devoted toRobert forever. I was becoming deader than those who had died. And had my relationship withRobert been so wonderful? Was it so perfect? I couldn’t remember anything bad, only good things -the tender moments, the loving embraces. But there were bad things. There were arguments. And he,like so many others, would not, could not, return home the same man.

Back in my hotel room I ordered from room service a bottle of whisky. It was eight minutes toseven. The boy who brought it gave me a condemning look, as if a woman should not drink. Mendid, so why shouldn’t we women, I determined, knocking the unpleasant-tasting spirit back in asingle gulp. I didn’t have to taste it, just get drunk, blot out the memory of Robert.

Looking into the dressing table mirror and seeing my reflection, I angrily smeared the bright redlipstick from my mouth across my cheek. Let the world see my misery. As for Colonel Clay, hecould rot in hell. Let him lead another stupid charge across a muddy field and lose his other arm!

I poured myself a third glass of whisky and was about to take it down, when I heard the door clickopen. Turning, I saw Lyndon.

‘You don’t care to knock?’

‘Maybe I’m fed up with knocking.’

I should have rebuffed him but didn’t. I knew it was dangerous but I didn’t care.

‘Come in. Join the party. Want a drink?’

‘No thank you.’

‘So, how did you get on?’

He looked puzzled.

‘The pretty woman in the restaurant. The one in the blue dress.’

‘She had to leave. Very pleasant, very married... and very unavailable.’ He hesitated then said, ‘A bit like you in that respect.’

He looked intense, as if he were not in a mood to be trifled with. For weeks, I had played with hisfeelings, leading him on in errands like some obedient puppy dog, and he always helpful and tryingto please. Now I wasn’t in control. He wanted me. He was undressing me with his eyes, and I was happy to let him. I thought about being held in his arms, our flesh linked together in an uncontrollable moment of passion. I wanted him to prize my thighs apart and to take me. I wanted tofeel him inside me. I wanted him, and perhaps a child, that I could pretend was Robert’s.

‘You disapprove of my drinking?’

‘I’m not here to judge.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I want you,’ he said.

‘Didn’t I make myself clear in the restaurant?’

‘Words. But in your eyes and in your manner, I saw something else. We belong together, you and

I. I have never met anyone like you.’‘It’s impossible.’‘No, nothing is impossible,’ he countered coming across the room and taking the whisky glass

from my hand. He held my wrist firmly and stared into my eyes with a longing that made my whole

body tingle with anticipation.

‘You won’t find happiness or fulfilment in a whisky bottle Annabel.’

‘I can hide for a while, can I not?’

‘Face it, Robert is most likely dead. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it is something you willmost likely have to face up to.’

‘It’s not your place to say such things.’

‘Yes it is. You see I am involved. You made me involved. I may have come freely, but now I

happen to be in love with you. You have turned my world upside down. All I can think about is you,and in a few days I shall have to return to the front and might never get another chance to see you.And if a man loves a woman, as I do you, then even if he can’t be with her in marriage, it’simportant for him that she at least knows how he feels. I love you. I’m not proud of it, believe me.But whether it’s wrong or right, those feelings are there.’

Staring out of the soot-smeared train window I contemplated the many obstacles that lay ahead. Therewas a great distance to travel with danger at every point, from my own people, as well as the enemy.Money would be required, and courage that not even I could be sure I possessed. But no longer could Ileave Robert’s return to chance. He needed me; a need I felt growing inside of me as each lonely daypassed.

Last night I’d had another nightmare, waking up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night. I hadfelt myself in the grip of an intense evil. Again I saw the desert, the Nile. A white-stoned temple. Thatwoman, stunningly beautiful, her exquisite almond-shaped eyes as dark as the night itself, and a warm,inviting smile that drew me forward into its embrace... until the smile turned into the ugly snarl of abeast with long pointed teeth, dripping with blood.

IT WAS MY BLOOD.

I had become frightened of sleep. Sometimes I felt I was losing my mind. Bizarrely Robert had hadsimilar dreams in his childhood. One evening when we returned late from a party and were prettydrunk, he’d spoken about them; the pyramids, the Nile, the desert; the very things I saw. But not thewoman. The dreams had persisted for a number of years, then suddenly ended. It had made Robertfrightened of the dark, and, he had told me, the nightly sounds outside his bedroom window. Perhapsmy subconscious, given my current turmoil, was unravelling his experiences, jumbling them all uptogether? Whatever, I just wished the nightmares would stop.

That woman.

She was so utterly haunting.

Last night, I had betrayed Robert. How I loathed myself for that moment of weakness. And thatloathing was all the greater... because I had enjoyed making love with Lyndon. I could have resistedhim, commanded him to leave. And in the morning, when I’d not been drunk, when there could be noexcuses, we had made love again. I would have to tell Robert; the secret, if long harboured, would be abarrier between us.

The train hugged the coastline. As I stared out across the choppy grey mass I thought of my father,Samuel Merrick. He’d made his fortune from the sea. Started out as a first-mate on a clipper,progressed to captaincy and eventually bought into a ship, and then a shipping line. The Merrick Shipping Company had 30 ocean-going vessels, trading with places as faraway as San Francisco andSingapore. I adored my father, but lately we had become strangers. It was impossible for me to ignorehis indifference to the suffering of the war’s victims. He seemed only concerned with making money,and with government teats to suckle on, large contracts for war produce and heavy imports of the samefrom Europe, many merchants had gorged themselves in a feeding frenzy of greed.

I had considered giving up my monthly allowance, though now would need that money and possiblythe help of one of my father’s shipping contacts, for few captains would be prepared to carry anunescorted woman into a war zone, especially with the Confederate raiders destroying and plunderingUnion merchantmen. If only father had approved of Robert in the beginning, tried to understand myneeds.

New Orleans.

New Orleans.

Perhaps I could go overland? The Rebels had been cleared out of Vicksburg in 1863, the summerGeneral Lee was turned back in Pennsylvania, at Gettysburg. Were I to travel by rail to St Louis, 1,000miles, it would be possible to take passage on a riverboat down the Mississippi. But the enemyremained active on the river, sniping at paddle-steamers. The trains were equally unsafe, with frequentderailments, and would be crammed with vulgar soldiers, many of whom, my work in the hospital hadshown me, could not be trusted.

I glanced round the carriage. Dusty upholstery, a spittoon and shabby green velvet curtains. At leastthere were panes in the windows, it was cold enough. People were pressed together on the seats. Somestood in the gangway. Mainly women and children, wives and sweethearts returning home aftervisiting their wounded menfolk in Washington’s hospitals. The looks on their faces told their stories; Icould tell those who retained hope, and those who had given up the ghost. At the head of the car, agroup of soldiers on furlough were very boisterous, and more than once drew a reproach from theconductor.

Idiots, I screamed inside. If all the idiots downed their rifles, stuck their bayonets in the ground andwent home, then the war would end. No matter how hard Presidents Lincoln and Jefferson Davis tried to make it continue, it would end.

I sighed.

Then suddenly I had an inspiring thought. Something Cathy had told me. At the time it had notseemed important. But right now, given my own needs, it was... Cathy had said Emma was seeing asea captain, and whenever Emma Lambert asked a man to do a deed for her, they always obliged...Always!

Emma resided at No. 8 Pinckney Street, Louisbourg Square, Beacon Hill. It was a three-storey brickmansion with large arched windows, a classical white-columned portico, indeed one of the mostbeautiful houses in Boston. Emma’s parents were rich almost beyond comprehension; a fortune bornof land speculation during the late eighteenth century when Emma’s great grandfather had bought uphuge tracts of land and sold it on to immigrants. Robert’s parents’ home was a few blocks away. Myown house, in Park Street, was within easy walking distance.

In the centre of the square, stood a statue of Paul Revere. It was at Christmas when the square was atits nicest, the leaded windows lit up with candles. I remembered the Christmas of 1861; the war hadonly been going on six months. Robert and I had stood arm in arm on the steps of Emma’s houselistening to carol singers performing Silent Night, my favourite carol. It was our last Christmastogether, and as I walked through the square, the memories crowded in on me. For a moment, I couldhear the sweet voices of the carol singers, see the big snow flakes floating downward out of a blacknight sky, see the breath pluming into the cold air, feel my hand safe in Robert’s.

The Lambert’s tall genuine English butler showed me into the drawing room. Emma was seated bythe window, painting. From time to time, she would take up a new interest -sufficiently lady-like -andpainting water-colours was the latest, though her artistic skills were somewhat inferior to her personalskills, but as Emma would put it: ‘A Lady has to do something to occupy herself in between parties.’

‘Annabel dear.’ She took my hand in hers and kissed me affectionately on the cheek, like a sister.‘It’s so good to see you.’

The butler withdrew, closing the double doors without making a sound, an eeriness in his practisedand graceful movements.

‘He makes me shudder,’ I said. ‘He’s so mechanical.’

‘Paxton’s wonderful. We wouldn’t be without him. He’s so... so resourceful. And dependable. Andyou would never get that from one of your servants. And a darky, we could never have one of them inthe house, they might steal the silver.’

‘That’s an awful thing to say.’

‘Oh, dear, must we get into that again? Leave that thorny issue for those nasty and horrid-lookingpoliticians. They deserve it. Now,’ she said mischievously, ‘I heard you went to Washington. And without your Father’s permission. And in the company of a very gallant and very handsome young officer.’

‘Cathy told you?’

‘And did he? Did you?’

I was silent.

‘So you did. For once, you let yourself be human. Annabel, I’m so proud of you. Of course, nowyou will be feeling positively rotten. It’s what I’ve been telling you... you mustn’t allow yourself tostop living. Robert would not want that. And I hope that now you have decided to return to the land ofthe living, hopefully you will refrain from burying yourself in all that gore at the hospital and come outwith me. Oh, we could have such a good time. Just as we used to. There are so many people in the citywho can’t abide the war, and in some circles the mere mention of it is expressly forbidden.’

Not feeling in a mood to argue with my friend I diplomatically changed the subject, passingcomment on her painting.

‘Isn’t it appalling?’ she giggled. ‘You can scarcely believe they are apples. Father said he would getme an instructor, a professional artist, to nurture my talent.’ She laughed. Then, dipping her brush inthe red paint, dashed it across the breadth of the paper, leaving a huge red streak. ‘There, a definiteimprovement.’

Emma removed her pinafore and sat down on the large armchair next to the fireplace. I took the seatopposite. The fire roared away, throwing its warmth to every corner of the exquisitely furnished room,with its silk upholstery and highly polished wooden panels. There were countless pieces of classicalartefacts ranging from sculptures to paintings. The carpet was oriental in origin, Chinese or Japanese,with rich colours and an elaborate pattern. Broad-leafed rubber plants and other indoor plants added tothe room’s charm.

‘I’ve not long ordered tea,’ said Emma. ‘Well, do tell. Do tell.’

Inwardly, I sighed, unable to face wrenching up the details of my disappointment in Washington. Iseldom envied people, but today, as I looked at my friend, I found myself wishing my own life couldbe so carefree. Emma was bonnie, a picture of health, her long red hair shiny as if it had been washedin the softest rainwater. Her eyes, bright and confident, had never seemed bluer, nor her skin fresher,nor her cheeks rosier. And I was...

‘Well, what did you discover?’

‘Robert’s listed as missing... along with the rest of the unit he was assigned to.’ A lump came intothe back of my throat; I had vowed in Washington not to let my emotions get the better of me, to tryand be tougher, but it was so difficult.

‘Oh you poor thing, you mustn’t worry. You mustn’t worry.’

The butler brought our tea. Sitting beside the Lambert’s fire and amid the pleasant surroundings ofthe drawing-room I began to feel slightly better. The warm room was a welcome change to cold anddraughty hospital wards, military buildings and railroad cars. I forced myself to eat a scone. Emmacouldn’t resist asking further questions about Lyndon. She was disappointed he wasn’t in the cavalry;she’d always considered that branch of the army infinitely more glamorous. And how true. As a nurseI had seldom come across a wounded cavalryman; they seemed to ride off on long raids around enemyarmies, getting themselves in the newspapers. The fighting was done by the infantry.

‘Never mind Annabel, those silly little war department officials, what do they know? They onlywork as clerks because the Army has no other use for them.’

Suddenly, Emma rose up from her chair and went to the table. She opened a hat box and carefullytook out an elegant blue bonnet, matching exactly the shade of her eyes and the colour of her prettysilk hooped dress. Tying the satin ribbon underneath her chin in a big but neat bow, she turned andasked,

‘What do you think? It’s the very latest in fashion from Paris.’

‘It’s... It’s lovely.’

‘I adore Paris. You’ve not been, have you? Oh, to walk along the Seine, with the gay lanternsburning bright and the sweet music of violins in the air. Then there’s the dance halls and restaurants.Paris is so full of life. Parisians know how to live, which we have forgotten how to do; Russian caviar,fit for the table of a tsarina, and champagne by the bucketful. Oh, and the dresses...’

It was hardly tactful my friend talking of such frivolous things when I had endured so, but I could not expect everyone to be miserable and crestfallen merely because I was. It was then that I remembered the reason for my coming.

‘Did the sea captain buy it for you?’ I asked.

Emma regarded me quizzically. ‘Why, yes.’

‘Gossip, my dear friend. Gossip.’

‘Are people really talking? I love it when people talk about me. It proves my life is exciting andtheirs is dull. But this one’s special.’

Emma whispered the details of a recent indiscretion in my ear, something no lady of quality wouldever admit to and made me feel a touch embarrassed, shocked, which I could tell pleased her. Shemodelled her bonnet for a few minutes, pausing to gaze in the large gilt-edged mirror above thefireplace, before finally putting the bonnet back in its box and returning to her chair.

‘Paris, Paris,’ she said dreamily, no doubt in her mind being whirled round a dance floor in the armsof her handsome sea captain.

I finished off my cup of tea, which surprisingly I was able to face without feeling sick, despite itbeing lukewarm.

‘So,’ said Emma, ‘what will you do?’

I drew in a breath, then told her,

‘I’ve decided to go to New Orleans, to find Robert myself.’

My friend was uncharacteristically silent, making me feel foolish, but I remained unrepentant.There, I had at least told someone.

‘Why, how wonderfully romantic,’ the words slipped from her lips in a well meant gesture ofloyalty though her face betrayed her true feelings. ‘But it’s so far. And how will you get there?’

‘By sea.’

‘Surely you must realise that’s impossible. Your Father is very influential. Why, if any captain outof Boston were to take you onboard his ship as his passenger, he would be ruined. He wouldn’t evenbe able to get a job on a river barge.’

‘I have to try. To the Army, Robert is just another statistic. I really feel I can achieve something.’

‘I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?’

I resolutely shook my head.

‘My mind’s set.’

‘If I cannot talk you out of this lunacy, as your very best friend, I must do everything I can to aid you... I suppose.’

Emma rose up from her chair and rang the servants’ bell. Going to the window, she peered outacross the square. My heart was racing. What was she up to?

The double doors opened and in came the tall English butler, clad in his impeccably smart blacklivery. He spoke in his customary aloof manner, an almost comical deliverance, but considering theintrigue, as tense as it could get.

‘You rang, Miss Lambert?’

‘Yes, Paxton. Have Jones get the carriage. We shall be going out.’

The carriage came to a rocking halt. Emma waited for Jones to open the door, then stepped down.She’d spoken incessantly about her sea captain during the journey across town: what an excellent loverhe was; the exciting parties he’d taken her to; the people she’d met. Emma had always rebelled, andfollowing expulsion from her New York finishing school was forced to complete her education inSwitzerland, along the shores of Lake Geneva. It appeared that the only thing Emma Lambert hadstudied there - was men.

Apparently, the Captain had gone to sea at the age of seven and worked his way up to fullcommand. He had, though it was but rumoured, done a spell running munitions through the blockadeto the Southerners during the first year of the war, until his ship was captured on its fifteenth run. He’dmade a small fortune, enough to buy his own ship, with enough left over for good living. He had nomoral objection to trading with Southerners, except their inflation-ridden currency was no good. Andin December the final temptation had been removed when, with the fall of Fort Fisher, their soleremaining blockade-running port, Wilmington, had been closed to the outside world.

‘Naturally, I couldn’t possibly marry him,’ giggled Emma as the coachman Jones helped me downonto cobbled wharf.

‘Why not? If you love him.’

‘I don’t love him that much,’ she whispered playfully. ‘Besides, if I dedicated myself to one man...just think how cruel it would be to all the others. And, I’m afraid, Jim comes from the wrong side oftown. He was born in the South End, and you know what a den of inequity and hardship that place is.He never speaks of it but I found it out from a reliable source. Father would discover the truth. Thesethings always have a way of coming out.’

Emma told the coachman we’d be quite a while and gave him leave to get some grog at a nearbytavern, which pleased him.

We walked along the wharf. Because it had been raining the cobbles were greasy and we had tomind our footing. Sensing my nervousness, Emma slipped her arm inside mine and we walkedtogether. Great granite warehouses rose up all around us, towering structures, utterly characterless, andwith an unsurpassed feeling of coldness. Burly workmen, shirt sleeves furled high up lean, musculararms, lugged crates and sacks about; inside warehouses, on carts or wagons. Hobnailed brogansclattered on the cobbles, as did the iron rims of large wheels as a wagon passed by. Emma seemed todelight at the stares of admiration she drew from the sailors and workmen. A few brash fellowswhistled and passed improper remarks. The accents were unmistakably Irish and German. Irishimmigrants had flooded into Boston during the 1845-1848 potato famines, fallen off, and had pickedup again when the North had needed cannon fodder to fill its ranks, and thirteen dollars a month andthree square a day was better than starving on a bog, and then there was the promise of virgin land out West when the war was concluded.

Overhead the gulls squawked. They looked to be playing a game; a hypnotic version of weightless,carefree follow-the-leader. If only I were as free, thought I, looking up at them.

My father’s ships sailed from Lewis Wharf. I had not visited the docks often. Flags of every nationfluttered from top masts of merchantmen in the harbour. Indeed, the masts and rigging of the shipslining the quay appeared tangled together, they were moored so close. A bright silvery light seepedthrough chasms in the wedge of cloud on the horizon. In the air, a pungent mixture of salt, seaweedand dead fish.

Emma stopped. We were alongside a sleek three-master - 200 foot bow to stern -her name The Black Pearl etched in gold lettering on the side of her black wooden hull. Onboard, sailors were busilysecuring ropes and taking supplies up the gangplank.

Emma waved enthusiastically to someone. I followed my friend’s gaze to a tall rakish figurestanding to stern, near the wheelhouse. Seeing Emma, he smiled broadly and raised his hand to hispeaked oilcloth cap in a casual salute.

‘Come on,’ she said pulling me towards the wobbly gangplank. The way she took to it suggested shewas no stranger to it and had probably spent many a night in the captain’s cabin.

He stood confidently in our presence, a wide shouldered individual and oozing the inner strength wewomen find both infuriating, but also irresistible. His big eyes were shrewd and steady in the fixity oftheir gaze, and carefully appraised me. A wild mop of sandy-coloured hair was matched by a masculine set of sideburns. He wore his dark blue Navy-style frock coat undone, revealing a wide bigbrass-buckled belt that would have sat well on a pirate. He was a touch scruffy, I thought, his whitetrousers dirty and smeared with the grime of the ship.

‘Jim, I want you to meet a special friend of mine, Miss Annabel Merrick.’

Again he tipped the peak of his oilcloth cap and gave me a wink.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Merrick. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Emma sidled up to her Captain, snugly linking her arm through his.

‘Isn’t he handsome?’

‘Yes, he is.’ I felt myself blush as I spoke and shyly averted my gaze from his.

‘Now, Jim,’ said Emma, ‘where is it that you are bound? I quite forgot amid all the excitement ofour last encounter.’

He seemed to sense something was expected of him, and, with the cunning of the fox, weighed upthe situation before answering reticently,

‘Matamoros.’

‘Mexico?’

‘Why would you be interested in my next port of call? Don’t I bring you enough gifts already? Youafter another frock?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you want?’ he said in a theatrical voice, ‘my pretty Bostonian temptress?’

Emma moved away from him. Leaning over the starboard rail, she looked down at the busy wharf. Itembarrassed me that she should seek such a great favour on my behalf from someone I’d not met, butthat was Emma.

‘Jim, my best friend here, Annabel, needs to get to New Orleans.’ She turned to face him. ‘And I’vesaid that you’ll take her.’

He scrutinised me not as a potential passenger but as a piece of luggage, a bundle of trouble, withoutfeeling or pride. He seemed to be the kind of man who always wanted paying, and that paymentcouldn’t always be made in gold.

‘You know that’s impossible, M. I couldn’t take a woman of her background unescorted on a 1600-mile voyage. What if something should happen to her? I’d never be able to put into this port again. Awoman like her on a ship is nothing but trouble. I haven’t got time to be looking over my shoulderevery five minutes for her well-being. Besides, there’s no berth. Her Father owns the Merrick Shipping Line, don’t he? Get one of his captains to take her.’

‘She can have your cabin. You owe me some favours Jim Redfern, and I’m calling them in. And if you do want me to invest in your future shipping line. And let’s face it, isn’t New Orleans on the wayto Matamoros?’

‘Have you been studying an atlas, Emma?’

‘Bedtime reading Jim.’

‘It can give people crazy notions. A ship like The Pearl is no place for a woman, and there’s nogetting around it... and there’s no way you are going to persuade me otherwise.’

‘No way?’

He looked at me thoughtfully, then about his ship. Emma sidled up to him, fluttering her big lashesin an overt display of feminine charm undoubtedly few men could resist. Standing on tiptoe, she kissedhim on the cheek.

‘No, Emma.’

She kissed him again.

‘No.’

She was undeterred. ‘When you return...’ She whispered in his ear, and that registered in a broad grin on his face.

‘Now what do you say?’

His attention switched to me. ‘You ever been to sea, Miss? On the ocean, proper?’

‘No.’

‘You realise the risk you’d be taking? The discomfort involved in such a voyage? We run into a badstorm, we could go down. We run into a Rebel raider, the same. And don’t expect me to look out foryou when we get to New Orleans. You got trouble there from every quarter you care to name. Whatyou wanna go all the way down there for, anyway?’

‘I’m going to find my fiancee.’

‘The Sawbones?’

‘Robert’s a doctor, and a fine one.’

‘You got guts lady, I admire that.’

‘So you’ll take her?’ said Emma excitedly.

‘There’ll be the Devil to pay if this comes back on me, I warn you fairly.’

‘Thank you Captain,’ I said.

‘We sail on the evening tide. I expect to see you here at eight o’clock sharp, and preferably withoutyour Father’s minders and a local magistrate. And bring your sea legs with you, I intend to use everyinch of canvas.’

If Emma Lambert excelled at anything, it was organising. First stop was the bank. From my allowanceI’d managed to put by $600. This could have been significantly more had I not made donations to theUS Sanitary Commission. Half the money was in gold, the rest Union greenbacks. Emma gave me afurther $200. I had jewellery at my house, but as Emma pointed out it might be too risky to try andfetch. But I needed to see my mother; should misfortune visit upon me, it could be my last chance.

‘Well,’ said Emma as the carriage came to a halt on the corner of Park Street, ‘if your mind’s madeup, I’ll get Jones to pick you up here at six. That should give you ample time to get to the docks. I’d doanything to be with you and see you off, but Papa has important dignitaries coming to dinner and Ipromised him I would be there.’

My friend and I came together in a sisterly embrace.

Drawing back and looking me directly in the eye, Emma smiled warmly.

‘And Annabel Merrick, no stealing my Jim’s affections. He is not the most loyal of suitors, but thenif he was, he would be intolerably boring. I can’t understand why any woman wants to be in control.One might as well go out with a poodle on a lead. I need a bit of danger, a bit of mystery. It makes thenaughty bits so much better. And Jim is a good lover. So, hands off.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘You can thank me by returning safely with Robert. I want to see the two of you together again andat my parties, having fun. That’s what God put us on this Earth for, not to make war.’

I watched the carriage move off and lose itself in the traffic on Beacon Street, then began the shortwalk to my home. About to turn into the gravelled driveway, my heart sank. I’d hoped my fatherwould be at work but his stylish dark green, yellow-spoked Broughton was parked outside the frontdoor. Peering through the iron railings, as a stranger might, I considered abandoning my plan andgoing straight to the ship.

Oddly, it was the first time I had truly noticed the splendour of our mansion, with its white-framedwindows, Corinthian columns and pretty red brick walls, patterned by white mortar. Maybe I hadn’twanted to notice it? I had believed it wrong for me to live in such opulent surroundings when so manyothers lived on the streets or in alleyways. What a hypocrite: I spurned the wealth I’d been born into,yet used it for my own ends at every opportunity.

If, however, I left with no explanation my mother would be heartbroken. And it would be cowardly.What choice did I have?

Fingers crossed behind my back, I approached the front door, passing by the carriage like a ghostfigure, the tiny pea gravel crunching underfoot and seeming to make an incongruously loud noise. Thebig bay horse harnessed to the Broughton whinnied, pawed at the ground. As I paused at the bottom ofthe steep flight of marble porch steps, I gazed up at the huge panelled blue front door - it was as if Ihad never entered it. I was a stranger. Once my father had locked me in my room for a week fordisobeying him. And now, what would he do now?

But mother...

That was what was important. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.

Mustering all my courage, I ascended the steps, pulled on the doorbell, and waited.

Zebulan opened the door. I handed the old grey-haired black servant my carpetbag and asked in aquiet voice,

‘Where is my Father?’

‘He in de drawing room, wid ya Ma.’

Catching a glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror, I turned away, appalled at the sight and evenmore fearful of my father’s reaction. I handed my bonnet and cape to Zebulan, smoothed my wind-blown hair and tidied my black lace chignon as best I could. Wetting my lips, I wiped from my facethe smudges of coal dust picked up at the docks. The bags under my eyes were worse. I pinched myface hard to try and put a semblance of colour in my cheeks.

I found my father sitting cross-legged in his favourite green leather chair beside the fireplace, hishead buried in a newspaper. He was wearing one of his well-tailored grey pinstriped business suits. Onthe small table next to his chair was an empty brandy glass. Mrs Merrick, my mother, was seated onthe padded couch by the window, pretending to be busy with her embroidery, and, as I entered, lookedup at me with a foreboding display of timidness that comes from one well practised in the art ofsubservience in a patriarchal society.

There followed a long pause.

A terrible silence.

My father glanced at me, before folding his newspaper and putting it on the table next to the brandyglass. He removed his half-moon reading spectacles and slipped them inside the top pocket of his suitjacket. He coughed to clear his chest; he’d had a bad infection of his lungs last fall.

‘So, you’re back.’

He rose from his chair and, standing in front of the mantel, packed his pipe with fresh tobacco.

‘Your Mother informs me that you’ve been to Washington.’

I didn’t answer him.

‘Looking for that young fellow you’re engaged to, I imagine.’

‘His name’s Robert.’

Puffing his pipe alive, my father gave me a furtive and condescending look. I should have feltbetrayed but understood why mother had told him, I know she would have tried to keep it a secret.

‘I always knew you were headstrong. But not until now took you for a fool. Have you any notion ofhow much danger you put yourself in? How much your Mother and I have worried after to you?’

‘I wasn’t alone, Father. Lyndon, an officer in the 30th Massachusetts, he was on furlough, hearranged, he... His uncle was able to arrange an appointment for me at the War Department.’

‘And what was this Lyndon’s payment? Or did he undertake all this arranging out of the goodness of his heart?’

‘Why do you always assume the worst in people?’

‘Because I know very well what people are like.’

‘Not everyone worships the idols of money, greed and self-interest, Father.’

He turned his withering gaze on my mother, who pricked her finger and sort of shrank backward onthe padded couch, seeming to me to become very much smaller.

‘Did you know this? About this Lyndon?’

‘It... It slipped my mind.’

‘Why am I always the last to hear?’ He was gesturing animatedly with his pipe. Then his tonemellowed slightly. ‘The confounded servants know more. I’ve worked hard to build a comfortable lifefor us all. My reward, a daughter who resents her wealth and runs around mollycoddling the poor, anda wife who tells me nothing except half-truths. I wonder what other surprises there are.’

My face reddened from a hot flush and I was certain father could not fail to notice.

‘None of this would have happened if Annabel had taken my advice, like her sister.’ He spoke as if Iwere not present, which always infuriated me. ‘Clara is happily settled in Philadelphia, raising two fineboys. She took my advice and married well. The foundry has made a fortune during the war.’ Hepaused. ‘Twenty-four, and still not married. Annabel could have married Humphrey Smalldridge,chairman of one of the largest banks in New York. A fine lineage. I don’t notice Humhprey going offand getting himself shot at.’

‘I have a fiancee.’

‘The doctor,’ he said contemptuously. ‘When did a doctor ever make a woman happy? And what usewould a doctor be to me and my business?’

‘My apologies if my choice does not add to your personal wealth, Father.’

‘You hear that? The way she speaks to me?’ My mother did not lift her eyes from her embroidery.‘It’s got to stop. Do you hear me Annabel? I’ve tolerated your views of female equality, I’ve panderedto your sympathies for the darkies, and I’ve even employed disabled veterans in my factories... Heavenknows what use they are, never had a full day’s work out of one yet. But from now on I’m going totake a firmer hand with you. One day you’ll thank me for it. How on earth could you expect to staymarried acting the way you do? I’m surprised that you didn’t dress up like a man and go off and fight.’

‘You do not take the disabled soldiers out of a sense of charity or for my sake, Father, you do sobecause it eases your conscience. You sell shoes on to the army that you buy cheap from Europe andthat are of inferior quality. You make fat, obscene profits, while others go hungry. Robert made a realsacrifice for his country.’

‘You ask the Rebels what they wouldn’t give for a few thousand pairs of my shoes. It puts food onthe table and clothes on your back. I just wonder what other harebrained schemes you’ve got hatching.’

I bit hard on my bottom lip, struggling to contain the emotion swelling within. I loved and respectedmy father, for mostly he was a good man, yet the more I tried to understand his point of view, the morewe seemed to become strangers. Part of me wanted to tell him straight about my intention to go South,another act of defiance that would make me feel good for a moment, but haunt me for much longer.

‘There’ll be no more of it. While you remain in this house, Annabel, you shall abide by its rules.’

‘I’m a fully grown woman.’

‘Then act like one!’ he countered, his voice raised and stern. ‘Face up to your responsibilities. Losesome of that naive idealism. If you want to be poor, go and live with the poor. Now go to your roomand have a good think on what I’ve said.’

Half-past five. My eyes kept on returning to the bronze mantel clock. The bulging carpetbag and valisewere sitting on my bed, waiting. Outside, it was dark, the only light in the room coming from thehearth. In my state of nervousness I had tidied up, straightening the bedspread, placing my special ragdoll upright on the pillow. Millie had brought supper at five, and, although not feeling hungry, I’deaten every morsel. According to Millie, my father had retired to the study. Mother was in the drawing-room. Whenever my parents quarrelled each tended to immerse themself in their favouriteactivity; Louisa her embroidery; Samuel, his work.

Why didn’t my mother come? Again I looked at the clock, then peered outside.

The street lamps along Tremont Street glowed in the distance, showing in the fog that was billowingacross the common, swirling and coiling upward like a live thing. For a moment, I thought I saw awoman amid the eerie formlessness. The woman I had seen in my nightmares; the beautiful almond-shaped eyes, the languorous lips that were so inviting, so deceiving, then would curl up into an angrysnarl, revealing two pointed dog-like teeth, dripping with blood - human blood.

Feeling cold all of a sudden, I let the curtains fall back into place. I shook my head, believing that Ihad just heard a woman’s voice calling my name; Annabel. Annabel. Why do you seek me? Seek yourown destruction? He is mine and I am his, for all eternity. The voice was soft and seductive, and there were utterances of a language I did not understand. I didn’t know why, but it occurred to me that it wasan ancient dialect, possibly Egyptian. And why did I assume the blood on the fangs was human?Thoughts, inexplicable knowledge, frequently stole inside my head these days. Perhaps, I was goinginsane? The times Robert and I had skated hand-in-hand on Frog Pond could not have seemed moredistant. And would my going South make any difference? Surely it was a futile gesture?

Twenty to six. Emma’s coachman would pick me up on the hour. It’d take me a few minutes towalk to the corner of my street, and, if I waited any longer, I might lose my ride to the docks. DecidingI couldn’t possibly take such a risk and about to gather up my bags, I then heard the unmistakablesound of someone on the other side of my door... on the landing.

The brass doorknob turned.

Slowly.

I held my breath. For one terrifying moment believing the person on the other side of the door to be,not my mother, but my father.

It was my mother.

She looked tired, her grey eyes shadowed and red, as if she had been crying. She’d aged prematurelythese past months. The burden of Robert’s disappearance seeming to weigh as heavily upon hershoulders as it did my own. She’d always been fond of him, despite the constant criticisms from myfather, and was always the voice of quiet reason.

Her eyes fell on the two bags in my hands. ‘You’re leaving?’

My answer was silence.

‘To find Robert?’

‘Mother, I must.’

Despite my worst fears there was a look of understanding written on her face, and, feeling relievedshe wasn’t angry with me for my selfishness, I fell into the safety of her embrace.

‘If it was your Father... I would do exactly the same.’

Her words were a priceless gift to me. Lifting my head, I gazed lovingly into her eyes; it meant somuch to me that she understood how I felt. Smiling, even though her eyes glistened with tears, shesoothingly stroked my hair, as she did when I was a small girl; her touch was so comforting, and I wascertain we had never been closer, and there can be no bond stronger than that between mother anddaughter.

‘If there was any other way, Mother.’

‘You must do what must be done. I’m not your judge. Only the Lord has that right.’

‘I love you, Mother.’

I held her more tightly, afraid to let go, afraid it might be the last time she would ever see me. Ifonly there was another way.

She wiped her eyes on her lace handkerchief, blew on her nose, then said bravely,

‘You know how emotional I get at farewells.’

‘It’ll only be for a few months. When I bring Robert back from New Orleans, safe, everything willbe as it once was.’

‘Annabel.’ My mother’s voice was chillingly sober. ‘You must not build up your hopes.’ Shepaused, then added, ‘You may never find Robert. And if you do, he may be changed. There may begood reason why you’ve not heard from him. He may not want to be found, Annabel.’

‘I know. I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen how badly wounded men can react at the hospital, especiallafter an amputation, when they believe they are no longer whole men and incapable of being wanted orloved. But whatever the problem Robert has, however badly mutilated his body, he will always be mRobert. That gentle, caring, loving man I fell in love with, and whom I pledged myself to marry. Andno amount of Rebel iron or lead can destroy our love -a love that is so pure. And if he is wounded, I will nurse him back to health. And then we will be married.’

‘I’m so proud of you. You are so courageous.’

‘No, Mother. Anyone can be brave when they have to be, when it’s forced upon them. I’m mereldoing what any decent-hearted woman would do. If I did not act so, I would not be worthy of beinRobert’s fiancee.’

‘You do yourself an injustice.’

My mother drew back and removed her necklace; it was her favourite piece of jewellery.

‘Here, take this. As you know, I have very little money of my own, enough to run this house, nomore.’

‘But Mother, it’s...’

‘It may serve me better off my neck. And it is rather heavy. And my neck is not as graceful as itused to be. These jewels belong on a younger woman.’ She smiled wistfully as if reliving a cherishedmoment from her past. ‘Oh, youth, where does it go? We seem to take forever to grow up, and whenwe do, it all goes so fast. That is why you must not lose what you have with Robert. I never saw twopeople together who were more suited. And I want some grandchildren, young lady. I want to hearlaughter in this house again.’

The huge green stones of the necklace sparkled in the flickering light of the fire. Each emerald, therewere five, was set in gold, with smaller sized diamonds around the edge. The piece had to be worth atleast a thousand dollars; it would take a private in the army ten years to earn such a sum. I didn’t knowwhat to say. Then suddenly remembering my rendezvous with Emma’s coachman, I glanced at theclock on the mantel and saw that it was three minutes to six.

‘I have to be going.’

I gave my mother an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a hug. Then, putting the emerald necklace inthe pocket of my grey cape, I picked up my carpetbag and valise and headed for the door.

‘Your Father’s still in the study,’ she warned. ‘Do you have a carriage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Take care, Annabel. And give my love to Robert.’

‘I will, Mother.’

I crept down the staircase to the hall. Millie and Zebulan were waiting there, the latter stood by thedrawing-room door so he could listen out for my father and intercept him should he emerge from thestudy and his paperwork. Both servants looked disconsolate.

‘Goodbye to you-all,’ said Millie tearfully. She handed me a strange orange stone with a black pieceof string threaded through the centre. ‘It ter bring yer good luck and to keep away de evil spirits.’

I thanked her. What would I have done without Millie’s support these last months? The little blackhousemaid had been such a comfort to me, indeed we were more like sisters.

‘It be a cold night,’ said Zebulan. ‘You wanting fer me ter carry dem bags for ya?’

‘No thank you, Zebulan, I can manage.’

When I’d gone down the steep porch steps and crossed the gravelled yard to the iron gates of thedriveway, I looked back at the mansion. The servants waved to me from the doorway. There wassomething terribly final about the scene.

With favourable winds and calm seas The Black Pearl made good speed. Despite frequent bouts ofseasickness I soon came to love the ship and her crew. Every day brought its eternal panorama of bluesea and blue sky, and I would sit on deck marvelling at the flying fish skimming the surface andleaving their fleeting furrows behind them. And I was comforted in the knowledge that each milesailed took me closer to Robert. And with my new-found strength I refused to believe he was anythingother than well and safe.

Each night, I dined at the Captain’s table. Sometimes, a few of the sailors would sing a sea shantyfor our entertainment; the fiddler was a particularly skilful musician. The Captain amused me withtales of his adventures in the many exotic lands he had visited, little wonder why Emma found him soattractive. If he harboured reservations about giving a woman passage, he took care not to show it. Idoubted he was the kind of man to give a damn about convention, but I was worried that, in helpingme, he might suffer at the hands of my father.

And each night, after supper, reading by the jaundiced light of the oil lamp creakily swinging withthe roll of the ship, I would puzzle over Robert’s letters, hoping to find a clue, to spot somethingimportant I may have overlooked. Robert’s commanding officer, George Somerby, was so well described I felt I knew him. With the enigmatic Colonel Picard, it was different. What had Robertstumbled across? I kept on re-reading those few startling words in Robert’s last letter when hehad said that a number of soldiers had ‘died in mysterious circumstances.’

Mysterious circumstances.

What could it mean?

The farther south The Black Pearl sailed, the hotter it became, the steamy heat sapping all bodilystrength. There were beautiful sunsets, but for me, there were only those tortuous words, Died in mysterious circumstances. I could hear Robert’s voice and the words seemed to ring out inside myhead, as if he were calling to me. In a particularly bad nightmare, I saw his face, saw him stretchingout his arms to me, but as I tried to reach his hands with my own, as we were about to connect, betogether, reunited, an angry snarl had crossed his face, and his eyes had become red with the glow ofHades, and his teeth, long and pointed and like those of the dog-like beasts that had visited me in pastnightmares. It made me terrified of sleep, and for several nights I lay awake on my bunk. As I laythere, I’d listen to the mournful creaks and groans of the ship’s timbers, the vibration of the riggingtransmitted downward from the chains, the sound of the sea lapping against the hull and the occasionalpattering of horny feet over the pine boards as one of the crew ran along the deck.

Mysterious circumstances.

Died in mysterious circumstances.

What could it mean?

And I was frightened, of even our reunion. After such a long period apart Robert and I would almostbe strangers. What could I say to him? And could I love a blind man? Or a man with one leg? Oh thoseterrible moments of weakness, when I was visited by selfishness, when my only desire was to turnback. What torture to be confronted by one’s inner needs. There were no sick men to nurse on ship, nocrippled souls to pity and to hide behind, no floors to scrub, no bed linen to wash - no chance to forgetthe pain of a broken heart. There was only the relentless tossing and throwing of a ship taking mecloser to my doom.

The Black Pearl navigated the 107 miles along the Mississippi River to reach New Orleans in the deadof night and moored at Packet Landing. When I awoke and went up on deck, I beheld a vast array ofships anchored in the river; ocean-going vessels with tall masts and river paddle steamers (stern andside-wheel) belching black smoke and sounding infernally loud steam horns. The levee was piled highwith bales of cotton, barrels of molasses and sacks of rice. Blacks busied themselves toting the staplesup and down gangplanks. Beyond the landing, silhouetted against the violet and yellow of an earlymorning sky, stood a row of five-storey brick warehouses, and beyond the warehouses, were the city’ssteeply-tapered church spires.

I drew in a deep breath; it was just as Robert had described it in his letters - the magical moss-hung,magnolia-scented Deep South.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ remarked Captain Redfern, joining me at the starboard rail.

‘It hardly seems part of the same country.’

‘It’s not,’ he joked. ‘Not till the war’s won. I’ve been in many a port, but never seen one to compare.Truth is, had Emma asked me to take you someplace else, I would almost certainly have declined. Ihave happy memories here.’

‘You could have let on.’

‘A bit of humility does that one some good every now and again, don’t you think?’

‘I’m not sure Emma would agree.’

I continued taking in the beauty of the scene, my ears open to the shouts of the foremen barkinginstructions at their workmen. These were Southern blacks and they appeared different somehow fromthe blacks I’d seen up North, more subdued and docile. Floppy hats, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow,muscular arms that had once picked cotton and cut cane for slave masters, but they still were toiling -the masters had changed, but they were still toiling. What suffering they had endured, and if I had hadany doubts about the prosecution of the war I felt ashamed. Robert had seen, hence why he hadenlisted. He had fought to set men free, and I was so proud of him.

There were not many soldiers, just a few men casually leaning on bayoneted rifles.

‘When can I go ashore?’

‘As soon as you like.’ Captain Redfern twisted his head to face me, then added soberly, ‘This city isa grand place but dangerous. It’s teaming with ruffians, deserters and the like, from both armies. Youcan trust no one. You have the gun, don’t you?’ I’d asked the Captain to teach me to use the Derringerpistol Lyndon had given me in the restaurant at Willards. ‘Shoot first, and ask questions later.Whatever you do, stay away from the waterfront.’

‘Jim, you’ve been so kind. However shall I thank you?’

He smiled.

Lifting his peaked seaman’s cap slightly off his head, he said, ‘The pleasure is entirely mine. Command is a lonely position... even on a friendly ship like The Pearl. I’ve been glad of the company.I’ll have one of the crew escort you ashore. I’d escort you myself, but we’ll only be here until theevening tide... and there’s someone I’d like to see.’

‘One of those happy memories, Captain?’ I bantered.

‘You won’t speak of it to Emma? She gets powerful jealous.’

‘I think Emma probably has a few memories of her own. But you can trust to my discretion,Captain.’

He winked and again tipped the rim of his peaked cap, then made his way forward along the deck tosupervise the crew in their work. Two seamen were engaged in a squabble and appeared to be gettingclose to exchanging blows; the crew, drawn from places as far-flung as Asia and Africa, were a vulgarand unruly bunch, but seemed to respond to the control of Captain Redfern.

I could scarcely believe I’d finally arrived. Here I was, in New Orleans, the Deep South, sixteen hundred miles from Boston.

Going below, I packed the last of my things, squeezing my make-up and music box into the flower-patterned carpetbag, along with my clothes. Many of my clothes were soiled and crumpled and as soonas I made contact with Colonel Somerby and found a boarding house I would have them washed.

There came a knock at my cabin door. It made me jump, for I was so excited.

Joe McCormack, the cabin boy, stood in the narrow doorway, his uncombed mop of ginger haircoming down well over his eyes. He wore a perpetual grin on his grubby face, always ready with a bitof cheek for the Captain or one of the crew. His thick County Limerick accent made his speech almostintelligible, and I was no stranger to the Gaelic tongue, but I liked Joe. Stuffed inside his wide big-buckled belt was a massive long-barrelled Colt revolver; I hated guns but would have to get used tothem.

‘Capt’n ses I gotta tek ya ashore.’

‘I’m almost ready, Joe.’

Looking in the small oval mirror Captain Redfern had kindly nailed to the bulkhead for me, Istraightened my hair. I certainly appeared healthier, with a welcome colour in my cheeks; at last, I wasdoing something, not sitting around like a helpless victim. My brown frock was of intentional modesty, much better to be plain-dressed and attract less attention, though I did wear my straw hatwith long blue ribbons, which Robert had always approved of. Seeing the cabin boy growingimpatient, I picked up my bags, looked reflectively at the confined space that had been home these lastthree weeks, then followed Joe up on deck.

The sunlight was intense, forcing me to shield my eyes as I made my way down the gangplank; Godforbid that I were in this place in high summer, little wonder why Robert had complained so about thesteamy heat and mosquitoes.

We hired a hack in nearby Poydras Street. The city was full of all manner of strange sub-tropicalplants and flowers, and I noticed the azaleas were beginning to bloom. Joe sat back, casually whittlingon a bit of whale bone as the carriage rocked its way through the narrow, crowded streets, he’d seen itall before. I couldn’t believe how many blacks there were; the fairer, coffee-skinned souls promptingthoughts of lascivious planter Simon Legree, from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I spied the odd crippled Confederate soldier, men in tatty threadbare grey and butternut rags withsullen looks of defiance etched on their battle-hardened faces. And whores leaning over the balconies,their lily white, light-deprived bodies clad in satin silk hooped dresses, bosoms heaving, as they pliedtheir business. Then there were our soldiers, strutting confidently on the cobbled streets with aconqueror’s gait; natty blue gold-braided uniforms, shining scabbards and black thigh-length boots.

They were magnificent!

We entered the north-eastern sector of the city, much more tranquil and not dissimilar to a rich partof Boston, except the houses were grander, for the most part set well back off the road; elegant white-columned mansions, each with its own unique character, and each more magnificent than the last.

Then came the tented city. A small army of Sibley tents, pointed at the top and round at the base;when we were acutely short of ward space in the late summer of 1863, we had resorted to setting uptents in the hospital courtyard and garden. As our carriage passed by, men looked up and stared. Someof the soldiers were smoking pipes, others reading newspapers. In a garbage-strewn dirt patch a fewwere playing a game of baseball, suspenders dangling loosely about their striped blue pants, redflannel shirts and long johns, drenched in sweat. Robert had spoken at length in his letters about camplife, and how he’d felt a strong camaraderie with the men, how he loved to stroll through camp in theevening listening to them sing around their campfires. It had pained him being close to those who laterhe had to cut and saw up as gunshot cases.

We were there! The carriage drew up outside an austere-looking building. On the grass there was abroken down sign with faded lettering: ‘Institute For The Deaf, Dumb and Blind.’ A hospital alwayslooked a cold and unfriendly place, even amid these warm and pretty surroundings. There was apalpable smell of death and gangrene, that only someone who has ever worked in such a place candetect.

‘This be where they fix up the blue soldiers,’ said Joe. ‘That fella you be looking for, he most likelybe here. You be all right now, Missy? I gotta git back to the ship right quick. No dilly-dallying, orCapt’n’ll sail without me. I git ya bags.’

‘Thank you, Joe.’

‘You expecting to find your fiancee, here?’ he said taking the bags from the driver of the hack andhanding them to me.

‘I hope so.’

‘If you don’t find him, the Capt’n, he sweet on you. He gonna miss your company at table. I ain’tnever sin him smile so much. Normally he barking at us like we were dumb slaves. Hope you sail withus again sometime.’

‘Perhaps on the return voyage?’

‘Missy, this Louisiana, it’s a graveyard for the Yankeeman. Iffen the heat doesn’t do for ya, theswamp fever will. It not too late to change your mind. Mexico’s real pretty.’

‘I know the odds, Joe.’

‘No, no. Otherwise you would-a stayed in Boston.’

It was so irritating to me how people kept on telling me how dangerous it was, as if I didn’tunderstand and had to be reminded. But I couldn’t be angry at Joe. Besides, I wasn’t sure that Emmawould appreciate my entering into a liaison with her sea captain.

The boy grinned. ‘I sure hope to have a woman as pretty as you chasing after me when I’m of age.’

‘You will, Joe.’

‘Good luck, Missy!’

As the carriage trundled away down the dirt road, its spindly spoked wheels churning up a cloud ofred dust, I felt a profound feeling of helplessness, for the very first time truly alone in my quest. It waseasier to be brave when I had a friend sat beside me. I watched the carriage move through the smallcity of soldier’s tents, through the long avenue of poplar trees, until it became a small object in thedistance. When it was gone, summoning my courage, I turned and faced the wide broken steps of thehospital.

Inside, I cautiously approached the desk of a scruffy individual no doubt responsible for logging thecomings and goings of visitors. He had a set of thick Burnside sideburns, his sweat-stained tunic wasundone, and his hair greasy and unkempt.

‘If you’ve come to nurse... you’ve had a wasted trip.’

‘I’m not here to nurse.’

‘We don’t care for visitors here, wives pampering the men, interfering with the orders of thedoctors.’

‘I’m here... to see Colonel Somerby.’

The soldier eyed me furtively. ‘What’s your business with him?’

‘That’s none of your concern, Private. Now, where can I find him? Or do I have to kick up a fuss?Would you like to make a colonel displeased? Just think of all that extra duty, all the evenings youwon’t have a grog ration or be confined to camp.’

He thought on this, then barked,

‘Name?’

‘Merrick. Annabel Merrick.’

‘Where ya from, Miss Merrick?’ he said as nastily and disrespectfully as he possibly could.

‘Boston.’

He scribbled the details down in his ledger, his handwriting as scruffy and scrawny as his appearance. He asked me to sign it. Then without looking up, said,

‘Down to the bottom of the corridor, up the stairwell, first door on your left. Word of warning, Miss,you won’t be welcome.’

‘Miss Dorothea Dix or Clara Barton were not welcome either, were they Private?’

Passing by the wards I tried not to think of the suffering of the poor men incarcerated within. Tokeep out mosquitoes, the cots were draped in fine silk. Robert had spoken of the rampant malaria andtyphoid epidemics. Indeed, disease and sickness had claimed more lives than enemy bullets. Suddenlythrown back into this sea of misery, I now fully understood the strain of my work at The General, in Boston. Bodies burning up with fevers, men writhing from the agony of splintered bones, tubs ofblood, and an all-pervading stench of unwashed flesh, excreta and gangrene. It was the closest thing tohell I could imagine.

Wearily, I climbed the stairs to the first floor. Then, at last, I saw that which I had sought for so long

- the shiny brass plaque on the wall bearing the name of Robert’s good friend: Colonel George

Somerby.

I knocked on the door.

A deep sounding voice told me to enter.

My senses were immediately assaulted by dense clouds of cigar smoke and whisky fumes. Theoffice was in an appalling state, the bookshelves and furniture carpeted in thick dust. The windowappeared not to have been opened in a long while. The wastepaper basket underneath the cluttereddesk was filled with empty bottles of whisky. The medicines in the glass cabinet had been plundered,no doubt for their intoxicating properties and used to fuel his insane drinking.

‘Who are you?’ asked he. ‘And don’t come in here and judge me.’ His speech was slurred. ‘Becauseyou haven’t got the right. Any man who has witnessed what I have over these past three years... has aright to get stinking drunk.’

He put the bottle to his lips and guzzled more of the amber contents.

‘Colonel Somerby, you are he, sir?’

He looked at me strangely, his eyes appraising me with a curiosity born more of fear; if I hadthought I knew him from the descriptions in Robert’s letters, I didn’t now. He was slouching in aleather armchair behind his desk. It was hot, but his posture was that of a man huddling against thecold, his shoulders hunched and rounded, his head stooped. Robert had always said he was a jovialcharacter, who liked champagne and to dance, and who had courted some of New Orleans mosteligible belles, a man not given to self-pity or depression.

‘I am he. Or at least I was. But who are you, Madam? That is more to the point.’

‘Annabel Merrick. Robert’s fiancee.’

‘From Boston?’

‘Yes. I’ve come here to find him.’

He took another swig of whisky, then suddenly dropped the bottle on the floor, the shock Isupposed. The sound of the glass breaking made me jump. He stared at his hand, which was trembling,the limb no longer fully belonging to him. He had the fear of the sawed-up in his eyes, his florid facebecoming ever redder under my critical scrutiny. He was sweating profusely.

‘You should see a surgeon.’‘I am one!’ he snapped. ‘Now fetch me another bottle of whisky from that cabinet. I need a drink.I’m not drunk enough yet.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’

‘Enough?’ he quipped as if I had made a silly comment. ‘I can never have enough.’ He appeareddistant, lost in his thoughts, staring into space, just like a forlornly crippled soldier.

Then he said,

‘I suppose you’ve come here to condemn me for what happened to Robert. Well, you couldn’tcondemn me anymore than I condemn myself. I live in eternal shame.’

For a moment his eyes closed as if by the act of closing them he could somehow escape my irksomepresence. Robert had always spoken so highly of him, looking up to Doctor Somerby as one might afavourite uncle. I watched him fill his glass to the brim. He drank it down in a single gulp that wasboth disturbing and embarrassing to watch. What had done this to him? What? Was it really Robert’sdisappearance? And what did he know that could have such a terrible effect upon his conscience?There were so many questions.

‘So, you’ve come all this way looking for Robert,’ he said with a sneer. ‘How many sea miles?Don’t bother to tell me, I know. We sent them a report. Didn’t the War Department tell you what wasin it? Not the whole truth, of course, but a report that should have satisfied all curiosity in this matter.’

‘I went to Washington. I know about the report. It said Robert was listed as missing. And all themen of Company H, 28th Ohio Volunteers, Colonel Picard’s command. But obviously there is more.’

‘Go home, Miss Merrick.’

‘No!’

His eyes widened a little in response to my defiance and he smiled, the way one does when havingan amusing private thought.

‘Robert said you had character.’

‘What happened to him? What has happened to Robert? Is he badly wounded? Is that it? If he is, Iassure you, as an experienced nurse, I can cope with any injury, any deformity.’

‘Yes, I’m sure of it.’

‘And if he were insane, I could also cope with that too. I have travelled a long, long way DoctorSomerby, and I will not be turned back now.’

I could see that he was thinking on this, perhaps about to change his mind and reveal the information he harboured.

‘And if you are truly Robert’s friend.’

‘That was a bit below the belt, Miss.’

‘As I said, I’ve come a long way, Doctor Somerby.’

The medical officer dragged himself up from his chair, a real effort considering how much he’d drunk.With unsteady fingers, he fastened the brass buttons of his blue army frock coat. He had a sizeablepaunch, as Robert had mentioned, and could not do up the bottom buttons of his coat. He stubbed hiscigar out in the astray on the corner of his desk, taking a last deep drag into his lungs, making himcough.

We left his office. He led me up a narrow, twisting staircase of the nature you might find in theturret of an English castle, then along dimly lit corridors, his boots echoing on the cold stone floors. Hemoaned about the heat, the mosquitoes. He moaned about the endless lists of sick men he wasexpected to treat, and joked he was often so drunk these days he could no longer hold a scalpel steadyfor an operation.

The men still died.

What did it matter?

We ascended another spiral staircase, the steps steeper and more worn. I began to feel faint, slightlyclaustrophobic in the gloomy interior, my nerves shredded by the wicked anticipation. Pausing, DoctorSomerby asked me if I was all right. I lied and said I was fine.

At the top of the staircase was a soldier standing guard, a long-barrelled Colt revolver stuck insidehis belt. Responding to a brusque nod from the doctor, he unlocked the heavy iron-enforced door forus. Oh no, Robert had gone insane, thought I. Why else would he be locked up here, at the top of thehospital, away from all the other patients? Doctor Somerby’s dark secret.

We entered another corridor. On each side there were cells. And in each cell, the spectre of a gaunt,unshaved man with wild eyes stared out at us from behind the iron bars set in the solid doors. Theywere being treated like beasts, thought I, the nurse, the carer. One banged a tin army cup against thebars of his cage, a nerve fraying hideous clatter that plagued me every step of the way along thatcorridor as I followed Doctor Somerby. My mouth was dry as cotton, my heart pounding, sweat wasdripping from my brow. I dared not look at those men, those insane eyes, I could feel boring into me.And one of them, God forbid, was Robert.

‘These are the unseen casualties. Not a pretty sight, are they? My diagnosis, a derangement of themind brought on by exposure to battle. Don’t look for them in any reports, as far as the army is concerned they do not exist. It wouldn’t do for morale to send men back home like this. Fought forUncle Sam. The public doesn’t understand this. An arm blown off, a leg, mebbe, but not this.’

We passed through another heavy iron-strengthened door. It was shut behind us with a loud thunk.A bolt was drawn across. At least with it shut the sound of the man banging his cup was cut out. Isuddenly felt cold, as if I had stepped inside a tomb. The inadequate light came from a solitary candleflickering on its mounting, throwing its pale yellow flame across the badly deformed and aged wall.There was but one cage in this corridor, but one door with iron bars.

I daredn’t look.

‘I can’t,’ I said with a quavering voice. ‘I can’t be here.’

‘It’s not Robert,’ said Doctor Somerby restraining me. ‘But I warn you fairly, this wretch you areabout to behold may be a thousand times better off than Robert.’

I did nothing for a good minute or two, incapable of movement, paralysed in indecision. It was atimeless interval of pure darkness, a moment of naked soul searching, and no I did not like what Ifound. But I had come here, to the South, hurt people I loved, and therefore had to see this through.

So, summoning all my courage, I braved a peep at the man incarcerated in the cage. He was huddling in the corner, as distant from the outside window as possible and where the midday sunlightcould not reach him. His clothing was part army, part civilian. The faded woollen cloth of his blueshell jacket was torn and dirty with patches of dried mud, and old blood; I knew bloodstains when Isaw them. He was thin, his cheeks sunken, the jaw narrow to the bone, the eyes hollow and lacklustre.The sweaty, unwashed skin was made to look darker by a growth of thick stubble. His face would haveappeared thinner were it not for the stubble. He looked like he might be stuck in a farmer’s field andused as a scarecrow, yet I could tell that once he was a strong, proud man. I noted the stripes on hisjacket. Three stripes, of pale blue cloth. I’d never seen a Union soldier in such a shambolic state,Rebels yes, but never one of ours.

‘Can’t you care for them better than this?’ I said in a condemning tone.

‘This isn’t Boston.’

‘And what is the significance of bringing me here and showing me this man?’

‘This is one of Picard’s men. His right-hand man, I do believe.’

Again I put my nose to the bars set in the small window of the cell door and scrutinised more closelythe inmate, who was still huddling in the corner. This time he appeared to notice me; it was as if herecognised me, and the way he looked at me sent a coldness through my bones, and I stood back.

‘He somehow found his way to the city from the Bird’s Foot Delta,’ explained Doctor Somerby. ‘Hewas picked up by the provost’s men. Started a fight with a Creole in the French Quarter. Bit the ear offone man, and took a chunk out of another’s wrist. He was behaving like a wild dog, by all accounts.Even howls on occasion. It took four men to restrain him.’

‘May I speak with him?’

‘I’m not sure that would be wise.’

‘He may know something about Robert.’

‘He won’t tell us anything. All I can get out of him is a few strange words he mumbles, an ancientdialect, I presume.’

‘Egyptian, Doctor Somerby.’

‘How on earth can you know that? You haven’t heard him.’

‘I don’t know how I know,’ I said, feeling a little dizzy and faint; for a moment I thought I couldhear a voice inside my head; the voice of a woman -her. ‘I don’t know why I said that.’

‘Let’s hope that whatever ails that poor wretch isn’t catching,’ he bantered.

‘May I speak with him then?’

‘Very well, if you must. But he could get violent and at the first sign of his mood turning we mustleave. Immediately. I don’t want to get myself caught up in yet more controversy, and possibly with afeature in a juicy story in the Boston Chronicle.’

I hadn’t really been listening to what the doctor was saying.

‘I think I can explain how I know the dialect is Egyptian. No, no, why I think it might be. Robertwas... is passionately interested in Egyptology. He collects artefacts and reads rare books on the subject.’

‘Gods and Man, Edmund Brennier,’ said the doctor. ‘Even tried to get me to read that confoundedtext. I used to call him a witch doctor from time to time. Pulling his leg, of course. Quite why a man ofRobert’s outstanding ability would take an interest in such things is beyond me.’

‘There’s a lot to Robert, Colonel. And when we are all reunited, we shall no doubt laugh at theseevents.’

He was ominously silent.

He inserted a key in the lock and turned it, pushed the heavy door wide. The sergeant looked up atus as we stepped inside his dirty cell. The place stank of urine and faeces, and the straw-covered floorwas crawling with insects. The mattress on which the man slept was filthy and covered with sweatstains. It was worse than the prison cells I had witnessed when Robert had worked at the Roxburyprison in Boston shortly after qualifying as a doctor.

‘You be the Sawbones’ woman,’ said he. His dark eyes were fired with a new life, almost a sense ofglee.

‘Yes. I am Robert’s fiancee. And I have come here to find him. Will you help me?’

The non-com gave a grin of rotted chaw-blackened teeth. ‘You got chaw, Doc? Iffen you give mesome of that-there chaw, I might git to talking and I might not try to bite ya.’

Doctor Somerby felt in the side pocket of his army frock coat and pulled out a dark-brown plug ofthe chewing tobacco which soldiers were so fond of, and, which for me, conjured up memories ofPrivate Jenkins aiming mouthfuls of the soggy juice at the basin I’d provided in the ward at The General. The doctor threw it over to the non-com, it landing a yard in front of him, the subjectscrambling for it like a starving beggar might a morsel of food dropped on the sidewalk. He bit off achunk and chewed hard, his stubble-covered jaw gyrating, his dark eyes afire with mischief. When hisjaw had munched the tobacco into a soggy mash, he spat out a lump on the straw-covered floor at myfeet, as if he knew my distaste for the habit.

‘You were of Colonel Picard’s command?’ I ventured. ‘The 28th Ohio Volunteers?’

‘Yep.’

‘And you know Robert Gray, the surgeon?’

‘Yep.’

‘The army believes he has deserted? Is this true?’

‘Nope.’

‘I knew it Doctor Somerby! Robert isn’t a deserter!’

I could scarcely contain my excitement at hearing this and was shaking with emotion but managedto frame my next question.

‘You know what has happened to him?’

He looked up at me, his eyes appraising me with the kind of contempt his people reserved for a classregarded as superior to their own. He spat out another lump of chaw, than said,

‘Yep.’

‘He’s told you none of this, Doctor Somerby?’

‘No.’

My attention returned to the non-com in the corner. Despite our discourse, his posture remainedhunched, his body language that of a frightened beast, ready to lash out. I was aware how difficult mynext question could be for me, deeply afraid of what I might hear. It was all or nothing, one mad throwof the dice, the outcome of which could change my life forever. I had never truly understood fear untilthat moment. Then I finally got the words out. I said it.

‘And is Robert alive?’

‘Alive?’

‘Yes, alive. Well, is he?’

‘Alive. Dead. Or in between, mebbe.’

‘What do you mean in between?’

‘No closer, Miss Merrick. He’s too dangerous.’

On the advice of Doctor Somerby I stepped back toward the cell door. It was now open and a white-coated orderly stood at the ready, a police-style truncheon in his hand. Meanwhile, the non-com beganto chant words of the unknown language Doctor Somerby had spoken of. At once I began to seeimages from my nightmares; the pyramids, the Nile, the white stone temple in the desert with the darkblue star-studded night sky looking down upon it; the lone beast standing amid the jagged rocks thatrose up on either side of the valley. And the woman, her skin dark, her brown eyes almond-shapedwith exquisitely long black lashes, her lips full and painted red, and the wind blowing her sheer pale-blue gown ragged about her curvaceous figure. It was as if I was being hypnotised by the words, whichhad turned into a form of singing, and were the voices of women, not Sergeant Kirby. Then suddenlythe music stopped.

‘Maishia,’ said the non-com.

‘Who?’ said I.

‘Maishia. She’ll git you.’

‘Don’t you threaten her, you miserable wretch. Back dog!’ warned the Colonel making the non-com, who had boldly moved out from his corner, cower back into it. ‘Don’t you ever threaten.’

‘But who is Maishia?’ I asked of him. ‘Who is Maishia?’

‘Don’t encourage him, Miss. He’ll get violent and then the orderly will have to subdue him.’

‘But I have to know! It concerns Robert.’

‘You can’t believe a word this idiot says. Now I would suggest we leave.’ He spoke firmly. I felt hishand enclose around my arm as he attempted to direct me towards the door.

But Sergeant Kirby hadn’t finished.

‘Drained of blood,’ said he. ‘In between life and death. Hers... For all eternity.’ His eyes becamewilder, insane, so utterly frightening to behold. ‘As you will be, Missy.’

We returned to Doctor Somerby’s office. He immediately poured himself a large whisky. He profferedme a glass but I declined, even though I needed it. The doctor peered outside through the slats of theclosed shuttered window. A mosquito had found its way in, and buzzed and buzzed about us, the noiseloathsomely irritating to one so weary as I.

‘How could he know me?’

‘A calculated guess. He might have known Robert had a fiancee. Who else would come to see him?’

‘A sister. An aunt.’

‘Perhaps he saw your likeness? Robert carried it on his person, did he not?’

‘Yes, that must be the answer. So,’ I said, ‘what did you make of it all?’

‘The ravings of a lunatic, I would say... if I didn’t know any better.’

‘Colonel, Doctor, is there something you aren’t telling me?’

His brow rose.

‘No.’

‘At least we know Robert is alive.’

‘How do we?’

‘You heard him.’

‘In between! Didn’t you hear?’

‘Yes. But...’

He turned his back on me and again lifted one of the green slats and peered outside, letting in anarrow beam of light that angled across the patchy darkness of the office, and straight into my eyes. Icouldn’t stop thinking about that man, huddling in the corner of that dirty cell. And who was Maishia?

‘Miss Merrick, I’m sure they have told you everything we know at the War Department. Mysuggestion is that you wait for news through the official channels. Perhaps by some miracle Robertmay... come back to us.’

‘I have travelled a long way, but now I know Robert is alive.’

‘No you do not know Robert is alive!’ he thundered his deeply spoken words echoing round theroom and seeming to shake the furniture. ‘That is my whole point. You do not.’ His voice lowered andhe said still very firmly but slowly and clearly, ‘YOU must return home.’

‘Drained of all blood,’ I said. ‘That was why Robert was sent into the delta, to investigate the deathsof soldiers who had died in mysterious circumstances. He said so in his last letter. Drained of blood.Evidently, that was what the Sergeant was referring to. Robert posted the letter to me before he arrivedat Colonel Picard’s camp. It was the last time I heard from him, but I suspect it was not the last letterhe wrote. Robert wrote to me every week, if he could.’

I noticed a change in Doctor Somerby. He loosened his collar, took down another large gulp of theamber liquid. He did know something. There was something he hadn’t told me.

‘You must organise another search.’

‘Impossible! The men are needed for other duties. We have thousands down sick. And the Rebelsare still dangerous in the interior, offering pockets of resistance. I’m not authorising, even if I could, adetail of men to go into that swampland to be picked off.’

‘Colonel Somerby, Robert is your best friend.’

‘I don’t need reminding of that fact. But I refuse to be a part of more men dying.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Life,’ he quipped.

‘The in-between variety? You are not telling me everything. I think you should.’

He avoided my gaze.

‘Doctor Somerby, I implore you.’

‘Miss Merrick.’ He released a soulful sigh, loosened his collar further; he was sweating profuselyand his face, if it had appeared florid when I entered his office earlier, was now a shade of beetroot. ‘Ifthere were something more, are you prepared to face such news? Are you strong enough?’

‘If it will help me get Robert back, I would have the strength of Samson.’

‘The cunning of Delilah would serve you better, I fear.’

‘You must tell me.’

He seemed of the mind to reveal his secret, then at the last moment withdrew.

‘No, I cannot.’

‘It is not your responsibility to hold back. This is my decision to make. Robert is my fiancee. I love him. And should I not find him, I do not know if I can go on living. So, there you have it.’

‘But what if Robert wanted it otherwise?’

‘I have to know.’

‘I can’t. I gave my word.’

‘If I have to go into the interior myself, Colonel Somerby, I will. Skegg’s Farm. That is the site ofPicard’s camp? I shall investigate. I have come this far. Do you doubt I would do this?’

‘Very well, you press me.’

Colonel Somerby unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He handed me a bundle of letters. Theenvelopes and paper were instantly recognisable as that issued to soldiers by the government; the verysame patriotic stationery Robert had used to write his many letters to me. The letters were tied togetherwith a bit of silk thread, which was commonly used by surgeons to tie off ligatures around damagedarteries.

The Colonel lit a cigar.

‘There’s twelve in all. Eleven addressed to you, and as you’ll see, one that is addressed to me. Ipresume that to be the very last letter Robert wrote. You must examine them... and draw your ownconclusions.’

I stared at the letters. Robert’s handwriting had undergone a transformation from a resoundingelegance to a shaky scrawl, more akin to the writing of a child than an adult.

‘Have you lodgings?’

I looked up.

‘You’ll need a place to stay. Time to reflect. Could take a while before you’re able to gain a passagehome. I can recommend a pleasant establishment on St Charles Avenue. Mention that you’re a friendof mine, and you’ll be fairly treated. People with Yankee accents aren’t always welcome here. GeneralButler made quite a reputation for himself when our forces first occupied the city. But as I always saidto Robert, when he was after his transfer to Sherman, there’s plenty of worse places to sit out the war.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Rising up from his chair, the Colonel stretched a hand out across his desk. There was a slighttremor, and, my observation of this prompted a sad, almost apologetic look in the man’s eyes.

‘I wish we could have met under pleasanter circumstances,’ he said. ‘Robert spoke of you so often.Tried to lead him astray, but he wouldn’t have it.’ Kindled by the memory of a warm and closefriendship a faint smile crossed that sweaty and florid face, a glimmer of hope came into thosebloodshot and bleary eyes. ‘Perfect gentleman. Honourable. The most dependable man in theDepartment. That’s... That’s why I had to send him out there. May God forgive me.’

This talk made me feel very uncomfortable and I was unsure how to respond. I should have offeredthe doctor a little understanding, but couldn’t bring myself to. I was at the door and about to leave hisoffice when he suddenly said,

‘Oh, and Miss Merrick.’

‘Yes, Doctor Somerby?’

‘When you’ve digested the contents of those letters, I would suggest you burn them, then return toBoston at the first opportunity.’

The Park View Guesthouse overlooked Audubon Park, hence its name. It had a pink exterior, blackshuttered windows, ironwork balconies with leaded glass doors, and a white-columned main entrance.The proprietor whom Doctor Somerby had spoken of, a blonde haired lady in her mid-forties, led meupstairs to a room on the second floor. She was friendly, reminding me of my aunt Hatty, but when thewoman’s warm smile had departed I felt the chill of an empty room and the loneliness I’d come toknow so well. The door clicked shut, leaving me staring at the four-poster, thinking of Robert.

I got the letters out from my bag, almost too terrified to touch them. I couldn’t rid myself of thesight of the sergeant huddling in the corner of his cell and his incoherent talk of bodies drained of blood. He had seemed possessed by an evil force, as if he were not in control of his actions. Maishia, that name resounded inside my head, refusing to be forgotten. In between life and death? What could that mean? I wondered. Was it a feverish illness the men had contracted? Had they slipped into asleeping state, of the nature I’d occasionally witnessed associated with gunshot wounds to the head?

I put the letters down on the bedside table, and, sitting with my back against the headboard of thefour-poster, stared at them. I could hear Robert’s voice, kind and gentle. I could see his smile and feelthe warmth of his hand in mine. My mind wandered back to our first meeting on the common. It wasfate that we met, I was convinced, and fate would bring us back together. I felt as if I were beingguided to him. At least we had known a little happiness; for most, life was a constant struggle just tosurvive, but we had shared true love, and in comfortable surroundings. Perhaps that happiness we’dhad lay at the heart of my sadness.

I looked at the letters. Had the contents of them driven Doctor Somerby to drink? But it was notuncommon for surgeons to resort to liquor given the strain of surgery, the hacking and sawing, thepiles of amputated limbs and tubs of blood.

More self-deception.

I got up off the bed, walked across the polished wooden floor to the shuttered veranda. The sun wassinking low, but the sunlight was still sufficiently strong to dazzle as I opened the door-size shutter,forcing me to shield my eyes. A carriage had pulled up in the street below. I watched a high-rankinUnion officer help a lady in a colourful hooped dress step onto the cobbled sidewalk. I listened to theiraccents; his New England; hers, Dixie; a low flat drawl, somewhat difficult to comprehend.Throughout the war I had deceived myself that I was an indomitable spirit, always with time to nurse asick or dying soldier. How weak I really was? I had no strength; it was they who had done the fightinand dying, not me.

I couldn’t face the letters.

I couldn’t.

What should I find?

And only when the torture of the anticipation became greater than the possible horror awaiting medid I finally go inside and begin reading.

I read and re-read.

I read into darkness, reading Robert’s thoughts by the light of a candle. I read until that candle was aguttering stump, and the writing had deteriorated into the barely recognisable scrawl which I had notedon the envelopes in the Colonel’s office. When I had finished reading the last letter I was shaking, anddeep in the pit of my stomach there was a peculiar feeling of numbness, of hopelessness.

I started pacing the room, pressing my knuckles together, the soles of my shoes echoing on the hardwooden floor, breaking the silence of my isolation. It was as if I were walking down a long corridorwhich was becoming ever narrower, ever darker, the end lost in pitch blackness. I kept on tellingmyself it wasn’t true, it was too fantastic. Robert had become as deranged as Sergeant Kirby, he hadn’tknown what he was writing. I felt bitterness towards the Sergeant for the part he had played in things,convinced that were it not for the influence of him, Robert could have escaped. He’d held Robertprisoner, to make him go to the Grafton House where she waited.

I picked up the last letter again, the one addressed to Doctor Somerby. Lighting a new candle, I thenheld it up to the crumpled yellow army paper and re-read the whole letter. The grisly tale turned mblood to ice water. Now I really knew the meaning of died in mysterious circumstances. I knew what Robert had discovered when arriving at Skegg’s Farm. No strange disease. No sickness. The soldiershad been foully murdered, their throats ripped out and their bodies drained of every ounce of blood.

I’d read about the battle against the renegades and the capture of their leader One-Eyed Joe, andhow Joe also had come to die in the forest as the Union soldiers had. Robert had again spoken of thedreams he had had as a child, and which I now believed I was having as result of his experiences then.Or were they? He’d written about red-eyed beasts in the forest, with razor sharp fangs and that did her ‘evil’ bidding. I experienced Robert’s first impression of the Grafton House, and through his writing Ihad come to fear that house and its beautiful but sinister mistress. Colonel Picard had apparently fallenunder her spell. He had never returned from the house. It was at that time Robert was held prisoner bSergeant Kirby at Skegg’s Farm. He had tried to escape, in fear of losing not only his life but hisimmortal soul. Robert had befriended a local boy whose mother he’d cured of a fever, and Tom Farlehad come to the camp at Skegg’s Farm and freed Robert, and together they had gone through theforest, and then with other members of the Farley family, some slaves, and a Lieutenant Hamilton,done battle with their tormentor.

HER.

That was the most unbelievable part - her. That woman. Robert thought her to be 4,000 years old; anancient Egyptian, a High Priestess of Anubis, the Jackal God, and who sought Robert as thereincarnation of her long lost lover, the physician Hanis. Maishia, the name uttered by Sergeant Kirby.Perhaps it was her face I had been seeing in my nightmares? Was she the mysterious guiding force thatappeared to be so much stronger now I was in the city?

The letter was dated September 16, 1864. Robert had told Doctor Somerby that, should he fail toreturn to the city, to notify the War Department that he was killed in action. The doctor had obviouslyfound himself unable to totally give up on his friend and had hoped against hope that he would turn up,hence why he had listed him as missing.

Holding the letter to my bosom, I called out, ‘Robert, my love! What torture you have undergone?But I shall not desert you. I have come thus far, and I shall find you. And together we shall deliver youfrom this unholy curse.’

During the night I had another nightmare - the most terrifying yet. Surrounded in the forest by the dog-like beasts, their red eyes glowing in the dark. They kept closing in on me, and no matter which way Iturned, they were there blocking my path. Gleaming white fangs showing beneath lips curled andmouths slavering - mouths frothing with crimson blood, and smeared also across their silver-tipped thick fur.

Then the leader, the largest, had pounced. Knocking me to the ground. Tearing at my throat. I hadscreamed and screamed, but no one had heard, my pathetic pleas for help lost in the unlit gloominessof the swamp. I had seen the face of the beautiful woman, her halo form glowing in the undergrowth...or in the depths of my mind, then heard her voice, the pain from the jaws of the beast gone, replacedby the warmth of a kiss. The woman, the High Priestess, had held me closer, her lips tracing across thetaught skin of my neck.

I could feel her with me, even now. Up my chin, she laid a trail of kisses, until our lips met and hertongue pushed in between my teeth, any resistance melting away in her hypnotic embrace.

Again her attention turned to my neck. I could feel my blood pulsing through my veins, pumped bya racing heart, caught up in a heady ecstasy. The woman searched my eyes with hers, crushing any lastsemblance of resistance, filling me with a perverse desire. I felt the sharpness of her teeth on my skin,my lower neck, her tongue darting across the saliva-wet surface. There was a stickiness between mylegs. My thighs were aching, almost trembling. As if reading my desires, the woman pressed her bodyto mine, her long-fingered hands smothering my breasts, squeezing them hard, before removing myclothing and biting, licking erect my nipples. My back arched up as I panted and sighed and hunted forbreath, my own hands locking her to me, gripping her firmly.

But as I went to kiss her, to love her, I did not behold the beautiful face, but instead the foul-breathed mouth of the beast - the glowing red eyes, the snarling blood-coated fangs, the long pointedmouths of beasts pressed against my own, and I drew back in terror, my heart threatening to punch itsway through my chest, my limbs paralysed with fear..

I had waited for death. Waited for those razor-sharp fangs to tear my face up, for those long incisorsto plunge into my skin. I screamed... screamed and screamed, but no one had come.

I got up from the four-poster and walked wearily across the varnished floor to the balcony, my eyesmomentarily connecting with the bundle of letters on the side table. I opened the shutters. It was overcast, the sky a mottled grey and the cloud hanging low in a dense blanket, though it was warm, atouch humid. I watched the carriages pass by beneath the balcony, listening to the sound of the largespindly wheels rolling over the cobbled street and the sound of the soldier’s boots on the sidewalk. Itwas like the passing of time, the march of men’s boots tramping away to war, leaving me alone. I wasin the grip of an extreme languor, and supposed it to be the way one felt with the onset of death.

I needed hope.

Something to cling to.

For hours, I sat on the bed staring at Robert’s letters.

In the afternoon, finding a little resolve, I pulled on some clothes and washed my face. I feltexhausted, every muscle aching and throbbing as if I had, indeed, wrestled with death in the forestwith those terrible beasts.

I walked in the park. It was a lovely place but such loveliness was wasted on a wretch such as me,and I trod the gravelled paths between the flora with head bowed and a heavy heart. But as the sunbegan to peep through the clouds, I began to notice the beauty of that place, the grass dressed withmajestic live oaks with tattered grey shrouds of Spanish moss and huge spreading bows that bent overto touch the earth. The flowers abloom, a riot of colour that assaulted my visual sense, for I had justemerged from the depths of winter in Boston. As I walked along the isles between the lagoons and lushtropical plants, so unfamiliar, my mood started to brighten.

The sunshine made the flowers look more colourful and gay.

But there were so many unanswered questions. Such darkness. Did Doctor Somerby believe Roberthad gone insane? Was that why he did nothing? Was there something else, which he had not divulged?And what of the boy, Tom Farley? He had befriended Robert, tried to help him overcome the evil. Andwhat of the Grafton House? Perhaps Robert was there?

I wondered how far into the interior the old plantation house was. Judging by the description of theinhospitable terrain it would be impossible for a civilian to go there. Doctor Somerby would notprovide an escort of soldiers. It occurred to me to approach the commander of the city’s garrison but I’d be most unlikely to gain an audience, and if so, no doubt told I was suffering from the effects of theheat and advised to return to Boston, possibly be sent there against my will. My experience at the WarDepartment and with Doctor Somerby had convinced me that I could only rely on myself.

Yet I was so tired.

What could I do?

Reaching the Greek temple upon the hill, I paused to eye the bleached white marble statuesstrategically positioned about the site. A young couple were seated on a bench, their eyes lockedtogether in a dreamy embrace. The girl was about my age, and I envied her happiness. Perhaps Ishould not have let Lyndon go?

Unable to bear such pain, I headed off back in the direction I had come believing that I’d feel lessdiscontent in the shadows of my room. I was numbed, everything looking so black. Why, why did Ihave to endure so much pain? It almost seemed to be preordained, as if by putting myself throughmisery I could make myself feel better about myself. Should I have tried harder to stop Robert fromenlisting? Should I have even been involved with him? Father had wanted me to marry a banker or amerchant, perhaps with good reason. Had he not said a doctor could never make a woman of goodbreeding happy?

A flock of migratory birds passed by overhead, and I stared up at them, wishing I could be as free asthey were. Strange looking birds, ungainly in flight, about the size of swans, plumage bright andgaudy. I swallowed hard, emotion within me brimming to the surface. I looked back at the couplesitting on the bench; they were kissing.

I felt sick.

Dizzy.

I wanted to cry.

And then came a voice.

And I turned.

I had been addressed by my name.

And wondered who, here, could know me.

I saw a boy.

A young soldier.

‘You Miss Merrick?’ he asked.

He had a letter in his hand.

‘Yes, I am she. Is that letter for me?’

‘It’s from Doctor Somerby.’

The young woman who answered the door denied having any knowledge of the boy, Thomas Farley.Her manner was curt and unfriendly. She was clearly afraid of something, and lying. Realising that Iwas wasting my time and fearing remaining in such a rundown neighbourhood, I and my one-manmilitary escort, left the lodging house, walking back to St Charles Avenue. From there, we rode astreet car to Royal Street in the French Quarter. I had hoped to visit the hotel where Robert roomedduring his early part of his stay in the city but time was short.

The charming, narrow cobblestone streets were busy, horse-drawn traffic strung out in long queues,and the balcony-enshaded sidewalks bustling with people. I, a noticeable outsider, drew stares from thewhores and looks of suspicion from the crippled Rebel veterans who begged money for grog. PrivateWilliams seemed unduly nervous, his reticence unsettling. Like so many of the soldiers subjected tothe insanitary conditions of an army camp, he had developed a persistent dry cough. He’d only been inNew Orleans a few months, and appeared very homesick. He wasn’t much younger than myself, yet Ifelt a mothering instinct for him.

At last we reached Lafitte’s Tavern. The soldier had told me about a man called Bob Hatcher who sold whisky and provided whores for the men in camp. He swore he did not partake in the services of awhore or intoxicating beverages; he’d promised his ma before joining the army to adhere to cleanliving. The irony of this was not lost on me; a boy sent off to war and to kill men, perhaps should bewhoring and drinking whisky.

A loud mix of lively dance music and raucous laughter issued forth from the smoky interior behindthe swing doors. Women dressed in garish costumes with feathers protruding from velvet and satinhats and hair in curls, leaned over the balcony directly above us, some white, some black, some ofmixed race.

‘You wanting me to go in there with you, Miss?’ said the young soldier rather stupidly.

‘Would your Mother approve?’

‘Oh, no Miss. She be a God-fearing lady, reads scripture for two hours every evening and she wouldsay the Devil is at work in such a place.’

‘I sincerely hope you are right, because I am not looking for an angel, an angel would not be ofmuch use.’

I went inside. Strung out along the bar were the scruffiest and most oafish individuals I had ever laideyes upon. The bar was fashioned from old rum barrels with a roughened plank surface, pirate-style,and dotted with bottles of spirit and beer glasses. Behind the bar was a huge oil painting of the tavern’snamesake Jean Lafitte, the pirate who had fought side by side with Andrew Jackson, defending the cityagainst the British during the War of 1812. Cigar smoke curled upward to the chandeliers, swirlingabout like thick cloud. My ears were assaulted by a rowdy and tuneless piano playing. And all thewhile customers shouted their orders at the bartender and his white apron-wearing assistants, who dulyslapped the glasses of beer on the plank bar, dripping wet.

An old whore bouncing on the knee of a sailor gave me an unfriendly stare. Eventually everyone, orit seemed so, was staring at me, and the straw-hatted black musician at the piano finally stoppedplaying.

‘You looking for someone?’ said the balding bartender nastily.

‘I was told I might find a man called Bob Hatcher here.’

‘You’re a Yankee?’

‘I am.’

‘Your kind aren’t welcome here.’

‘I dare say. But I need to speak with Mr Hatcher.’ My throat was unduly dry and it was difficult toframe my words, but I determined not to show any fear. ‘I may have some work for him,’ I said. ‘Now,if you would kindly tell me where I might find him, presumably he is somewhere in thisestablishment? I was reliably informed he operates out of here.’

The bartender thought apiece, then nodded in the direction of the card table beneath the mainstaircase, off to my right. An unsavoury looking group of men were engaged in gambling, the greenbaize piled high with money, gold and an assortment of jewellery. The music recommenced, and Iwent over, trying to ignore the unfriendliness of the people, which was hardly surprising given that Iwas the enemy, and this was the heart of the Confederacy.

‘What kind of work?’ said one of the men without looking up. Already I didn’t like him and repliedsort of timidly,

‘Are you Hatcher?’

‘I said what kind of work?’

‘The well-paid variety,’ I said as forcibly as I could.

His attention returned to the cards. Sitting opposite Hatcher was a black man, the stub of a thickcigar smouldering between pearly teeth. He was much smarter dressed than the others, a real dandy,wearing a dark brown suit, with a faint light-brown pinstripe. His ivory shirt was silk with a frilly frontand his necktie navy blue. A jaunty feather was stuck in his brown derby.

He pushed a stack of gold coins into the pot. ‘Ah’ll see ya,’ he grinned, his brilliant white teethshowing in his ebony face, which I could see annoyed the others immensely.

Dropping five more coins on the pile of loot, he added,

‘And Ah’ll raise ya.’

The man called Hatcher slyly studied his own cards. His eyes were slit-like. Lank black hair wasswept back off his forehead; it was greasy and hadn’t been washed in a long while. With his massivestubble-covered jaw, he reminded me of the burly Irish immigrants who had engaged in bare knucklefights in Boston; Emma had taken me to one such brutal display. He wore a mix of civilian and Unionissue, a blue shell jacket, the cloth sun-faded and the buttons half off. The handles of a couple of long-barrelled revolvers protruded from his belt. Interestingly, the buckle bearing the letters US was turnedupside down, which apparently the Rebels did when scavenging equipment from our dead soldiers.Judging by the ugly puckered scar extending from the corner of his left eye down his cheek, almost tothe corner of his mouth, he had been chopped up really badly. Seeming to sense me looking at it, heself-consciously brought his hand up to shield it before remembering himself.

Hatcher matched the black man’s fifty dollar bet, then spread his cards out on the green baize.

‘Three ladies. Now beat that you dumb, Field Hand.’

The black man appeared uncertain of himself, as if he were indeed skunked. Then confidencereturned to his ebony face and he exhibited a broad grin and a flash of his pearly white teeth, whichwere large and perfectly straight, his face was all smile. He took a drag on his cigar, blowing out theblue-grey smoke, chuckling as he did.

‘The Field Hand’s got ya Hatch,’ said a diminutive, almost dwarf-like figure on Hatcher’s left. Hewore Rebel grey, a tatty forage cap pushed back off his brow, a patched and heavily stained shortjacket, with yellow facings, denoting enemy cavalry. He appeared distinctly unpleasant; small men, Ihad observed, tended to be more devious and cunning.

‘He’s got ya. The Cotton Picker’s got ya.’

‘Shut your mouth.’

‘You should listen ter him,’ said the black man, ‘cause he be right. Three kings.’ He spread them outon the table. His fingers were very badly scarred, no doubt the effect of detaching the bolls from cottonplants, something I had read about in an anti-slavery pamphlet before the war.

Then I observed out of the corner of my eye Hatcher’s hand inching towards the handle of one of hisrevolvers. The black man sitting opposite him was watching Hatcher closely, and, clearly sensingdanger afoot, paused in taking the pot.

The tension mounted as the two men eyeballed each other. Bystanders who had crowded round thetable to watch the outcome of this big hand, stepped back. The small unpleasant man in the Rebeljacket looked at the two men in turn, clearly enjoying the tension.

‘Ah wouldn’t do that iffen Ah wuz you.’

‘Why not, Field Hand? More gold in that-there pot than you was ever worth. Maybe I just don’t careto hand it over.’

The black man exchanged a quick look with me, perhaps thinking I was on his side in this matter. Icould tell he was hurting, these constant references to his former status as a slave. The wrong ofdecades in America against the black man stoking his own personal rage; the whippings, thedegradation, the insults, the exclusion, the endless and monotonous toil in unbearable heat, and, theultimate degradation, to be bought and sold on the block as a piece of property at the will of an owner.

‘Ah’d cast ya eyes up ter dat-dere balcony, Hatcher.’

Above us, overlooking the table, stood a painted whore, the butt of a cavalry carbine pressed to hershoulder, her finger stroking the trigger. The barrel pointed directly at Hatcher’s chest.

‘I was kidding,’ he said uncomfortably, his hand retreating from the handle of his revolver. ‘Youknow how I... hate to lose.’

‘Well dat’s all right den.’ The black man grinned triumphantly. ‘Now effen you doan mind, Ah’lltek my winnings, an’ hab some fun and leave ya ter conduct yer business wid de lady here.’

In a dusty upstairs room Hatcher poured whisky into two glasses. He proffered one to me.

I declined.

‘Mr Hatcher, I am reliably informed that you know the surrounding country and are not frightenedof it.’

‘So. What’s that to you?’

‘Do you know of a place called Skegg’s Farm? It’s in the Bird’s Foot Delta.’

He scratched the underside of his stubble-covered jaw, then replied sullenly,

‘I might.’

‘Good. I want you to take me there.’

‘That’s a lot of riding, and me and my boys don’t hire out cheap.’

‘I’ll pay you $400. Greenbacks. $200 now and the balance when we return to New Orleans.’

He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You’ll have to do a sight better than that lady. My kind of trade is briskand mighty profitable at present. And I don’t intend to go wading through some alligator-infestedswamp for no four hundred dollars.’

‘All right, five hundred.’

‘I still ain’t listening lady.’

‘I cannot go any higher. It’s all I have.’

‘All?’ He regarded me furtively, in the same manner he had studied the faces of his playing cards,his slanting eyes as dark as ink.

‘$600.’

A tense silence as the renegade continued sizing me up. His breath reeked of liquor and staletobacco, his clothes of old sweat. I had always, having nursed so many honourable men, despiseddeserters, those who left others to do the fighting and dying.

I watched as he poured himself another drink. He looked at the bed, then at me, my bosom. I wantedto slap his face hard, to leave that room, but I needed his help.

‘What you after, going out there? You like swamp?’

‘I have my reasons.’

Tossing the whisky glass away, Hatcher took a giant stride towards me, and, gripping my chin in anasty bone-hurting clamp, stared at me wildly.

‘You change your tone, miss high and mighty. When my neck’s on the line, I wanna know what thefuck I’m going up against. I ain’t no dumb recruit that a fat general on a horse in the rear can sendwalking into a row of cannons. Now you state your business, and it best be the truth.’

Struggling to stop myself from trembling I answered him, ‘I’m looking for my husband. He’s anarmy doctor. He was listed as being missing six months ago.’

‘A fucking Sawbones!’ He laughed derisively. ‘I hate fucking Sawbones.’

‘Robert saved... saves men’s lives.’

‘I bet he killed more than he saved. That’s why I lit out. After a battle, when I was wounded, I cameto a clearing and found them bastards cutting and sawing. And I’m telling you now, Missy, I weren’t gonna have no so-called doctor chopping Hatcher up into bits, leaving me with an unforgettablememory of agony and begging bowl to hand out in the street for a glass of beer. So the next time youregard me as being something less than desirable for turning my back on the glorious cause, youremember what I just told you.’

‘You’re hurting me,’ I croaked. ‘Would you let go of my arm please?’

He stared at me meanly. Then finally the taut muscles of his face relaxed and I saw a flicker ofhumanity return to his weather-beaten, scarred features, and he let go. He went to the cabinet and filleda further glass with whisky. He drank it down.

‘How come the army ain’t handling this?’

‘They’re too busy.’

‘Figures.’

‘My opinion of the army, Mr Hatcher, is not any higher than your own.’

‘Why do I get the feeling you ain’t telling me everything?’

‘Do you want the job, Mr Hatcher,’ I said finding a measure of composure, ‘or should I findsomeone else?’

‘When you figuring on leaving?’

His response came as a surprise to me, and in truth I had been so preoccupied with the prospect ofhiring the guide that I had scarcely given thought to practicalities such as how the deed would beaccomplished.

‘As soon as you’re ready, I suppose.’

‘Tomorrow suit ya?’

‘That... That would be admirable. And I would like to thank you for agreeing to help me. I havetravelled a very long way to be here and given up many things I hold dear.’

‘Just give me the darn money.’

‘So soon? How do I...?’

‘Trust me!’ he roared. ‘That’s something you can’t buy. You best hope I keep losing at cards and amsufficiently hungry for that-there second payment.’

‘I trust you, Mr Hatcher. I trust to your greed.’

He smiled in appreciation of the insult which, for him, I surmised, was a high compliment to take tohis bed that evening.

‘Got supplies to get; horses, a wagon, my boys to pay.’

‘Naturally.’

I opened my purse and got out $300 and handed the money over. He promptly inspected it, countingtwice the twenty dollar bills, before folding them and putting them away into the top pocket of his redflannel shirt.

‘Next time you pay me, you pay in gold.’

‘Yes, understood.’

‘You know of the Dalby Plantation across the river? It’s north of the boatyards.’

‘No, but I can find it.’

‘You be there tomorrow, come sunup.’

‘You can be ready so soon?’

‘That’s what you hired me for, ain’t it?’

‘Shouldn’t we shake on it?’ I ventured, timidly offering out my hand.

He sniggered. ‘You was raised proper, gentleman-style. Posh schooling, an’ all. Them manners arewasted on me. Three things you ought-a know, Lady. One, I fucking hate officers. Two, I always gitpaid. And thirdly, iffen you are holding out on me, you can be darn sure I’ll find out.’

Private Williams was waiting outside. From Lafitte’s we went to a store in nearby Decater Streetwhere I purchased supplies: soap, a canteen, a woollen blanket, a haversack, clothing, and additionalammunition for the Derringer. Telling Bob Hatcher I was married was a wise decision, though with aman of his poor character it probably wouldn’t make a jot of difference to my safety.

As we headed back towards the Farley’s lodging house, half-expecting it not to exist, I enquired asto the whereabouts of the Dalby Plantation. The young soldier couldn’t reassure me, for he had notheard of it. He was very quiet. I tried to gain information about the terrain of the delta but he had notserved in that sector. I needed to talk, a little company after my scrape in Lafitte’s, but my escortseemed absorbed in his own personal problems.

At the lodging house, again no one answered. I thought I saw a blonde-haired girl peeping behindthe shabby curtains. I banged repeatedly on the door, no one would answer. Giving up, I slipped a noteunderneath explaining who I was and stating where I was staying, and that I would be there untilmidnight. Only the boy, Tom, could tell me the information I had to know, fill in those missing gaps,that might just help me discover the whereabouts of Robert.

It was twenty minutes to five when I got back to the guesthouse. Exhausted by a combination of theheat and the excitement, I fell on the bed and kicked off my shoes. My feet ached. Yet I felt unusuallygood about myself, for I was making progress. I was fighting back. No more running, I was leading acharge. No one can ever imagine how frustrating it is responding to events rather than dictating them. Ihad done my share of sitting around, waiting. Like General Grant after the battle of the Wilderness (theyear before) I was moving forward, on to Richmond and the end of my war, and no matter what mighthappen there’d be no turning back. Apparently when General Grant had been approached by a warcorrespondent about our defeat in the dense woodland by the rebels, Grant had said, when asked aboutwhat he wanted him to report to Washington, ‘If you see the President, tell him that whatever happens,there will be no turning back.’

No turning back had a ring to it.

Later, when rested, I climbed into my new clothes and studied my tomboy appearance in the man-sized mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. I had bought a buff floppy hat, which came down lowover my eyes, to protect my head and eyes from the sun. I’d always loved wearing hats, they reallysuited me, as Robert had said. The jean cloth pants felt strange on, for I’d never before worn pants.The short light jacket was not dissimilar to an army shell jacket. The boots were of the finest quality,French, kid with a goat upper band. Imports were finding their way in again, a sure sign that the warwas in its final phase. I draped the factory-made tin bull’s-eye canteen over one shoulder, the canvashaversack the other. Little wonder, thought I, why men had so keenly jumped into those natty blue andgrey uniforms. I could feel the sense of adventure pulsing through my veins.

At six, I went down to the dining room for supper, the desire to meet with my fellow boardersindicative of my raised spirits. I made the most of a well-cooked meal, which tasted as good as it hadsmelt; savoury rice, spicy chicken and corn dripping with butter. At the market I had acquired food formy journey into the delta, a bland and uninspiring selection of army-fare; hardtack, beef jerky, saltpork and beans. Of course, Bob Hatcher would probably take care of the rations but it would be wiseto carry a little extra. If only I could have made contact with Tom. Was that woman I’d glimpsedbehind the curtains his sister, Sarah-Jane?

I listened as the other guests talked amongst themselves. The sea captain spoke of the blockade andthe infamous Rebel commerce raider Shenandoah, at present wreaking havoc with our whaling fleetsin the Northern Pacific. The three army officers, all wearing their best dress uniforms, gleaming brassbuttons and smart dark blue woollen frock coats, listened patiently to the sea captain, then began adebate of their own about Grant’s latest moves on the besieged city of Petersburg, in faraway Virginia.It made me glad to hear such talk, for when that last bastion of Rebel resistance succumbed to ouroverwhelmingly superior forces, General Lee would be compelled to evacuate Richmond. They spokeenergetically, moving their salt pots and mustard containers about the red checked tablecloth, thoughwith scant account for the lives that would be expended achieving such victories.

I thought of poor Lyndon shuddering under shell fire in a muddy trench, and felt guilty that I hadsent him away to the front with no promise of a reunion, however impossible that may have seemedthen. Oh, I prayed he’d be safe. I’d used him selfishly, and I had not wanted to, he was worth morethan that, but I was so lonely, and his love and help had sustained me through the darkest hours of myordeal, he had ended my loneliness, briefly.

Thus my mood began to turn solemn, as I tired of this fighting talk. I could see that the man sittingnext to me shared my feelings on this. He was, I believed, a reporter with Harpers Weekly, of New York, and certainly looked like a journalist, his eyes shrewd, his countenance reserved, a man given toverbal restraint and careful observing.

‘What do you think, Miss Merrick?’ asked the officer seated opposite me. ‘You were recently inBoston. Do you think the people will stand another year of war, if Bobby Lee works another of hismiracles and saves the Army of Northern Virginia?’

‘They’ve stood four, haven’t they?’

‘Spoken like a politician, Ma’am.’

‘If you would excuse me gentlemen.’

I left them to their discussion. Mrs Garett, the guesthouse proprietor, was standing behind thereception desk. A very attractive lady in her early forties, long blonde hair, crystal blue eyes and awarm and gracious smile that bespoke a caring nature. I noticed on her finger a wedding ring and hungon the wall behind the desk a cavalry sabre. Alongside was a portrait of a handsome man in uniform.She didn’t have to tell me he had died, I could read the sadness in her eyes, two women understandingeach other’s pain, just as I had understood the pain of that poor woman at the War Department.

‘Charles was killed at Port Hudson,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘He was a fine man.’ She appeared distant in her thoughts, then came back to me and said in afriendly tone with her thick Southern drawl; the accent so pronounced that some of her words were ashard to recognise as the Irish-spoken English of the immigrants fresh off the boats in Boston.

‘Is your room satisfactory? The view, I admit, is somewhat superior on the other side where you canlook across the park. You have been to the park?’

‘Yes, this morning. It’s beautiful.’

‘Charles and I used to walk there when we were courting. We used to sit on the benches at the top ofthe hill, by the Greek statues.’

‘Yes, I know the place.’

‘New Orleans is a beautiful city, and I always say one should visit in the early winter or early springwhen the temperature is less stifling. It gets so intolerably humid here in summer, and the mosquitoesnever let up.’

‘The room’s fine,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow, I have to go somewhere and I’m not sure when I shall return.I was wondering if you might keep my room for me, and also I have valuables that I cannot take withme.’

‘I shall put them in the safe for you.’

Opening my purse, I took out the emerald and diamond necklace my mother had given to me thenight I left Boston and the money I had promised to pay Bob Hatcher on the successful completion ofour mission.

‘What a divine piece,’ Mrs Garett said brightly. ‘I shall take very good care of it for you. I do soadmire beautiful things.’

‘Are you sure it’s not a problem?’

‘Why no,’ she beamed. ‘George told me to take very good care of you. And any friend of George’s,is a friend of mine. He tended my husband after he was wounded. He treated him as he would one ofhis own soldiers. But lately I have become worried for George. I haven’t seen him since beforeChristmas, and he refuses to see me when I call. The note about you was the first I had heard from himin months. They tell me that he drinks and seeks only his own company. You saw him yesterday. Isthis true?’

‘I’m afraid it is. You must go and see him, force your way in. I am sure he will listen to you.’

‘But what could ail him so?’

‘I think it is his work,’ I lied.

‘Oh, it’s all those terrible operations he has had to perform. No man should ever have to do suchterrible things. I was violently sick when I went to the field hospital to try and find my husband.’

‘Mrs Garett, did you ever meet George’s friend, Major Gray? My fiancee?’

‘Why, yes. On several occasions. He and George were such close friends. He was...’ She promptlycorrected herself from referring to Robert as if he were already dead, saying, ‘He is a lovely man. Iexpect that’s why you’re in New Orleans?’

‘I’ve come to find him. I will... find him. Mrs Garett, is there a church nearby? I should like to praybefore I set out tomorrow morning.’

‘The Covenant Presbyterians isn’t far.’

I sat on a rear pew. The church was old, I presumed dating back to the early days of settlement in theseventeenth century, the steel gables and arched windows its prominent features. The huge sandstonewalls had the customary coldness. Fat candles flickered away, adding a little brightness. Among thefew people gathered there was a grey-clad Confederate, his face gaunt, his jacket sleeve conspicuouslyempty; he looked too young to have ever put on a uniform. Across the aisle was a distinguishedlooking gentleman with silver hair and a matching goatee. Clearly once a man of means, his coat wasshabby and worn. There was gaiety in this city, life, yet beneath the surface lay a palpable sadness. Asense of decay; things wearing out, hearts hanging heavy, for these people of the South had lost somuch in the war, far more than we up North. Their homes destroyed, their cities and towns occupied,their institutions dismantled, the very fabric of their society torn apart. Perhaps such a place was rightfor one as sad as me? Perhaps, God forbid, if I do not find Robert alive, I should remain here.

I reached for the tatty black bible, holding it tightly. My parents were Calvinists, and I was a regularchurchgoer. When the war started, the congregation of our church in Park Street had practicallydoubled. I had found comfort myself during those early days, praying for Robert, believing truly thatGod would protect him. But as the war dragged on and casualty lists grew, friends were killed, myfaith became tested, and eventually I stopped going to church. Now I realised it was not God whomade war -it was men. Bowing my head, I said a prayer for my mother, for my father, for my dearsister Clara in Philadelphia, for myself, and most of all, for Robert.

Outside, I drew my shawl over my shoulders, suppressing a shiver. It had been warm and stickyduring the day. The night, however, had a marked chill to it. I was about to head off back to theguesthouse when I suddenly noticed someone loitering across the street. They were standing in theshadows and away from the streetlight.

Instinctively, I felt inside my purse for the small two-barrelled Derringer. It wasn’t there. I had left itin my room.

The stranger started across the street, coming towards me, his stride purposeful and resolute. Myheart beat faster and faster with fear as I remembered all the warnings I’d had from Captain Redfern,and now I didn’t even have my gun. I was a Yankee, a hated enemy, vulnerable and alone in an enemycity. How foolish I had been. Brave, I wasn’t brave, I was stupid.

He came closer.

I didn’t run; it seemed pointless.

I waited.

Waited for the inevitable.

But it wasn’t a street pad. It wasn’t even a man. It was a boy of about thirteen years, perhaps a bitolder. He stood before me, hands plunged deep in his pockets, the jaundiced light from the streetlampcatching the left side of his face and showing his features. He had dark freckles, a pair of mischievousgreen eyes, and strands of ginger hair curling about large odd-shaped ears. Upon his head was a floppybrown felt hat which had several holes in it and had been out in too many storms.

‘You the woman that called by at our place earlier? You come all the ways from Boston? MajorGray’s girl?’

‘Tom!’

10

It came as no surprise that Bob Hatcher did not want Tom along with us, but I for one was glad of theboy’s presence.

It had rained for three days, turning the dirt roads into a quagmire, into which the wheels of ourwagon sank deeply, at times, up to the hubs. When this happened, Tom and I would have to get off andpush hard at the tailgate, as Hatcher’s cronies whipped the mud-splattered team on, straining andtugging at their worn harnesses, whining. A cruelty that made me feel sick. Hatcher, the stub of a cigarclenched between his teeth, would sit idly on his horse watching, a sadistic grin on his ugly scarredface. All three men wore army issue black oilcloth ponchos, good protection against the rain. Hatcher,had a havelock, a white linen cap cover fitted to his blue forage cap, though the linen was so grubby asto seem light brown. Havelocks were popular at the beginning of the war; I had almost purchased onefor Robert. They were French in origin and intended to combat the effects of the sun, but soldiers hadquickly dispensed with them, favouring plainer hats, which were considered to be more comfortable.

There was a disturbing tension between Hatcher and his men, the guide aloof and remote, and Isurmised their allegiance to not extend beyond a fistful of money. They were useful to each other, and,I dared say, would willingly slit each other’s throats were it to their gain. The one called Ferret and theblack man, Mr O’Malley, constantly hurled ill-humoured remarks at one another. O’Malley could notescape his former status as a bondsman, the Irish name he had acquired from his Tennessee master afurther burden. As Ferret said, ‘Who ever heard of an Irish nigger?’ When they weren’t tearing eachother apart with their insults, they recounted lurid stories of violence and indecency towards women.Ferret, apparently, had a taste for small boys, and had thrust his unwanted attentions on new recruitsarriving in camp. The sight of his yellow teeth and the sound of his high-pitched, almost witch-likecackle, made me cringe. Thankfully with Tom there, I did not have much reason to converse withthem, otherwise I should have been terribly lonely.

The ink-black sky cast a gloomy shadow over the landscape and appeared to close in on us. All aroundus was the incommunicable forest, secretive, promising danger to whomever should enter it. I began tounderstand how Robert must have felt as he rode along these trails on his way to his posting at Skegg’sFarm. He may have travelled along this very road. According to Tom, Skegg’s Farm was not far, but ahalf day’s ride, and come late afternoon we would arrive. And then what? I wasn’t sure if I could facethe horrors that awaited me. Doctor Somerby had been terribly vague, and the letters though containing a presentment of disaster and moments of pure terror, were full of gaps. But now Tom had told me what had happened. Tom. Bless Tom.

At first he was reluctant to disclose the events of that fateful night. He bravely choked back tears ashe spoke, making me feel guilty for pressing him so. Again, Sergeant Kirby had been at the centre ofthe plot and his commanding officer, the enigmatic Colonel Ralph Picard.

Robert, a young second lieutenant, Curtis Hamilton, a medical orderly called Hoppy, Tom’s motherand sister, (Sarah-Jane), their two slaves, Gabriel and Tyler, otherwise known as the African, hadtaken refuge in the Farley’s fortified barn. The Colonel, Sergeant Kirby and all the men who had beenkilled (had their throats torn out and risen from their graves as Undead fiends under the power ofMaishia and aided by jackals over which the ancient Egyptian High Priestess also had dominion) hadattacked the barn. During the desperate struggle, the Union soldiers, the Undead, had forced their wayinside the barn. One-Eyed Joe, the Southern renegade, was with them, and had slain young Gabriel.Lieutenant Hamilton was killed in a sword duel with Picard. Robert had then seized his dyingcomrade’s sword, and, with a bold stroke, severed Picard’s head from his shoulders; apparently thiswas one of the few ways in which to despatch an Undead or Vampire. Other fiends had succumbed to arrows shot through their hearts. Bullets were completely useless against them.

However, near dawn, when it had seemed Robert and his friends might hold out and get to safety,Tom’s sister (Sarah-Jane) was abducted by a giant mute negro (Maishia’s body servant) and taken tothe Grafton House. Following a period of rest and preparation in use of the bow, Robert and Tyler(The African) had started out to save her. The African died in the forest, the victim of a cruel boobytrap, leaving my beloved Robert to go on alone. He had made Tom promise not to follow but the gutsyboy had disobeyed, and the next time he’d seen Robert was in an ancient Egyptian temple constructedamid the labyrinth of tunnels deep underneath the house. He had slain the giant negro and helped freeRobert and Sarah-Jane. They had set fire to the old house, but just as they’d escaped her evil, Maishiahad appeared in the forest before them.

Tom now recounted the dreadful detail of her painted face The sheer blue silk fabric of her gownhad appeared almost translucent and blown ragged about her body as she hovered above theundergrowth, and on her head a magnificent headdress of blue and gold, at its centre, a rearing cobra.Her almond-shaped eyes, as Tom recalled, had thrown out sparks that might have originated in thedepths of hell. He had tried to slay her with his bow but his arrows had passed harmlessly through her -her power too great. Her evil, mocking laughter had echoed in the forest for miles around. She hadboasted of her immortality and omnipotent power. Robert, realising the hopelessness of the situation,had courageously agreed to obey her and stay with her in exchange for the freedom of his twocomrades.

The nightmares now made perfect sense... every chilling detail. I, not just Robert, was linked to this curse.

Tom and his sister had returned to their farm, and, along with the medical orderly Hoppy and theirmother, had found their way back to New Orleans, and once there Tom had contacted Robert’s dearfriend Doctor Somerby. Little wonder George was drinking himself away. He blamed himself for Robert’s fate; after all, it had been he who posted Robert to the Delta. The Colonel had helped theFarleys settle in the city, giving them money for a lodging house, food and clothing. Tom said he hadwanted to contact me, but had not known where I lived, and Doctor Somerby wouldn’t reveal maddress, and no other Union officer based in the city would help a Southerner. I was filled with angerat learning this but understood that George had merely been acting to protect me, and, as I approachedSkegg’s Farm with this band of cut-throats, I had to admit that were I not so close to my objective, Iwould willingly have turned back.

Strange, despite the threat of danger and all that had happened, I couldn’t help wondering about thenature of Robert’s relationship with Sarah-Jane. Call it a woman’s intuition but they had, in facinadversity, become closer than friends. I’d seen even the most devoted husbands and lovers forget theirwives and girls when homesick or cooped up in a hospital ward. Dorothea Dix had understood suchtemptation, and Matron Stevens, heaven forbid that I should ever find myself in agreement with thatwoman. If Robert had been unfaithful, I should not hold it against him. All I cared about was findinhim alive and well and not as an Undead, a Vampire, for that would surely be harder to deal with thanhis death.

The wagon’s wheels jarred in another pothole, mercilessly throwing Tom and myself about on thehard planked seat. The rain still came down in torrents. We couldn’t see more than sixty yards aheadof us in the grey light, and as I had feared these past few hours, because of the bad weather, the onsetof dark would be soon upon us. I held on grimly to the edge of the seat, my fingertips numbed by thecold as Tom patiently steered the team. The same monotonous swampland rose up on each side of thetrack. It had narrowed steadily for the past mile, scarcely wide enough to take a wagon. The animalswere silent, sheltering in the hollows from the driving rain that made a loud pattering noise as it struckthe dense foliage. I remembered Robert telling me how, as a child, he had liked to hear the sound ofthe rain lashing against the windowpane; it had taken away his fear when he was frightened and alone.And now I, too, felt that same comfort. The tall cedars and cypress trees my fiancee had described sovividly, towered into the inky blackness of the sky, their branches weighted down with motionlessgrey curtains of Spanish moss, which gave this country its peculiar eerie air. In the creeks and bayousthere were alligators, poisonous snakes, and treacherous quicksand. Yet what was this compared to thered-eyed jackals with their razor sharp fangs and the Undead?

Then almost miraculously the track widened and up ahead, in a small clearing, I saw the unmistakable outline of army canvas, just as Robert must have. Army tents. Then a farmhouse. Slavecabins. We had arrived at Skegg’s Farm.

Tom set the brake of the wagon. Hatcher rode over, and, leaning forward in his saddle, said,

‘Looks like these-here folks left in a hurry...’ He cast an eye over the deserted encampment. ‘Well,you wanted to come to Skegg’s Farm, Lady. Well, here it is, and I don’t see no Sawbones, do you?’

He laughed, noisily drew up residue from his lungs and spat it out on the grass. Again he studied thedeserted camp, which was littered with discarded ration packs, personal belongings, the carcasses ofslaughtered animals left to rot, and even weapons. Quite a few of the tents had blown down, thesodden canvas strewn over the muddy ground. I noticed the guide’s attention focusing on the half-completed stockade, ringing the camp perimeter. The walls were six feet high, logs taken from theforest and bound together with rope. There was also a ditch. It seemed to have been constructed insome haste and only erected on three sides.

‘The way these fellas was digging you’d figure them for gofers. That’s some ditch. What the fuckwere they trying to keep out? They reckon Bobby Lee was gonna come down from Virginia? That’sthe fucking army for ya. I done my share of digging when Grant figured he could by-pass Vicksburgby digging a canal. I fucking hate officers. You hear that, Lady? We find that husband of yours, you besure and tell him that, cause iffen he tries to give me an order, I’ll shoot the son-of-a-bitch dead.’

Although I knew the purpose of the stockade, there was no way I could tell Hatcher. It would bedifficult enough persuading him to take us on to the plantation house. He wouldn’t have believed me,anyway. He was such an arrogant man, so consumed by hate he had forgotten the difference betweenright and wrong. I suppose the war had thrown up some unsavoury types on both sides. In peacetimewe hanged them; in wartime we pinned medals upon their chests.

I looked at the huge tent over to my right, the hospital pavilion.

‘I’d like to take a look around, Mr Hatcher. There might be some clues as to my husband’swhereabouts.’

‘You look all you want, Lady. I don’t see no Sawbones... No live ones, anyhows.’ He laugheduproariously.

I got down from the wagon. So did Tom.

‘And of course we shall have to check out the Grafton House. It was a temporary headquarters, Ibelieve.’

Hatcher looked at me meanly, his eyes all screwed up, his badly scarred face appearing more ruggedand aged. The rain was bouncing off his hat and running down his black oilcloth poncho.

‘You never said nothing about no plantation house. That ain’t in our deal.’

‘You want to get paid, do you not, Mr Hatcher?’

He spat on the ground.

Angrily.

‘Some advice, Lady, don’t get to being smart with me. I ain’t one of ya dandies from Boston. I don’tgive a damn how I treat ya. And this-here Grafton House, I seem to recollect hearing some darnstrange happenings there a few years back when I was moving through this-here country. A group ofunsolved murders, as I recollect, the local population scared out their wits, laying the blame on someslaves practising voodoo and the like. Murdering white folks in their beds, new-born babies and all.’

‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

He was silent a moment, then pointing to the scar on his cheek, snarled,

‘How you reckon I come by this? Going for a stroll round Audubon Park?’

‘It’s only fifteen or so miles,’ said Tom. ‘We could hold up at my farm. There’s a sturdy barn with agood roof. We would have shelter from this bad weather. It’s gonna rain all night.’

Hatcher twisted his neck and stared up into the rapidly darkening sky which seemed to be hanginglower and lower.

‘Your farm? How come you ain’t living there?’

‘My brother’s in the army, riding with General Forrest. With just Ma and Sis, and our help all runoff, we couldn’t eke out a living no more. So we figured we’d take our chances in the city. Ma and Siswere able to do laundry work and I was able to work at the docks.’

‘I don’t want your life history, you son-of-a-bitch.’

‘Well, Mr Hatcher?’

‘What exactly is your connection with this boy, Miss Merrick?’ he said with a nasty voice. ‘You twoseem mighty friendly for such a recently-made acquaintance. Boy, you fucking cross me and you’ll bealligator bait.’

‘Do you always threaten women and boys, Mr Hatcher?’

‘I’ll threaten who I darnwell please. In case you’re forgetting... I hold all the aces.’

‘All of them, Mr Hatcher? You certainly didn’t the other evening, at Lafitte’s.’

He didn’t answer that.

‘We’ll move out in an hour. Soon as the horses are rested and fed. One hour.’

He yanked up the head of his bay and rode off to join his companions. They had dismounted andtethered their miserable animals to a hitching rail before the farmhouse and were sitting on the broken-down veranda, eating hardtack and salt pork. At least they were out of the driving rain.

It was a painful experience for me being in the midst of that camp. I really felt for Robert. Whatanguish he must have undergone being kept under guard in his tent by his tormentor... Sergeant Kirby.In my mind, I could see the stubble-covered jaw of the non-com gyrating as he chewed hard on thedisgusting chewing tobacco, his hand gripping tightly the handle of a long-barrelled Colt revolver.Robert held as his prisoner, not for any crime, but awaiting to be taken to that unholy thing.

Inside the hospital tent I found one of his white medical coats. I held it to my bosom, stemming aflood of tears. Lying on a grey woollen blanket of a cot was one of his surgical books; others were stillpacked inside his saddlebags. He had bought them shortly before joining the army; reliable books onsurgery were scarce items, and Robert had said in his letters how his fellow surgeons had oftenrequested to borrow them. I recalled sitting in the drawing room testing him on his knowledge for hisexams. He was so pleased for me when I wrote to him and told him that I’d become a nurse.

I found his shaving mirror and razor, which I had bought him for his birthday the year before andsent South. I could only imagine the hardship of working in the field, amidst hideous disease andunsanitary conditions. How gallant of him to try and keep the worst of it from me. Intelligent, loving,with a sense of humour, he’d always brought the best out in me. I think I was in love with him evenbefore the first time we spoke. How tenderly he had seen to my ankle after my fall from my horse onthe common. I remembered looking into his eyes, clear and blue-grey... and now, God forbid, theycould be red with the fire of Hades. The thought of those jackals and Maishia made me shudder.

I dropped the shaving mirror.

For one terrifying moment I believed I’d seen her face in the shiny-backed glass. The almond-shaped eyes, with the exquisitely long black lashes, the painted lips, the blue and gold headdress, at itscentre a rearing cobra.

‘You all right, Miss?’ It was Tom.

‘Yes. Yes,’ I said dazedly and coming back to myself, scrutinising the mirror and half-expecting tosee the image, but the glass was clear. Not daring to pick the mirror up off the grass, I left it there.

‘It’s difficult being confronted with memories,’ I said. ‘And please, Tom, I’ve told you, please donot address me as Miss. It’s Annabel. It’s perfectly proper. And we are allies. A Yankee and aSoutherner on the same side, now that makes for an interesting situation. I’m sure President Lincolnwould approve. He’s supposed to be for reconciliation between the North and the South.’

‘Lincoln’s a bad man.’

‘No, Tom. No he is not.’

‘He is down here. In the South.’

‘Well, Tom we’ll have to educate you on that.’

‘Hatcher don’t look none too happy.’

‘Has he ever?’

‘I sure wished you’d caught up with me before you got to hiring him.’

‘So do I Tom. But since Mr Hatcher and his erstwhile associates always insist on getting paid, thatdoes rather mean we are stuck with them.’

‘We could try and give ‘em the slip. I know these woods like the back of my hand.’

‘I’m sure you do. But,’ I was looking at the inhospitable forest that was all around us, ‘perhaps thereis safety in numbers.’

‘You found anything, yet?’ he asked.

‘Well, we know Robert was here. The place is littered with his personal effects. And we know heleft in a hurry, he would never have left his surgical kit or his medical books.’

I glanced round the operating section. It was screened off from the rest of the hospital. There was abarn door that served as an operating table, at which Robert must have stood performing operations.There were basins, sponges, drugs, instruments. Then I found it. A small and very old book with a tattyblack cover; Gods and Man, by Edmond Brennier. It had always been a favourite of Robert’s, thebook, I had learned from his letters, he had consulted about the evil happenings in the delta.

Bending down, I picked the book up and opened it, the fragile, aged pages creaking a little. I wouldhave to study it, page for page; the answers to Robert’s salvation might lay within it.

‘What’s that?’ asked Tom.

‘The way to destroy the evil, I hope. It was Robert’s.’

‘This is the way to destroy the evil,’ said Tom brandishing his bow. He had brought it with himfrom New Orleans and not until he’d recounted the story about the attack by the Undead on the barn,had I been able to see a use for it.

‘If the army sent out search parties, as Doctor Somerby said, they were not very thorough. Whywould the men have left behind so much of their equipment, weapons even? There was no desertion enmasse, Tom. I wish there had been.’ I paused a moment to collect my thoughts, then said, ‘I shouldlike to gather up Robert’s things and put them on the wagon. See if you can find a chest or somethingbig to put them in.’

Tom did this. He put the clothes chest onboard the rig. We returned to the hospital tent, for the rainwas coming down fiercely, pattering on the canvas like someone was drumming on a hard surface with their fingers. It was so cold. I rubbed my hands together. We had a bite to eat. I understood now whysoldiers moaned incessantly about army fare; hardtack and salt pork were bland; it was like eatingnothing. Little wonder why they drank so much coffee, to keep their taste buds alive.

I asked Tom about his brother. Apparently Zeke was a boy soldier when he joined up in 1862,eighteen years old, Tom said proudly. I had nursed fifteen year olds, thirteen year olds, watched themdie, children. It was clear Tom was worried about his brother whom he had not heard from in over a year now. This sense of loss bonded us together. I had never got to know a Southerner properly before,and found myself growing increasingly fond of Tom, and realised why Robert had befriended him.

Presently, Ferret came over from the farmhouse and, standing beneath the fly, leered at Tom as Iimagined he might leer at one of the raw recruits he had molested. Oh, what a truly despicable creaturehe was. If a devilish beast were to pounce from the forest and tear his throat out, I should think I wouldclap and clap. As he stood there staring, rivulets of rainwater ran down the surface of his oilcloth. Hisknee boots had sunk up to the ankle in the soft mud. Gripped between his teeth was a clay pipe whichhe sucked on, and each time a drop of rainwater found its way to the burning tobacco there was asizzling noise. I hoped he would go away but he just stood there.

‘You looking at something?’ said Tom angrily.

‘Unfriendly critter, ain’t ya?’

‘To you.’

‘Ferret!’ shouted Bob Hatcher. He and the black man, O’Malley, had left the veranda and werepreparing to swing up into the saddle. ‘Git your ass over here! And leave the boy alone!’

Ferret muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He continued to stare.

‘He ain’t one of ya wide-eyed recruits,’ grinned O’Malley, riding up to us. He gave me a wink andflash of his pearly white teeth. He’d not spoken much with us, but I sensed of these desperate men, healone, had a semblance of honour and decency.

‘Shut your mouth, you Irish Field Hand.’

‘Why doan ya mek me?’

‘Button it, you two!’ snarled Hatcher. ‘And you, Ferret, you think to getting that thing of yours outon this mission, and I’ll darnwell cut it off, myself... balls an’ all.’

It took us an hour or so to reach the Farley farm. It was just as Robert had described it; the white-washed timber walls, the garden ringed by a neat waist-high picket fence, the pillared porch and thewhite-framed windows, at which there were pretty red-and-white checked curtains. A storm-damagedtree lay on the lawn, and had demolished a section of the fence. Down the track aways was a cluster ofshacks, I presumed, slave quarters. And opposite the house, on my left, was the fortified barn, with itssturdy mud-chinked log walls, and within whose walls the desperate struggle had taken place. Tomhad said it was built as protection against Indians and pirates in the early days of settlement, not tomention slave revolts. At least we would be safe this night. But what of the Grafton House? Whatthen? Strange, the closer we got to it, the colder it seemed.

‘Me and Mrs Merrick’ll bunk down in the barn,’ said Tom.

‘What’s wrong with the house?’ said Hatcher his eyes narrowed in a glare of suspicion.

‘It’s haunted,’ said Tom. ‘By a slave that once belonged to my cousins, the Hamptons. When theYankeeman took New Orleans in ‘62 they skeddadled off to East Texas. They had a runaway boiledalive. And just before the fire stole his last breath, he laid a curse on the family and whomever lived inthe house.’

‘Ya hear that O’Malley? Looks like this be a place tailor-made for you, you superstitious, cotton-picking slave.’

‘You watch who you go calling a slave. Ah’s a free man... and Ah hab de papers in my pocket terprove it.’

‘Free! You oughta know better than that, boy,’ scoffed Hatcher. ‘Boy, you can dress like the whiteman, you can sing his songs, you can talk like him, but boy, I’m telling you now that you ain’t nothingbut an ugly-ass chimp.’ To finish off his insulting remark, the guide stuck out his jaw, puffed out hischeeks as he made a noise in the manner of one such beast. And in case Mr O’Malley was of the mindto take revenge for this degradation Hatcher had a hand rested on the handle of the Colt revolverstuffed inside his belt.

He laughed to himself, which amused Ferret. It was sickening to observe such blatant bigotry butwhat could, I, a mere unarmed woman, do? And if I got involved, then I would feel the wrath ofHatcher, and I had to think about finding Robert.

‘Hell, I ain’t scared of no ghost,’ he said, ‘especially the ghost of a black slave. I fancy me a night ina warm feather bed.’

As Tom and I made our way down to the barn to put our gear inside, I asked the boy if it was true,the story about the ghost, and he replied, with a smile,

‘Nah, but the way I see things, it’s the safest place to be.’

‘You’re thinking of her?’ I could not bring myself to utter the name of that monster. ‘And thejackals?’

We went in the barn.

‘I’m kind-a hoping some of them pay Hatcher a visit in the night. He might be sleeping longer thanhe figured on.’ The boy peered through the shutter to the outside. ‘After I see to the horses, I’ve gottago someplace. You keep the doors closed, no matter what. One of them sons-of-bitches comes nearyou, you shoot him.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘I don’t want to be left alone, Tom. Can’t I come with you?’

‘Nope.’

‘Tom...’

‘I’ll be back soon as I can. Don’t worry yerself none.’

‘Worry? Why would I possibly worry?’

If I had sensed a peculiar coldness before, I found sitting in the barn akin to being in an ice house.There was a smell of death, and I imagined as I stared at the straw-covered floor, Colonel Picard’ssevered head lying on it, bright red arterial blood spurting from the jagged edges of his torso, and alsopoor Lieutenant Hamilton, Robert’s friend, taking his last gasps of life from a mortal wound. With myexperiences in the hospital, it was not difficult to imagine such a scene.

As darkness descended it grew colder still, and I spent my time pacing to keep warm, my armswrapped tight to my body. Oh what madness this was? What could I do against that evil creature, evenwith Tom by my side we would be no match for her. And what if Robert had become one of those evil fiends that stalked its prey in the shadows of the night? I tried and tried to convince myself that allwould be well, but the self-deception was becoming increasingly feeble against an onslaught of fear.Outside, I could hear Mr O’Malley and Ferret; they were cooking themselves supper, shelteringunderneath two oilcloth ponchos that they had erected as a sort of tent and tied between two trees.Hatcher, I presumed, was inside the house.

Where was Tom?

I continued pacing.

Shivering from the cold, rubbing the tops of my arms. And wanting to urinate, through the effects ofthe cold and the fear.

Then I heard someone call my name. My heart pounded. I moved closer to the door. Then I realisedby the sound of the voice who it was. It was Mr O’Malley. He was standing just outside the barn.

‘You wanting some coffee, Missy?’ he asked in a friendly and solicitous tone.

I moved closer to the door.

‘Got hot grub here, iffen it teks ya fancy?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You ain’t got no call to be worrying, Miss. Dem two, dey be full of hot air. Dere bark’s worse dandere bite. Now, Ah knows you be hungry and in need of a plate of good vittles. Ah cooked it myself,so Ah know it be good. Even Ferret eats my vittles. Ah ain’t no belly-cheater.’

Against my better judgement I decided to come out of the barn and join them. Being locked insidethere, cold and hungry, wasn’t the best of options, and I was beginning to trust Mr O’Malley. Wherewas Tom? He’d been gone for an hour, longer. If he had got himself killed, then what?

I sat down with the two men, their shelter scarcely adequate protection for all three of us against therain, Mr O’Malley making space for me on his side and sitting halfway out of the cover. He handed mea cup of coffee, which I sipped at, the heat through the metal making my cold hands tingle. I had neverenjoyed a cup of coffee more, nor I believe properly tasted it. Looking across the track to the house, Inoted a light on in the front bedroom. Pity there wasn’t a real ghost, thought I.

‘Devilish night,’ said O’Malley. ‘Dat coffee dere ter ya liking?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Dumb darky,’ sniped Ferret. ‘Used to waiting on white folks up at the big house. Yes, massa. No,massa.’ He roared with laughter.

‘Don’t mind him, he just ignorant. And, white boy, Ah can’t be in de fields and waiting on de folksin de big house, all at de same time. Ah’d hab ter be one special slave fer dat ’

‘Ignorant, am I?’ quipped Ferret. ‘I don’t recollect me working away in no fields, picking cotton, tillmy hands bled. Nor standing on a platform at an auction with folks bidding for me.’

‘Then you are fortunate indeed, sir,’ said I looking him directly in the eye, which seemed to makehim feel uncomfortable, but not, I sensed, ashamed or regretful for his bigotry; you could not wipe outcenturies of prejudice with a sharp sentence.

‘Spoken like a true abolitionist whore.’

‘I’m from Boston, so you shouldn’t be disappointed in my beliefs. You were in the Union army,were you not? The North is fighting to end slavery.’

‘I didn’t join up to fight to free no slaves. And when I realised who and what I was really fightingfor, I said to myself, Jedidiah Rudell, you prepared to have your legs shot away for a heathen race?And the answer was, no sir.’ He stood, swilled the remainder of his coffee on the fire, making it sizzleand the flames temporarily fade.

‘Ya care for some beans, Missy?’ asked Mr O’Malley.

‘Yes, thank you.’

He spooned me a generous helping from the cooking pot onto a twisted and bent pewter plate, addeda couple of pieces of beef jerky and hardtack, before passing it to me.

I ate ravenously, scarcely aware of the further bickering of the two men. But despite their obviousdifferences, a detectable comradeship was there. A bond born, perhaps, of their nefarious livingoutside the law. They were both poor, both underprivileged, both desperate, shunned by decentsociety, and if caught in a fix, would surely fight to save each other’s skins.

The rain persisted. I hadn’t anticipated this cold when I hastened South. I had read in Harpers Weekly that Grant’s men complained of the difficult winter campaign the year they took Vicksburg,Mississippi. That was in 1863. Coupled with Lee’s defeat at Gettysburg I’d felt certain the war wouldend. A year later I was listening to a 100-gun salute in celebration of the seizing of Atlanta. But thewar had gone on.

‘Hey, here comes Hatch,’ said Ferret. ‘I see that ghost didn’t git ya.’

The guide stood close to the fire, offering his hands to the flames. He’d rudely pushed Mr O’Malleyaside. These men reminded me of a pack of wild dogs. Hatcher was still wearing his black oilclothponcho. The linen cover to his cap was soaked right through, the cloth clinging to the back of his neck,which must have been uncomfortable. His knee boots were splattered in mud.

‘Where’s the boy?’

‘He...’

‘Where is he?’

‘He said he had to go somewhere. He didn’t say where.’

‘I don’t care for that boy. Too smart-mouthed for his own good. And what would you be needingwith an extra guide when you got us to protect you? Seems like a plain waste of money to me.’

‘Who I pay is my affair.’

‘You make sure I get mine.’

Hatcher parted his poncho, flipped the black waterproof material over his shoulder, pulled hisrevolver from his pants and pointed it, not at me, but at Ferret.

‘I reckon something’s disturbing the horses. You best go check on ‘em.’

‘I don’t hear nuthing.’

The revolver’s hammer made a loud click as the guide thumbed it back to full-cock.

‘I said check on ‘em. And that goes for you too, Field Hand.’

As Ferret moved away from the fire and took a few faltering steps into the rain-filled night andhorses tethered fifty or so yards away, Hatcher sneaked up behind him and gave him a kick up thebackside. This made the man curse but the threat of the revolver aimed at him tempered his desire forrevenge. Mr O’Malley passed a playful comment, promptly met with a cruel insult to his race andformer status as a slave, which again made me cringe.

Grousing, the two men set off on their errand, soon disappearing into the darkness and beyond therange of the flickering fire. Hatcher got out a half bottle of bourbon, pulled the cork with his teeth,took a long pull, before offering me a drink. I refused. He imbibed more of the liquor, wiping hismouth across his sleeve to catch the dribble.

‘O’Malley, can you think of a more stupid name for a slave?’ He shook his head, laughing tohimself. Took another swig.

‘Have you known those men long, Mr Hatcher?’

‘Too fucking long. O’Malley, he came downriver from Tennessee. Done a spell buildingfortifications for the Secesh when his master hired him out at $28 a month, over double the pay of aSecesh private. But O’Malley figured seeing as he was doing all the work, he should get paid. So, hecame to dig for our side, the boys in blue.’

‘And Mr Rudell?’

‘Ferret? He’s a bounty jumper. Enlisted ten times, and deserted as many, each time collecting $300.Until he got caught and wound up in my old outfit, Company B, 6th Iowa. We rode together whenGrierson raided the Rebel supply base at Newton Station, during the Vicksburg campaign. I hear tellwe had 20,000 Secesh out looking for us, every goddamn Rebel old enough to carry a gun in the stateof Mississippi, including Bedford’s Forresters. Went all the way to Baton Rouge.’

He drank the bourbon, guzzling from the upturned bottle, which was nearly empty.

‘Is that how you got that scar?’

Self-consciously, he felt the roughness of the puckered scar on the left side of his grog-reddenedcheek. It must have been a painful wound. Sabre and bayonet injuries, I had observed as a nurse, were not a common occurrence.

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘I am paying you.’

‘Not for my life’s history. Here, take a drink,’ he said proffering me the bottle. ‘It’ll warm ya innersagainst the cold. Fucking coldest I can ever remember in these parts.’

‘I don’t indulge.’

‘Quit the bullshit, Lady. I sin the way you looked at this liquor when I took it out of my coat pocket.You have a taste for it. And that’s not the only thing you gotta taste for, I’ll wager.’

As if to prove something to him or me, I took the bottle from his outstretched hand. This clearlygave him satisfaction at seeing through the veneer of respectably I had elaborately woven, believingthat it would help protect me if he saw me as a lady. Looking him straight in the eye, I raised the bottleand put the neck to my lips and partook of the coarse spirit, which burned the back of my throat butsettled warmly in the pit of my stomach.

‘You have got the taste. That ain’t no smooth store liquor. Take another pull.’

I did.

‘Satisfied?’

He seized the bottle. ‘Ya know when I first laid eyes on you at Lafitte’s, I said to myself, nowthere’s a spirited wench, she wouldn’t give it to a man easy. There’s a woman who would fight me allthe way. A woman I wouldn’t mind bedding down with on a cold night. A night such as tonight, forexample.’

‘I’m married.’

‘Then you’ll be well broken in.’

A hand shot out and enclosed painfully around my feeble wrist. I was dragged across the soddenground to the barn, manhandled inside. I looked to the others for my salvation, but they were not there.I tried to scream, only managing a squeak, and before I had a chance to try again Hatcher had the doorclosed, and me pinned against the hard log and earth wall, his hands squeezing my breasts, his foultobacco-contaminated breath blowing into my face.

His eyes stared into mine, and when I turned my head aside, gripping my chin, he forced me to lookat him. His face was so close to mine, his stiff bristly whiskers sticking into my skin. Then I faced him,looking at him with a coldness that could have solidified water to ice. It was as if he expected this, yeawelcomed such hatred and fear.

‘I have a husband.’

‘You don’t seriously reckon you’re gonna find him. Lady, you don’t seem to get it. He’s dead.Buried in an unmarked grave. You gotta start concentrating on the living. You need a darn good pokeand I’m of a mind to give it to ya, and come morning when you still got the feel of me in your belly,you’ll be forgetting these foolish notions about the Sawbones.’

‘If you think being out here is such a waste of time, why did you agree to come?’

‘You’re paying, ain’t ya?’

‘Exactly. Now take your filthy hands off me,’ I said as firmly as my quivering voice would permit.It didn’t deter him, he just laughed. Then replied nastily,

‘Fuck you. I figured I’d take me a bonus.’

‘Is that how you prefer it, bully a woman into submission, take her against her will? Is that why youdeserted from the army, because you couldn’t hack it as a real man?’

His rugged features contorted into a scowl, his eyes narrowed. All I could see was that scar, runningdown from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth. His hands groped my breasts. I waspowerless to move with his bulk pressing me to the wall of the barn, yet it was debatable whopossessed the power, his mind clearly in turmoil.

Then he recovered. His mouth came over mine, his tongue forcing its way between my teeth as hishand prized my jaw wide. I was impassive, as still as a stone statue. The top of my blouse ripped open,his hands came over the flesh of my womanhood. I was impassive. If he were to take me, then theexperience should be for him no more pleasurable than lying with a corpse.

‘What’s wrong with you, bitch?’

‘You’re not here, Mr Hatcher. I shan’t scream. I shan’t call out. Do what you will with me.’

I watched with satisfaction as the look of triumph faded from his florid, bewhiskered face, asconfusion came to his eyes. The predatory animal was no longer there, just a frightened and lost soul,the remnants of a fearful battlefield encounter. A raised sabre, slashing. A face cut open with the coldsteel of an enemy.

His hand came up to his cheek as he backed off and he stroked his scar, pathetically, like adistressed child.

‘What are you waiting for?’ I prompted undoing my blouse and letting my breast hang out from thetorn fabric.

He backed off further. ‘You’re not fucking normal. No normal woman would come out here in thiswilderness.’

‘Don’t you want me, Mr Hatcher?’ My voice was victorious and taunting.

‘Get away from me, bitch! You just make sure I git paid for my trouble.’

‘We must go to the Grafton House, first, Mr Hatcher.’

‘We’ll go there.’

At that moment there came the noise of someone trying to enter the barn. After repeated banging onthe doors, Hatcher finally relented and opened them. In came Tom, a look of revenge on his freckledface as he beheld my torn clothes. But I couldn’t possibly allow him to fight Hatcher, risk injurydefending my honour.

‘It’s all right Tom, Mr Hatcher was just leaving. Weren’t you, Mr Hatcher?’

‘The fuck I am.’

Tom raised his bow. Aimed a metal-tipped arrowhead at the chest of the guide, taking him bysurprise and preventing him from whipping out one of the revolvers stuffed inside his belt. Tomstretched the bowstring tauter, his young arms quivering under the strain. It would take the merestinclination for the arrow to be loosed and bury itself deep in Hatcher’s chest.

‘I never like you,’ said Tom.

‘You piece of gnat’s piss. I ate small fucking Johnnies like you for breakfast. You be watching whoyou go threatening, boy.’

With that Hatcher left us.

I closed my eyes, unable to believe the danger had passed. Then suddenly I remembered my tornblouse and covered up my exposed breasts. Tom smiled sympathetically. He went to the door to makesure the guide had really gone, then closed it and drew the bar lock across.

I began to feel the cold again and shivered. Tom came to my side and kindly draped a blanket overmy shoulders.

I shuddered.

‘I never like that man. Next time, I kill him.’

I didn’t say anything, fearful that Tom meant exactly that. But maybe he was right, a man such asHatcher only understood violence, and as the Bible said, ‘He who lives by the sword, shall die by it.’Was I becoming a barbarian out here in this Godforsaken place?

‘Did you see to your business, Tom?’

The boy nodded.

‘My throat’s parched. Is that how it feels when you’re really scared? Have you a drink of water?’Rape, it was such a simple word; a word that couldn’t possibly describe any woman’s feelings at beingviolated so. ‘He’s such an unpleasant man. I wished I had never hired him. But I was desperate. Everyday I delay, there is less chance of finding Robert unchanged. Yet I am scared more than ever nowwe’re so close to the Grafton House. I feel certain we will find him, and I am fearful of what we will discover.’

Tom handed me his canteen. I poured the contents down my throat, the cold water taking away thedryness. I had to talk, if I stopped talking the terror would close in on me, crush my determination, andI would run. I gulped down more water, then gave Tom his canteen back. He pushed the cork stopperhome. It was wooden, the name of a Confederate soldier carved into the side; not one of the Union’s quality factory-made tinned canteens. I wondered about the man who had owned it, carried it intobattle.

Tom walked across the straw-covered dirt floor and peered out through the shutter.

‘Tom, how far is it to the Grafton House?’

‘A right smart distance.’

‘And what’s a right smart distance?’

‘About ten miles, I reckon. That’s iffen we go into the forest. By road, it’s longer.’

Just then I heard the strangest noise outside. A shrill wail... long and eerie, and with a resonance thattrailed off into the depths of the night, seeming to echo round the forest, from whence it appeared tohave originated. I watched as a look of alarm crossed Tom’s young face, his features tightening.

‘Was that...?’ I asked nervously.

‘Yeah, a jackal.’

I had expected him to lie to me, to try and persuade me that there was nothing to worry about, butthere was no attempt at pretence on his behalf. The muscles in my stomach clutched up as a horriblefeeling of nightmare settled there. I could feel my heart pounding.

‘One of her jackals?’

‘I figured that when me and the Major torched the old house that we got ‘em all. They was in theirdaytime form... bronze statues lining the hallway. I guess we didn’t git ‘em all. She got out. Guesssome of them did too.’

‘Bronze?’

‘They come to life at night, to do her bidding. Ain’t nothing that a well-aimed arrow won’t sort out.Can kill ‘em with a gun, too. It’s her we gotta watch out for.’

The boy came away from the shutters. He took to a milking stool, gazing reflectively around thebarn, I could tell reliving the violence that had taken place there. The oil lamp flickered, shedding itsjaundiced light across the mud-chinked walls; they still bore the marks of the lead that had chewed intothem. I could read the pain in Tom’s freckled face, and if he had seemed young and vulnerable, he diddoubly so now.

‘They were your friends? The two slaves?’

‘Ex-slaves. Ma freed ‘em when the war started. Course, they might have run off iffen she hadn’t.Gabriel was like a brother to me. We was the same age, grew up together, hunting in the forest, ‘an all.And the African, Tyler, he was like a pa. He weren’t much for words, and he didn’t take to strangersnone. But I reckon he liked Robert. Oh, yes, Miss Annabel, he sure liked Robert. The African taughtthe Major how to use the bow. As I told ya, he was killed in the forest by one of her booby traps.Gabriel, he died here in this-here barn. Buried them down yonder. Put up carved markers for ‘em,before Ma, me and Sarah-Jane set out for New Orleans.’

‘Was that where you went?’

He nodded sadly.

‘I read about all this in Robert’s letters. I could tell he thought highly of your friends, too. It musthave been truly terrifying for him to have to continue on alone to the Grafton House, with the Africandead.’

‘Took real guts. The Major’s a brave man. Could almost be a Southerner. And tomorrow we’regonna find him.’

In the middle of the night I awoke to hear the most frightful noise. The eerie wail. Fear had trickleddown my spine like drops of iced water. I had laid there, curled up underneath my blanket, kneesdrawn up to my stomach, arms enclosed tightly around them. I’d been conscious of every breathdrawn. Tom had remained deep asleep. Oh, how hellish the slow passing of those hours were. I wasacutely aware of each strange sound outside; the snap of a twig became the footsteps of the devil; therustling of the wind, her voice. I kept imagining her translucent form, as described by Tom, hoveringabove the forest undergrowth, closing in on Robert. I kept remembering the last time we were togetherat the railroad depot, that last embrace, that last kiss.

As soon as it was light, I got up and went to the shuttered window and peered outside. Mr O’Malleyand Ferret were not there, and I assumed were in the house with Hatcher. It had finally stoppedraining, though the cold persisted. I felt certain Hatcher had not done with me, especially after suchhumiliation at the hands of young Tom.

‘I’ve a mind to kill that scallywag,’ said the boy as if reading my thoughts. He snapped hissuspenders onto his shoulders; they were broad for his age. But he was still a boy, and it was myresponsibility to protect him.

‘No, Tom.’

‘He’s no-count poor white trash. You strike a deal with a man like that, you might as well strike adeal with the Devil.’

‘A Devil to combat a Devil.’

‘First sign of trouble, he’ll lit out and save his own skin. His kind always run. I bet you he spent hiswar cowering in a ditch.’

‘He must have done some fighting, the sabre wound.’

‘Probably self-inflicted,’ the boy scoffed unimpressed. ‘My brother Zeke told me about men whowas so scared of battle that they shot themselves.’

I rolled up my bedding, shaking out the straw. My blouse and trousers were damp, the jean clothsticking disagreeably to my skin. My hair was greasy. I wanted to scrub myself clean, to rid myself ofthe lingering feel of Hatcher’s hands on my body. I could smell his rancid breath, the stale tobacco andwhisky fumes. The taste of his saliva had stayed in my mouth making the spittle flow, and no matterhow often I’d spat the saliva out, swilled my mouth with canteen water, the taste of him remained.

I did the best with my appearance I could, knowing it would please Hatcher to see me down. Istitched up my torn blouse, tidied my hair, which at least could be covered with my hat.

‘Did you hear anything last night, Tom?’

His freckled, normally cheerful face, took on a serious look, his big green eyes darkened and hisbody visibly tensed.

‘The jackals?’

‘Whatever it was, it seemed to be very close. At one point, I thought I could hear claws scratching atthe barn doors. And there was the sound of a woman’s voice. Almost like music, as if she were callingto the beasts.’

We ventured outside. The shelter made from the two oilcloth ponchos Ferret and O’Malley had putup to protect themselves from the elements had blown down. The coffee pot hung over the dead fire.The wind was blowing hard. The camp was deserted.

‘God, it’s cold,’ I said rubbing my hands together. ‘It’s like Boston. It felt so warm, Tom, when Ifirst arrived in New Orleans.’

The boy was collecting twigs to make up the fire. I sat down on the log, nervously eyeing the bleaksurroundings.

‘I wonder where they are? The house looks so quiet, and I would have expected them to be up andabout by now. It’s gone eight. And you know how Hatcher hates to waste time.’

‘Maybe the jackals did for ‘em?’

‘Tom, please!’

‘They must be in the house.’

‘Yes.’

‘I hoped they wouldn’t go in there. Ma wouldn’t like it.’

At that moment the front door swung open and Bob Hatcher came striding down the steps and alongthe garden path. Crossing the track and reaching us, he eyed us both furtively. His sweat-stained Unionshell jacket was undone, too many of the buttons were lost anyway, and tucked inside his armybuckled belt were his two revolvers. He smelt. He couldn’t have taken a bath in months. I hated those slanting eyes.

‘And how are you this morning? I trust you slept well? And, boy, I didn’t see no slave ghost lastnight.’ His dirty teeth showed in a smug grin. ‘You making breakfast for old Hatch? When you’veboiled that coffee, slap some grease in the pan and rustle me up a plateful of coosh. You know how tomake coosh, boy? You oughta, in the field it’s what you Johnny greybacks live on.’

‘I know how to make it.’

‘Then jump to it!’

The guide looked behind him and over in the direction of the trees where the horses were tethered.

‘Lost a horse last night. Sent those two stupid sons-of-bitches to bring it back. Stupid fuck-pigs, do Ihave-ta take care of everything myself? That bay cost me $50. A thoroughbred racer from a Rebplantation.’

His attention returned to Tom. The Southern boy was squatting on his haunches trying to light thepile of twigs he had put on the fire. Because the kindling was damp he had a difficult time, buteventually with the help of some paper, the fire was going and the water in the pot boiling. He pouredcoffee beans, which he had ground up, into the pot and mixed the brew with a slim twig. The pungentaroma wafted into my nostrils, and I eagerly awaited my first cup of the piping hot liquid. Hatcher,naturally, insisted on being served first, rudely taking from me the cup Tom offered.

‘Not bad coffee, boy.’

‘You want some, Miss Annabel?’

‘Thank you, Tom,’ I said taking the cup.

The boy now began frying the bacon grease, to which he added corn meal and water, and theleftovers of the beans Mr O’Malley had cooked the previous evening. I, myself, savoured the warmthon my hands from the hot tin cup and the sharp awakening taste of the strong black coffee. Although ithad ceased raining, it remained overcast. I had noticed the birds were conspicuously quiet. I hadalways, until now, considered evil to be a force lurking within us. We, each of us, could succumb tothe temptation of choosing wrongdoing. There was no such place as hell; hell was in our own world,and we humans created it on earth with our wrong deeds.

Periodically Hatcher, with a pair of officer’s field glasses, scoured the line of trees that marked thebeginning of the inhospitable forest.

‘Where are they?’ he grumbled. ‘Where are them useless fuckers?’

I exchanged a tense look with Tom. The guide raised the glasses to his eyes again. Then came asatisfied, ‘Aaah...’

Ferret emerged from the trees, presently followed by the black man, O’Malley. For once they werenot hurling insults at one another, but were silent. Soon they had come up the grassy slope and werestanding among us, written on their grimy, sweaty faces an intrigue that was most disconcerting,especially for one as I, who had knowledge of this sorry tale.

‘Where’s my horse?’ snarled Hatcher.

Neither man replied.

‘I said where’s my horse?’ This time Hatcher’s voice was raised, barbed with aggression and I wastruly fearful for the men’s safety, at least one of them.

‘It died,’ said Ferret.

‘You what?’

‘I said it be dead. Wolves got it. Made a real mess of it, Hatch.’

‘Where did this happen?’

‘In the woods, half a mile from here, mebbe.’

‘Mebbe, I should take a look.’

‘You doan wanna be doing dat,’ said Mr O’Malley, placing a restraining hand on the guide’sshoulder, as might a comrade. Hatcher didn’t see it that way, of course, and erupted,

‘Boy, you tek black paw offer me!’

‘You wanna go look at dat horse, white man? You go right ahead.’

The black man stepped aside and moved to the fire and poured himself a drink from the steamingcoffee pot. As he raised the cup to his lips, I saw Hatcher go to strike him, before, thinking better of it,bridling his anger.

‘Oh, hell, it weren’t our fault, Hatch,’ said Ferret. ‘We know how much you thought of that horse.But we lost plenty-a horses in the war.’

‘Not my horse. You lost my horse,’ spat the guide through clenched teeth, his hand twitching at thehandle of his Colt revolver. ‘And seen as you ain’t too phased by this, Ferret, I’m gonna take yourhorse.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the short man protested.

‘You can ride with O’Malley.’

‘I ain’t riding with him. I ain’t.’

‘Den it look like you gonna be getting sore feet, white man,’ grinned Mr O’Malley, his pearly teethshowing in his ebony face with a toothy smile.

Thus Ferret travelled with us in the wagon. I sat next to Tom on the hard plank seat, Ferret in the backwith our gear and supplies. The stench from his fetid clothing was a permanent irritation, but it was histalk I objected to most. He tried to make polite conversation in his own inimitable fashion. He was asickening specimen of humankind, and I found myself wishing that a Rebel cannon ball had landedright on his head. Although the roads were drying out they were still quagmires, and progress wasslow. Hatcher rode out front, as always. We didn’t reach the Grafton House until gone twelve, and aswe made our way up the narrow track that lead to the iron gates I felt a profound coldness.

‘You hear whut Ah hear, Ferret?’ asked O’Malley kicking on and riding alongside the wagon.

‘What you on about, Field Hand?’

‘De birds, dey doan sing. Now doan ya think dat mighty odd?’

Ferret listened.

‘Ya right. Hey, and you notice how cold it got?’

‘Like an ice house,’ said the black man vigorously rubbing the sleeves of his jacket.

I looked at Tom. Judging by the calmness of his demeanour, he had experienced all this before. Ihad kept on trying to convince myself that I had been imagining this creeping cold, the closer we gotto the Grafton House, but now the others had noticed it too. It was so quiet. The sound of hoofsslopping in the mud, the clink of trace chains, the spasmodic squawk of an axle, these were the onlsounds as the wagon rolled forward, up that track, up towards the old house.

The track veered off to the right, straightened, presently leading us to a pair of huge wrought irongates. The most imposing gates I had ever beheld, and could have been the gates to hell itself.

Hatcher dismounted and pushed them wide, the joints of the rust-encrusted hinges creaking loudly.He was the sole one among us who didn’t seem to sense the evil. Perhaps because he was evil himself.

‘Hey, Hatch, I ain’t liking this!’ announced Ferret. ‘First the horse all chewed up. And now this plantation, creepy as a cemetery.’

‘You chicken?’ replied Hatcher. ‘Frightened of your own shadow. How about you, Field Hand? Youscared?’

He shook his head. ‘Uh, uh.’

Well, I was. I could feel my knees knocking beneath the blanket I had draped over my lap to keepout the cold. I gripped the edge of the hard planked seat hoping no one would notice my malaise. Sincetravelling south, I’d thought of myself as being closer to Robert. Yet at this place, the place I shouldhave felt closest to him, there was nothing.

Even as a burned out shell the Grafton House had a commanding presence. It must have been a hugehouse, almost a palace. I imagined the fine carriages of the southern planters pulling up outside and theblack servants attending to them and their ladies. The house was vividly described in Robert’s lastletter; the thick white columns, the marble-stepped portico, the tall ceilinged hall, and the grandstaircase, branching off on separate landings, and decorated with rare art. It was once the home of theGraftons, Evelina and her younger brother, Charles, who had fallen under the spell of a strange womanfrom Europe, who we now knew to be Maishia. The thought of her evil stoked my anger, stole mfear, and I wanted to find her, drive a wooden stake through her heart and cut off her head, so help meGod.

The lawns were completely overgrown, the gravelled driveway hemmed in by a vast army ofencroaching weeds. The roof of the house was entirely gone. What remained of the lower walls werecrumbling away, the white plaster burned black and the glassless rectangular windows ghostlyapertures. Skeletal red brick chimneys towered into the slate grey sky. A couple of Corinthian columnshad crash-landed on the driveway, broken into sections. To think that Robert, always so respectful ofprivate property, had committed this vandalism. And he had been so close to salvation. Why, oh whhadn’t she been destroyed in the flames?

We drove the wagon forward, following Hatcher up towards the house. Outside the front, the guideswung down from his horse and went and stood on the marble steps, gazing at the ruin with the air of aconqueror, as if he admired such destruction.

Tom set the brake.

Hatcher barked at Mr O’Malley. ‘Get a fire going. I could use some hot coffee. This Rebel dungheap is cold as winter rain. I never felt such cold, penetrates to the bones. Well, what are ya waitingfor, ya dumb Field Hand? Git to it. Or are ya gonna go all superstitious on me again?’

The guide came over to the wagon. ‘Well, lady, here we are, the last part of our deal. Now you oweme $300, and in gold.’ He lifted his battered army hat off his unhandsome head. Ordinarily it wouldhave been considered a courteous gesture, but from him it was plainly a dig, his kind of humour,intimidation. He again cast a reflective eye over the ruined house.

‘Some of our boys must have come a-calling. Sherman, himself, would have been proud of this job.’He faced Tom. ‘That the way it was here, boy?’

Tom was sullen.

He didn’t answer.

‘Well?’

‘Yeah,’ he said at last.

‘By golly, I bet you Rebels hate us plenty,’ sniggered the guide with a hateful glint in his black eyes.‘Burning ya houses, setting all ya help free, pissing on ya land. You hate me, boy. Question is, whetheryou got the balls to do anything about it?’

‘I should save your challenges for full-grown men, Mr Hatcher.’

‘When some son-of-a-bitch threatens to shoot a goddamn arrow into my chest, then I consider themfull-grown.’

With the tension mounting and seeing the two of them winding up engaged in an ugly brawl, orworse, gun play, I promptly changed subject.

‘Naturally we should like to have a good look around.’

‘You got till four o’clock, Lady. Then we’re out of here. I wanna be back in New Orleans.’ Hatcherchuckled to himself and shook his head, indicating a disbelief that we had come to such a place. If onlyhe knew the truth, he would not be so smug, thought I. No, indeed.

We waited for him to move away and for Ferret, also, to jump down from the wagon, before Tomreached behind the planked seat for one of the oil lamps. It was essential if we were to search thetunnels hewn out of the rock deep beneath the house, and which Tom believed would still be intact,there being little to burn down there. We were about to walk up the steps and into the ruin whenHatcher suddenly shouted out,

‘Hey, Lady? What’s with the lamp?’

‘We wanna take a look at the cellar,’ answered Tom.

‘And what you carrying that-there bow for? Expecting trouble, boy? You reckon on being somekind of Indian?’

‘Enjoy your coffee and hardtack, Mr Hatcher,’ I said.

‘Four o’clock, Lady.’

That was the last we heard of Hatcher for a while. We slowly ascended the fire-blackened steps atthe top, Tom pulling aside the charred timbers and masonry blocking our path. The inner walls had notwithstood the flames nearly so well, seldom exceeding beyond a few feet in height. Remembering thestories about the jackals transforming themselves into live things from inanimate bronze, I scanned theash-covered and debris-strewn hall, half-expecting to see their bronze statues. Thank God it was daytime.

Locked in deep thought, Tom I assumed, was trying to fix his bearings. So young, and yet soresolute. What right had I to lead him into such grave danger? His mother would never forgive me. ButRobert was his friend, too. And Tom wasn’t here just to help me - he was here for himself and revenge.

‘I ain’t sure, but I reckon the secret passage was on that side,’ he said pointing to our right. ‘In thestudy. I weren’t here long, and it was powerful dark. I recollect seeing books on the walls. And Ireckon the door, leading to the tunnels, was part of a book-lined wall.’

‘We best go and see, then.’ Again my throat was excessively dry and the words came out as a feeblesqueak.

We clambered over the rubble. Tom warned me to be careful and mind my step. The heavy rainfallhad made the ash-covered surface slippery, and more than once I lost my footing, getting my handsmucky. The water had gathered in puddles, adding to the stench of the place, assaulting my nostrils, making me feel sick. The slightest disturbance would cause segments of the damaged masonry to fallaway, at one point a dislodged brick shaving my head. Every instinct told me to abandon my quest, torun back to Hatcher and urge him to leave the plantation. And Tom’s bravery merely accentuated myown feelings of cowardice.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes. No. I’m petrified.’

‘That mean scared?’

‘Yes, very.’

The boy was intelligently looking about the charred remains of the room. The soggy remnants offlame-chewed books lay about the floor. There was a trace of the shelving and the wall beyond it,which remarkably remained largely intact. Tom began pulling debris aside, allowing him to get closerto the wall. Then I saw it, the unmistakable frame of a door.

There had been a recent attempt to disguise it. Further, the wood was new, and there was a shinypadlock on it. Big, secure.

‘Looks like someone has been here recently,’ I ventured nervously.

‘Yeah. But who?’

‘It could be Robert?’

‘It could be her.’

‘How shall we open it?’

‘Can’t shoot it off, that would alert Hatcher.’ Tom pushed his floppy hat back off his brow as hegrappled with the problem. ‘I know, I’ll cut it out with my bowie knife. Might take a while.’

While Tom set to work, I returned to the hall to keep a watch on Hatcher. He and his cronies werelounging on the grass, playing cards. As usual there was a lively banter. At one point, the guide lookedup, forcing me to dart out of view, my heart pounding against my chest, leaving me convinced that hehad foiled our plot. He was not learned, hadn’t studied books, but was clearly intelligent, andconstantly observing me. He had to have an endearing quality, no man could be all bad, surely?

‘Have you finished yet, Tom?’

‘Nearly,’ he replied digging into the wood with the double-bladed bowie knife. ‘Hell, they’re notmaking it easy for us. There, I’m through. You got the lamp?’

I came closer and handed the boy the oil lamp. He struck a match on his canteen, lighted the wick.The flame burned bright inside the glass, for it was dull inside the ruins. Tom made ready to pull backthe heavy wooden door. Suddenly it was too soon for me... I wasn’t ready. I looked apprehensively atthe padlock that lay on the floor, then blurted out,

‘No! I can’t do it!’

I backed away.

‘Wait here, then. Effen I ain’t back here within a half hour, you must leave without me,’ he saidbravely.

I made no reply, hating myself for my weakness, struggling to look Tom in the eye. He shook hishead and chuckled,

‘Girls.’

I managed a weak smile.

He pulled the door further ajar, the bottom scraping up the ash and rubble, pulled it wide enough forhim to crawl inside. He held the oil lamp out before him to see into the pitch-black passage. He checked the Indian bow slung over his shoulder, the wooden stake he’d tucked inside his belt andcarved in the barn the night before.

Then he ventured inside.

Pitch blackness.

I listened to his steel-studded brogans sounding on the floor of the passage, listened as his footstepsgrew fainter and fainter. Watched as the last light from his oil lamp disappeared. I needed to be strong,but couldn’t hold myself together, fear building upon fear, the shadows of the passage closing in onme, until... until I could stand the strain no more.

‘Tom! Tom! I’m coming! Wait for me!’

Thus I plunged into the darkness, my senses immediately overpowered by a stench of decay. Downthe steps I went, blindly feeling the mould-covered walls, horrible to touch, following in Tom’s wake,guided by the jaundiced light surrounding him, that thankfully soon brightened, allowing me to seebetter where I was stepping. I stuck as close to him as possible as we continued our descent - the steepsteps, hung with disgusting cobwebs, which I had to brush away from my face. The air was so heavy in the lungs, the sour taste lingering in my mouth; it seemed so stale it might have been centuries old.

Cobwebs, strange vegetation, was hanging everywhere. Still we descended, down, down, down.

‘How much further to the bottom, Tom?’

‘You scared?’ he said playfully.

‘Well, if you’re not, you jolly well ought to be,’ I scolded.

‘You wanna hold onto my arm?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You forget, you’ve done this before.’

Thus we descended, down and down. Down and down. Beyond the range of our oil lamp lay amysterious world of untold terrors. The cobwebs and green mould worsened, Tom clearing a pathwaythrough the grey matter that seemed so dense it could have been shabby woollen curtains draped infront of us. ‘Weren’t this bad last time,’ he said. ‘Where all this new growth come from? We burnedmost of it...’ Each downward step I took was filled with foreboding, and with each step I wanted to runaway more. Robert had walked this passage, and now I did. Oh, my beloved, what has that monster done to you? Then, finally, we reached the bottom, with me stumbling as I wrongly misjudged the last step.

I shivered.

It was intensely cold.

The long tunnel stretched out before us, cut through the rock, strategically positioned along its sidespine knot torches, which were unlit. It was about three foot wide and seven tall. The sandstone drippedwith water, forming in puddles on the dirt floor. The plants hanging from the roof reminded me ofstalactites from a cave.

‘You ready to go on?’ whispered Tom.

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

We moved forward. It was so quiet. A deep and pervading silence occasionally punctuated by thenoise of running water deep within the rock or the scurrying of a rat.

The tunnel veered to the right. Then narrowed, becoming more definite, the sandstone chiselled flat.Presently, we found these walls to be adorned with colourful and intricate drawings of life in ancientEgypt (I had seen similar pictures in Robert’s books). Life-size figures in farming, hunting, and fishing scenes against backgrounds of reeds and papyrus bushes. There were many obscure symbols -hieroglyphics. Most prominent was the Jackal God Anubis; the god that carried the souls of the dead tothe Underworld. Gazing upon these images filled me with a sense of wonderment, my fear leaving me.Anubis, that was her God!

We came to a pillared entrance.

We stopped.

Tom told me to hold the lamp while he got ready his bow, taking an arrow from the deerskin quiverslung across his back.

‘Tom, let me go in first.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘If something has happened to Robert, then I think it best that I see him alone.’

‘That blood-sucker could be in there. You forgetting that?’ The boy’s voice tightened with emotion;he was shaking. ‘She killed my friends. She killed the African, and Gabriel. I come back here to giteven with her. I made myself that promise the night we left Robert in the forest.’

‘Please, Tom... please try and understand and see this my way. And if she is, as you fear, in there, Ishall be able to call out for assistance, will I not?’ I found a smile. ‘And you could come in and rescueme.’

It was like stepping back 4,000 years in time. Two rows of thick sandstone pillars, twenty feet high.Walls inscribed with mummy and funerary scenes; the journey through the underworld and thejudgement of Osiris. There were statues of Anubis, the height of a tall man, with the jackal’s head, andthat appeared to be watching me. And from behind the red cloth screen at the back of the altar, drapedfrom ceiling to floor, I thought I could hear voices. I stared at the huge inanimate block of blackmarble, wondering - wondering where Robert was. The reed torches flickered on the walls. The templewas filled with an all-pervasive smell of, what I presumed, were the fragrances of the ancients, andwhich seemed to have a sedative effect upon me. I began to feel detached -the will to go on with myquest, eroded.

The voices, the whispering became more audible.

It was like beautifully poetic music, utterly entrancing, and with the allure of the Indian snakecharmer.

I felt weaker. Drifting and drifting. Thinking, trying to remember why, why I was there.

Robert. Was I there for Robert?

I was beginning to lose consciousness, my eyelids so incredibly heavy that all I could think of wasclosing them. The objects inside the temple went out of focus. The whispering voices seemed closer.The... Then suddenly there was darkness.

I felt the coolness of the desert wind blowing in my face. I saw a sailboat gliding across theshimmering waters of a mighty river, beheld clusters of flat-topped, mud-brick dwellings, gold-adorned religious monuments. And beyond them, the desert. And a valley, with steep jagged rocks.And a temple, with a long avenue flanked by palm trees and more statues. Walls of white limestone,glowed in the moonlight, as if the temple had been lit up by an inner light source. And amid the rocks,amid those jagged rocks I heard a howl mingle with the rush of the wind. A long, eerie wail of thebeast.

I saw a young woman... embracing a handsome fair-haired man, the curves of her shapely figureshowing through the sheer fabric of her blue gown, the silk rippling and made ragged in the breezecoming in from the night through the temple’s thick pillars. She was kissing him, and he her. Then, as if sensing my presence, the man turned his head and looked in my direction.

I could not believe it...

for it was Robert.

A tiny yellow flame. The flame quickly grew in size and luminosity, until, in seconds, the templefilled with a bright light, so intense I was compelled to shield my eyes. Again, I heard the voices, thestrange dialect uttered by Sergeant Kirby.

The voices loudened.

Closer.

I clamped my hands fiercely over my ears.

A chill wind whipped up. Howling, screeching, gusting in my face, stinging it to numbness, blowingmy hair and clothing ragged. Unable to withstand its force I dropped to my knees. Yet as suddenly as ithad stirred, the wind died away, and I looked up.

I saw a face.

The beautiful young woman, whom I had beheld embracing Robert... or his double. Such beauty. Itwas the face of the woman who had stalked me in my nightmares, though more youthful.

She looked at me, her dark brown almond-shaped eyes hypnotic. She beckoned to me... for me tokiss her painted lips, for me to embrace her.

Stretching out her arm to me, she said, ‘Come nearer. Come to me.’ The words were softly spoken,almost a whisper. They spun around inside my head, refusing to fade, taunting me, working on myresolve as if they had been screamed. And I desired to embrace her, to hold her in my arms, as mylover. And thus, as she had asked of me, I moved towards her, trance-like, in awe of her beauty.

‘Come to me, Annabel. Come to me.’

And I did.

Go to her.

Just as it seemed our bodies should meet, a horrible snarl passed over her face terrifying me with aglimpse of her long pointed fangs. Her eyes burned bright with the heat of a red-hot coal, a furnace ofunholy light.

A diabolical laughter rang out in the temple, its effects brutally penetrating. Again, I covered myears. It was no use. Her laughter rattled inside my head, with it a pressure building within, intensifying, savagely pressing against the backs of my eyes. I could feel the blood thudding in my temples, pushingits way through my eardrums and trickle out and down the side of my neck. There was NO relief, theagony indescribable. It was as if my head was going to explode. And the wind blew. And its icy coldclaws ripped at my hair, tearing it from my scalp, taking the skin and roots. So cold. So cold.

I staggered about, groping in the darkness. My eyes were full of grit, it too painful to open them.Unable to see, was I... Only to hear... the sound of her hideous laughter.

The skin of my head tightened around the bones of my skull, my cheeks caved in. Incredibly, it wasas if my skin was shrinking, stretching tauter and tauter, to the bone. The pressure behind my eyesgrew. The pain was so intense I couldn’t think. Paralysed, unable to move forward, to go backward.

A blinding flash of light.

A puff of smoke.

Then the face was in my mind, THE CORE OF ME, AND I SCREAMED AND SCREAMED BUTCOULD NOT RID MYSELF OF ITS PRESENCE.

Then it disappeared.

Then the laughter.

And the wind subsided.

Groggily, I shook my head from side to side, not knowing where I was, and as the sandstone pillars,wall paintings and the statues formed from a blurred image, like figures gathering shape in a Bostonfog that was lifting, I recoiled in terror, my heart thumping wildly against my chest. It was as if I werewaking from a nightmare, except there was no warmth of a pillow or feathered mattress to clutch, totell me it was only a nightmare, that I was safe. Just the cold stone... all around me, silent. The torchesflickering on the sandstone walls. Silence. That was enveloping.

My eyes settled on the black marble altar before the red cloth screen. I shivered at the thought of thealtar’s coldness.

I had sustained injury, but as I checked myself, discovered that my hair, skin and clothing wereunscathed.

I became aware of someone behind me. And, forgetting that I was not alone in this matter, turned tosee young Tom standing a couple of yards inside the temple’s pillared entrance. His Indian bow wasdrawn back, the arrow shaft/flight placed to the string. He was so brave.

‘You all right there? I said you shouldn’t-a come in here alone.’ A smile came to his freckled face ashe chuckled,

‘Girls.’

‘I think I saw her,’ I said. ‘She has come to me in my dreams, in the looking-glass at Skegg’s Farm,but this was much more real. And she was younger. I felt her power. I’ve never... What kind of monster is she? Why did she have to pick on us? Monster!’

‘You still aiming to go through with this?’

I stared at the black marble altar, the red cloth screen, behind which, instinctively, I knew I wouldfind Robert.

Nervously, I fingered the smooth surface of the bright orange stone hung round my neck that Milliehad given me to ward off evil spirits. The stone felt especially cold, the coldness of it stealing into thetips of my fingers, and even the friction generated by rubbing did not generate a semblance of warmth.And as I stood there, staring at that black marble altar, that red cloth screen, my thinking was for thatalready lost, and that to be won back, if only I had the courage.

The idyllic existence I had planned with Robert could not have seemed further away, almost naivelystupid in its conception. How I had dreamed of our wedding day, wearing mother’s silk bridal gown,married in our local church on Park Street, in front of all our friends. And helping Robert run hismedical practice, there to support him in those moments of self-doubt that visit every caring physician.And cradling his babies in my arms. And spending long, carefree summers at my father’s beach houseat Cape May, New Jersey. And growing old together, uncertain of the future, but contented in our lastyears by the knowledge that we had lived a full life.

Ever since leaving Boston I had rehearsed the words of reunion. Now, they were lost to me. Therewas only the sight of those razor sharp fangs of my nightmares - fangs dripping with fresh blood, andwhich soon would be my blood. The men who’d fought big battles had known terror, but had onlytheir lives to lose. And I might lose my soul!

My soul...

As we had agreed, Tom stood back, framing the pillared entrance to the temple, bow at the ready.Tom. Bless Tom.

I looked at the red cloth screen before me, suspended from the ceiling, to a few inches off the stonefloor. The fabric was unknown to me. There appeared no thickness to it, yet it was quite impossible tosee through. The cloth had the appearance of newly spun, yet to the touch had the feel of somethingvery old. It was akin to handling discarded clothes that had been stored away in a dusty attic.

The cloth rippled slightly.

I stood back.

It was as if someone was standing directly behind it. I thought I could see the shadow of a person, aman perhaps - Robert. Then the cloth screen was motionless again.

I felt so cold.

A terrible cold.

I braced myself.

Took a step closer.

Hesitated.

Said a prayer, held my breath.

Then, kneeling, lifted the red cloth up.

The inner sanctuary was smaller, square in shape, with no pillars. Above me, a ceiling painted as thenight sky, STARS set against an enchanting dark blue background, twinkling as if they were real. Iwas deep underground, yet could have been gazing directly into the heavens. Then, remarkably, Iobserved a shooting star...

It was real!

Truly!

Again, the walls were adorned with drawings depicting scenes in ancient Egypt. And I knew thesepeople; their deities, their culture, their history. Horus, the God of the sky. Isis, mother of all things.Osiris, the supreme god. And Anubis, jackal god with the body of a man. Flickering lamps threwshadows across the walls, and a heavy smell of burning oil hung in the claustrophobic air. The airdown here was dense. It was as if I could taste the past in my mouth, of things very old, of things dead.And there was the smell of frankincense and myrrh. I knew not by what mysterious force I hadacquired such knowledge, for I had not before encountered these fragrances. I understood so much.

In the centre, I noticed a pit, of a diameter of about eleven feet, too far to leap across. What horror ofhorrors. Peering over the edge, I saw, at the bottom, snakes slithering through the skeletal remains, ofgod knows how many poor souls, their stealthy movement barely perceptible in the darkness, andgiving the appearance of a live mass.

I stepped back.

‘Robert,’ I called out. ‘Robert, can you hear me? Robert... answer me!’

I’d never been more afraid.

I shouted his name.

He didn’t answer.

A tear spilled from the corner of my eye and flowed down my cheek. I swallowed hard, wipedanother tear away.

I stared at the stone floor, dejected, broken, hating myself for my obstinacy at coming South andregretting not taking the advice of Doctor Somerby.

I had to leave.

To get free of this curse.

Now!

But finally about to rejoin Tom, I heard something and hesitated. To my right. And there, for sure, Isaw a cloth covering and the unmistakable frame of a doorway carved in the stone -an adjoiningchamber. Then the cloth rippled, as if blown upon by the wind. It was so cold. And it was gettingcolder. And I was shivering so that I might have been standing on a snow-bound Boston common inthe middle of January, clad merely in a night-robe.

‘Robert, is that you?’ I said tentatively.

No reply.

I moved closer. Only so much fear anyone can endure. I’d been tormented for long enough. Now, Iwanted this ordeal over, and if I should be confronted by the devil himself, then so be it. But to loseone’s soul!

‘Robert, is that you? Is that you, my darling?’

Silence.

Then, at last, an answer.

A voice familiar. Changed, but familiar.

‘Stay away, Annabel. Go back to Boston. While you still have the chance.’

He stood next to a huge quartzite sarcophagus, his back turned on me. His blue woollen army frockcoat was torn and sun-faded and stained with sweat and old blood gone brown. He had always taken apride in his appearance, it was so unlike him. His blond hair was dishevelled, long, strands touchingthe collar of his shirt. He wore no belt and the material of the frock coat hung loosely about his body,which I could tell was greatly thinned. We stood there, saying nothing. The chamber was clutteredwith shrine-shaped chests on portable sledges and animals that cast strange shadows on the walls,everywhere the glint of gold. It seemed an age passed us by.

Then, at last, he spoke.

‘I told you to go.’

‘How could I?’ I retorted emotionally.

‘You haven’t much time. It will be dark soon. You must go to the Farley plantation, spend the nightin the barn, where you will be safe, and at first light, you must start out for New Orleans.’

‘And what of you?’

I moved closer.

‘Keep your distance,’ he said sternly. It was as if he were barking an order at a private, notaddressing the woman he loved. Then, as if responding to my distress, he said in a more mellow tone,‘I’m not the man you knew. That person no longer exists. Annabel, you must forget you ever knewme.’

Still he refused to face me. There was a certain tension in his voice perhaps indicating how much ithurt him to say these things, but he had said them all the same and his words came with the cruelty of adagger plunging into my heart.

‘I’m not frightened of dying Robert... because life without you is death.’

‘You do not know what you are saying.’

‘You accuse me of insincerity?’

‘You do not understand. You do not understand. You risk more than death. There are states of beingworse than death... eternal hell, living death. Should I have been slain in battle, I should haveconsidered myself fortunate, indeed.’

‘You talk about the loss of the soul?’

‘Yes. And more.’

‘If you are sick, I can help you.’

‘No!’

‘Robert...’

‘There is no cure.’ His voice was raised.

Through my mind flashed the individual pages of his letters, those letters I had read by candle-lightand studied until I could no longer bear to look at them. Despite the forbodings, I had never fullybelieved that I would find him anything other than safe. I had denied the possibility of defeat, just likethe soldiers with pus in the blood, who had, against the officiating surgeon’s verdict, believed theywould somehow rally. I had sponged their sweaty brows as the fever took their bodies on that walk tothe grave, seen their pathetic last flickers of hope fade from their bloodshot eyes, heard them beg me tohelp save them.

‘Robert...’

‘No,’ he interceded.

‘George has betrayed me. I trusted him not to tell you.’ There was a pause, a change in his voice, akindness, Robert. ‘But then again, Annabel, you always were determined. It was one of the things Iloved most about you, that indefatigable competitive spirit. You’re as stubborn as these people downhere about their rebellion.’

‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘But they’re going to lose, Annabel.’

A silence encroached upon us. I was feeling dizzy, a certain weakness in my legs. The ancientEgyptian artefacts and their shadows on the walls loomed in my mind.

‘Tom’s here.’

‘Tom,’ he echoed, the joy of missed friendship in his response to this news. ‘I thought it was he.’

‘I hired him as a guide. He’s a good boy.’

‘The best, Annabel. The best. Even if he is a Rebel.’ His demeanour again became grave, as if hedared not allow himself a moment of playful talk. ‘He should not have brought you here. He is close athand?’

‘Yes... Waiting for me at the temple entrance.’

‘Go to him Annabel. Go...’

‘No! No!’

I rushed forward and clung to Robert. At first, he resisted my embrace. Then he turned and I felt hisarms slowly come around me. I held onto him as tightly as I could, determined never to let him go.Tears of joy welled in my eyes. I clung to him, drawing upon his strength, our bodies fused together...until he suddenly broke away, moving back into the shadows, leaving me clutching a memory andweeping inconsolably.

‘Don’t cry Annabel. Please.’

‘Then don’t make me want to,’ I sobbed.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Whatever happened to your fighting spirit? You mustn’t give up, no matter what she has done to you.’

‘If only you knew how much I have missed you. How I wanted you by my side these past threeyears. I must have read each of your letters a hundred times. I read them so much, I almost wore thepaper away. There was scarcely a moment that you weren’t in my thoughts.’

‘And you in mine, my darling.’

‘But... But it’s no use. It’s too late for us now. She’s seen to that.’ Then he added, ‘But it’s not too late for you!’

He moved further away and began pacing, keeping his face hidden in the shadows, the hard leathersoles of his army knee boots echoing on the stone floor. I stared at the sarcophagus, her tomb -swelling within me a rabid hatred. I kept hearing the click of Robert’s footsteps on the floor - and somewhere in the background the voices of the ancients, and felt on my skin the cold of a desert wind.Her kingdom... or his?

‘Every day the hunger grows. Every day, I become more like her. I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I try toremember things from the past but the memories are becoming lost to me. I didn’t immediatelyrecognise you... You, my love. I get this pain in my stomach... that is so intense I want to snatch up aknife and cut my stomach open and yank my intestines out. I’m like a morphine addict. We pumpedthe wounded full of that drug, and when their wounds were deemed healed, I watched men curl up inagony on their cots when we refused to let them have more. They begged us, but we didn’t listen. Theyscreamed at us Annabel! Screamed!’

‘Hunger? You say hunger?’

‘Yes. And you know what I hunger for - blood! Human... blood. And, Annabel, were you to come closer I would drain the blood from your body, every last drop.’

Opening his mouth wide, he revealed to me a set of gleaming white dog-like fangs. The incisorswere very pointed, curved slightly on the insides, and I sensed razor sharp. They were perfectlyhideous. And I bowed my head and stared at the floor, not knowing what to say, as if being confrontedby a double amputee coming round after going under the saw, except this was so much worse.

‘What has she done to you?’ My words trailed off feebly, there was no defiance now, no hope, just asad recognition of defeat.

‘It is not only what she has done to me. But what she could do to you.’

‘Where is she, this thing?’

‘Gone to the coast. She has purchased a coffee plantation in a remote part of Brazil, where no one islikely to care about a missing slave or Indian. We should have departed here months ago, had thecaptain not reneged on his deal, and I expect he is dead now for it.’

Wiping a tear from my eye on the back of my hand, I raised my head fully, to look at him.

‘Then we must leave here... together.’

‘Impossible! Even if I could control this evil within me, and not endanger you or others around me,she would merely find us. And then she would kill you.’

‘Find us? In Boston?’

‘Her powers know no bounds.’

‘We must at least try.’

‘Haven’t you been listening to me? It is easy, Annabel, to be brave when you have not been in abattle. Do you remember the raw recruits of 1861 -how brave they were? Do not misunderstand me inthis, I love you for your courage. I will always love you. But...’

‘Don’t give up! I can’t bear it!’

‘She will take your soul Annabel.’

‘I don’t care. Hope. There must be some hope for us.’

‘Hope? What is hope?’ He appeared distant, like a tutor considering a tricky question posed by oneof his students. ‘We do not realise how much hope sustains us in our daily lives, how dependent uponit we are, how much we need to have a future to live in the present. But for me, there is a wall ofblackness. Worse, a prospect of never-ending pain and torment, and not even death can be a release,not as we understand it anyway.’ He paused, looked at me soulfully - a dying soldier. ‘If you reallywant to help me, Annabel... If you really care for me... Then you must destroy me.’

I shrank back in horror.

‘Strike while I retain enough good in me to permit my own destruction.’

I placed my hand over his mouth in a bid to silence him and in doing so felt the razor sharp tip ofone of his fangs against my finger, generating a needle-like sensation as if I had pricked myselfsewing. That moment lasted a thousand years. But I knew I had to be brave, for Robert’s sake. And Iwas a nurse, I told myself; I had overcome the sight and distress of the most appalling injuries. But tolose my soul?

‘Do not speak of such things.’

‘I must.’

‘No.’

‘Sever the head from my body, Annabel. I know I have no right to ask this of you... but there is noone else to help me.’

‘No!’ I screamed. ‘I will not!’

‘Take pity on me. Do not condemn me to become one of them.’ He was shaking.

I desperately wanted to reassure him, to tell him there was hope, that he was suffering from adisease and I would be able to help him recover. Yet in his eyes I was a stranger, someone whom hehad already given up on a long time ago - as he had his life. I was a nurse, my every instinct was tohelp him, but I could not have felt more inadequate. Experience had taught me that words of consolation for the gravely injured and sick were useless, they died all the same. But this was Robert,my fiancee, my darling Robert whom I had travelled so far to be with.

‘I will not give in. If you can muster some fight, then I will find the strength for both of us. I willhelp you recover from this evil curse, so help me God... if I have to give up all my worldlypossessions, if I have to sell my body as a painted whore, if I have to face all the demons of hell. Youmust believe in me, Robert, the power of our love.’

With this he appeared to rally, a flicker of contentment showing in his blue eyes, and again he wasthe man I fell so deeply in love with before the war.

‘Not many men,’ said he, ‘know the love of a good woman in their life. I am, indeed, fortunate.’

‘That love is not lost. It’s worth fighting for, Robert.’

He sighed heavily. ‘I cannot guarantee your safety.’

‘Nor do I ask it.’

‘Your soul. Your immortal soul. I did not think there was anything worse than death, truly,especially when I encountered the great suffering of our wounded, the piles of amputated limbs Ihacked off. You know the horrors I witnessed. I was waist high in a sea of blood. But now I knowthere is something worse. I’m evil.’

‘No!’

‘Yes, evil.’ He said this with a hiss, his fangs showing, and, for the briefest of moments, his eyeschanged to a demonic red.

‘It’s a sickness.’

My throat was as dry as when Bob Hatcher tried to rape me in the barn and I found it difficult to getout the words.

‘You’re not evil.’

‘Then prove it,’ he challenged.

‘How?’

‘Put a crucifix to my forehead, and let us see whether or not God has spurned me.’

‘And if he has not? Will you leave here? Let me try and help you?’

He didn’t answer immediately, his mind grappling with his great internal turmoil. Then, at length,he nodded his consent.

The morning we had set out from New Orleans Tom had given me a small golden crucifix to weararound my neck. Unfastening the top buttons of my blouse, my hands shaking, I took it out. Robertmoved a step closer, his chest exaggeratedly rising and falling from the tension. He stood there staringat me, a disturbing remoteness in his blue-grey eyes, that were devoid of any semblance of warmth,totally impassive.

Tentatively, I held out the crucifix, pushing it steadily towards Robert’s forehead; apart from myown hesitance, there appeared to be another force acting against the crucifix, as if I were pushing itinto a strong head wind. This invisible barrier countered my effort, until I was scarcely able to hold thecrucifix, the muscles of my arms quivering under the strain. I felt light-headed, dizzy. The goldenmetal had become icy cold. I wanted Robert to speak, give me encouragement to act, but he remainedimpassive, and I hated him for it.

I heard voices, the chants of the ancients, my mind filled with images of the world of the Egyptians -her face, her painted face tormenting me.

But I resolved not to be beaten, and, focusing every atom of concentration, raised my right arm andthe crucifix in my hand upward, pushing it closer to Robert’s forehead. I said a prayer, ‘Our Father,who...’ Then pressed the shiny metal to Robert’s pallid skin.

A black void of nothingness. An abyss. I was in free fall, tumbling over and over, beholding thefaces of demons, the most hideous forms of human kind imaginable. Shrieks of their foul laughter ranout. I smelled their rancid breath, felt their clawed hands tugging at my clothing, then creeping vilelyover my skin. ‘They are not here,’ I tried to convince myself, barring these ghouls from my mind,refusing to allow them existence. Concentrating, concentrating on the crucifix in my hand, and thepower of our maker, the Lord thy God.

‘NO!’

‘NO!’

IT WAS MAISHIA.

HER.

THE DEVIL.

‘NO! NO! NO! NO! NO........’

Suddenly the demons were gone.

I opened my eyes, terrified at what I might behold. But it was not as Robert had feared, and tears ofjoy welled in my eyes as I saw that the crucifix, God’s holy symbol, had done Robert no harm.

I wept with joy.

There were many problems to be overcome. Firstly, Robert could not be exposed to sunlight, and thejourney back to New Orleans would take several days. To counter this I had the inspirational idea tobuild a coffin for Robert to hide in; after all, Hatcher believed him to be dead, and what would be more natural than for a grieving woman to want to take the remains of her husband back to their home townfor a decent Christian burial? There were some old packing crates, the wooden segments just longenough, and, which when nailed together, would provide adequate ventilation for Robert to breathe,and keep him cool if the weather turned hot. However, as we worked, I noticed a tension betweenRobert and Tom, the two clearly uncomfortable with each other; two comrades separated by a divideof mistrust, for Robert was one of the creatures Tom was avowed to hunt and destroy.

Robert asked after the boy’s sister, Sarah-Jane, and his mother, Mrs Farley, whom he had cured ofthe swamp fever. He asked about his good friend Doctor Somerby, pleased George had looked out forthe family on his behalf, providing money for food and rooms at the lodging house. He and Tomtalked, but the barriers were there, and sure enough the eruption I had seen coming occurred.

‘Why didn’t ya kill the blood-sucker?’ said Tom, ‘when ya had chance?’ his southern-accentedvoice tight with emotion and full of accusation. ‘You had it within ya power.’

Robert bowed his head, as if in shame. ‘I don’t know. I tried. For a moment, when in the temple, Ibelieved I could sever her head, end her rotten existence, but... Perhaps it was only an illusion ofpower... that she gave me? Perhaps I could never have destroyed her? Perhaps something deep insideme stopped me from acting? The influence of Hanis, maybe, and what that may mean for me? I don’tknow, Tom. There are so many questions and so few answers. I try not to think on it too much.’

What Tom was thinking and feeling I wasn’t sure. I could imagine his pain at the loss of his friends;I felt his need for revenge, because I harboured it in my own heart. And so we worked.

Using the few tools at hand we made a pretty good boxwood coffin. A depressing task for all; toomany of us had seen loved ones and good friends buried these past four years of civil war. As wehammered and sawed, Robert asked questions about life at home. This was good. I told him of mafternoon visits to his mother Florence. He asked about his horse, Mark Anthony, whom I had cared for and ridden out for him; my own horse Monroe had died of colic six months after Robert left for New Orleans. Inevitably, he enquired about the progress of the war, though this could hardly haveseemed, to me at least, more insignificant. He was worried about the character of our guides, as ifsensing the act of indecency Hatcher had attempted the previous night in the Farley’s barn.

‘And where is this Hatcher now?’ he asked. So self-conscious of his fangs was, he, that themovement of his lips was barely perceptible. His lips were notably pale, as was his skin, at times,looking, depending on how he caught the light, as white as a freshly-painted picket fence.

‘Him and his associates are camped on the lawns before the house,’ I explained, ‘playing cards. Wehave until four o’clock. All Hatcher is interested in is getting his money.’

‘Goddarn scallywag,’ muttered Tom.

‘We must be well away from here by nightfall,’ warned Robert. ‘Maishia is not here, but her jackalsguard in her in absence. That is why I could not have left here, even had I desired it. From sunset todawn, they guard the top of the passage leading into the study.’

‘I cannot see Mr Hatcher having any argument against leaving here promptly,’ said I. ‘He doesn’tadmit it, but he’s spooked. And if he isn’t, the men with him definitely are. They won’t wait aroundhere. The one called Ferret is really scared.’

‘With good reason,’ said Robert. ‘But what if they should wish to inspect the contents of this coffin?They might believe it to contain valuables, not the body of a Union soldier.’

‘I’ve thought of that. You died of plague.’

Robert smiled. ‘You are resourceful, Annabel. You have it all planned out.’

‘To get you well, Robert. And don’t be so surprised. Us women have had to step outside of ourtraditional roles during this war, and we won’t be stepping back into the old ones in a hurry. We’veproduced munitions, we’ve run the hospitals. The black man may emerge from this war a full citizen,yet we women, too, may gain our rightful place in American society. I expect we will even one daysecure the vote. And if women, Robert, may I be so bold as to venture, had been running this countryof ours, do you really believe there would have been a war to settle the slavery question?’

‘You have a point, my dear. Little wonder why your Father has tried to keep such a tight rein onyou. I bet you’ve driven him to distraction these past months. Did he find out about your work in thehospital yet?’

‘Yes. And I went to Washington, to the War Department. And now I am here. He shall take manyyears to get over the shock of it all, I expect.’

‘At least the coloureds go free,’ said Robert reflectively. ‘We have achieved something in our sacrifice. History will be kind to us, I think.’

‘You will return home as a true hero of the Union,’ said I. ‘Cured and well again. Isn’t that right,Tom?’

‘You seem to be forgetting, I’m a Southerner.’

‘Oh hush, Tom. We are all Americans here. Let the nation’s wounds heal up, now. We have bledenough, North and South.’

‘Hear, hear,’ said Robert.

As we left the temple I asked Robert if he knew how it had come to be built, for it was evidently aconstruction project of mammoth undertakings. The answer was perfectly chilling. Maishia, after theGraftons (brother and sister) had been killed, had taken up residence and had bought hundreds ofslaves cheap in Africa, and when they had finished the work she had thrown them live into the snakepit to prevent them ever revealing their secret, much the same way the ancient Egyptians had killedthose workers responsible for the last work on the tombs of the pharaohs.

We dragged the boxwood coffin along the tunnel, up to the top of the stone steps, where it was stilldark, then Robert got inside. Tom nailed the lid shut. We dragged it out into the ruined study, over therubble-strewn and ash-covered floor, the wet ash helping reduce friction and the coffin slide along. Wegot it through the hall and to the top of the marble porch steps.

As we eased it down the steps Bob Hatcher strutted over. He had been drinking.

‘So, this is the husband.’ He laughed to himself. ‘I might have figured you’d have more time for adead man. Safer that way, eh?’

‘I see that you are your usual sensitive self, Mr Hatcher.’

He took a pull from his whisky bottle. ‘We’ll get you a spade and you can bury him.’

‘That will not be necessary. You see, I’m taking my husband’s remains back to Boston.’

The guide regarded me with suspicion. His eyes fell on the coffin; I could sense him mentallyprizing the lid off and seeing something else other than a body inside.

‘What he die of... your man?’

‘Does it really matter?’

‘Lady, iffen I be expected to cart a corpse about for goddamn how many miles, mebbe I like toknow what made it a corpse.’

‘Why not open it up? Find out.’

His eyes narrowed as he considered his next move. He took another long pull on the whisky bottle,wiping away on the back of his hand the residue that had dribbled onto his chin.

‘I don’t recollect agreeing to taking no corpse back with us. Ferret, there, he ain’t wanting to betravelling alongside a corpse.’

‘Since when did you ever have consideration for the feelings of your men? If you want more money,Mr Hatcher, you are wasting your time. And if you don’t take us back to New Orleans, you won’t evenget the money you are owed. You contracted to help me find my husband. Now we have. I expect youto honour our agreement.’

‘You know, Lady, for someone who’s just found their husband dead, you seem to be none too putout by it. Whatever you got in that-there box, I don’t reckon it to be no dead husband. You didn’t comeout here all the way in this wilderness, leave that snug life in Boston, for no husband. Bullshit, that’swhat I say. Fucking bullshit.’

He cast the bottle of whisky away, which smashed on the gravel of the weed-choked drive.Reaching down, he drew out both of his Colt revolvers from their resting place inside his wide buckledarmy belt. Looking as mean as I believe a man could, he thumbed back both triggers to full-cock,priming the weapons ready for firing.

‘I reckon you had better open that-there coffin. Lot of thieving been going on in these-here parts.Lot of goodies the Rebs had stashed. Rich pickings for all, even the already rich,’ he added nastily.

‘We nailed it shut,’ said Tom.

‘Well, boy, you gotta bowie knife, dig ‘em out. Or I’ll make ya pull ‘em out with ya teeth. Onceknew a fella that did that, pulled nails from planks with his teeth, till they all wore down and theSawbones had to yank ‘em out.’

He laughed.

‘I ain’t helping ya,’ said Tom defiantly.

‘Fucking open it,’ snarled the guide, his raised voice drawing the attention of his associates whowere still sitting beside the fire on the overgrown lawn, drinking.

‘I’ll give you more money,’ I said desperately.

‘Thought you didn’t have any.’

‘I lied.’

‘Fuck you, Lady. Whatever you got in there, it be valuable. Now open it up, boy, or I’m gonnapump your fucking Southern greyback ass full of lead, and then I’ll open it myself.’

Tom and I exchanged a nervous look. Then the boy, sensing my approval, took out his bowie knife,and, kneeling beside the crude boxwood coffin, set to work digging out the nails from the lid.

‘No Tom! I can’t let you!’ I said dragging him away. ‘It’s too dangerous. The risk of contagion istoo great.’

‘What you on about?’

‘Plague, Mr Hatcher. Plague. Even you can understand that. You want to open it, do so.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Open it and see.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘It’s perfectly safe closed up. We found the coffin inside the cellar with a note explaining what hadhappened, tacked to the side of it. All we did was nail down the lid.’

The guide stepped back a pace. His fingers were twitching at the triggers of his revolvers, butclearly his mind wasn’t on us, instead the coffin and the treasure he was certain lay inside, if only hehad the courage to risk opening it himself.

‘Fuck you, Lady. But I ain’t taking that stiff with us back to New Orleans.’

‘$500 extra says you will.’

‘You said you were broke.’

‘I’ll find the money.’

He looked at me hard. If I was terrified by the pair of long-barrelled revolvers pointed at me I didnot show it; I stared back at them barrels. It was clear he didn’t believe us, though with a man such asHatcher you had always to assume he wasn’t at heart brave and would be swayed in his judgement bygreed. And in this instance, thank God, greed triumphed. He told Mr O’Malley and Ferret to help Tomget the coffin on the back of the wagon, taking care not to tell them about the contents.

It was ten minutes past four when we started out for the Farley Plantation. As the wagon passedthrough the rusted iron gates, I looked back at the ruined house wondering if, indeed, we could escapethe Vampire’s evil. Hatcher rode out front, aloof, sullen. Ferret and Mr O’Malley were alreadyengaged in a crossfire of insults, the former maintaining he preferred to ride in the back of the wagon(with a corpse), than ride two-up on a horse with a black man. The roads had dried out further sincemorning, but progress remained slow, the horses having a torrid time of it in the deep mud, and theiron-rimmed wheels frequently becoming stuck. The forest rose up on either side of us, the mossycedar and cypress trees closely packed, amid an almost impenetrable undergrowth. Again the birds andanimals were conspicuously quiet. Time is such a strange medium, on occasion appearing not too pass,and, at other moments, race by - as it did now. For as much as I had prayed for us to make swiftprogress, we were running out of time. The sun hung lower and lower. And soon, very soon, it wouldbe dark.

‘Dem birds, dey still ain’t-a singing,’ remarked Mr O’Malley.

‘Aaah, shut it,’ said Ferret sourly. ‘You black cotton pickers is all the same, scared of ya owngoddamn shadow.’

‘Ah doan like it.’

‘Quit ya belly-aching, you two,’ snarled Bob Hatcher glancing back over his shoulder as he turnedin the saddle. ‘Hey, boy, how long you reckon it gonna tek us before we get back to your place? This-here track’s like a bog.’

‘How long’s a piece of string, Yankeeman?’

‘Don’t you get smart with me you little Johnny greyback. I don’t care to be out in this forest atnight. I wanna be in a warm bed.’ He paused, then added suggestively, ‘Mebbe have some company.’

I looked up at the reddening sky, then behind at the coffin. I sighed inwardly. I wished we couldhurry, but with the mud so deep there was no way Tom could drive the horses any harder. WE HAVETO REACH THE FARLEY PLACE BY NIGHTFALL. Robert’s words of warning echoed inside myhead. But if we abandoned all caution, the wagon might slip into a hole, we might even lose a wheel orbreak the axle. We had no choice. And as it grew colder and darker, I felt fear building upon fear. Thewagon trundled on with Tom and I being thrown about on the hard planked seat as the wheels slitheredin and out of the mud-filled holes. Trundled on... until the inevitable occurred and it slid off the track and into the edge of the forest, where the mud was at its thickest. And no matter how hard Tomwhipped the horses, they could not pull us forward, extricate the wheel, that, if anything, became morefirmly embedded in the mud.

‘Looky like you got us stuck good and proper,’ said Ferret.

‘Then get out and push,’ snarled Hatcher riding back towards us to see why we had stopped. ‘I’vehad me a gutful of this goddamn trip. I wanna be back in New Orleans. Get me paid, and have thewarmth of a bottle good store liquor inside me, and the services of an obliging whore.’ He was lookingdirectly at me as he said that and I was convinced he would, when we reached the Farley Plantation,again try and rape me.

Tom jumped down to inspect the state of the rear offside wheel.

‘Ferret, you can help the boy dig the wheel out. Grab yourself a shovel. Y’hear?’

‘Digging’s nigger’s work, Hatch.’

A sadistic grin spread over the guide’s stubble-covered face. ‘That it is. O’Malley, you heard him.You can dig, too. I reckon if you two boys put a flat bit of wood in front of that-there wheel when youcleared it of mud, we should be able to drive the team forward and free the rig up.’

‘You gonna be helping us, Hatch?’

He laughed. ‘Like you said, Ferret, digging’s nigger’s work.’

Grousing, Ferret jumped down from the wagon and began to throw the blade of his shovel at themud enclosed around the rear wheel. Mr O’Malley dismounted his horse, took off his gloves andcloak, then gave him a hand.

The soil, however, was virtually liquid, and, as fast as the two men removed it, the hole re-filledwith more gooey earth. When they believed they’d dug sufficiently deep, Mr O’Malley got a piece offlat wood, as Hatcher had suggested, and placed it in front of the offending wheel. He told Tom to takethe team slowly forward, the boy doing this with gentle words and a slight shaking of the reins. Theharnesses rattled as the animals responded, and, at first, it seemed they might pull the wagon free, butit merely slipped backward, the wheel if anything, deeper in the mud.

I glanced at the sun.

Fast disappearing behind the trees.

‘Try again,’ I urged.

‘Who you ordering around?’ Ferret answered back. ‘Why don’t ya git yourself down here and git your hands dirty?’

‘I said try again! You must get us free. We must get to the Farley Plantation before nightfall. Wemust!’

‘We ain’t going no place until this-here mud dries up,’ said Ferret. ‘And I’m telling ya, Missy, weain’t got no chance of moving this-here wheel until gone noon tomorrow... and that’s only iffen thesun be as strong as that-there sunset ses. We get more rain, we gonna be here all week. We just have toleave the wagon behind.’

‘No! Impossible!’

I snatched the whip from Tom and cracked it in the air with an explosive sound, making the horsesto neigh and raise up on their haunches, pawing the air. Again, I cracked it, and again they respondedby pulling hard against their harnesses, their hooves splattering in the mud, the trace chains of the rigrattling underneath. I urged them on, my voice quickly degenerating into a pathetic plea, more than acommand. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I cracked the whip over and over, until, suddenly, thewhip was snatched from my hand by Mr Hatcher.

‘You gone crazy or something? We already lost one horse. We’ll take the horses with us, leave thewagon here. You wanna come back for it and that stiff... that’s your affair, Lady.’

‘He right,’ reasoned Mr O’Malley, his solicitous tone saying he understood what it meant for agrieving woman to be separated from the body of her husband. ‘Weather might be fine t’morrow, andwe can dig dat-dere wheel free. Den again, might not be.’

Just then a devilish sound issued forth from deep in the forest, the same as I’d heard the nightbefore. A long, eerie wail, and I saw - the Egyptian desert, the jagged rocks rising up on either side ofthe valley, the temple, glowing in the moonlight.

Her.

MAISHIA.

‘What the deuces is that!’ said Ferret. ‘You hear that, Field Hand?’

‘Ah heared it.’

‘That weren’t no wolf.’

‘No, sah.’

Ferret scoured the undergrowth, before his unpleasant eyes came to rest upon me, as if he knew mysecret. My heart pounded against my breast bone, threatening to punch its way out. The light was fading. The undergrowth becoming darker and darker, inky black shadows where the beast roamed,where the beast watched, and where the beast would pounce from, any second. The horses were still.Everything was still. There was only my fear, and growing in my mind images of horrible happenings.Nowhere to run, to hide. All I could do was wait for the sun to go down... for it to get dark.

Bob Hatcher drew out a revolver and fixed his eyes on the shadowy undergrowth. Meanwhile, Tomhad lit the oil lamp and two pine knot torches and given one of them to Ferret, the flickering yellowflames catching the taut expression on his unattractive, besmirched face as he held it up high in theblack night air. Mr O’Malley clutched a Sharps cavalry carbine, barrel pointed to the ground. It was socold. So cold. And getting colder. The horses remained restless, as if sensing the evil. Mr Hatcher’swas trying to take him round in a small circle, the guide having to keep the animal on a tight rein,yanking up its head.

‘Something be out there, Hatch,’ said Ferret, his eyes flitting nervously from left to right, his grip onhis gun visibly tightening. He edged closer to the forest. ‘Can feel its eyes upon me.’

‘Can’t see a darn thing,’ quipped Hatcher.

‘You heared it?’

‘Yeah, I heard it, Field Hand. But I don’t hear nuthing now.’

‘Whut about dat-dere horse of yours, dat got all chewed up, you forgetting dat?’

‘A wolf,’ said Hatcher.

‘You really believe dat?’

‘What you know about it, anyhows? Spent most yer life cooped up on a plantation, picking cotton,as I recollect. Hardly makes you a man of frontier experience, do it?’

A noise.

Snarling.

The undergrowth.

Mr Hatcher’s horse rose up on its haunches, neighing loudly, and this time he had a hard timestaying in the saddle. Under different circumstances I might have considered the sight of himstruggling so amusing, but as it was he had become our best hope for salvation. I watched Tom reachbeneath the planked seat for his bow, watched him take an arrow from the deerskin Indian quiver,watched him place the feathered flight to the bowstring, watched as he drew the bowstring back, itbecoming tauter and tauter.

‘What you aiming to kill with that?’ scoffed Ferret unimpressed. ‘A racoon?’

‘You’ll see, soon enough.’

‘Iffen there’s something you ain’t been telling us, boy,’ growled Hatcher, ‘you’d best spit it out.’The hammer of a long-barrelled Colt revolver clicked nosily back to full-cock as the guide aimed theweapon at the boy. ‘Or you’ll be the first one dead.’

A pair of red eyes glowingsomewhere in the darknessin the undergrowth.The eyes of the Devil.

‘There it be? It’s a wolf!’ shouted Ferret animatedly. ‘Looky! Over there, yonder! To ya right, Hatch.’

The guide rode up alongside the wagon, joining his two associates standing at the tailgate. Ferretheld his flaming torch out in front of himself, in a bid to make the jaundiced light penetrate theundergrowth’s pitchy blackness. The other torch, mounted on the side of the wagon, burned into thenight, and upon Tom’s advice, I now took hold of it.

‘That ain’t no wolf.’ Hatcher’s attention turned to Tom. ‘What’s out there, boy? The truth, y’hear?’

‘Jackals... uh Vampires.’

‘Boy, you’re sure trying my patience. ‘

‘You asked, I told ya, Vampires.’

‘What the hell’s a Vampire?’ asked Ferret.

‘An Undead,’ said Tom.

‘Boy, you had better start making some sense, and real quick.’

‘That’s what they are... undead. Neither dead nor alive. They... They only come out at night... Andthey drink blood to keep themselves in existence. Human blood, mostly.’

‘Boy, you’ve been irritating me worse than lice in the pants since we set out,’ said Hatcher, ‘and I’mtelling you now, I ain’t got the patience for it.’

‘It’s true,’ I said.

The guide looked at me hard. He’d suspected all along I wasn’t telling the truth, and now we hadfoolishly confirmed it. But we were in this together, all human. Not all good, all Christians, but all human. We were the prey, and out there in the darkness, watching us, was the predator. The Devil’s own spawn.

Hatcher exchanged a look with his men, then stared into the undergrowth. The red eyes, I couldn’tspot them, but I was very tired and I didn’t see especially well in the dark. He, though, seemed todetect the presence of something; a soldier, a man with experience of the woods and things wild. Then,almost inevitably, his focus was the boxwood coffin on the back of the wagon.

‘You say your husband died of plague?’

‘Yes, but I lied.’

‘I already figured that much. So, what did he die of?’

I hesitated a long moment, before finally letting out the truth,

‘He’s not dead.’

‘You’re full of bullshit, Lady. I don’t reckon you’re hearing me too good. You reckon I’m gonnaswallow this bullshit, Vampires and Undead?’

‘You sin ‘em yerself, ain’t ya?’ interjected Tom.

‘I sin nothing, y’hear?’

‘The red eyes,’ I said.

‘Bullshit. Fucking bullshit. I’m gonna take me a look in that-there coffin.’

‘No!’

‘Frightened your Undead husband gonna spring up and grab me by the throat?’ He laughed loudly.‘I’m the one holding the gun, remember?’

A further threatening move from the guide and Tom responded by aiming his bow and the metal-tipped arrow directly at his chest.

‘Boy, you seem to be making a habit of this... aiming arrows at me. And I’ve just about had my fillof it. I warned ya fair that night in the barn, not to cross me again. You brought this on yourself, boy.Ferret... shoot this son-of-a-bitch.’

We faced a peril more deadly than any known to humankind, yet squabbled among ourselves like apack of starving dogs competing for food. What about the demonic red eyes -the jackals? Their evilmistress, MAISHIA? I stared into the barrel of Hatcher’s revolver, waiting, helpless. Tom, however,held steady with his bow, his arms quivering under the strain as he made sure of a killing strike. All Icould do was wait for the loud bang, death, eternal blackness. But we were not alone that night, in theforest, in the cold, in her evil presence. And sure enough there was another long, eerie wail. Then, upahead, in the middle of the track, there were the red eyes. Glowing eyes.

‘What ya waiting on, Ferret? Shoot this piece of shit. I got him covered. Do it!’ bellowed Hatcher atthe top of his voice.

But his associate did not act.

‘Shoot the...’

‘Hatch, you better look up there, behind ya. I reckon...’

‘What you blabbering about? There’s a goddamn yellow stripe running right down your back.’

Mr O’Malley slowly raised the butt of his Sharps carbine to his shoulder, took aim.

‘What’s going on, Field Hand?’

‘It like de man say.’

Hatcher turned slowly in his saddle, keeping his revolver trained on both myself and Tom, till hespotted what was drawing the attention of his associates.

‘Shoot it!’ he shouted.

A shot rang out.

‘Did ya git it?’ demanded Ferret with an excitement born of battle and years of hunting.

‘No, sah.’

‘You’re a useless shot, O’Malley,’ said Hatcher dismissively.

The eyes remained, glowing red, two pin points in the darkness that seemed to extend towards uslike a strong light of a ship cutting through the denseness of a harbour fog. They had been firing atwhat appeared to be the form of a medium-sized, perhaps larger dog. It was so cold. So cold. It was ajackal.

And it cried out.

A long, eerie wail.

‘Give me the rifle! Give me the rifle,’ urged Ferret. ‘I once shot me a nigra slave woman at fourhundred paces.’

I edged closer to Tom on the wagon’s hard planked seat. Hatcher was still pointing his revolver atus, but also keeping an eye on his associates and the beast, up the track. I was shivering. The horses were more unsettled, their hooves splattering in the mud as they shifted position, jerking the wagon to

and fro.

A gunshot.

Ferret had fired. I observed Mr O’Malley’s white teeth showing in a grin.

‘Looks like yer aim’s off.’

‘I don’t miss,’ snarled Ferret. ‘I hit it all right.’

‘Whut you saying dere, dat-dere bullet pass straight through?’

This wasn’t right, Tom had said these beasts, unlike, their evil mistress, could be slain by bullets.Given the circumstances, I could hardly ask him. And of course Ferret could have, indeed, missed.Along with the others in our party, I focused on the pair of red eyes glowing in the darkness up aheadof the wagon, twenty, thirty forty yards, it was difficult to judge.

I heard a rustling of the undergrowth. This time on our left. We all turned our heads to face in thatdirection.

More red eyes.

Looking at us.

‘Ferret,’ said Hatcher, ‘get your ass out there and find out what it is.’

‘Why don’t you send O’Malley?’

‘‘Cause, I’m sending you.’

‘No way. No way.’ The short man was backing off from Hatcher. ‘No way. I ain’t gonna take nochances. I... You... You don’t know what’s out there... Mebbe the kid’s right, mebbe they might beundead or them jackals?’

‘Looks like your bravery don’t extend beyond shooting unarmed slaves. I’d like to see you go upagainst something that can fight back, for a change.’

‘You ain’t no officer. I ain’t in the army now. You can’t tell me what to do.’

‘Do I have to shoot you down like the dog you are?’

Hatcher aimed his revolver at Ferret and clearly would not hesitate at shooting his so-called comrade. Ferret must have read it that way too. Grousing, he took up the flaming torch he gave to MrO’Malley to hold whilst taking his shot at the beast with the Sharps carbine, then headed cautiouslyinto the densely packed undergrowth.

‘I’ll git you for this, Hatch,’ he muttered.

The guide merely laughed.

I watched the pine knot torch become smaller, watched it blink as Ferret moved between the trees,the fat trunks of the cedar and cypress temporarily blocking out the torch light. I could see the greymoss hanging from the branches, so eerie. Suddenly Hatcher and I were allies; far from feelingrevulsion at his brutality, I actually welcomed it as a sign of his strength. I heard the branches andtwigs snap beneath Ferret’s army boots as he tramped further and further into the forest. Each sounddistinct and sharp, carried to us, as if magnified out of all proportion on the cold night air. Deeper anddeeper Ferret went, until there was no sign of his being.

It was so silent.

Oh terrible, terrible silence.

I looked to Hatcher’s grimy bewhiskered face for clues as to our chances in this grisly affair. Heremained confident, sceptical, half-amused.

And then we heard it.

Another long, eerie wail.

Then, shortly afterward, a bloodcurdling scream.

Mr O’Malley stiffened and ventured a little closer to the fringe of the forest, holding up his pineknot torch to the undergrowth to try and see.

I heard a click.

A hammer of a revolver...

thumbed back.

Hatcher’s gruff voice.

‘You best get out there, Field Hand.’

‘You gone mad?’

‘You disobeying orders?’

‘Like de man say, you ain’t no officer.’

‘He went all the same, didn’t he? And you will, or you be a dead man.’

‘Ah neber like you.’

‘Nor I you, nigger. But that’s the way of things, ain’t it?’

Hatcher squeezed off a couple of rounds, the bullets peppering the ground at the black man’s feet,earth shooting upward, making him shield his eyes. Mr O’Malley stood firm. But as the gunsmokecleared Hatcher, undeterred in his aggression, growled,

‘Next one’s in ya gut. That way you’ll die nice and slow. I always wondered what you wuz made of.This ain’t a round of poker. I know you cheated with the cards at Lafitte’s.’

‘Dat wuz a fair game.’

‘You cheated me.’

‘Aaah git it,’ the black man grinned. ‘You figure dat wid me and Ferret gone, dere be more gold foryou. Hatcher, whut eber be out dere, it ain’t gonna be sparing ya ‘cause you got no gold dollar coins inya pocket.’

‘Nice speech. Now git moving.’

Why don’t you shoot him? I screamed inside my head, you have a gun. Perhaps I’d underestimatedBob Hatcher; the air of command came naturally to him. It was so frustrating to see Mr O’Malley doas he was told and go to the slaughter as meekly as a lamb, as if he were still a slave, and only I andTom knowing (for certain) what fate awaited him. But perhaps he had a chance for survival, Icountered as the brambles were pulled aside, as the twigs snapped, as the densely-packed, moss-hungfoliage gave way to the determined motion of a human body. Meanwhile, Hatcher leaned forward inhis saddle, blowing the last tendrils of smoke away from the nose of his long-barrelled Colt revolver, alook of smug satisfaction etched on his face.

‘Mr Hatcher, you must call him back.’

‘What’s up, the abolitionist whore from Boston worrying after a downtrodden nigra?’

‘The jackal will kill him.’

‘More bullshit. And don’t you forget, now, I’m gonna be looking in that-there coffin in a minute.Undead. Vampires. Jackals. Bullshit.’

Soon we could not hear or see any trace of Mr O’Malley. There was only the silence closing in onus. Then a scream. So wild, so piercing, so despairing I clamped my hands to my ears. My spine felt asif long sharp fingernails were raking down it, clawing to the bone.

‘How do you feel, Mr Hatcher? Aren’t you beginning to get a little concerned?’

‘When I want comment from you, Lady, I’ll rightly ask for it.’

He looked at Tom.

‘No! No!’ I protested.

‘Why not? He’s a man, ain’t he? How about you Johnny greyback, you man enough to take a walkin there?’

‘No! No!’

‘When he’s gone,’ grinned the guide, ‘you and me can head off for New Orleans. You canconcentrate on the living for a change. I’m gonna have my pleasure with you, Lady, and you can fightme all the way, the harder the better.’

Tom drew back the string of his Indian bow. Hatcher, however, reacted faster, his revolver nowaimed squarely at me, a kind of deadly stand-off, with the meaner set to triumph.

‘Go ahead, boy, shoot. But she gets it first.’

‘Kill him Tom.’

‘Miss Annabel.’

‘Kill him. I can’t allow him to send you out there. Kill him and be gone to your farm.’

‘Boy, I’m fast running out of patience.’

The rustling of undergrowth.

Two red eyes glowing in the darkness.

Another pair of demonic eyes.

Another.

And another.

Hatcher went to fire but when the revolver failed to discharge he threw it down, and, digging theheels of his boots hard into the soft underbelly of his horse, galloped off away down the track. Wecould see him whipping his horse flank to flank, until he was gone.

The jackals moved closer, their eyes seeming to throw out sparks of hell fire, their horrible pointedmouths dripping with fresh blood - human blood. Their silver-grey coats barely perceptible in thejaundiced light given off by the oil lamp. They did not fear light as beasts often do. They stood beforeus, promising agonising death. Strange, I half-expected Ferret and Mr O’Malley to emerge from theundergrowth unscathed to help us, it was all so unreal.

‘Shoot!’ I shouted hysterically.

‘Which one?’ said Tom. ‘Can’t get ‘em all.’

‘Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!’

Tearfully, I fumbled in my jacket pocket for the small two-barrelled Derringer pistol I’d carried onmy person ever since Lyndon slipped it across the dining table at Willard’s Hotel. No sooner did Ihave it out, it slipped from my trembly grasp, landing beneath the planked seat.

We were doomed.

Just then I became aware of a movement behind me. THE BOXWOOD COFFIN. The wood was vibrating suggesting that inside (Robert) was trying to break free. In all the excitement I had forgottenthat he wasn’t dead, but a Vampire. I watched in stunned amazement as half a dozen nails popped outof the wood, sent high into the air, though not all the nails came out, and the lid Tom and I had naileddown did not come off.

The coffin became still. The beasts snarled as if they sensed danger, keeping their distance from us.‘Look,’ said Tom, pointing to the crude boxwood coffin. Incredibly, what appeared to be a mist wasseeping from between the cracks of the wooden planks. It billowed and swirled, arching upward, likefog on Boston common. It moved from the back of the wagon, slipping over the tailgate, then over theground for a good ten or so yards, the mist hugging the uneven, puddled muddy track. The horses wereneighing, frantically pulling at their worn harnesses, a truly heartrending noise.

The eyes of the jackals, however, were transfixed on the mist now taking shape.

It was becoming a man.

Robert!

It was Robert.

His eyes were red and unholy, his skin white as driven snow. No one unless they understand the truedepths of a woman’s love can know my feelings at that moment. If earlier that day I had convincedmyself of my freeing him from the evil flowing through his veins, I now knew how terribly perilousthat task would be.

The jackals drew back from him as servile beings might act before a monarch and one who holdsdominion over them. They retreated into the darkness of the forest. But one remained. It was a dozenyards in front of the wagon, up the track, and was larger than the others. It seemed to possess a higherintelligence as it stood there, and purpose, undoubtedly the leader.

Robert walked towards it, a mystifying grace to his movement, which created the illusion that hewasn’t even moving. The beast held its ground staring at him with a defiant and predatory glare. Its toplip curled upward as it snarled, the blood of its victims frothing up with saliva to form as foam. Itsnarled. And snarled. Robert, undeterred, closed in on it, until, finally, the jackal retreated, movingfrom the track into the undergrowth. Robert followed. There was a desperate struggle, a furious andfrantic rustling of foliage, punctuated by noises that could have originated in the depths of hell. Thisterror went on for a few minutes, though could have been far longer. Then, suddenly, there was a loudwhine, sad almost.

Then it fell silent.

BOOK 2

The seaman told me to get below. The torrid sea played with our little ship, the foamy water crashingover the deck, the howling wind tearing at the rigging. The captain had ordered minimum sail, forcinghis men aloft with the sting of the boatswain’s lash. There’d been no respite from storms for threeweeks. Two men had been lost, and the crew were growing increasingly restless. There was talk ofsomething evil being onboard. It was said that the ship was unlucky, and, I the only passenger, couldfeel the suspicion and hostility of the crew. It was as if they knew my dark secret... they knew what Ihad hidden in my cabin.

As the ship tossed and swayed, I clung grimly to the rail, standing amid the big bales of cotton thatfilled up the hold and took up every inch of space on the narrow deck. I was soaked through, my blackoilcloth and hat no protection against an all pervading wet and cold. But as inhospitable as conditionsup on deck were, they were infinitely preferable to spending time alone in my cabin with him.

‘Are you wanting to make it to Boston, Miss? Cause if you don’t watch yourself, you’ll be sweptright into the sea. Now get below, will ya, it’s that ya making me nervous, you are. Twenty-five yearsat sea and I’ve not seen a storm of the like. And if we lose another member the crew, there won’t be men enough to sail her, not even back to Havana.’

At that moment a gigantic wave broke over me, effortlessly unclipping one of my hands from therail and taking me with its force, but somehow I managed to cling on with my other hand, thrownabout the slippery deck, scrambling to regain my balance, before the ship was struck again. I hadbarely stood to my feet when another wave washed over me, the icy cold water trying to snatch me upin its grip and fling me into the swirling grey mass in which our poor ship bobbed like a cork, withneither direction or meaningful motion, and for a dangerous moment I considered letting the sea takeme -God’s will be done.

There was great purpose in my flirting with such danger; I needed to understand what it meant towalk the path between life and death. I had nursed sick and dying men, witnessed unspeakablesuffering, but to lose one’s soul, to walk in eternal darkness, to fear the rays of the sun, to commit vileacts against one’s fellow man, not for salvation, but merely to perpetuate that hellish existence, ohwhat a fate. But the beast acts upon instinct, not questioning, not reasoning. Robert was torn betweentwo states of being - the caring and good man; and the ruthless predatory animal. Had I, in rescuinghim, simply reminded him of his former self? The person he had already buried and mourned? If,indeed, he were doomed, then the sooner he became that beast, the better for him. What right had I totorment him with false hope?

Robert had implored me to leave him in the delta, yet I would not listen, burdened and guided by myown selfish needs. He had tried to warn me of the horror that lay ahead. On the road leading to theFarley Plantation he had acted to protect Tom and I, yet it was no comfort. I could not rid from mymind the image of Robert as he emerged from the undergrowth following his struggle against thejackal. It was not the man I loved, but a fiend. Those horrible red eyes, the blood smeared across hischeeks from where he had attempted to wipe it off with his shirt sleeve. Yes, there was shame andremorse, embarrassment, a palpable sense of hurt beating within his breast, at being seen for what hehad become. It was clear then that I was in danger from him, just as he had warned me back at thetemple.

He was undergoing a steady and inexorable change. I had hoped that with leaving the Bird’s FootDelta and the South behind us that the evil would somehow disperse. I was the soldier marching intobattle, not with a rifle, but merely a bible and hope. No Tom now; he had remained in New Orleanswith his mother and sister, Sarah-Jane. No one to share my burden with. I was completely alone.Robert had refused to see his friend George believing that it would be best if, as far as the army wasconcerned, that he remained listed as missing. Robert clearly feared George’s reaction. And had wegone back to the hospital I may have taken a revolver and shot Sergeant Kirby, for without that man’snefarious actions my Robert would probably have escaped to freedom.

Was Robert a murderer? Was the evil already stronger than the good? Two of the crew lost. Butwhat if...? What if? I said nothing of this to Robert, yet he suspected my suppressed feelings ofaccusation. It was impossible to be with him. The eyes, the red glowing eyes, the blood smeared acrossthe cheek. During the hours of daylight he rested, though the cabin was dark and candlelit. I hadpurchased a large clothes trunk in New Orleans in which he could lay down in. Sailors had commentedon its weight as they dragged it aboard ship. Whenever I left the cabin I took care to lock the door.

When Robert awoke, the padlocks on the trunk would click open; how I had come to dread that eeriesound, which visited me in my nightmares. Then we would sit and talk; of home, of memories, ofgetting a cure. The passing of the weeks had eroded the early optimism, the talk of finding a cure andgetting well. I tried and tried to get Robert to show more fight. He had spoken of throwing himself offthe ship

I went below. With the storm increasing in severity I found myself cajoled along the narrow corridorleading to my cabin. Struggling to keep my balance, I turned the key in the lock, then stole stealthilinside. I felt the guilt of the criminal. Oh, and how great was my crime.

Robert was sat on the rickety stool beside the clothes trunk and with his back to the hull of the shipThere was no porthole. It was horribly damp, and water was beginning to leak through small gaps ithe planks. The timbers of the ship groaned and moaned, threatening that they could not, would not,hold out much longer against this continuous bashing they were receiving from the sea.

‘A beastly night. One of the Devil’s own making,’ said Robert sourly.

Ignoring his comment, I removed my oilcloth and hat and went to hang them up on the peg on theback of the cabin door, waiting for the right roll of the ship to allow me to do this. During my voyagesouth on The Black Pearl we had not encountered a single storm and my constitution was now inturmoil. A good solid meal was needed but I didn’t have an appetite. And all the food was coldanyway, the cook frightened to have fires in the galley less the ship should be set ablaze.

‘I thought that was quite witty,’ he said.

‘Did you?’

‘You feel uncomfortable with the word Devil, my dear? My sweet.’

‘Yes, frankly I do.’

‘I am the Devil Annabel... his very incarnation. Do you not see this with your own eyes? Why elsewould you prefer the cold of the storm to here?’

‘I needed to stretch my legs. To get some fresh air. That’s all.’

I bent down to remove my wet ankle boots; the leather was soaked through and soggy and they hadlost their shape. I did not look at Robert but could feel his eyes upon me. It was bad enough having todeal with his condition, but with his attitude... Having removed my boots and silk stockings, I took atowel to my face and rubbed away the last traces of salt water from my eyes, making me feel slightlbetter. My flesh burned as it got used to the warmer temperature. Drying the ends of my hair, I gave ita quick brush, then tied it up with my chignon.

‘My quarters were somewhat more comfortable on the outward journey,’ I said taking to the bunkand slipping underneath the grey woollen blanket, pulling it up to my chin. I had got used to the smell.I wasn’t certain if the previous occupant of the bunk had ever thought to wash or change the beddinbut at least it was warm and I enjoyed the warmth spreading throughout my chilled flesh. Outside Icould hear the storm. Robert stared at the floor, his head hung low, his shoulders hunched androunded. Everything we said to each other seemed wrong. It was hard to imagine that we had everbeen close. We’d always been so comfortable with each other, never conscious of spending timetogether. We had genuinely liked each other as people, not just man and woman, though I suppose onecannot differentiate too much between the meaning of friendship and the physical matters.

He spoke.

What he said made me feel sick.

‘I am the Devil,’ said he.

He did not raise his head.

‘Stop it!’ I screamed. ‘Stop it! I have said to you we will find a cure.’

He looked at me.

‘Bravo.’

The ship must have crashed into a particularly big wave for we received the severest of jolts makingevery timber groan and throwing me from the bunk onto the floor and Robert from his stool. Suddenly,we found ourselves together, our eyes for so long strangers, united in an understanding and caring wehad once shared as lovers. In a rare moment of tenderness Robert reached out and touched my cheek,caressing it with the flat of his hand and I tilted my head into his caress like a cat with a trusted owner.He smiled, though as always, conscious of his pointed canine teeth, it was a restricted smile. His faceseemed human. It was the Robert I had loved and cried into my pillow for. A tear spilled from thecorner of my eye and rolled down my cheek and he wiped it away. Oh, how deep is the love of awoman for a man, should that conquer all? I knew now that the sacrifice was justified, if only for thisbrief moment.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve hurt you.’

‘No! It is I who should apologise. How can I understand your pain... or your anguish... or your fear?But I am here, for you, for us. I will try.’

He drew me close to him, held me as every woman needs to be held. He stroked my hair, thenkissed me on the forehead. The storm went on but inside that dank, cramp, smelly seaman’s cabin wetwo sailed in blue skies and calm turquoise seas. The tenseness left my body. We did not talk. Yet wewere finally reunited -we were a couple again. I thought of my mother in Boston waiting for my safereturn, Robert’s parents, my friends Emma and Cathy. I thought about the end of the war. I had oftenimagined welcoming Robert home, a hero, clad in his natty blue medal-adorned tunic, flags waving,people cheering. Yet we were compelled to sneak into the city unannounced. I would have to shunfamily and friends. But what were my sacrifices compared to Robert’s? I needed him to be strongbecause without that strength we were destined to fail. I snuggled up to him, exchanging smiles. Myheart beating contentedly.

The next day I awoke to find myself lying face-down on the bunk, the woollen blanket drawn neatlyup to my neck; I lay where Robert had placed me. The clothes trunk was locked. The roll of the shipsuggested the storm had not abated. I turned over and drew my legs up to my belly, making myself in afoetal position. I stared at the clothes trunk. Above me, the creaking of rigging and the sound of oceanwaves breaking against the hull, and below the monotonous sound of the pumps ejecting bilge water.The ship was a side wheeler, long and sleek and but twenty feet wide. Apparently she drew no morethan eight feet of water. She had belonged to the Rebels, a blockade-runner, taken trying to make herway into the port of Wilmington, North Carolina. Her two funnels were short, reduced in size so thatshe would avoid detection by the Union’s blockading squadrons. She would have taken many gunsthrough to the Rebels. How ironic that a ship once used by Southerners was now being used by theforces of our government.

I contemplated venturing up on deck but the prospect of a further drenching persuaded me otherwise, and I wanted to avoid the captain. Since leaving New Orleans I had dreaded the daytime,the sitting and waiting. There was nothing to do. And during those long periods my mind had ampleopportunity to build up a succession of horrible happenings, murders, court trials, and most worryingof all the revenge of Maishia. I had stolen the object of her love and I as a woman knew the bitternessof a woman scorned. She would hate me with every atom of her being. Though Robert wasn’t hers yet.The closeness I had shared with him last night had given me renewed heart. There was good in him.

The hours passed. Later, I did go up on deck. I chatted to the First Mate in the wheelhouse. He wasedgy and restless. They had lost another seaman.

‘I’ve bin at sea all my life,’ said he, ‘but I’ve not seen three men go down in a single voyage.There’s talk among the men of a stranger onboard.’

‘The weather is very severe,’ I ventured.

‘Aye. But bad weather seems to follow this ship. Captain says we lost ten days. I was all for puttinginto Havana to rest up and repair the damage. We’ve all but run out of canvas and the men can’t keepliving on cold vittles. You can’t keep a crew running a ship on fear. He’s a hard man. A good seaman,mind. I don’t know what you did to persuade him to give you passage.’

‘Feminine charm,’ I said.

He looked at me. ‘Aye, I’m sure you have that.’

‘And a rather valuable necklace.’

‘Captain’s privilege. But let’s hope he doesn’t lose his ship for it, otherwise it would be veryexpensive indeed.’

‘Are you suggesting...’

‘No. But the crew say it’s unlucky to have a woman onboard. And it’s the crew that run the ship.’

Returning below, I decided to tidy the cabin. All my clothes were damp and dirty. I hadn’t bathed inweeks. My hair was greasy, my skin felt uncomfortable and itched. Looking through Robert’s personalbelongings I came across Professor’s Brennier’s book Gods and Man. I read the chapter on the Legend of Shaba, the Egyptian warrior who had stormed the temple of Maishia with his fellow soldiers toavenge the deaths of new-born infants the Vampire had killed. They had not killed her but instead,fearing a curse on them and their families, had entombed her in the desert where she had apparentlyremained for centuries. It chilled my blood to think of anyone suffering such a fate, even a being asevil as Maishia.

Throughout the text there were references to the Undead and the ways in which they could bedistinguished and killed. It was not the bite of the Vampire that turned you into such a creature, but anexchange of blood. The Vampire took its victim to the point of death, then let the victim feed on their own blood and thus be resuscitated, whereas normal prey would be totally drained and left to die. Thethought of my beloved Robert partaking in that macabre ritual made my insides turn over, and I shutthe book. The woman I had glimpsed in my strange visions and nightmares was exotically beautiful.Could it be possible that she could love as a normal woman? Had they made love?

At seven one of the sailors brought me broth and bread. Cook had heated it as a special favour. Theship continued to toss and turn. I ate the soup ravenously, but saved a little of the meal for my test.Afterwards I slept, waking at nine. The storm was passing, the contents of the tiny cabin no longerrattling and sliding about. Time passed slowly, then the padlocks clicked, the lid of the clothes trunkraised up, creaking, and out came Robert.

‘There’s some food,’ I said.

‘You know I cannot eat.’

‘The more of your old self that you preserve, the better the chance of combating this evil.’

‘An interesting theory. But as you know...’

‘No, I don’t know!’ I said sharply. ‘And neither do you. It seems logical to me that if you continueto be Robert Gray, the caring doctor, as you were, the less chance of her power spreading in you. Youhave to fight it Robert, with every atom of your strength.’

‘I’m not one of your sick soldiers in the hospital, Annabel. There is only one way to cure me. Youmust sever the head from my body.’ His eyes fell on his dead friend’s sword, Lieutenant Hamilton,which lay next to the clothes trunk, its shiny steel scabbard showing amid the jumble of Robert’smilitary gear. ‘It’s not like dealing with an infected limb, you cannot isolate the poison. It’s throughoutme. Every day I feel the change... or should I say night.’

‘Hadn’t we decided to try to be more positive? To try, Robert?’

He did not answer.

‘Will you try?’

Going to him, I passed him the bowl of broth and bread. He raised the spoon to his lips, swallowed.He bit off a chunk of the stale bread. At first I thought it would work but in minutes he was bentdouble in acute pain and retching. He cried out in his agony and shrugged me off as I tried to hold him.He kicked the bowl lying on the floor across the cabin, and swore. I had affected a treatment for suchcrises; in New Orleans I had purchased a stock of morphine and a hypodermic syringe with which toinject the drug into his skin. The sight of the needle incensed him.

‘No!’

I backed off.

‘You’re frightening me.’

‘No more drugs.’

‘Then go to hell,’ I spat.

‘I am in hell!’ he screeched.

He saw a rat.

He snatched it up. He cut its throat, and, holding the creature by its long tail, let its blood flow intohis tin plated army cup. He raised the cup to his lips, he was shaking, then drank feverishly. His eyesturned red and he looked at me with a predatory stare. Then he seemed ashamed, as he had that nighton the road to the Farley Plantation and returned to his usual seat and stared at the floor. We sat insilence. The ship rocked from side to side. The rigging creaked and groaned. You could hear the soundof the pumps forcing out the bilge water. The candle lantern swung mournfully from the bulkhead.

‘Kill me,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘You’ve seen now what I am.’

‘You are a man.’

‘I am a Devil.’ Then he added in a softer but defeatist tone with resignation.

‘I am hers.’

The slum tenements of Boston had always been a dangerous and violent place but where else dared Igo? I rented a couple of small rooms at the top of a six-storey dwelling in Perry Street, where,thankfully, the smell was at least tolerable. The timber was rotten, the plaster cracked and crumblingaway from the walls, the furniture was of the poorest quality and there was but one tiny window,offering a bleak view of slate roofs and crooked chimneys belching out more filth into the polluted cityair. We had an old iron stove which was our only source of heating. The landlady was a mostdisagreeable individual, an habitual drunkard who ran a small brothel on the ground floor, frequentedby sailors and labourers from the docks. Immigrants had flooded into the city for decades hoping for abetter life and yet I found it difficult to understand how the poverty in Europe could be worse. MrsDoyle naturally viewed with a mixture of contempt and suspicion someone from a higher class, andmade it clear she did not believe my story that I was a war widow. As unsatisfactory as this arrangement was, we were safe from detection from our families and friends. In any event, my limitedfunds did not stretch to paying for finer lodgings. During the long voyage south to New Orleans I hadharboured hopes of reuniting Robert with his loved ones but the events of the past month, his continued transformation into an Undead, had convinced me that until we found a cure for his condition his presence must remain a secret.

Each time he woke he seemed less like Robert, the kind, loving man I had fallen in love with. Hisface was aged, bespeaking of his internal torment - the daily struggle between good and evil. Slowly,inexorably, as he had said that night on the ship, he was becoming hers. He had begun to speak in aforeign tongue, the obscure ancient dialect I had heard in the temple underneath the Grafton House andheard uttered by the demented Sergeant Kirby. He spoke of Hanis and people and places of which Ihad no understanding. Yet there was still defiance; he read constantly the book Gods and Man, turningthe pages as if he might suddenly discover a clue, something he had missed. I tried to make him eat, totalk with him about Tom, George, his past life in Boston with me and his family, anything to makehim remember that he was Robert Gray and not Hanis. Sadly, his memory of his identity was fading,like an old person who becomes forgetful. He was so pale. So thin. And when he opened his mouth toowide I got a chilling glimpse of the sharp pointed canine teeth that were growing longer, gleaming.And each time I thought of the three seamen who had gone missing on the voyage. It was too terrible aprospect to contemplate. I had tried convincing myself that they had been swept overboard, but therewas a niggling doubt that refused to go away.

Yet there were times when he did remember, when he spoke with fondness about his friendship withTom Farley and his comradeship shared with Colonel Somerby in New Orleans, the work they haddone together for the army medical department, the lives they had saved. And he spoke of the intimacyof our own relationship recalling those tender moments when we had looked forward to our future notbelieving anything, and, certainly not a war, could separate us. If only the politicians had tried toresolve the nation’s problems without bloodshed. I think Robert missed Tom most, and in truth I hadgrown fond of the boy myself. Were Tom here, I’m sure he could have given Robert strength.Occasionally, Robert spoke of the boy’s sister Sarah-Jane; she whom Robert had returned to theGrafton House to rescue. His noble behaviour should have instilled in me a sense of pride butinevitably my feelings towards the girl became tinged with bitterness. I was jealous of their timetogether, my mind building a passionate love affair between them. Oh, such is the weakness of men.She was safe and Robert, it seemed, was fated to perish.

Death.

No.

No death.

Only living hell.

For my Robert there would be no peace.

He had asked me to kill him while he still possessed the will to let this happen. More than once myeyes had strayed to Lieutenant Hamilton’s army sword and wondering if I had the necessary courageto carry out such an act. It made me feel sick. Yet perhaps that was the only answer. A brief experienceof total terror, then peace for us both. He would be buried with full military honours, his good nameliving on. People would be kind, and no matter how heartbroken, I would eventually, with the passingof the years, rebuild my shattered life. Who knows, even find happiness again. Other women had.Every waking moment I sought a solution, a way to set him free, a way to bring back the man I loved,for that love, in spite of everything, remained strong.

The rent for our rooms was a dollar a week. I had saved $800 when Bob Hatcher rode off and left us on the road to the Farley Plantation. But we had needed to purchase supplies in New Orleans, and warinflation had driven up the cost of food. My mother’s emerald necklace I had used to pay for ourpassage. The money would run out soon enough. Each day I went to the market at Blackstone Square.It seemed everywhere I turned I saw empty trouser legs and empty jacket sleeves, widows forced tobeg for food to feed themselves and their children or worse to sell their bodies as painted whores.These unfortunate women lingered in shadowy doorways casting their hopeful but transparentlydoleful gazes to any passing soldier or sailor or gentleman in top hat. The wretched were congregatedinto the slums in one vast sea of human desperation in which a man would slit another’s throat for ajug of grog.

It was getting warm now. When I had left the city in January snow lay on the ground. The sun shonedown from a pale blue spring sky, the warmth of the sun’s rays a treasure to those who had huddled inthe cold through the long winter. By June it would be blisteringly hot. There was an excited chatter,and the mood of the city was undoubtedly changed. Young men could walk about without fearingbeing grabbed by army recruitment sergeants. Those on furlough could be fairly confident that beforethey had to return, it might all be over. There was a feeling of triumph. Mr Lincoln, so nearly removedfrom office during the darkest days of the conflict, had led the nation through its biggest crisis. It was anew dawn for America, a strong and proud nation among the first-rate powers of the world. All thisseemed to accentuate my own sadness; while other people prepared for and celebrated the future, Icould only feel a despondency inside at my own bad fortune. It was an exciting age and I should haveliked to have been sharing it with the man I loved. We had both had so much to live for.

As I moved among the people on the crowded, cobbled garbage strewn streets, my face hidden asmuch as possible by a scarf, my basket held close to me as if someone might steal it, I felt guilty, like aconvicted criminal. I avoided all eye contact with my fellow citizens whom I feared should suddenlystop me and denounce me as the immoral being that I had become. I was worn with fatigue, and thisalone made me feel detached from them, and I was of another social class. What a do-gooder I hadbeen with my work in South End for the US Sanitary Commission. It was as if I had been protected bya shield, wearing gloves -I was never truly amid the desperation or the filth or the sorrow. I had trodthere like an angel of mercy whose only concern was to be seen as a better person. I had assuaged myown guilt, I had soothed my own pain. I came and did my acts of charity, gave out soup and bread,then returned home to my comfortable mansion. Now I was poor and as desperate as any of theseragamuffins who surrounded me, these wretched specimens of humankind. No, I was worse off. Idetermined then that should Robert and I ever come through this ordeal we would do something tohelp. We would set up a clinic for the underprivileged as we’d discussed before the war. We would notcare for the well-to-do who already had more than enough caring.

I turned into our street. The stray dogs ran up to me smelling the food. Poor emaciated things. Istopped and threw them biscuits and they snarled and bared their teeth as they competed for themorsels, catapulting me back into the darkness of the forest, in the presence of the jackals. I saw thered eyes, the slavering mouths, the foam bespecked with blood.

‘You all right there, Miss?’ I was vaguely aware of being shaken by someone. A rugged-lookingman with a grog-reddened face and stubble-covered jaw and clad in baggy patched cloth. ‘You look asif you’ve had a fright. Why don’t ya come back to my place and share a wee dram with me? I have abottle of the good stuff... all the way from County Kilkenny. What do ya say? Aaah, ya lost yourhusband, I expect. So many widows. I would-a fought myself, but I didn’t have the teeth with which tobite off the ends of the cartridges, the recruitment sergeant said.’

I looked into the eyes of this pathetic specimen, as perfectly wretched in condition as any of theslum dwellers. But it was not with revulsion that I viewed him. Oh no, I wish it were. It was with a sense of perverse comradeship, for the world had conspired against us both and robbed us of the mostspecial aspect of human existence - hope. And maybe for a few hours, with our minds numbed bywhisky, we might forget those troubles. But I was still a lady, wasn’t I?

‘Excuse me, I have to be on my way.’

‘It’s good whisky.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

He courteously tipped the peak of his cap, then let me pass. As I entered the lodging house I was tohave an encounter less pleasant and which I had feared happening for some days.

Mrs Doyle, my landlady, stood on the steps blocking my way. She wore a scruffy grey characterlessdress, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, white apron soiled with grime from the wash house; she washedclothes for the tenants and sailors who boarded there. But she was also a whore, and a whore’s madam.

Cunning, indeed, to have got her claws on such a property, for she was of extremely low birth. Herblonde hair and blue eyes bespoke a Scandinavian ancestry. She may even have been quite a lookerwhen she was younger, but grog and hard living had left their indelible mark on her tanned, leatheryand wrinkled skin.

‘You have a problem, Mrs Doyle?’

‘Who you got in my rooms?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

‘I heard ya... talking. A man’s voice. You with someone from the wrong side of the tracks? Thatwhy you here, Miss Merrick?’

‘My name’s French.’ I tried to get past her. She would not permit it.

‘You was recognised. You used to work for the Sanitary Commission. Dishing out small measuresof charity in your posh frock.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

‘And the man?’ she snarled. ‘Am I mistaken about that also?’

‘Do you always listen at the doors of your tenants? I’ve paid my rent. I expect privacy.’

‘You paid rent for one.’

‘I paid for the rooms, and, given their dilapidated and shameful condition, I would say one dollar aweek is an extortionate price.’

‘It’s just gone up to two dollars.’

She put out her hand indicating that this payment should take effect immediately. I stared back ather hoping my feelings were transparent not that such a feeble protest could ever worry the hard-facedMrs Doyle. Anyone with an ability to get by and build up an enterprising business in South End, evena brothel, had to possess the survival instincts of a sewer rat.

‘You don’t like it, Miss, you pack your bags and get out.’

This time I pushed past her and hurried up the steep, winding stairs to the top floor. They becamenarrower the higher you went, then spiral for the last flight. Safely inside, I quickly locked the door. Istood with my back pressed to the hard wood, which was a slimy green through a thick layer of mould.My heart was pounding and my hand shaking. I had noticed myself becoming clumsy, droppingobjects, being generally forgetful, my mind wandering from subject to subject without any semblanceof cohesion. Through the window, on my left, I beheld the jagged skyline of crooked slum roofs andcrooked slum chimneys, the filthy waste being pumped out from dwellings as miserable as my own.

I remained there for some time, half-expecting Mrs Doyle to come on up and try and force her wayin to get her hands on the extra rent, and discover my terrible secret. I’d wanted to tear out the eyes ofthat vile woman. I had to move but where to? And with what? My money had almost run out. We werealready, or I was, existing on bread and cheese.

I lay down on the bed, my face pressed into the pillow. The stink from the mattress punched throughthe clean sheets I’d purchased. I closed my eyes, trying to believe all was normal and that when Iopened them everything would be as perfect as it was before the war. My mind wandered back in time,basking in the sweetness of safe surroundings where love and happiness abounded and the summersunshine beat down with favour upon young lovers.

It was the month of July, 1859. Robert had completed his final medical exams. He was rowing me onthe Charles River, the oars rising and dipping beneath the surface with a peaceful gracefulness. I sat atthe rear of the boat enjoying being doted on by such a handsome young man (whom I could not haveloved more dearly). I was wearing a fetching blue silk hooped dress which my father had bought meon a recent trip to London, and demurely spinning a lace parasol on my shoulder, as ladies of goodlineage did. Robert, like his fellow medical students, wore a straw hat, striped blazer and baggy white pants. A perfectly ridiculous costume, never failing to draw a derisory remark from the street hoodlums.

The sun beat down upon us as Robert laboured through each stroke of the oar. He wasn’t at allathletic, and, when I playfully suggested he rowed faster, he replied testily,

‘No, I will not!’

‘Emma’s watching. Do you want me to look foolish?’

‘Then let Emma row.’

My good friend was in another boat. With her latest conquest, a Mr Shaw, whose parents were closeto Governor Andrew. His mother was a prominent abolitionist, though her son did not share her viewsand disliked the coloureds. Emma had introduced us but he and Robert did not get on. They’d arguedabout the sectional crisis. Shaw had said he was fed up with people in his family and in the State legislature preaching about emancipation, which he considered would cause nothing but ill-will in theSouth and possibly lead to a war. There was a lot of talk about war these days and Robert’s mentioningof this dreadful possibility when we first met on Boston Common, the year before, seemed to beringing ever more true.

Emma waved.

‘They’re passing us, Robert.’

‘Let them. There’s plenty of river... and plenty of time, for that matter. Besides, I don’t need anotherconfrontation with the elegant Mr Shaw. I hope the Union doesn’t need to rely on men of his ilk tosave us from the slave conspiracy.’

‘He said he’s for the Government. That he will fight.’

‘I’m sure he would go searching for glory on some battlefield, to the exclusion of all moralprinciple. His Mother should give him a good clip around the ear. Send him on a tour of Georgia toinspect the cotton plantations and see how the South’s peculiar institution sits with him thereafter.’

‘Row faster, Robert.’

He frowned, then seemed to respond, and, for a moment, our boat managed to pull ahead. ButRobert’s effort was easily matched by Mr Shaw who’d removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves andnonchalantly had a cigar gripped between his teeth as he rowed. Emma delighted in the competition.She loved to be the centre of attention. Mr Shaw was younger than she, but she would soon tire of him.She had the most perfectly ruined reputation, and my parents actively discouraged me from associatingwith her.

Suddenly Robert lost his grip on his right oar and it slipped out of the rowlock and into the water.

‘Well, don’t just stand there gaping at it,’ said I, ‘fish it out. Do you want us to look completefools?’

‘Who cares what Emma Lambert thinks.’

‘I do.’

‘He’s going into the army, isn’t he? He should be better at rowing than me. I’m not in competitionwith him.’

‘Robert Gray, you are so infuriating sometimes. I don’t know why I should love you the way I do.’

‘You love me, Annabel, sweetness, because I am not like that idiot over there. Let them row to distraction. Like I said, there’s plenty of river for it. He can row her all the way to Cape Cod, for all Icare.’

I laughed. ‘All right, but you will need the oar Robert if we are to get back to dry land.’

Tentatively leaning over the side, he attempted to retrieve the oar which had floated a few feet awayfrom the boat, forcing him to really stretch out his arm, but each time it seemed he might connect withthe oar it drifted a little further away, forcing him to reach out further still. The boat began to rock,and, before Robert had a chance to upright himself, he plunged headfirst into the river. I must confess Ifound the spectacle of him splashing about most amusing, and so did Emma and Gould Shaw.

‘Is it so funny, Annabel?’

‘Robert. Robert.’

‘Going for a swim, Gray?’ shouted Shaw from the other boat. He was grinning as he puffed on hiscigar.

‘Governor’s pet.’

‘Robert, you shouldn’t say such things. He might hear.’

‘That was the general intention.’

Robert swam back to the boat, and, helped by me, dragged his river-soaked body aboard. I handedhim a towel. He dried his face and blond curly hair.

‘Rowing not your thing, Gray? What’s the Charles taste like?’

‘The army’s exactly the right place for him,’ said Robert.

‘You let them beat us.’

‘It would appear so. Who’s bothered about that baboon, just look at my clothes.’

‘Now that you are qualified, you won’t be needing them. And, it is, a perfectly ridiculous costume,Robert. You said so often yourself.’

‘Well, I’ve kind of grown attached to it,’ I guess. He looked down at the dripping wet striped blazerand baggy white trousers.

‘Qualified. You know, I can scarcely believe it. There were times when I didn’t feel I could possiblylearn all those complicated terms and procedures. God, I hate Latin. With my Father so against mystudying medicine, he would have been glad to see me fail.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘He would so. He wanted me to be a banker; if you’re not handling money, it’s not work. Only hopeI made the right decision.’

‘You’re going to be a fine doctor. And I’m so proud of you. You’re still the idealist I fell in lovewith that day on the Common. Don’t ever change Robert... Promise me.’

‘As I recall, at the time, you weren’t that impressed with my intensity and inclination to talk onmatters serious.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Oh, yes you are.’ He reached out to touch my cheek and gazing lovingly into my eyes said, ‘You’rethe most beautiful creature I ever saw. I’d climb mountains for you. I’d dive into shark infested seas.Were you to command it, I would fight to the death for you. You bewitch me, Annabel. You’re all Iever dreamed of. You’re my waking thought.’ His face flushed from embarrassment. ‘And my lastthought before I go to sleep. You are truly an angel.’

I smiled at him. What woman would not wish to hear such words of love and devotion, and so sincerely spoken? I felt a butterfly in my stomach and all tingly. I could not have been happier.

‘Things will change for us now,’ I hinted. ‘Now that you’re qualified.’

‘They will?’

He smiled.

‘Oh, I get it.’

‘You must do it properly.’

‘With your good friends watching? On bended knee, Sir Lancelot to Queen Guinevere?’

‘I’m waiting, Robert. It never pays to keep a lady waiting.’

‘Very well, if you insist.’

‘I do.’

Down upon bended knee, my hand in his, and he gazing up at me, Robert said,

‘It cannot have escaped your notice, Miss Merrick, of Part Street, of this great city of Boston that forsome time now I have held you in my deepest affections. Am I feeling, dare I say it... could it belove?’

‘Don’t tease, Robert.’

‘All right. All right.’ Thus he continued with the proposal, his voice sincere, his heart honourable,and as he spoke I made a vow of my own, determining to forsake all others. ‘Miss Merrick, would youdo me the very great honour of becoming my wife?’

‘I will, Robert. I will.’

My eyes opened.

The sun had gone down.

Darkness prevailed.

My heart beat fiercely against my chest. A door creaked open, a figure moved in the shadows, theform barely perceptible to my eyes which were not conditioned to the lack of light in the room.

‘Robert.’

A baby was crying. The rooms directly beneath us were crammed with immigrant families, a family aslarge as nine living in one tiny room. You could hear Irish, German and Italian voices. You could hearthe frustration of squalor and poverty in the rows. You could hear the cries of the women assaulted andraped after their unemployed menfolk returned from the grog houses. You could hear the rattle of bedsprings as seed was pumped into these wretched women’s bellies, which would grow fat and in ninemonths, pushed out between blood-smeared thighs, would be another poverty-stricken life. I began tounderstand the hopelessness of the poor. Before the war eloquently spoken Southern politicians hadargued that although their blacks were not free, they did not live amid the squalor of workers inYankee cities, and when they grew too old to work, they were not turfed out onto the street by fatlandlords to starve. Oddly, the war had brought greater prosperity to our city, for with so many menaway in the army and fat army contracts to be filled employers had had to pay more. But the war hadbrought cripples and widows and orphans. And once the fighting had ended and the soldiers returnedhome, there’d be fierce competition for jobs, a problem further compounded by the presence of freedblacks and the freshly arrived immigrants.

Our living quarters were more like an attic, two small rooms, with cracked plaster, mould-coveredwalls and shoddy worthless furniture, and rats. There was a window beside the woodstove and a tinyskylight in Robert’s room, which we had boarded up. We had moved the bed into the main living area,this was where I slept. Although it was cramped Robert continued to sleep during the hours of daylightin the clothes trunk. He would usually rise a few minutes after sundown and retire shortly before dawn.When it was overcast, he could be up and about but the slightest contact with sunlight had the mostfearful affect on him, burning his skin, causing blisters, and hurting his eyes with such severity that hewould scream from the pain. He had described it as being similar to having grit thrown in his eyes;they would become very bloodshot and puffy. I’d purchased a pair of spectacles for him with thin bluetinted lenses, but he refused to wear them, preferring instead to remain in the shadows.

At night we spoke, but with the passing of each night he grew ever distant. He could not take foodwithout being violently sick. I had persisted with the morphine but the doses were becoming larger andless effective. He resisted the drug. There was only one form of nourishment Robert could take...blood. To this end, I had been frequenting a local slaughterhouse, buying pig’s blood. I could not bearto watch him drink it. When this was not available, he caught rats. How they cried out, squealed as hebit into them. Yet for as ghastly as these moments were they brought us a sense of normality. It gaveRobert strength and removed from him the haggard gaunt look, I had so often witnessed in dyingsoldiers. His eyes brightened, his skin became youthful and supple. He looked as young and handsomeas when we first met on Boston Common. Maishia had told him that whilst the Undead could exist for a while on the blood of animals they must, eventually, drink the blood of the living. I was not convinced that this was true, believing it to be Maishia’s way of inducing Robert to her ungodly sect.And if the blood of animals would not suffice, there was still an alternative, however unpalatable. Wehad argued about this for the last week.

‘When will you go to the hospital?’ he asked. ‘They have blood there.’

‘It’s too risky.’

He was distant from me. He paced on the other side of the room, mumbling to himself in that ancient dialect. Sometimes his behaviour was like that of a mentally ill patient, living, it seemed, in aworld of his own, scarcely aware of my presence. I had observed such cases in the hospital, menwhose nerves had been shattered by the effects of battle. These outbursts were sadly becoming morefrequent. If only I could understand what he was saying, it was a great barrier between us. All I coulddo was remember that pathetic wretch Sergeant Kirby, locked away in his padded cell on the upperfloor of the military hospital in New Orleans.

‘Stop it!’ I screamed. ‘Stop it!’

‘Maishia. Hanis. Hanis loves Maishia.’

‘Then be with her!’ I chided him.

I threw myself down on the bed, drew up my knees to my chin and wrapped my arms tightly aroundmy legs. I felt so cold. Every day when Robert arose from his resting place he filled the small roomwith coldness, the presence of evil growing and thickening and enveloping me. I may as well havebeen in a tomb myself.

‘I told you all along it was hopeless,’ said he, almost with a sense of satisfaction, as if he didn’t evencare. ‘She is me. And I hers. For all eternity.’

Then his voice changed and became solicitous, softer. He came towards me, until he stood besidethe bed. Briefly I looked up at him, then away.

‘Annabel, everyday I change, become less human. It’s incredible. I can see and hear things I wouldnever have noticed. My vision in the dark is exceptional, though strangely I’m beginning to see thingsin black and white. At first I thought I was imagining it. It’s not all the time. Right now, I see things asthey are. I believe that dogs do not see the world as we do. My sense of smell, my sense of touch are all improved.’ He removed his white linen shirt, the muscles of his upper chest and arms rippling as hepulled it over his shoulders. ‘Look, my physique, see how developed the muscles are, little wonder Ihave such strength. When I look at my body, it hardly seems to be me. Do you remember how skinny Iwas? Not at all athletic. I couldn’t even row.’

‘Perhaps you are... becoming Hanis?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said with frustration. ‘I don’t even know if he was an Undead. When I think of him, I see her. It’s all terribly vague. The temple in the desert. The huge marble pillars. The statues ofthe Jackal God, Anubis. The cool desert wind blowing the curtains ragged. Then I see her... herbeautiful face. I feel love in my stomach. Then there’s searing pain... and a dagger and treachery. Iknow Hanis loved her. He is the key to this, Annabel. If only the book told us more about him. He isscarcely mentioned in the Legend of Shaba. I wonder if Professor Brennier wrote any more texts?They are so old, even if he did, I doubt one is still in existence. If so, probably locked away in the vaultof a castle somewhere in Europe.’

He put his shirt back on, moved to the window and stared out at the landscape of slate roofs andcrooked chimneys. How more distant could I be from him?

‘It’s a full moon,’ he said. ‘I wish I could go out. Perhaps we could walk round the city one night? Ihate being cooped up in here. It’s like a prison. I used to enjoy walking, remember? Walking for milesto uncloud my mind and get to grips with a problem.’

He turned to face me. ‘My mind is evolving a whole new capacity for perception. Things that yearsago seemed difficult to fathom, are remarkably straightforward. Were I to practice medicine again, Ishould think I would find a cure for every disease. Hanis was a physician, the finest in Lower andUpper Egypt, the personal physician of the pharaoh himself. But which one? Which one? Mysteries.Mysteries.’

He began pacing again.

‘I’m dying but I am being reborn. And I have such strength.’

He picked up a piece of metal and bent it in two as effortlessly as if he were bending a thin piece ofpliable wood. It made me cringe.

‘So, you’ve lost your suicidal tendencies,’ I said scornfully, it hurting me as the words came out.

‘Maybe I will adapt? Maybe I can live like this? Maybe I don’t have to become like her? Maybe tobe an Undead you do not have to be intrinsically evil, to kill? Maybe I should try and practicemedicine again? I have so much knowledge. The knowledge of the Egyptian physician.’

‘What do you want me to say, Robert?’

‘It’s hard for you.’

‘No, impossible.’

‘You must try, for my sake.’

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘There is always choice? Except for me. No, I can choose... between good and evil.’

‘But which will you choose, Robert?’

‘I don’t know.’

I sighed, shut my eyes.

I was beginning to get a headache.

Robert went on; I wished he would shut up.

‘Sometimes I cannot remember the simplest things. What day it is. Yet there is fantastic knowledgeinside my head. Perhaps the wisdom stored up through centuries of living. Perhaps with the exchangeof blood Maishia has passed this on to me? Perhaps Hanis was, indeed, an Undead? Maishia and hecould have lived together for a thousand years. I can scarcely believe it, even now after what hashappened, that she is four thousand years old. We humans live for so short a time, we scarcely haveacquired knowledge of our world and we depart it. Even if we could double our life span, think what adifference it would make. Scientific discoveries on a scale previously incomprehensible. Think of theadvancement one hundred and fifty years of life could bring, let alone a thousand. These Vampires, Annabel, as much as we may despise their method of existence, have managed to achieve something

no other human being has. They are immortal. They have learned to cheat death.’

‘They are death, Robert.’

‘Something keeps them alive. If we could find out what it is. Science, given time, could give us theanswer. Imagine living in a world where there is no death, no sickness. It’s a question of chemistry andbiology. I must have equipment. A microscope, a means of examining my blood. Whatever stops theageing process is now at work inside my veins. The ancient Egyptians, they were so advanced, then forsome inexplicable reason they lost, or, we lost, their knowledge, blown away in the sand.

‘It’s terribly vague, names of drugs, plants, flood into my head. I have to experiment, to try themout. There is so much need and suffering in the city, especially here, in the slums, where norespectable doctor would ever come.’

‘What about your craving for blood? Will you adapt to that also, Robert?’

‘You could get blood for me.’

‘No. Not from the hospital.’

‘It would keep me from killing. It would keep up my strength. Armed with this new knowledge Imight discover a cure for myself? You want that, don’t you? They have blood in abundance at thehospital. Tubs of it from when they amputate. It is just thrown away, and I know it would be so muchbetter for me than the blood of pigs and rats. The rats taste so vile. No one need know. And you couldeasily gain access. Your friend Cathy would help you and Matron Stevens. Start back as a nurse if youhave to, anything. It would keep me safe. It would keep us together. It would keep...’

‘Me safe?’

‘Do you believe I would harm you?’

‘I don’t know what to think anymore. You speak of this wonderful knowledge, but I want you backas you were. I am not interested in the poor.’

‘I will be my old self. I promise.’

‘And what if she comes? Will I still be safe?’

‘We don’t know that she will.’

‘I can feel her presence, Robert, even now in this room, almost as if she is watching us, waiting forher moment to strike.’

He came to the side of the bed, and, kneeling before me, reached out and took my hand in his; it feltso cold, like I was touching a block of ice. Yet in his eyes there was a hope and defiance that had beenmissing since I found him in the delta. I questioned my own resolve. Robert could fluctuate betweenmoments of despair and rise in spirit again, but I was heading ever downward.

‘Then we must act soon. Get equipment. I must go to work. You must bring me books on medicine,anatomy, all you can find.’

‘We have no money, did you forget?’

‘Then get some! But first the blood.’

‘No! I want to help you. Desperately, I do. But the taking of human blood would just be another steptowards her evilness. The longer you can stay off human blood, the better.’

‘It’s easy for you. You don’t feel the pain, the hunger. Your guts aren’t wrenched inside out. All youcan offer me is sympathy and drugs. I won’t take any more morphine. It poisons me, dulls my mind.’

‘There has to be another way.’

‘The book,’ he said. ‘Professor Brennier’s book, Gods and Man.’ He picked up the little blackleather bound book and leafed through the time-yellowed pages. ‘I don’t know whether he’s still therebut when I was in New York once, hunting for artefacts for my collection, I asked a man about thebook and he said one of the Professor’s descendants was a practising Egyptologist in New York. Alsoa professor. If anyone can help us find a cure to this sickness, then surely it is he. Oh, Annabel, saveme. You must save me.’

We greeted each other as sisters, an affectionate kiss on the cheek, a warm hug, then inevitably themood of my dear friend turned, as I had feared, to suspicion.

Emma stood back a pace and scrutinised me, the look of shock on her face saying more about mydecline than any timid glance into a looking-glass could. I knew she would not wish to hurt me, butshe struck a severe blow. We had always lived in separate worlds, she and I, an unlikely friendship. Ihad been the cautious, sensible one, and now I had become reckless, almost to the point of self-destruction.

‘Why the note? Why didn’t you call me in person? Why all the secrecy? How long have you been in Boston? Your parents, they’re...’

‘They are well?’ I interrupted.

‘Sick with worry. We’ve all been sick with worry for you. All of us.’

‘You always said I should be more daring.’

I turned away from her. Clad in her finery, her stylish Parisian frock and bonnet, she was too painfula reminder of the comfortable life I had once taken for granted. How low had I sunk? I crept fromplace to place, frightened of being recognised. I had no past, a miserable and perfectly wretchedpresent, and possibly no future.

Tensely I gripped the brass rail of the bandstand in which we stood, shielded from the sunshine, inthe shadows. What irony, the park was in full bloom, the brightly coloured flowers reminding me ofNew Orleans -life, not death. The grass an emerald green carpet upon which my fellow Bostoniansstrolled, some of the men in dark blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons and gold braided sleeves.They walked arm in arm with their ladies, as I had once done with Robert.

‘You really caused a stir, Annabel.’ But my friend’s admiration for my mischief was fleeting andher tone turned to remorse and respect for authority, which was quite unlike her, ‘I should not have agreed to help you. Your Father has hired detectives, Pinkerton men. I fear for Jim. He will not be ableto put a foot in this port for years.’

‘You needn’t worry,’ I said, ‘I shall speak with my Father. Captain Redfern is not to blame. He is agood man. He has a kind heart.’

‘Annabel, why the secrecy? What could be so bad that you have to conceal your whereabouts, like afugitive? How long have you been in the city?’

I hesitated then replied,

‘Three weeks.’

‘And you did not think to contact me before now?’

Then came the inevitable question, the question I had dreaded her asking.

‘Did you find Robert?’ She said this almost as a whisper, as if when softly spoken it might lessenmy pain

I didn’t answer her.

‘Is Robert here? Annabel, I’m your dearest friend, am I not? Won’t you confide in me?’

‘Yes,’ I said wearily.

‘He’s sick?’

I nodded.

‘This stupid war. Thank God it’s almost over. George Custer, bless that man, has routed Pickett atFive Forks... on the outskirts of Petersburg. They captured thousands of Johnnies. They say the citymust fall. And that will...’

‘I know. Richmond, the end of the war... For some... The fortunate ones.’

I remembered my work at the hospital; two years of suffering and dying in a bloody and nightmarishvision. I had thought such cruel death and mutilation could not be surpassed in horror.

I turned to face my friend. ‘I need your help, Emma. I need money. I have to go to New York. And Ialso need to buy food and pay for our lodgings.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘You’re not making sense.’

‘Will you help me?’

‘I can give you money, of course, but as to whether or not I will be helping you... Annabel, I careabout you... so much. Is...? Is Robert maimed?’

‘No.’

‘Why then? Why the cloak and dagger stuff?’

‘Emma, I’m asking you for your unconditional friendship. Do not press me on this.’

‘New York?’

‘I have to see a professor there. I cannot be certain he’s there... Or even less certain if he can help.Robert has this book. It’s called Gods and Man. It’s a book of legend.’ It was incredible but as I spokethe word legend I saw in my mind an image of a temple in the desert. It was shining in the moonlight,and, amid the jagged rocks that rose up on either side of the valley, silhouetted against the dark bluestar-lit night sky, I saw a lone beast -a silver-coated Asiatic jackal staring at me, its eyes aglow withdemonic fury. ‘Professor Brennier,’ I stumbled on, trying to collect myself, ‘is an Egyptologist. Thebook was written by an ancestor of his in the sixteenth century, in Germany.’

‘At least let me look after Robert while you’re away. If he’s sick, he’ll need care.’

‘No! It’s... It’s not safe.’

‘It’s only Robert.’

‘Emma, promise me that you will never come near, never try to find me.’

‘But how should I give you the money?’

‘Leave it at the bank,’ I said. ‘Can you have it for me tomorrow?’

‘Your Mother. Your Father. Your sister Clara, in Philadelphia. They fear you are dead. Think oftheir torment.’

‘No! I cannot see them.’

‘This is preposterous.’

‘Emma, will you help me?’

‘I shouldn’t.’

‘But you will?’

‘Is $1,000 enough?’

‘Bless you.’ I embraced her. ‘Bless you.’

‘What kind of a friend am I,’ said she.

‘The best kind.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘You are. Your intentions are well meant, and I love you for it, but this is something I must do formyself. And, with God’s help, I shall be able to see you all soon.’

I was distant from her, my mind swirling and in the grip of a past encapsulating trance; it wasbeginning to become a more frequent occurrence, which I put down to my state of fatigue. ‘We havesuch a tenuous grip on life,’ said I almost unknowingly. ‘My work at the hospital should have preparedme.’

Coming back to myself and knowing that I must leave (for the sun would be down soon), I leanedforward and gave my friend a kiss on the cheek.

‘I must be going. Robert will be expecting me.’ I found a smile. ‘Goodbye, dearest friend.’

As I walked off and was making my way down the bandstand steps my friend called out to me.Turning, I saw a face solemn with bad news.

‘You won’t have heard,’ she said. ‘It’s better that you hear it from me. The young officer whohelped you get an appointment at the War Department and accompanied you to Washington City...’

‘Lyndon?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s...?’

She did not have to answer.

‘Oh, no. No.’

‘He was killed by a Rebel sharpshooter at Petersburg.’

‘Oh, not him as well. Dear God, not him as well.’

I had announced myself, gone into his study and blurted it all out, so emotional that when finished Iwas crying. Throughout, he had listened without the slightest attempt to interrupt. He was like a greatphysician, listening to a troubled patient no other doctor could cure and with an immense presence.During the journey north I had compiled a mental image of him. I had expected someone so eminent tobe old, yet Professor Brennier was a young man in his early thirties, his hair thick and dark and longand falling about the collar of his ivory silk shirt in cavalier fashion. He wore a green suit whichseemed a decade out of date and a cravat. Every so often he would take from his pocket a tiny silversnuffbox and snort a pinch up either nostril.

At last he spoke.

‘How long has your fiancee been in this state?’

‘I... I’m not sure. He was reported missing in... And I went to...’

‘Be precise.’

‘Eight months.’

‘And does he feed?’ His tone was harsh, inconsiderate, dispassionate. Like the doctor who’d seengreat suffering and become desensitised to it. I had observed this with army surgeons whilst nursing inthe hospital.

‘The blood of animals... Rats... The blood of pigs I fetch from the slaughterhouse.’

‘He hasn’t killed then?’

‘No.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Robert would tell me.’

‘No!’ He pointed at me rudely. ‘That is where you are very wrong.’

He rose up from behind his desk and went to the book-lined wall. The study was crowded withbooks, large-spined dusty volumes, and ancient artefacts, some unquestionably Egyptian in origin. Inthe corner, beside the French windows, was a statue of Anubis. It was carved from ebony, the head ofa jackal on the body of a man - the Jackal God. It seemed to be watching me, and I could not avert mygaze from it. Suddenly, I began to feel faint, drifting out of consciousness, entering a world ofblackness. I heard a voice calling out to me -the voice of a woman -sweet and seductive and compelling me to seek it out. Waves crashed against the timbers of a ship as it rolled in a mighty sea.And there, on the deck, throat torn out, fresh blood dripping onto the sea-wet planks and smeared overclothing, was a dead sailor.

‘Miss, Miss.’ I came back to the present to find Professor Brennier leaning over me, holdingsmelling salts to my nose.

‘Are you all right?’

I shook my head groggily. ‘Yes. I... I believe so. The statue.’

‘Anubis.’ He looked at it. ‘It came from my great, great, great grandfather’s collection. A beastlything. My wife wants rid of it.’ He moved back to his desk. I recognised the book he had retrievedfrom the shelf. It was a copy of God’s and Man, though in somewhat better condition than my own.

‘You are very pale. You are not in good health, Miss. This affair has been a tremendous strain. Ionly wish my ancestor were here. He was an expert, you see. I, alas, am not. These creatures you speakof, I know of their existence.’ He leafed through the pages of the small black leather-bound book withits religious-style gold lettering on the cover. ‘A fascinating text. Truly. Edward Brennier, he wasSwiss-German, devoted his entire life to seeking out these creatures and destroying them.

‘They have always been among us, though thankfully in very small numbers. You see they arepredators and were they to proliferate, they would merely bring about their own destruction. Theymust kill discreetly without arousing suspicion. They prey on the old, the weak and the lonely. That’swhy they favour the remote regions. Take this Maishia, she preyed upon the blood of new-borninfants, a risky strategy, for when Shaba and his warriors returned from the wars in Assyria theystormed the High Priestess’s temple, overcame her powers and entombed her in a cave in the desert. Apity they didn’t kill her but these were simple people and superstitious in the extreme and they werefearful of a curse on them and their families. Maishia must be nearly four thousand years old. And theolder a Vampire becomes, the more powerful, and hence difficult to destroy. In the CarpathianMountains, a remote region of Romania, in Eastern Europe, there is another such being -a Count Dracula. Prince Vlad The Impaler. Impaled one hundred thousand Turkish soldiers, he took prisoner.My ancestor attempted to destroy this beast, this prince of the Undead, and perished in the attempt,along with five monks of the Benedictine order.’

The Professor was distant, lost in his thoughts. He slotted the book back in its position on thebookshelf. He went to the window and peered out into the garden where two small children wereplaying on the grass with a hoop. The mansions of Harlem reminded me of my own house in Boston,pretty little worlds of seclusion and affluence with a tranquil air to the large tall-ceilinged rooms.

‘You came here for my help. Sadly, I cannot give it. She is too powerful. I, alas, do not have thecourage of my ancestor. And I am not without responsibility. Those are my children. I cannot riskthem. Nor their mother.’

He turned to face me.

‘Your fiancee, I should say is lost to you. It is merely a matter of time before he feeds on humanblood, if he has not already done so. This may sound cruel, but this is the cruellest of businesses. AVampire needs to feed once every seven days, to take fifty-two lives every year. Five hundred in adecade. It doesn’t bear thinking about how many Maishia has killed. And with each kill, they growstronger, and therefore the need to kill stronger still. It is a vicious circle from which there is noescape. They could even deserve our pity, for they do not enter into this evil of their free will. Maishiaonce was a normal woman. She does what she must to survive, and no animal on God’s earth seeks its own doom.

‘That said, your fiancee has combated the evil for a good while longer than is usual... but it is notunknown for transformations to take as long as a year. Indeed, the Vampire, however evil a creature,carries a mark of their human existence for all their days. Or should I say nights.’ If that had been anattempt at humour both he and I realised it had failed, then his tone became stern. ‘Do not confuse thistenuous link with humanity for weakness. You will naturally want to see the man you knew... I cannotimagine your pain. These beings are merciless killers. You must leave him. He has been greatly honoured by Maishia, few Vampires give life to other Vampires, and if he is the reincarnation of her lost love Hanis, she will stop at nothing to return him to her power. He belongs to her now. She willdestroy you and anyone who dares to stand in her way.

‘Now, Miss Merrick, I must bid you good day. I promised my wife and daughters I would take themto Central Park. I wish you luck and the courage to act as you must.’

‘You can do nothing for me?’

‘No.’

I was on the common. Night was closing in. I was running. I was being pursued -they were behindme, in front, all around. Up slopes, over streams, I ran. But I could not escape. My tormentors. I ran.The terror entrenched and stirring like an ugly thing inside my heart and stomach had brought tears tomy eyes, it was as ugly as the self-pity that I knew I had no right to feel, for if ever someone was thearchitect of their own doom, then surely it was I.

I ran.

Ran.

On, exhausted, labouring through each lung-wrenching breath. I ran. And then, just as I believedagainst hope that I might be safe, with the lights from the mansions on Tremont Street visible in thedistance, with the entrance to the common and the safety of human domain nearing me, I found myselfconfronted by a demonic pair of eyes. They glowed in the darkness - red-hot coals of power and unearthly destruction.

I was spent.

I stopped.

I stared back at the beast summoning a defiance that can only come with utter frustration. The pointat which the fear of being consumed, destroyed was no longer worthy of thought. It was as if I willedthe beast to attack me, to get its act of depravity over with, to end my nightmarish existence. I was likea cowardly soldier upon the battlefield who had hid and hid until there was nowhere else to hide. Butthe beast, for I did not have to see it to know it, merely stared at me, a faceless object in the darkness from which it threatened to spring.

I heard a long, eerie wail.

Another.

And another.

I was surrounded.

Then the beast came forward out of the darkness, its silvery fur coat barely perceptible, its lipsfurled, the snarling, pointed fangs bared. It was no bigger than a medium-sized dog. It stared at me,though despite its apparent wildness, appeared to be controlled by some mystical force.

‘Maishia,’ the word slipped from my lips.

It fell silent.

It went cold - ice cold.

A stillness more terrifying than any snarl or wail. I nervously looked about myself; eyes, red eyes allaround me.

‘Annabel.’ The voice was soft and seductive, almost that of a friend. ‘Annabel, why do you makeme have to destroy you? Robert is mine and I am his. Can’t you see? He is not yours... he never was.For centuries, I have searched for my Hanis, hoping he would, with the reincarnation of souls, comeback to me, forsaking all others for, he, my true love.’ The voice turned harsher, a touch threatening,yet there was an unmistakable element of fear and hopelessness. I had power in this, why else wouldshe simply not kill me? And I knew the answer. ‘He is mine and I am his, for all eternity. Leave him.’

‘No, never! He isn’t yours.’

‘Annabel, each day he becomes more mine. Our blood has mingled. You can only delay the process,increase his suffering. I know what it is to surrender life, to live in fear of the day, to be unable to growold, to be feared and shunned by one’s humanity. But the world we, the immortal, walk in is alsomagical and Robert will, in time, come to love this world, the world he will share with me, forcenturies, growing wiser and stronger and able to see and comprehend things no mortal could everdream of. That world has only been experienced by a few. I do not share it lightly.’

‘If he is truly yours, why do you fear me?’ said I boldly.

‘Why must you ask the question when you already know the answer?’

‘Tell me,’ I insisted.

‘I could destroy you.’

‘But you do not... why?

‘He cares about you. It will take many centuries for Robert to totally forget his human pleasures.There will always be a humanness to him, a weakness for our kind, a cross we must bear. But he willlearn that that weakness must be exorcised or it could lead to his destruction, and for us if we are destroyed, there is no salvation, no Heaven. We suffer untold torment.’

‘And you could subject him to this, even though you purport to love him? What kind of love isthat?’

‘The selfish kind, the only kind. I would die for him, and you will see soon enough that he woulddie for me also. We cannot kill each other, he and I. We have a bond that is thousands of years in thebuilding. You know he’s Hanis. He, the great physician of Ramses. My beloved. Almost the mostpowerful man in all Upper Egypt, and I the High Priestess of Anubis. We were so in love. But...’

She had stopped at what I instinctively felt was the key to this mystery. She would not reveal it to me. Was she a woman or was she a devil? Such beauty. I could smell the scents of long ago...Frankincense, Myrrh. In the background, the whistling of the wind, and beyond the wind the mutter ofvoices in an ancient tongue. I was cold, it was so cold, I was shivering. Looking about myself Isearched for the origin of the voice... my tormentor. She seemed to have spoken from but a couple ofyards away.

I could not move, my limbs locked in a paralysis.

The eyes of the beast, glowing red.

‘Why don’t you kill me? Or are you afraid? Afraid of what Robert would feel for you then? Youwould be the monster that you are. A murderer.’

‘Robert, Hanis, is mine.’

‘No!’

‘Annabel, I will only wait for so long. You control your destiny. Think of your parents and yourfriends. Your dear sister... Clara is well, with family.’

‘And you think that by killing my family, my friends, Robert will love you? All you have to offerhis death. I will not help you take his soul. That belongs to God. I will not be a party to theperpetuation of your evil.’

‘Brave words. And the graves are full of those who spoke such brave words.’

There was shrill laughter, so wicked, so piercing that I had to clamp my hands to my ears. No use. Itpenetrated my skull... as if a surgeon was poking a long bullet probe inside. I sank to my knees,buckling under the intense pain, yet refusing to cry out. The noise loudened, whirling around the innerregions of my brain, pressure mounting until, it seemed, my head was going to explode from within.My eyes pushed outward, I could feel them bulging in their sockets. The pain spread to my neck. Itwas as if my head was held in the grip of powerful hands and being twisted, wrenched from myshoulders.

‘I will not yield,’ I shouted tearfully, remembering the warrior Shaba and his heroic storming of thePriestess’s temple, recounted in Gods and Man. He and his warriors had faced the power of Maishia,and, with his men losing faith, Shaba rallied them in a belief the forces acting upon them were clevertrickery, an illusion that could only work if the victim believed.

It’s just an illusion, I told myself.

‘You have no power over me.’

‘And what does Shaba know?’ the Vampire said scornfully, again clearly reading my thoughts. ‘Hewas a superstitious fool, and his bones are dust in the desert. I am alive. I live!’

‘No! You are dead! Without a soul. Beyond pity. You cannot destroy our love. You may destroyRobert’s body, pollute his blood with your vileness, but you will not take his soul. You can neverdestroy that love. That love which is so pure. Never!’ I shouted. ‘Never! That will live on.’

‘Then die fool.’

The pain inside my head ended. The voice was gone. I looked about myself. The jackals... theyseemed closer.

They attacked.

Tearing at my flesh. Razor sharp fangs. Half a dozen snarling, pointed mouths, probing, biting,tearing at my clothes. I cried out in agony as they ripped the flesh from my bones. I was a lump ofmeat. A carcass. I beat back, kicking, lashing out in every direction, crying, screaming. Over and overI rolled on the grass - into the darkness. Alone. Then suddenly the pain ended. I was tumbling in spacewith no sense of feeling or gravity as if I were underwater, a weightless mass. There was no pain and Ipresumed it was death.

I awoke. Terrified. Someone was standing there in the darkness.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Me.’

‘Robert?’

‘Who did you think it was?’

‘Her,’ I spat, like a snake spitting poison, anger and hatred coursing through my veins with anintensity never before encountered.

‘Maishia?’ I nodded.

My head throbbed. My eyes hurt, as if the happenings of the nightmare had been real, and whenRobert turned up the oil lamp I asked him to shorten the wick. I dragged myself up on the bed, backagainst the wall; there was no headboard. I could scarcely feel my legs. Usually with a bad dream,after the initial fright of waking, there is an overwhelming sense of relief that one has returned tosafety. Not so now. Those eyes, demonic, glowing with red fury, the pain of those razor-sharp fangstearing into my flesh, gnawing at my bones, the haunting sound of that woman’s voice and the shrill laughter, of intense wickedness. It was no dream, it was a warning, a vision of my future.

Robert paced the confines of our small room and I could tell needed no explanation of what I’dexperienced.

‘She came to you, didn’t she?’

‘It was only a dream,’ I said bravely.

‘No! She has the power to enter our minds at will. I believe she can influence thoughts, weakenresolve. And worse, it means she knows where we are. We should have gone to another city, to Europeeven.’

He paused to pick up one of the test tubes that contained a substance he’d been using as a catalyst inexperiments on his blood. He held it up to the light from the oil lamp, examining the bottom of thetube where the blood had changed form and broken down into sections.

‘We need more time,’ he said. He sighed. ‘But even had we gone to Europe, she would have foundus.’

‘If she’s here, why doesn’t she show herself? Why doesn’t she strike? She’s afraid, Robert. She’safraid of our love. That is our strength. The way in which we can defeat her. It was so clear to me inthe nightmare.’

‘Possibly. Did she subject you to terrors?’

‘The jackals.’

‘Them,’ he said. ‘When I was in the delta and out searching for the renegade One-Eyed Joe withLieutenant Hamilton, I was visited upon by those jackals. I remember waking to find myselfsurrounded -the red eyes, the slavering mouths, the snarls. I tried to wake my comrades but couldn’tstir them. It was a moment of pure terror. I have never felt more alone. Then I was attacked, the painexcruciating, feeling every bite, their snapping jaws relentlessly tearing at my flesh. And before that,when Colonel Picard and I dined with Maishia in the Grafton House, we were talking aboutEgyptology... when she reached out across the table, and, taking my hand in hers, subjected me to themost incredible experience. I was in Thebes, walked in the land of the pharaohs, walked among thepeople, their markets, the magnificent city with its golden obelisks and temples. I saw the Nile, and thetombs. It was reminiscent of the dreams I had as a young child, except more vivid. You remember thedreams I told you about?’

‘Yes, Robert, I remember.’

‘Perhaps it’s preordained?’

‘Shaba vanquished her. She is not invincible, Robert. It seems her power, or in part, is merelyillusory, and when she visits us in our thoughts she is exposed, weaker. It says or rather suggests thisin the book. I wish there were more on her. I’ve read and read it, looking for clues. The most importantthing is that when confronted with her tricks we refuse to believe, like Shaba and his warriors whenthey stormed her temple... the night they took her into the desert and entombed her.’ I paused toreflect. ‘I wonder who set her free.’

‘Probably tomb robbers who refused to heed the warning of a curse that Shaba and his warriorswould undoubtedly have marked the place with. But Annabel, her power is far from illusory. Curt waskilled. One-Eyed Joe and some of his men. Sergeant Kirby driven insane. She killed Gabriel, Tom’sfriend, then the African with the booby trap in the forest. We must have lost twenty Union soldiers.She’s killed a lot of people.’ He put the test tube down carefully on the sideboard and came to the sideof the bed. Kneeling beside it, he reached out and took my hand in his, then said gently,

‘We are doomed.’

‘Your experiments?’

‘Self-deception. My knowledge is not great enough, and, even if it were, I could not trust myself touse it. The hunger grows, Annabel.’

‘I shall buy more equipment. More books.’

He put his finger to my lips. ‘Schh... my darling. With what? What will you buy books with?’

‘I shall see Emma again. She will give us money. We could go to Europe.’

‘Risk another sea journey?’

‘What do you mean, risk?’

‘It’s dangerous. Look at the storms we were subjected to last time.’

‘It would be better than waiting here for her to strike, like bait on a fishing hook. If only you hadn’tgone back to the Grafton House to save that girl. Why should she live and you die? It’s so unfair.’

‘It was my responsibility, Annabel. The Farleys had been good to me. Besides, they had beenendangered because of me. Like I said, it’s preordained. And are you telling me that you would reallyhave preferred me to leave Sarah-Jane to her fate?’

‘Yes. Yes, whatever it would take. So long as you remained safe.’

‘What about honour, Annabel? How would I have lived with the shame? I’ve seen men in the hospitals who ran away from combat, left their mates to do the dying, and I know this much, that thereis scarcely one of them who wouldn’t do anything to go back and fight. I don’t want to be running thewhole of my life. What would be the value of such a life? You wouldn’t love a man like that.’

‘Yes, I would. I would. Anything to keep you alive and safe... and as you once were.’

‘You say that now. Remember Robert Gould Shaw, Emma’s beau, what an arrogant little ass hewas, how selfish and how against the coloureds? Well, he probably could tell us something abouthonour. He commanded that black regiment in the attack on Fort Wagner, gave his life leading thosemen. They say he’s buried alongside them in a common grave with no marker. We do not choose ourpath, Annabel; it’s chosen for us. I guess instinctively we know what to do when the time comes. It’sone of the human spirit’s best attributes, like with this war, when men are prepared to lay down theirlives for something greater than their personal existence. They don’t fight for land, for women, orbooty... they fight for ideas, Annabel. They fight for freedom!’

‘But Bob Hatcher saved his skin, left us to our fate.’

‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘you couldn’t love a man like Bob Hatcher, could you?’.

‘That Sergeant Kirby’s still alive. Why didn’t she kill him?’

‘They say the good die young. It’s God’s way.’

‘Don’t talk to me about God. He deserted us.’

‘No, he has not. He’s there... if we open our eyes and look for him. I don’t believe in Heaven, but Ithink there’s something out there, a kind of energy force we can all tap into at times of need,something our ancestors were once more in touch with. The human race believes in its infinitearrogance that it has rolled forward, but there is so much knowledge we have lost and carelesslydiscarded.’

Robert was distant. I found myself studying his face. He grew more youthful by the day, subtlechanges to his bone structure, his eyes a different shade, more blue, his jaw a touch firmer. Hisforehead was higher. He’d become more manly, stronger. There was a nobleness to his looks, the kindyou often see in a stone statue of a famous person. I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t imagining this, for I wasso tired, so deprived of good sleep that cohesive thought frequently eluded me and I struggled toremember the simplest of things, wandering about in a daze. The condition exceeded the boundaries offatigue I’d suffered as a nurse. I desperately needed to absorb information to help Robert, yet spenthour upon hour scanning pages of text I couldn’t recall. Perhaps my vision was faulty, hence why Iimagined changes in Robert’s face.

‘We’re in a pretty good fix, you and I. It doesn’t have to be that way. You are free to leave. Youcontrol your own fate. She won’t destroy you.’

‘And am I to be without honour?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘You returned to the Grafton House to combat the evil for that girl, yet you expect me, your fiancee,to desert the one person in the world that means the most to me. How could you expect that of me?’

‘The army asks a soldier to fight... seldom to throw away his life when the battle is lost. You havefought a great battle, Annabel, one worthy of the bravest and most heroic soldier, but now you mustsling your musket over your shoulder and retreat. You have done all that honour dictates. I could notbe more proud of you. You always made me proud. And you made me happy. With you, I feltcomplete, as if I could take on any task and succeed. Without you, I would have never have gottenthrough those trying days at medical school. You are the air that I breathe, you are a blue sky and thebluest ocean. You are the flowers in spring and the stars at night. You are so very special. And that iswhy you must save yourself.’

‘Stop talking, and listen. She fears our love, Robert. While we have that closeness, and, as long aswe stop her evil from driving a wedge between us, we can triumph.’

I caressed the back of his neck, looking into his bright blue eyes with an almost forgotten longing. Istroked his blond hair, my fingers working through the soft curls. He was mine not hers, not Sarah-Jane’s, mine. I half-expected him to spurn me, but he didn’t. Sensing the barriers eroding before myaffection, I boldly leaned forward and kissed him. On the lips. There was the sensation of coldness...but I loved him. Our eyes flirted exchanging messages of love beating fiercely within aching hearts.It’d be worth fighting a thousand battles for such a moment.

We kissed.

This time passionately.

Our hands took each other’s clothes off. Robert held me close, my breasts crushed to his muscularchest. We kissed and kissed. His hands covered my breasts, alternately squeezing them. I wanted histouch, nipples erect, standing out, the region between my thighs wet for him. We fell back on the bed.Hungry for his naked flesh I parted my legs, presenting myself to him. He lay on top of me, our heartsbeating as one, he exploring every inch of my body with his cool hands, but the coldness didn’t matter.I kissed him and kissed him, refusing to allow him time for decision. My tongue slipped between histeeth, melting with his, and if I felt the sharpness of an incisor, I ignored it, pretending his fangs, herevil, did not exist. There was only us, our love. I threw my legs wider, drew knees up, hands pressingto his bottom, urging him to take me.

‘No!’

‘We must. This is our strength. Something she cannot have, even if she destroys us both. She is hate.We are love. And our love will live longer than her.’

‘We cannot take the risk.’

‘I want you.’

‘No, the risk is too great.’

Again I kissed him. Closing my eyes I imagined it was before the war, and sighed away on a cloudof ecstasy as we became one. We were locked together, a real couple again after the years ofseparation. The bed springs rattled. I basked in an exotic feeling spreading through my fatigued body,that suddenly had come alive. Then I heard a voice -her voice. I saw an angry snarl cross her wicked,painted face. Saw red eyes - almond shaped - not with any beauty but glowing red in the darkness. Ishut out the image, held on to Robert more tightly, wrapping my legs around his waist, making sure hewould not hold back from what I wanted, the ultimate demonstration of my love for him.

I felt his body tensing. I felt his desire to pull away, to save me, but I would have none of it.

For a while Robert lay on top of me, very still. He wasn’t the slightest bit out of breath, and thecoldness I had determined to ignore during the climax of our lovemaking now seeped into my flesh,the sweat on my skin seeming to solidify. But I was happy... until I saw the sadness in his eyes.

‘May God forgive me.’

He got up, pulled on his shirt and pants. He went to the window, gazing into the night. There was nomoon and outside it was pitch black. He wanted to stare up at the stars. I’d observed in him over theweeks a growing fascination with the heavens. I remembered the painted ceiling of the inner sanctuaryof the temple beneath the Grafton House so realistic it gave the illusion one was peering out into thenight sky and not underground at all. Had the ancient Egyptians come from the stars? Had this dreadedcurse originated there with an advanced civilisation, forerunners of our own? The pyramids seemed tohave had a significance far beyond mere burial sites. Was I beginning to be touched by the forces ofmysticism that had infected Robert’s blood and sensing, not so acutely, the wonders of a past age, ashe did?

I got out of bed, joined him by the window.

‘Why must God forgive you?’ said I.

‘My selfishness, for wanting to be a man, a mortal again. If you should become fat with child, thenthis evil shall be perpetuated. It was stupidity.’

‘An expression of true love stupid, Robert? In this world where there is so much cruelty andinjustice? Love is the most precious gift between a man and a woman. As I said, she can only take youfrom me if we allow it. We have the strength to overcome her.’

‘I was reading the books you got,’ he said dolefully. ‘If Maishia is, indeed, destroyed, then it couldset me free, rid me of this plague.’ He paused. ‘But it might, if the evil is too advanced, kill me also.And even should an opportunity to kill her arise, I cannot be sure I would be able to seize it. I havealready wasted one such opportunity. As Tom pointed out, when I was in the Grafton House, trying tosave Sarah-Jane, Maishia put herself at my mercy, gave me the opportunity to strike the head from hershoulders, but I was unable to act. Maybe I could never kill her, her lover Hanis, the Egyptian physician? Now I know why I always wanted to become a doctor; it is because of who I once was. She

was guiding me, even during my childhood, preparing me for the time when our paths would cross.’

‘You mustn’t believe what she wants you to!’

‘You see me. Am I not changed? Do I not have the look of someone else?’

‘Robert, it’s too fanciful. You’re just an image that reminds her of what she lost. I don’t know whathappened between them, but I felt close to an answer in the dream. She cannot appear before uswithout revealing her own vulnerability. As she probes to influence us, we must see and understandmore of her. We will find her Achilles heel, because she will reveal it to us.’

‘She killed me,’ he suddenly said.

I looked at him in amazement.

‘She plunged the dagger into my heart.’

‘But why?’

‘Because... Because I couldn’t love her. She came to me seeking a cure for the sickness. I was thefinest physician of my day, with no equal in all the kingdom. She pleaded with me, saying that shewanted to be normal, that she wanted to see the sun rise and walk among the people as a mortal. Sheswore she would not kill again. She agreed to live off the blood of animals while I tried to find a cure.’There was bitterness in his voice when he said, ‘She betrayed my trust with deceit and wickedness.One evening, when I returned from the palace attending the nephew of the Pharaoh, I found herfeeding on a new-born infant she had seized from the village. I had trusted her. I banished her from my house and promised to destroy her, that I would get my friend the Pharaoh to have his bodyguardseek her out where she rested in the daytime. It was then that she plunged the dagger into me, drivingit between my ribs. Look, see the mark of her betrayal.’ Robert showed me a puckered scar on the leftside of his upper chest. She left me there in a pool of blood to die and went out into the night fromwhence she had come.’

‘She didn’t attempt to make you into a Vampire?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. All I remember is her act of treachery, the coolness of the bronzeas it penetrated my body, my last gasps of life. I didn’t want to die. I had much work to do, there wasmuch need in the kingdom.’

‘You were lovers?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Forgive me, Annabel. My love. I will always love you, no matter what may happen. But I havedeceived you... just as she deceived me. Treachery kind of goes with the territory of these accursedcreatures. They have no morals, no sense of decency, they cannot distinguish between right and wrong.All they feel is the hunger and a need to feast so that they might continue their vile existence. Theyare, indeed, the king of predators.’

He paused. I read an inconsolable sadness in his eyes. A short while ago we had made love, I hadbeen happy, I thought he contented, now his heart was filled with a sadness as cool as the deepest ocean.

He turned away from me.

‘I lied to you. Those sailors on the ship, they weren’t swept overboard... I killed them, or at least Ithink I did. I cannot be sure of anything anymore. I am losing control, half... half beast. Controlled byher.’

I stepped back from him, suddenly feeling icy cold. I tried to disguise my sense of revulsion. Myfeelings were transparent. I’d tried, hoped and hoped he’d not been responsible for those deaths, thathe had not killed.

‘Now you see the monster you have been shielding. And all the while you were innocently trying tofeed me broth and bread and to ease the pain of my hunger with morphine. And the worse thing is thatI enjoyed it. It gave me nourishment, it increased my strength. After each kill I felt stronger,revitalised, and you cannot imagine what that felt like after the months of deterioration. I supposethat’s what helps the new Vampire feed despite their human instinct to abstain, not to take life. Kill orsuffer untold torment, day after day. Or should I say night after night? The unbearable pain inside mewent away. I was reborn. It was as if I had sucked out of them their very life source. Only problem isthat the hunger quickly returns, except next time the need is all the greater. I suppose I’m like awounded soldier who has grown accustomed to opium. You’re not safe with me, Annabel. I feel thehunger now. I cannot take the blood of animals.’

He left the room and returned with Lieutenant Hamilton’s sword. He unsheathed it, the shiny steelscabbard clanking on the floor at his feet.

‘I asked you on the ship to kill me, to strike the head from my shoulders. I feel this might be the lastchance... You must act for the sake of us both.’

‘No. I can’t.’

‘Why must you watch me become this... this ungodly beast that stalks its prey without mercy in theshadows of the night, an outcast from all that is decent in our world?’

‘We’ll find a cure.’

‘There is no cure!’ he bellowed. In a fit of temper he went back into his small room and begansmashing with the sword all of his apparatus, the delicate test tubes smattering on the floor, shards ofglass sprinkling everywhere. I tried to close my ears to the dreadful sound. He came back, his faceflushed, sweat beaded on his forehead, his blue eyes wild. ‘No cure, Annabel, except that which is heldin my hand. A swift stroke, and courage... and it will be all over. Think of the lives you will save, howmany innocent beings I shall, if not stopped here, strike down over the coming centuries, how manyothers I shall condemn to live as I must.’

‘And what about us? Our love?’

‘Love? We are not in love. We are in Hell!’ he shouted at the top of his voice, spittle spraying intomy face. ‘We are in Hell!’

‘I love you,’ I sobbed.

‘You loved him. He is dead.’ His hands enclosed around my head and he began exerting pressure.He was hurting me, and I could see for the first time he was losing control. ‘Dead! Dead! Dead!’

He thrust the sword into my hand and made me hold it, forced my fingers to enclose around thesuede grip. He knelt on the floor, pulling the collar of his shirt right down, bending his head forwardand exposing his neck to my will.

‘What are you waiting for? Do it!’

‘I can’t,’ I said timidly and in a croaky tear-affected voice. ‘How could you expect me to dosomething as ghastly as this? You act as though I am faced with a gangrenous limb that must besevered to save life. But this will be your death.’

‘You must.’

I resisted. Then in a moment of weakness finally succumbed to his demands and saw that he wasright and took up the position of an executioner. I raised the sword. The razor sharp blade that hadbeen used to strike the head off the shoulders of Colonel Picard. One strike, as he’d said, and I had in my weakness conceded would be the end of the nightmare, a second or two of courage was all thatstood between him and salvation and I and freedom and a future life. But perhaps not. Maishia wouldexact a vengeance upon the being who had destroyed her precious Hanis, for whom she had waitedpatiently throughout countless centuries. There would be no respite for me. There are times whenhumans rise to the challenge... when no matter what the odds, they somehow pull through, explainingwhy I suppose we had triumphed as a species. Alas, this was not to be one such occasion. I, AnnabelMerrick, the pampered rich girl, was not strong enough, thus I let the sword fall to my side. Whether ornot this was more to do with my own fears for myself, I would never know.

‘I cannot Robert. I cannot do this.’

‘You know the cost.’

‘No more killing.’

‘I have no control over my actions. Think of the murdered seamen. Think of the people I will kill tosustain my hunger. I sense I am now in the final stages of the transformation. If you love me, you mustkill me.’

‘No.’ I threw the sword on the floor. ‘Tomorrow I will go to the hospital. I shall get you blood.’

The war ended. Lincoln was assassinated. Historical events of monumental importance passed me by. Isuspected I’d now begun the ugliest chapter of this nightmarish affair. The thought of my actions (as aparticipant in this awfulness) filled me with a sense of shame. I began to loathe myself, avoiding mreflection in the mirror, praying for it all to somehow end. I’d become a creature of stealth andcunning; I, like the Vampire, had no morals. As I passed through the entrance of The Massachusetts General Hospital I hoped to be challenged, stopped. But in the busy foyer no one seemed even tonotice me. The janitor, I couldn’t recall his name, the negro with the silver hair, he would know me,but he wasn’t there. Cathy, Matron, oh, what shame. Someone stop me... please.

Despite the fighting being over for a week there remained a copious flow of mangled humanity,which had first been doctored at field hospitals, then shipped north by rail to us; mostly, the woundedwent to Washington hospitals. The mood of the hospital was darker than usual, the people clearlystunned by the loss of our President, yet as I walked those gas-lit corridors there was room in mheart for only my own sorrow. In each corridor were men wounded in every conceivable manner; Ipassed the limbless, the blinded, the paralysed, many lying on stretchers and being attended by ladiesin grey uniforms with highly starched aprons. Do gooders, as I once was. What did they know aboutreal suffering? Despite the two years I had spent nursing in this place I could not have felt more of animpostor. It was as if I had never been there.

Fortunately the nurse rest room was unoccupied and I was able to change into a soiled uniform putout for laundry; it had much blood smeared across it, quite appropriate really given my purpose. Fromthere, I made my way to the operating rooms.

Wounded clogged the corridor, groaning and writhing in agony, men calling out for water and reliefof their pain. This latest batch had apparently been brought in by sea and not received the best of care,and there would be much sawing. I passed by these wounded with scarcely a compassionate thought,looking at their bandaged limbs and seeing not their pain and suffering but a tub filling with theirblood as a surgeon hacked his way through their bones. They had, indeed, been neglected, woundsinfested with maggots, a jaw shot off, a gaping hip wound flimsily covered with lint, a leg stumbandaged with a piece of old tent cloth and black with gangrene. They lay there on their stretchersawaiting their turn in the butcher’s room. They looked up at me, reached out for comfort, for water,but I had not come to comfort them. I wanted their blood.

The operating room door was ajar. Two orderlies carried out the man who’d been operated on. Oh,what a sight. And so young. Another life ruined, like so many. The war would not end at Appomattoxfor that boy, oh no, it would continue; a begging bowl on the corner of a street, a hopeful gaze to get afew pennies of pity from a passer-by with which to buy food and a little grog, and if he were lucky theservices of a whore.

The next patient was carried in.

Stretcher set down upon the operating table.

Slimy with blood.

The doctors, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, aprons bespattered in fresh blood, quickly examined thewound.

My heart was pounding. How many desperate souls had been laid on those tables and hoped againsthope they’d somehow come away whole?

The patient’s eyes flitted nervously right and left, under brows tinged by cap sparks. I looked at thetub of blood; sawdust had been sprinkled on the floor and was soaked to a red mash. In the corner, apile of severed arms, legs and fingers.

The surgeon muttered to himself that the limb would have to be cut off. The patient tried to raisehimself up off the table but weakened by blood loss was easily held down by the burly orderlies. Theassistant surgeon smothered the soldier’s nose and mouth with a rag impregnated by chloroform...until, finally, the soldier was limp and senseless.

I passed the surgeon his bloodied instruments that were lying submerged in a basin of cold salmonpink water; the scalpel, for the first incision; then a long amputating knife; the capital saw; the bonerasp. In a few minutes the leg was removed and atop the pile of mangled limbs, some still booted. Isaw a wedding ring on a severed hand.

The surgeon finished sewing up the flap, his assistant sprinkled chloroform on the soldier’s face,bringing him round. They carried him from the operating room.

The surgeon, a young man with thick sideburns and a walrus-type moustache, took a slug of whisky,then called out in a husky Scottish voice (that must have struck terror into the hearts of those awaitintheir turn)

‘Next!’

For the first time he noticed me. ‘You’re quite calm. No protests to save the limb?’

‘You are the doctor.’

‘Doctor, you say? Butcher, more like. Do you know what I was before this war? A veterinary. Itreated sick horses, cats and dogs. A pig doctor.’

‘Then you are a very skilled pig doctor.’

‘I like you. I’ve not seen you before. What’s your name?’

‘Mrs Gray.’

‘At least you’re not one of those interfering nanny’s. At Antietam, I had to wrestle to get a nurse offme. Grabbed my saw, would you believe? Do you know what I did?’

‘Pray, tell me.’

He smiled. ‘I gave it to her... and the knives and told her to get on with it. People, the public, seemto feel we enjoy cutting bits off folk.’

An orderly sluiced the table with a bucket of water. The next patient was laid upon it; it was the manwith the hip wound. He was older, more rugged than the others, so thin, and clearly wasting away. Thesurgeon took a peep under the lint. Several square inches of skin were missing, the bone and fibreexposed. The man was heavily doped on morphine.

I looked at the tub of blood, suddenly remembering why I was there.

The surgeon took a swig of whisky, put the bottle down on the table behind him. There were bottlesof iodine, quinine, sulphur and chloroform, bandages, and more instruments.

‘Can ya fix me, Doc?’

‘I can ease your pain... fix you, no.’

The surgeon faced the orderlies. They were typical of those who performed hospital duties,slovenly, slothful, disrespectful of the nurses, callous to their wounded charges, anything but shouldera musket.

‘This man is to be administered morphine. Tell the ward sister. Now get him out of here. And agentle lift, you hear?’

Scowling, they removed the patient.

‘I hear they’ve cornered that Southern actor John Wilkes Booth in Virginia,’ said the surgeon. ‘Theysay he’s been shot dead. They’ve rounded up hundreds of suspects. Mind, Washington City alwayswas a hotbed of Rebel sympathisers. Some of the suspects they’ve clapped in irons and imprisoned ona couple of ironclads moored on the Potomac. Stanton’s ordered hoods placed over the prisoners’heads. Trust him to seek vengeance. A trial is merely a formality. Lincoln starts the war and he’s oneof the very last to die, ironic really.’

‘You did not care for Lincoln?’

‘Lincoln, the original gorilla. I voted for George B. McClellan. I won’t be a hypocrite and enter intofake mourning. I’ve been clearing up that man’s mess for four years. Preserve the Union, balderdash.We beat the South to a pulp because it was economically more successful. We desired to have thepolitical decisions made by Northerners. We wanted westward expansion, a transcontinental railroad.The Rebels will rise up again. They’ll build new armies out of the orphans we made. That’s whatcomes of making a rail-splitter from Kentucky President.’ He became angrier. ‘While good men madevaliant charges against rows of cannon, generals in gold-braided frock coats thumped their breasts,saying how well they died, that monster from the safety of the White House, hatched more plans formore battles. He should have visited a field hospital.’

What could I say? I’d suffered as much as any from Mr Lincoln’s war and crusade to keep thecountry united, more even. Yet what point was there in focusing my frustration on him, especially nowhe was dead? My concern was for Robert, the bucket beneath the table that filled with each operation.

That was my purpose

The surgeon operated on ten or eleven more cases, then came the moment I’d patiently awaited. Asthe orderly went to empty the bucket of blood, I took it from his hands saying

‘I will dispose of this.’

I carried the bucket down the corridor and out into the cobbled courtyard, to the drains, pausing tocollect my carpetbag from the nurse rest room.

A couple of convalescing soldiers were milling around in the yard and I waited for them to returninside, before submerging the two pint-sized glass bottles in the thick red blood which gurgled andfrothed up in bubbles. It was still warm, and, with my hands submerged to the wrist, it felt as if an army of loathsome flies were crawling over my flesh. I could feel the blood getting into my nails, the

creases of my skin, and lodging in the gap between my diamond engagement ring and my finger.

I couldn’t bear to look.

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle.

I shuddered with revulsion, my spine chilled. And all the while I saw the faces of the men who’dbeen operated on, chopped up.

I lingered at the bottom of Park Street looking at the place that had once been my home, watching theposh carriages trundle up and down, and wondering if my father was in one of them. Had I come hereto torture myself, a worthy punishment for my nefarious morning’s work at the hospital, and againhalf-hoping I would be spotted and my ordeal ended?

How many times had I walked along this street with its beech trees and ornate gaslights, themansions of the successful set back off the road with long gravelled drives and handsome whitecolumned porticoes? A more poignant contrast to the slum dwellings I could not conceive. I thoughtabout the servants, Millie and Zebulan, my mother sat in the drawing room doing her embroidery, mfather sat in his favourite chair beside the fire, his head in a copy of The Boston Tribune and a bowl-shaped brandy glass in hand. How easy it would be to walk up to and knock on that great panelled oakdoor and announce my presence. And oh what a joy would visit upon me to see the happiness of mfamily and servants at my safe homecoming. Alas it could not be, for I was an outcast from society andif my dark secret were ever to be discovered I might be hanged for my wickedness.

I turned and walked away, adrift in an ocean of solitude and melancholy. The feeling of nausea inmy stomach was that of the broken-hearted and which I had come to recognise so well these pastyears, and as I came to the entrance to the common at the bottom of the street, I felt a strange need toenter and walk there as if I could somehow walk my pain away.

I made my way along the path which snaked up the sloping ground, leading to Frog Pond. Reachinthe spot where I had fallen from my horse the day I met Robert, I stopped. With a sense of masochismI remembered that young carefree girl who had worn a posh lilac dress and elegant black long-ribboned riding hat. How angry I had been at being thrown from my horse in front of Robert. Howutterly trivial and frivolous life was in those days when my foremost worry was attracting the attentionof a suitor or what frock to wear or which social event to attend. I had had a future then.

I gazed across the grass to the fat trunked trees on the rising ground five or six hundred yards on mright and amid which Robert had sat on his grey. I imagined him galloping down the slope towardsme, the first eye contact with him, his dimpled chin and boyish looks, the mental sparring we hadplayfully engaged in. We must have been destined for one another, he and I. It was as if I had waitedall my life for his coming, the part to me to make my life complete. Oh and hadn’t he cut a dashinfigure. Except for that tatty orange scarf which he had said belonged to his brother. His brother waskilled in the attack on Mobile with Admiral David Farragut. How Robert’s mother must be grieving tohave two sons dead. If only Robert could return to her, if only for a short while.

During my work at the hospital I had often wondered what it was like to be dying, to know one hadbut a few hours left. So many of the soldiers I had nursed had wanted to be with their loved ones andhad died alone among strangers. And no one should ever have to do that. Maybe she deserved to seeRobert one last time before the transformation was complete? What torture for a mother to lose herson. Yet to let her see Robert now could be the cruellest of tricks, for she might have grieved andgrieved and finally be coming to terms with his loss, if that were possible, and were she to find himalive and then lose him over gain, and worse discover his true fate...

I walked on. A group of boys in short trousers and ankle boots and cloth caps were sailing toyyachts on the pond, the slight breeze filling the sails and sending them gliding across the pond’ssurface with a picturesque majesty. Many had perished, hundreds of thousands, North and South, yethere was the future. The world has a nasty way of letting you know how unimportant one is in thescheme of things. Millions could die but the human spirit would prevail, new generations would goforth and discover and build and no doubt destroy. The sun, the moon, the stars, they would remain,long after the skeletons had rotted to dust. The oceans, the trees, the blue sky. Only for some it wouldnot end in death.

Maishia would see the new ages; a decade, a century, like a day to her. She had survived fourthousand years, seen Alexander, Caesar, Aristotle, Leonardo da Vinci, Napoleon, and outlived themall. Perhaps she would see men conquer the stars? But wasn’t the real beauty of life in its shortness, toknow that we are programmed to go on a journey, where mistakes can cost us dear, where we nevercan be sure of the future, if we have a tomorrow, and how much more precious our successes and ourloves? For Maishia’s kind, life or living death, could surely become a burden. Perhaps deep down she longed for the end, because there must come a point when one is tired of living, when one wants toclose one’s eyes and go to sleep. How tragic to outlive everyone who ever meant anything to you. Ibegan to understand why she sought her lost love Hanis, how she could allow herself to be deceived(by a physical resemblance) that Hanis was not dead and had been reborn for her.

I felt so weary. My life had been short, but at least I had lived and I had loved and known truehappiness. Yes, I thirsted for more but how many of us can really say they have truly lived? And Iwould be spared old age, sitting in a chair, forgetful and my only comfort the warmth of memories.

‘Oh, Robert, why did this have to happen to us?’ I said aloud. ‘Why us, my darling? We had somuch to live for.’

My mind wandered back to the day in 1862 when Robert’s regiment left the city. What a magnificently glorious scene. The railroad depot was packed, people pushing and shoving each otherto get a last glimpse of their loved ones. I was waving frantically to Robert, blowing him kisses, sayinga silent prayer that God would keep him safe. He looked so handsome in his natty blue uniform, hisdouble breasted frock coat adorned with rows of shiny brass buttons, his kepi strapped underneath hischin in the manner of a raw recruit. The handsomest man in the regiment. It was before the government had introduced conscription and the men were all volunteers determined to save theUnion, and, for some, save an oppressed race. Noble ideals, and I had shared them. But the price.

Thousands of them.

Thousands.

I could hear rousing, patriotic music, ‘The Union forever, hurrah boys, hurrah, down with thetraitors and up with the stars, rally round the flag boys, rally round the flag, shouting the battle cry offreedom.’

I wiped a tear away from my cheek. Such pride, such hope. Young women hugging theirsweethearts, young mothers cradling infants in their arms, shivering in the cold, shawls draped overshoulders and hiding saddened faces, for only a woman can know the true cost of war. It is not manthat gives these boy soldiers life -it is woman who bears the pain to bring them into this world. Only awoman understands about life.

Robert had leaned out of the carriage window, and, as the train began to shunt out of the station, wehad hugged and kissed, tears streaming down my face as I tried not to let go of him. He promised he’dbe back, that he wouldn’t let the Rebels harm him. I had waved and waved and watched with dread as the train left us, snaking through the sidings, warehouses and engine houses, whistle tooting, blackwoodsmoke belching from its engine, and then it was gone.

When I eventually returned to my lodgings I found Mrs Doyle waiting for me and wearing a particularly conceited grin on her face, which because of the recent warm weather was browner; shecared to sun herself on the steps and with her skin darker did not appear so worn. In her right hand wasa bottle of cheap gin. In the hall, I caught sight of one of her black whores taking a sailor into the backroom. The girls were displaced people, little more than children and it wrenched at my heart the waMrs Doyle exploited them.

‘Planning to double my rent again, Mrs Doyle?’

‘You’re a right bundle of mystery, ain’t ya... love,’ she said with an undisguised hatred. She took acouple of swigs from her bottle, which was three-quarters finished. ‘I wonder what your secret is,’ shesaid taking a step closer, ‘you hiding yourself here in this cesspool while your friends and kin goworrying themselves into an early grave?’ She swayed exaggeratedly and I hoped she might toppleover and then I could get up the stairs, no such luck. ‘But I don’t care about you and your goings-on,’she shouted drawing the attention of a passer-by on the sidewalk. ‘I don’t care as long as I get mdue.’

‘I’m not paying you another cent in rent,’ I said firmly.

She swigged back a large mouthful, wiping away the surplus gin from her chin on the sleeve of herdress; I had seen her sober on but two occasions since I had been there. She leered at me, then got outa twenty dollar note, a greenback bearing the Union eagle and a picture of President Lincoln. Shewaved it before my eyes, and, I, although very annoyed, could not discern the significance.

‘See this? You know how I got it?’

‘Honest toil?’ I said sarcastically.

‘Huh, something you wouldn’t know much about. See these hands, look at ‘em. They’ve been roundrich folks floors, they’ve scrubbed steps, they’ve boiled in laundry pots, and they’ve wanked men off for a quarter. I’ve had five abortions, and given birth to six more, and I know all about poverty, and Inever earned a sweeter twenty dollars than this. And you know why? ‘Cause I hate ya.’

‘Have you been in my rooms?’ I’m not sure why I asked this but it seemed she had discoveredsomething. ‘You have no right. I shall have you arrested. My rooms are private.’

‘I’m the owner, the bossman.’ She jangled a big bunch of keys in front of me which were attachedto the thick brass buckled belt she wore. I had always thought it was to help keep her stomach in, forshe was not fat, quite skinny in fact, but her spine had curved and her stomach stuck out, making herlook a few months pregnant. ‘It’s my property, and I earned it... the hard way, and I have every right tosee after it.’

‘Do you have the right to steal?’

‘Who said anything about stealing?’

‘Mrs Doyle, would you kindly make your point and let me pass?’

It was then that she said, ‘It weren’t me who went in.’ I noted a gleam of smug satisfaction in hercold blue eyes which must have been considered pretty at one point, but that was a very long time ago.‘It was a young lady. She said she was a friend of yours. She bribed me. ‘Course, I only let her in withreluctance. She said she wanted to wait for you.’

I pushed past her and rushed (tripping over the hem of my dress such was my haste) up the steewinding staircase... to our attic rooms. The door was not open. There was no sign of my friend inside. Iwalked across the room, my heart pounding, and pushed the door to Robert’s room wide enough to seewithin. It was empty. It was still as the night. I had dreaded this moment; I knew my friend Emma wasimpetuous and might try and find me. I looked at the padlocks on the clothes trunk, checked them tomake sure they were locked and had not been tampered with. Oh, what unspeakable horrors couldbefall her. I should never have involved her, I should have found some other way of getting the money.Too many people had already been damaged by this curse.

I closed the door. It was approaching seven and warm sunlight came in through the tiny window bthe stove. It could only be Emma, no one else except she knew of my presence in the city, unless shehad betrayed my trust and gone to my father, but he would have sent a detective or a policeman, andMrs Doyle said it was a young woman.

With a sigh I put the carpetbag containing the bottles of blood down on the sideboard. Again I wastempted to throw it away, as I was tempted to pour it on the grass of the common. Back then, with thebeauty of the trees and pond and the golden sunlight warming my face, I could have forsaken him. Itwas not I who was condemned.

I plonked myself wearily on the bed and stared at the cracked, cobweb-hung ceiling where a spiderwas weaving yet another trap for its unsuspecting prey. Like the fly, I would not have a swift end, buta slow lingering death, or worse living death. Downstairs they were fighting again. Yet they werenormal, and I would have gladly exchanged places with that abused woman, have my belly full everyyear, eat slops, have my face battered by his massive fist. I sat there staring at the ceiling, whichseemed to have an hypnotic effect on me for, given my tiredness, I must have drifted off to sleep andwhen I awoke Robert was there.

‘Excellent.’ He was holding one of the bottles of blood. ‘This will buy me time to find a cure.’

‘Or accelerate the process,’ said I flatly.

‘Can you get more?’

‘Possibly. No one spotted me. I didn’t see Matron Stevens or Cathy. There was a new surgeon. Hewas quite skilled. As you said, there’s lots of blood, but now the war in Virginia has ended the supplof mangled humanity from the battlefields will dry up.

‘There are industrial accidents, abortions, murders. There is a murder in the slums practically evernight. This blood will give me strength. It will enhance my intellectual powers. I will begin to seemore of their world.’

‘This is crazy logic, Robert.’

‘Do you have a better idea?’ he said scornfully. ‘Perhaps you would like me to keep eating foodwhich I cannot hold down and which subjects me to intense pain and which leaves me weak anduseless? Or would you prefer injecting me with morphine, making me so dull,’ he said nastily, ‘that Iwould not know the day of the week? We’ve tried your way, Annabel... It doesn’t work.’

‘There’s the blood of animals... Professor Brennier.’

‘Don’t speak to me about that coward in New York,’ he said with a dismissive gesture of his hand.‘He’s the last person to be preaching to me.’

He put the bottle of blood down carefully on the sideboard, then cast his gaze in my direction andsaid as coldly as he had ever spoken to me,

‘If you cannot stomach this, Annabel... you must leave... go back to your parents.’

‘You could say that to me after all I have risked and done for you?’

‘You sought me out of your own free will.’

‘Because I loved you!’

‘Then you were a fool.’

He removed the cork stopper from one of the two bottles containing the blood and gorged himselfas Mrs Doyle might take pleasure from a bottle of gin. He went to his room and shut the door. I lay onmy bed feeling numb. Perhaps he was right, I should leave? Yet whatever he said, however cruel andbarbed his words, he needed me to protect him. Who would purchase equipment for his experiments?Who would deal with Mrs Doyle, pay the rent? Who would look for the books he needed? But perhapsthere was a greater duty than to myself or Robert -the safety of others? If I did not get him blood fromgunshot victims, he might go in search of it himself, and thus undergo the final stage of the transformation to an Undead.

I got up and went to his room. What I saw was astounding. He had become markedly younger, hisbody pulsing with vigour, his blue eyes shining and alert with incredible intelligence. The perceptiveand penetrating manner in which he regarded me convinced me that he was beginning to be able toread my thoughts, and I felt naked and even more awkward in his presence. His gaze lowered, his eyeslingering on my bosom, his desire sickening me. His hair was thicker and curlier, longer and of adifferent style, as was consistent with the apparent change in his appearance over the past weeks. Hisnose was more chiselled, as was the jaw, and whereas the nose had once had a slight kink and bump onthe top it, it was now perfect. The features depicted a certain arrogance and nobility, and he hadacquired an air of superiority that was most intimidating.

‘This is a new beginning,’ said he. ‘Yesterday, I discovered a difference in the blood under themicroscope. An organism attacking the other cells. It was truly fantastic to watch.’ There was aguarded half smile, for he remained ever conscious of the pointed tips of his incisors that might showover his bottom lip if he opened his mouth too wide. ‘I only wish I had paid more attention when westudied chemistry.’ His voice betrayed his excitement. ‘If I can isolate this organism, then maybe I canstop, even reverse the process. That’s why I need the knowledge of Hanis... He understood this processand I’m certain that Maishia does. I’ll need more equipment. You must buy every book on themysterious and abnormal in this city, travel further afield if necessary. Even ask that idiot Brennier tosend us books.’

‘We have scarcely enough money for food.’

‘Here.’ He handed me a bundle of twenty dollar bills, Union greenbacks, of the same condition asthe money Mrs Doyle had acquired. ‘We have money. And tomorrow you must get more blood.’

‘I will not. And where did you get this money?’

‘You know.’

‘But you cannot rise in the day.’

‘The sunlight does not reach here and as you know only really enters through that window in theearly evening. The money was on the sideboard. I found it at three o’clock.’

‘You’ve not seen Emma?’

‘No, but she left you a note.’

‘May I see it?’

‘I destroyed it. It would merely upset you. You have distress enough looking out for me. She saidthat she cannot come here again, that she should not have disobeyed your instructions to stay away, butshe knew how much you would need money until I was well again.’

‘I see.’

‘She is a good friend.’

‘Yes. Thoughtful.’

‘Two thousand dollars, that should get us through our crisis. Nothing must stop my work. Now, Ihave things to do. I must be alone.’ He ushered me out of the small room in which he had set up hisapparatus for his experiments, those which he had not destroyed in his fit of frenzy with LieutenantHamilton’s sword, the test tubes and burners and piles of books.

‘Oh, and tonight, I think I should like to go out. Early in the morning when the city is at its quietest.Tonight the heavens will not be obscured by cloud and we will be able to see into the night sky, thestars of Eridanus and Mira.’ He was distant then said, ‘Do you know who built the pyramids?’

‘The ancient Egyptians, of course.’

‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘They did not. They inherited their civilisation from one that was much greater,whose achievements are beyond our comprehension. The people who built the pyramids, Annabel,they came from the stars.’

In the early hours, when Robert had done with his experiments, we ventured out into the city. Wewalked the dark streets with their treacherous side alleys where the dispossessed lay down to sleep andwhere hoodlums waited to pounce on their unsuspecting victims. Robert wore his army uniform,around his waist Lieutenant Hamilton’s sword and a red officer’s sash. Walking with him was astrange experience, he was so changed, so confident, quite unlike Robert. He was calm and at easewith himself as if he were strolling amid a respectable district and not the most deadly area of the city.The metal-studded heels of his boots clicked on the sidewalk, sounding loud in the quiet. It was threeo’clock. He said he wanted to visit the docks, to gaze upon the ships in the harbour and to walk alonthe sea front. It was only a short distance from our dwelling, and as we walked through the seedy darkstreets, passing the odd whore and drunkard finding their way home, I could smell the stench of rottinfish and seaweed and the heady stink of sewerage that slapped against the quays. Robert had wanted tovisit the common but I had begged him not to take me there.

I kept thinking about my dear friend Emma. Yet if she had fallen prey to Robert’s need to drinkhuman blood, then surely there’d have been a change in his physical appearance as when he hadimbibed the blood I’d brought him from the hospital. And if he had murdered those sailors, why thenhad his body not been rejuvenated by the feeding? He had been growing weaker and more fatigued. Hehad said he couldn’t be sure. I wanted to trust him. Yet I had become afraid of him, and in a way thisexcited me. He had grown so handsome and truly I loathed myself for seeing this and I had determinedthat he must not touch me again in physical relations. I could not take such a risk; to inflict this evilupon a new-born would be an unthinkable horror. Oh, how selfish I had been in my determination toward off the evil of Maishia. But was I merely seeking to prove to myself that Robert loved me and nother? Had I been trying to help him or myself?

Suddenly Robert stopped. He listened into the night. I could hear nothing except the periodicbarking of a stray dog. But Robert had heard something. My blood chilled -Maishia -she had come or sent her devilish disciples the jackals to tear our flesh from our bones in a frenzy of savagery.

‘Robert, what is it?’

He did not answer.

‘Robert, I’m afraid.’

‘You are safe,’ said he.

‘Safe! How could I possibly be safe?’

‘It is not she.’ He listened further, then said, ‘Someone is in trouble.’

He headed off down the street. He was filled with a sense of purpose, his strides lengthening andmaking it difficult for me to keep up. He seemed to glide along the cobbled surface of the sidewalk, hismovement so graceful it was barely perceptible to the eye, he moved with the beauty and grace of alarge winged bird in flight and gliding on a thermal, and at times his feet appeared not to be touchinthe ground at all.

Reaching the end of the street where there were several carts parked in front of a warehouse, heturned left into a narrower street which had no lighting. He kept on, his pace swift. I was walking intoa sheet of darkness but Robert evidently saw everything, for he did not stumble. I begged him to slowdown. He would not. I followed him not out of love but a desperation for my own fate should we beseparated. A feeling of heaviness came to the lower regions of my stomach -the dread of nightmare.

We turned into another street, where, thankfully, there was a measure of street lighting, gas lampsblinking from mountings on worn and crumbly brick walls of the slum housing. I heard voices. A fewhundred yards up ahead a group of men were engaged in a heated confrontation. As we closed I sawfour street hoodlums assailing a gentleman in top hat and evening suit, who no doubt had ventured intothis seedy area for the services of a low class whore. The risk of the danger was part of the excitement,I supposed.

Robert rushed forward, his speed astonishing. Within moments he had hurled one of the thugsagainst the side wall of a house. Snatching two others up by the scruff of their necks, he brought theirheads crashing together in a mash of bone and flesh and instantly killing them both. The fourthscoundrel dropped his knife and ran away as fast as he could.

I went to help the stranger. He was lying on the floor, groaning with pain, blood running from anasty gash on his head, over his brow and into his left eye. The front of his white shirt was covered inblood.

‘It’s quite all right, Miss.’ Rallying from his shock and dazed condition, he looked properly at mefor the first time. I was astounded. It was Doctor Curtis from The General.

‘Nurse Merrick. And that must be Gray,’ he said in an exclamatory tone. ‘You’re in the city. Thethink you’re dead, that you died in the South. And Gray. Your Father’s had Pinkerton men at thehospital at least a dozen times, questioning, questioning everything. By jolly this is a fortuitousoccasion. I always admired you, Merrick. You were good with the men. We made a lot of mistakesduring that war. Unfortunately some of our patients won’t get over them so easily. This is marvellous.And it’ll teach me to venture into such a den of iniquity.’ He reached out for the wallet lying on theground and tucked it inside his black suit jacket, then straightened out the lapels. ‘A gentleman shouldalways look his best. My Father said that, and his Father before him. Now, would you kindly help anold man to his feet, young lady?’

Robert was standing away from us, appearing very pensive, his head bowed. I caught sight of thetwo men on the ground, the blood seeping from their smashed skulls onto the cobbles. Bits of brainand bone were spread about on the street, like they might be on the floor of a slaughterhouse. For asecond I actually thought I saw one of them move.

‘So, I’m intrigued, why does a young woman hide away when everyone else is looking for her?Have you two eloped? But I’m sure your parents must agree to the match. Well, come on, young lady,’he said animatedly, ‘what is it?’

I coughed to clear my throat before attempting a reply, which gave me a little more time to concocta satisfactory explanation. I had become quite an accomplished liar.

‘Robert’s sick. That’s why we are not announcing his return. We are waiting until he is better.’

The doctor twisted his head to stare in Robert’s direction, his eyes fleetingly making contact withthe battered bodies of the hoodlums.

‘Well, he seems pretty fit to me. And could a sick man do what he just did, kill three men with hisbare hands? I don’t know, that seems a pretty tall order. I should like to be so sick.’

‘Robert contracted a fever whilst serving in the Bird’s Foot Delta, near New Orleans. He was in thefield and taken in and cared for by a Southern family who he had helped himself with a medicalproblem. For months he didn’t know where he was, the fever having robbed him of his memory. Evennow he doesn’t fully appreciate all of his past life. See how distant he is, Doctor? As if he issomewhere else in spirit.’

‘Well, now you come to mention it, my dear, he does look a little out of it. He’s fortunate he didn’tget shot as a deserter. Oh, that blessed war, you know I’m visited by nightmares almost every night.I’m sure I could have done more. It was a question of priorities, save the leg, or try and save the manbleeding to death in the corridor. No man should ever have to make such choices.’

Again he looked at Robert. ‘Lost his memory, eh. Gains the strength of Samson. I thought feversweakened the constitution. I wish I had such an ailment. I would forget my nagging wife, then findmyself a new love. Be young again. These old bones are creaking. But at least I’ve got all the onesGod intended me to have, unlike many of my patients.’

‘You mustn’t be so hard on yourself, Doctor Curtis,’ I smiled.

‘Well, maybe you’re right.’

With a courteous tip of his black top hat, he bade Robert and I good night. First I made him swearnot to reveal our presence in the city and he agreed to this, despite his misgivings, because he was inour debt for saving him from the hoodlums.

When he had gone Robert said to me in a dazed and blank-faced expression,

‘We must leave here. These men are dead. The police will find us. The Provost Marshal.’

He craned his neck and gazed up into the stars which were shining amid gaps in the cloud. Therewas a palpable understanding between him and the night sky. It was hard to explain, the two of themseemed to be one. He pointed to a couple of constellations, and uttered their names, not in Americanbut in the ancient dialect. They were very obscure names and I could not remember them.

From that time on we went out every night, walking the city in the darkness. It was an ungodlyexperience this nocturnal living that wore on my nerves and bodily strength. And every day Robertseemed less like Robert. During the early evening he would throw himself into his experiments, inbetween avariciously reading all the books I could find for him. He could read at an astonishing speedand his powers of comprehension, understanding of even the most obscure topics were remarkable. Hehad also developed a genius for numbers, able to calculate in his head the most complex sums. He wasconstantly discovering new things about himself, new talents that, despite their remarkable nature,sickened me to the core, for I knew that it was merely another sign that I was losing him to her. Hewas able, with concentration, to move himself to another part of the room. He had changed formbefore, of course, emerging from his coffin on the road to the Farley Plantation, when we had been attacked by the jackals, but that was not by deliberate choosing. He could perform feats of memory.But most frightening of all was his ability to read thoughts. There was nowhere I could hide. I hadpartaken in his experiments, reluctantly, and he would ask me to think hard on something, and his taskwas to guess my thought.

‘Have you done it?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re fully concentrated?’

‘Yes,’ I said impatiently.

‘The colour black.’

‘No,’ said I.

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘You have deceived me, Annabel.’ There was quiet menace in his voice as he looked at me.

‘Maybe your powers of mind-reading are not as developed as you imagine,’ said I.

I learned to think very quickly, to jumble my thoughts, to try and make it harder for him. Thebarriers between us, if not already insurmountable, grew steadily taller. He pretended not to notice thisdeception. I needed a place to hide. It wasn’t fair. Of course when he was asleep during the day therewas a respite for me, but I was often so exhausted from staying up all night that, I, too, now began tosleep during the hours of daylight. My stomach rumbled from the change in eating habits, not that Ioften felt like food. A few mouthfuls and the remainder I had to force myself to consume, for I waspainfully thin. My legs felt weak beneath me, my vision was blurred, I had pins and needles in my toesand fingertips and my calf muscles were twitching, which I supposed to be the result of a disorder ofthe nerves. I also had a tremor in my right hand. I was so alone that I had pretend conversations withmy parents about the difficulty of my situation, rehearsing what I should say to them should I bediscovered. I pretended to talk to Robert as he was before the war saying aloud his answers, whichgave me a measure of comfort and temporary relief from the strain.

Maishia had threatened to harm my parents. In the daytime, I would go back to Park Street and gazeat the house. It was such a sadness. If Robert had developed all these incredible powers by undergoinhis transformation, one could only guess at the power of Maishia, for these creatures grew stronger andmore formidable the longer they lived, and she had walked this earth for four thousand years, and howmany had tried to destroy her and failed? If I had felt strong in the dream, capable of resisting her, Inow realised the true illusion was a self-belief in my own strength. I couldn’t trust Robert. WhenMaishia did come to us I felt certain he would not resist but choose her above me. It was a horrible feeling knowing that I had finally, after such a valiant struggle, lost the battle. General Lee had led theArmy of Northern Virginia at Gettysburg for two days hard fighting, and, despite the battle clearly notbeing winnable, had committed his reserves in a suicidal frontal attack across a mile of open ground onGeneral Meade’s centre. I had the choice to quit now, to save myself and my family.

Robert’s physical change continued, yet he did not call upon me to fetch him blood from thehospital. His hunger seemed satisfied. Perhaps he had discovered a means of suppressing the hunger inone of his experiments? But he did not speak of this and I dared not ask, fearing the answer. My mindbuilt up horrible imaginings, and each night when we walked the gas-lit streets of our unsuspectincity I feared he might attack and take the blood of one of our good citizens.

We walked together, he and I, but were so distant. It wrenched at my heart and tears were seldom faraway. I ached to hold the man whom I had loved in my arms. I could not bear the thought of him, as hewas, touching me. Deep inside my belly I thought about the seed he had pumped there, dreading thatit, the Devil’s spawn, had taken root. For his part, Robert talked of his exciting new world, theremarkable sharpness of his newly discovered senses. Sickening. Sickening.

He stared up at the stars as if some being up there in the heavens might suddenly reach down andcommunicate with him. There was great sadness in this. He felt the loneliness, I think, that his kind aredestined to suffer, the solitude of a being who can trust no one and who may never happen across oneof their own kind. From what I had read in the books of legends and the occult there were but few ofthese creatures in existence in a our world, confirming what Professor Brennier had said to me in NewYork. Perhaps Robert would one day go in search of his own, journey into the Carpathian Mountainsto seek out the leader of the Vampires there, Count Dracula, whom Professor Brennier’s ancestor hadtried to destroy.

One night, it was Thursday the 22nd of April, we were standing on the quay at the docks, Robert’sfavourite place. The ships were anchored in the harbour, their rigging silhouetted black against the dark blue night sky. The ships swayed gently and their rigging moaned, carried on the breeze. Lanternsblinked from cabins, yellow light that fell on the pitch black water in streaks. It had been a gloriouslyhot day and it was still warm, the heat closing in around us. The temperature in our attic rooms hadremained cool but outside it had been unbearable, and it was so humid and would become even hotter in July. Mind, Robert was used to the heat from his days in New Orleans, he had complained endlesslyabout the humidity in the Delta, how the energy sapping heat stole all bodily strength, thus explaining,in Robert’s view, why Southerners differed from Northern folk in their attitude to life and work. Asusual he wore his uniform. Most of the men in the city were beginning to get out of their army clothes,except the cripples, many of whom had been reduced to beggary.

‘I wonder how George is?’ he suddenly said. ‘I hope he’s stopped drinking. This must have beenreally hard on him. I should liked to have seen him one last time. He’s probably preparing to comehome now. He’s from Philadelphia. A better friend a man could not ask for. If only... If only he had letme go on my posting to General Sherman at Atlanta, then I would never have gone to the Bird’s FootDelta. But he said I was the most dependable man he had in the department and there was no one else.I suppose when you are in the army following orders is a burden you have to bear. I should liked tohave worked with General Sherman, my posting, I could have saved many lives. I was a very good surgeon.

‘And Tom, I wonder what that rascal’s doing? It must be hard for the Farleys in New Orleans.Maybe they will be able to return to their farm one day? We were proper comrades, like we werefighting on the same side. Tom’s brother had joined the Rebel army and was off riding with GeneralForrest. You’ve gotta have plenty of grit and ginger to ride with an outfit as tough as that. I rememberthe first time I met Tom and his friend Gabriel. I was riding into the Delta in search of ColonelPicard’s encampment and stopped to ask them for directions. I had to bribe the little scamp with coffeeand flour. He warned me not to stop at the Grafton House. Ironic really, the house seemed to drawpeople to it. That night I had a strange dream whereby I entered the house, summoned to it by a softseductive voice that had me caught in a trance. I now know it was Maishia.’ He released a sigh ofsoulful resignation.

‘I suppose it was my destiny.’

The days and the nights passed by. I became increasingly worried we would be exposed. First, my dearfriend Emma Lambert, Mrs Doyle, then the good doctor... how long before one of my father’sdetectives, a Pinkerton man, arrived and discovered the truth? I was worrying for everyone; Robertwho might be destroyed were he found and disturbed during hours of daylight and his unholy skin, soperfect, so youthful, exposed to the rays of the sun. And if he and I were separated, what fate mightbefall so many innocents? The thought of him gorging on the blood of a new-born child was toohorrible to contemplate. Where my strength came from, I could not say. I scarcely ate, I scarcely slept.Throughout my torture Robert continued with his experiments. We went out each night, thoughthankfully there were no more incidents. Robert’s appearance was so changed I began to forget whathe had looked like. The only reminder was the photograph taken of him in his army uniform before hewent off to war which I now found too painful to gaze upon and which I’d hidden away along with allthe letters he wrote me from the South.

I saw little of Mrs Doyle. I had become adept at avoiding her, timing my movements from thelodging house to early in the morning when she was sleeping off a hangover. It was then that Ipurchased food and the items Robert needed. I had paid the rent a month in advance, giving it to Betsy,one of Mrs Doyle’s whores. The poor girl. She was of mixed race, the product of the seed sown in thebelly of a slave woman by a lascivious planter; she was displaced, parentless and without true identity.We had much in common.

We would talk occasionally in the hall at the bottom of the stairs when her last customer hadstaggered out. For all her suffering, she was not marked by bitterness and had a pleasant dispositionand a sunny smile. She had been born into the family of a wealthy South Carolina planter and hadmanaged to slip away when our soldiers were campaigning in the coastal region around Charleston, inthe summer of 1863. She wasn’t sure of her age but I guessed she was about thirteen, and save for thefood and lodgings provided by Mrs Doyle for her services, had no money and no hope of escape. I wastempted to give her the means to start afresh but was worried that such an action might incur the wrathof Mrs Doyle.

I could not understand how Robert’s hunger had gone. It was an eerie calm after our uglyconfrontations over getting blood from the hospital. Maybe it was the nature of the transformation?Maybe he had, in his experiments, affected a way of slowing, even reversing the process? He had not told me because he dared not risk falsely raising my hopes. I watched over him, and was confident hehad not killed. Yet I had learned that these creatures are full of deceit and cannot be trusted, certainlyby no mortal. He had expressed displeasure at my entering his room and had placed a lock on the door.I was denied all but a glimpse of the interior; the piles of books, the glass test tubes and complicatednetwork of rubber tubes, burners and other scientific apparatus, the microscope over which he toiledand the slides upon which were smeared samples of his blood, and the clothes trunk in which he slept,this seemed to stick in my mind, I didn’t know why. I burned to see inside it, but that was his sanctuary, the most sacred and private of places for these beings, and the most guarded of all.

Why did Maishia not appear? We had not spoken for some time about my fears for the safety of myparents and my sister Clara. The waiting was terrible. Last night when walking in the park, near thebandstand where I had met Emma to ask for money for my trip to New York, I had heard a long, eeriewail. Robert denied hearing it; he, with his acute sense of hearing. The fact he wasn’t frightened wasfurther proof that he was becoming at ease with his condition. In not coming to us I felt Maishia hadcleverly decided to wear me down; her evil was in Robert’s veins and growing stronger; the processwas irreversible, that in itself, would destroy our love. How I missed that gentle mannered person, thewarm intimacy of our conversations, we had never had secrets and had talked about our feelingsopenly. Now there was a dark chasm of mistrust, as profound as the distrust between North and Souththat had eventually torn the heart out of our nation and led us on the road to four years of bloody civilwar. Robert had become selfish, a bully, ordering me around as if I meant nothing to him, as if I were aservant, a slave on a Southern plantation. His tone was harsh and brutal, and I saw criticism in hiseyes, as if he found it intolerable to stomach my company.

My doubts, my anxieties, my torn allegiances... he knew them, and it is indeed a scary feeling to beexposed in such a manner, to know there is nowhere you can hide. I tried to be sly and underhand, totrick him. I could not look him in the eye as I had always preferred to do when addressing someone.But it was obvious his powers were increasing. And when he did read my thoughts, he did not cause ascene, that I would have welcomed, he just passed a quick barbed comment, or paused, or regarded mefurtively, anything to let me know that he knew betrayal was in my heart.

Then there was the language, the strange ancient dialect which he occasionally lapsed into, Ithought, deliberately. It made me feel isolated, stupid even. It was as if he had to constantly prove that,I, a human, a mortal, was an inferior being. Perhaps that was his way of coming to terms with what hehad turned into? Perhaps he wanted to rid himself of his humanness, to save himself the pain of havingto decide, to choose what he could never have? But there was more to it. He revelled in his princelyarrogance. I was no longer his friend, his lover, his confidante. His eyes were so cold. They were nothuman. Yet there were times he clearly thought of me as a woman, when he would stare at me withundisguised lust, and I feared him violating me. He could use and abuse me, sow his vile and pollutedseed in my belly, as that South Carolinian planter had done to Betsy’s mother on his trips from the bighouse to the slave cabins.

‘Was Shaba before Hanis or after?’ I asked of Robert one evening.

He was studying slides under his microscope in his room and the boldness of my question made himforget his work and he twisted his head to face me.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘You do not know the answer?’

‘It is not important.’

‘Can you be sure?’

I went back into the main room and sat down on the bed, with my back against the cracked plasterwall, my head bowed, my narrow shoulders rounded as I instinctively huddled. I shivered, and drewthe blanket up around me; it was as cold, I imagined, as it would be in the desert at night. How Iwished to be in the arms of my mother. I recalled the rainy afternoon I left for New Orleans when mydear mother had come to my room and given me her emerald necklace, she had been so understanding.I sighed. Oh, what was I doing to her? If she wasn’t safe... All I had to do was open that door andleave. There was nothing for me to stay here for, except a trace of love that was silly to chase and amisguided sense of honour and duty to people who would never know me or thank me. I was destroying myself, and for what? Him? Then to my great surprise Robert came into the room. I liftedmy gaze to him, then lowered it.

‘You want to know about Hanis, if he was an Undead?’ He came closer to the bed, the coldness penetrating my bones and I drew back from him. ‘As I told you, I remember the dagger she plungedinto my ribs, the coolness of the bronze, the agonising pain, then lying on the cold hard marble floor waiting for death like a goat sacrificed in the temple. But death did not visit me.’ His eyes seemed tochange, the arrogance washed away by a pain born of centuries of suffering and anguish. ‘Death didnot come to me.’

Robert began to speak of the most fantastic experience and any doubts, any last lingering hope thatRobert was not the reincarnation of the ancient Egyptian physician Hanis, vanished. As he spoke I feltthe chill of the desert wind upon my skin, heard the long, eerie wail of the jackal.

‘She did not leave me to die,’ said he sadly. ‘I was drifting in and out of consciousness, when shereturned. She was naked, her complexion and beauty that of a young woman. She drank from me, tookme to the very point of death, then, with the dagger she had plunged into me, slashed her wrist andopened up her veins for me to imbibe her blood.

‘The centuries passed by and I grew to love her, as she said I would. It was impossible to hate her,for I was so alone. Such loneliness is an unimaginable torture. She knew I would love her, as thosewho had gone before me.’

‘Robert, you may have picked up these memories,’ said I. ‘She may have implanted them in you, totrick you into believing you are Hanis.’

‘I have considered such a possibility. And you are right, I cannot be certain these memories areproof that I am the Physician. But it would explain why I have always identified so strongly with thepast and why I wanted to heal, right from the earliest age. And whatever, however they got inside myhead, they are there. The missing pieces of the jigsaw.

‘At first they came to me as a jumble of images. But now they have order and form. They are sochilling, Annabel, but wondrous too. I can see what he saw all those centuries ago. Feel what he felt. Hear what he heard. Centuries of living. He was with Alexander of Macedon on his epic conquest ofPersia. He lived in Athens, city of great thinkers. He offered care to the sick. But he was also a predator. No matter how far away from her influence, no matter how much he tried to live off only theblood of animals, even when she was entombed in the desert by Shaba, he knew no peace. There wasalways the temptation, the hunger growing and growing until, in a moment of weakness, he took a life.He tried to feed from the sick and the old, but blood is always sweeter in the veins of the young andbeautiful, those with the most to live for. The Vampire feeds on life, literally, Annabel. It’s sodepressing because this knowledge makes me realise how hopeless it is for me.’

‘There is always hope, Robert.’

‘Hope? Aaah, yes that. Hope is for the living, not the Undead. The Undead only have time, and theshadows. The sweetest thing about life is that it is not definite, it has to be grasped and lived, and toknow it will not last is the true source of its pleasure.’

‘So what happened to Hanis, if she did not find him?’

‘Rome,’ he said wistfully. ‘Where else would such a being go at that time? I...’ he corrected himself.‘Hanis gave up trying to help the sick and displaced. He could no longer endure living such a lie, topretend to do good when every instinct in him was to kill. Rome, city of blood... gladiatorial games,animals and humans slaughtered for entertainment by the thousand. Slaves from every quarter of theempire, used and abused. It was so easy for me to prey on these people; what value has the life of aslave? Perhaps in a perverse way I felt I was doing the downtrodden a mercy by relieving them of theirmisery. I preyed on the good citizens of Rome. They had their feasts of blood, and, I, in turn, dranktheirs.

‘I slew the wives of fat Senators, who scarcely seemed to notice their absence. One evening, I tookthe wife of Julio Claudian, commander of the Praetorian Guard; the garrison and power of Rome. Itwas shortly after that that I was discovered. Panic had swept through the city. You see, Annabel, thesecreatures can only take so many lives... they have to constantly move on. Nowhere is safe nor home.And over the centuries the memories of loved ones become so faint. In truth, you do not care toremember any trace of your humanity.’

‘So where did Hanis go?’

Robert laughed to himself as someone does when having an amusing thought they do not wish toshare.

‘Out of the frying pan and into the fire. We creatures fear fire. We can be beheaded, slain with awooden stake through the heart. Even running water, I believe, can destroy us.’

‘But Robert, Maishia carried you into the Grafton House when it had been set alight.’

‘Aaah, yes, you remember.’

‘How?’

‘She has more power. She is a queen among our kind. She can withstand the cleansing capabilitiesof fire, briefly mind. Fire destroyed Hanis. The greatest spectacle of natural destruction the world had seen since Atlantis met its doom and slid into the sea. After fleeing Rome, I went south to Pompeii,and there I continued my nefarious existence. And then one day the streets of the city shook,awakening me from my daytime sleep. Fire came down from the sky. Boulders rained down upon thehouses. The city was blacked over with ash, the terrified inhabitants dying from the effects of thepoisonous gas. And then came the lava, down the slopes, rivers of lava.

‘The sky was blacked over by a monstrous cloud, a solid and impenetrable mass. It resembled thethickest gloom of a night. And as the blackness gathered so did the lightnings around the volcanoincrease in their vivid and scorching glare. The lava, lurid and intolerable crimson gushed forththrough columns of smoke. Far and wide, lighting up the whole city from arch to arch, showers ofrocks hailed down upon the city. The earth rumbled beneath us, the grinding and hissing murmur ofescaping gases through the chasms of the mountains.

‘I do not know if I could have escaped. For there were times when the sky came back and I wouldhave been destroyed in the daylight.

‘The ashes in many places were already knee deep and the broiling showers which came from thestreaming breath of the volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong andsuffocating vapour. In some places, immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, boredown along the streets, which more and more obstructed the way. And, as the day advanced, themotion of the earth was more sensibly felt. Nor could a chariot or litter be kept steady, even on themost level ground.’

‘And you had no desire to escape?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Surely you remember?’

‘I desired to end it. The Vampire can never willingly bring about its own demise, but it can succumbto the winds of fate, and what better fate, fire from a mountain? For me, the work of God perhaps.’

‘God?’

‘At that time, there was much talk of a new religion in Rome, the Christians. They prayed to a godwhose son, Jesus, had died on the cross, in the far flung province of Judaea, so that the world of menbe saved from sin. They talked of a forgiving god, not a vengeful one. They said he was the creator ofall life. I believed, I think, he might show me mercy. After all, I was the prince of sinners.’

He was distant from me, locked in the pain of a past age, his eyes pools of sadness and reflection,his heart heavy. I had seen the crestfallen in the hospitals enough, those without hope. I had hopeddesperately that I was talking to my Robert and not the physician Hanis. As I looked at his face, Iwanted to see the Union army surgeon, but all I saw were the changes in Robert’s face; the higherforehead, the curlier blond hair, the straighter and more noble nose, and the deeper shade of blue of his eyes.

What had ever happened to us?

A curse of curses.

Preordained?

He went on. ‘Sometimes the huge stones striking against each other as they fell, broke into countlessfragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach. Andalong the plains beyond the city the darkness was now relieved, for several houses and vineyards hadbeen set on flames. The fires rose suddenly, giving partial relief of the darkness. The citizens tried toput up torches but these rarely continued long; the showers and the wind extinguished them.

‘Parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, others fleeing from thesea back to the land, for the ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore. An utter darkness lay over it,and upon it, groaning and tossing waves, the storm of cinders and rock fell, without the protectionwhich the streets and roofs afforded to the land. The whole elements of civilisation were broken up.

‘I must have watched for hours, the first time I had been out in the day since I became a Vampire.’

‘You had a choice?’

‘Good or evil?’

‘And you chose the path of good?’

‘But as I said the choice was hypothetical, illusory. It was day, behind the sulphur clouds and firewas warm blue sky and sunlight.’

‘Even if you had a minute chance, you, Hanis, did not grasp it,’ I argued. ‘The Egyptian hadobviously retained enough of his humanness to want to seek forgiveness from the god he had heardabout.’

‘That we can never know.’

He went on with his description of those dramatic events, as if he had to tell me all of this grislytale. I could almost hear the screams of the stricken populace as they hurried this way and that to seekrefuge beneath the nearest shelter. I could see the look of death etched upon their faces.

‘Eventually, I returned below,’ said he, ‘to my lair. And there, as I waited for my own destruction, Iendured a strange feeling of regret for all my victims, a regret I thought impossible for one of my kind.And then came the heat of the fire, the lava, spitting and gurgling, glowing red and all consuming. Thestink of molten rock. And the pain of it burning into my flesh, a long lingering end, for no force onearth can kill a Vampire swiftly... our pain at death is like no pain experienced by a mortal. And thelonger we have walked the earth, the greater our agony. And there, Annabel, in the chaos of Pompeii,at the hands of mighty Vesuvius, at last ended eleven hundred years of living death.’

Again I hadn’t slept and that morning felt particularly weary, my legs moving forward on the sidewalkmechanically, as if not belonging to me. I was heading for the market in Blackstone Square andintending to be back at the lodging house before ten, thus avoiding another confrontation with MrsDoyle. Last night one of her girls had been stabbed to death by a Russian seaman. To compoundmatters, Betsy had decided to run off, and, Mrs Doyle, aware of our friendship, would naturally blame me.

My heart should have been filled with joy for the girl but my own problems had reached a newdepth of despair. Yesterday I had read in the newspaper that my dear friend Emma Lambert wasmissing and her family had appealed for information as to her whereabouts, offering a reward of$1,000. For weeks, I had intuitively believed she wasn’t safe, and now I knew. I had not confrontedRobert. What was the point, he would merely tell me lies? It began to fit into place; why he was sosecretive about his room; why he no longer requested me to fetch him blood. What was in that room?

‘Annabel,’ the voice sounded deep inside my head and I stopped.

The voice... soft and sweet and seductive.

‘Annabel, now do you see? He is mine and I am his, for all eternity.’

‘No,’ said I defiantly.

‘Then I must show you.’

‘Your wickedness? You cannot separate us, we love each other. We will never be separated.’

‘Can you be so sure?’

‘Of the power of love, yes.’

‘Love, what do you, a mortal, know of love? You that has lived but the span of an ass.’

‘If you lived to be ten thousand years old, you would not know what love is. Love is not cruelty.’

‘So sure, always so sure... Come, let me show you the end of your friend. Your dear friend. Do younot want to see what happened to her?’

The words were softly spoken, yet chilling. She exercised perfect control, her tone never raised toanger pitch and anchored in a measured quietness of a deliberate delivery. Occasionally, though, youcould detect a slight unnerving of her confidence which manifested itself in a barely perceptible hiss,like a cat caught unawares and striking out with its paw; then I got a glimpse of her fanged snarl andher red glowing eyes. To the passers-by in the street it must have appeared that I was talking to myselfand was deranged, and I was vaguely aware of a few people who had gathered to gawk at me.

HER VOICE.

‘Do you not want to see your friend?’

‘You monster. Fiend of fiends,’ I shouted at her, she hiding in the innermost recesses of my mind.

There was laughter.

Her voice, more forceful. ‘I am his and he is mine.’

‘Never!’

‘Then see.’

As in the conclusion of the dream (whereby Maishia had created the illusion of my being attackedby jackals on the common), I again found myself tumbling through space. A black void of nothingness, no friction, no sensation. Tumbling over and over, propelled along in a bizarre form ofmotion, as though flying. Through this tunnel I moved at what must have been fantastic speed. I beganto see flashes of colour - a kaleidoscope of jumbled imagery that quickly sharpened into perfect clarity.I was not a distant observer but there, feeling it. The pyramids, the Nile, flowing high between papyrusbushes. The white marble temple shining like a lit-up lantern in the moonlight. The stars bright in adark blue night sky, full of intrigue. There was an eerie stillness in the valley, the silence of the distantpast, and, standing amid the jagged rocks that rose up either side, was the beast.

A jackal.

Red, glowing eyes.

Fangs dripping with blood.

Then the images were gone. I seemed to be catapulted through the tunnel at an even greater speed...black silence... until suddenly I saw a speck of light... which rapidly increased in intensity, spearinginto my eyes, penetrating to the back of my head. The next thing I knew I was in Boston, lookingdown upon the street in which my lodgings were.

The people were going about their daily business. A group of children played with a chunk of ice thathad fallen from Ely Sturton’s ice cart. Women in ragged and drab dresses beat dust from worn carpets.Whores plied their trade from the doorways and windows. I saw Mrs Doyle sitting on the steps,swigging gin.

A carriage approached, an elegant black and green carriage. I recognised the coachman. It was MrJones. It was the very carriage that had taken me from the bottom of my street to the docks the day Ileft the city for New Orleans on Captain Redfern’s ship, The Black Pearl. The carriage of my bestfriend Emma Lambert. Dear God no, thought I, watching her step from it onto the sidewalk and go upthe steps of the lodging house towards Mrs Doyle. I tried to call out to her, to warn her, but she did nothear me.

I watched them talk. I watched Emma open her purse (I had bought it her for her twentieth birthday)and give Mrs Doyle the twenty dollar note. I watched our drunkard of a landlady show Emma the setof keys which she kept on the thick belt around her waist, I watched as she took my friend inside andled her up the dilapidated staircase, I watched my friend go up them stairs like I was watching a sistermount the scaffold. I was just behind them, floating up the staircase, no control over my movement,not seen, not heard. I watched Mrs Doyle insert the key in the lock of the door to my attic hideawayobserving the look of conceit in her aged tanned face.

I watched as my friend went inside.

Mrs Doyle left, ominously closing the door behind her.

Emma regarded her surroundings with a mixture of pity and distaste, clearly feeling for me atfinding myself in such dire circumstances. The clock on the sideboard said it was approaching fouro’clock. It was cloudy outside and the room was in shadow, and I prayed for sunlight to break throughthe clouds and flood into the room, for I knew only then would she be safe. But as the clock ticked on,the room became duller, became colder. I saw Emma shiver. It was as if she sensed the evil lurkingwithin. I tried to recall what time I had come back that day. Robert hadn’t been awake. He hadn’t risenuntil nine o’clock that evening, he said he had not seen Emma, just found the money. I recalled himshowing me the note she had written, saying that it was left with the money on the sideboard.

Lies, all lies.

Emma paced the room. She went to the door of Robert’s room, which she opened. It creaked, then tomy utmost relief she closed it.

She sat down on the couch, picking up the copy of Gods and Man, lying next to the threadbarecushion. She opened the book, read a few pages, before dispensing with it. How can I describe suchagony, the anguish of someone being torn apart by the need to protect a dear friend and beingpowerless to help? I had not heard the voice of Maishia but could feel her presence. Then my attentionwas inexplicably drawn to the oval mirror on the wall and I saw the face of my tormentor deeplyembedded in the worn glass; the almond-shaped eyes, the glossed lips, the long graceful neck, on herhead the magnificent high priestess’s headdress of blue and gold. Then the image was gone and I hearda wicked laughter of one so triumphant, gradually fading away like the voices of spirits echoing in achurchyard on a dark night, with the wind rustling through the yew trees and the fog lying in patchesbetween the tombstones.

Five o’clock.

Six.

Time passed.

It was darker... Colder.

Emma rose up and placed on the sideboard a bundle of Union greenbacks. She took out a pen andbegan to write, what I supposed to be the letter Robert had shown me. Inwardly I urged her to hurry, tosave herself. It was getting darker, colder. Mercifully, when she had finished writing it she came awayto the door. But just as she was about to leave, out of the corner of my eye I observed the doorknob toRobert’s room slowly turn. My friend paused, and, sensing his presence, turned and walked backacross the room.

‘Is anyone there?’ she asked. ‘Is that you, Robert?’

No reply.

She put her ear to the door, listened.

It opened.

‘Robert,’ she exclaimed, a hand to her heart as someone reacts when truly startled. ‘I didn’t... Wherewere you? I looked in there... but...’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I came to see Annabel. I know she asked me not to but she said you were sick and I thought shewould need more money. I’ve brought you money.’ She pointed to the sideboard. ‘She has notreturned from New York? She said she had to see someone. She said you were very sick.’

‘As you can see I am well.’

‘You look...’

‘Different?’

She did not answer.

‘I must confess I am changed. The war was long and hard fought.’

‘The war. The war was the matter with all of us. Thank God it’s all over.’

‘For some.’

‘But you said you are well.’

‘Yes.’ He smiled and this appeared to relieve some of the tension, though only a half smile, for hecould not risk showing his incisors. ‘No man who experiences war can remain untouched. There are nobrass bands and dashing uniforms in a hospital.’

‘We lost so many friends.’

‘Not like you to be so profound in your feelings. That’s not the Emma I remember. I thought yourprimary concern was a new frock or a gay social gathering.’

‘I’ve grown up. And in truth, I’m not terribly proud. Now it’s all over I realise that I didn’t do mybit. I admire Annabel so much for the work she did nursing and her courage in going South to findyou. I could not face the suffering in the hospital. I heard such terrible things... tubs of blood and pilesof severed limbs, and surgeons so brutal and hostile to the men and to the nurses.’ She put her handover her mouth. ‘I don’t mean to say you were like that.’

He laughed. ‘That is how it was.’

‘There, as I said, I’ve brought you money. Two thousand dollars. It should help you until you arewell enough to announce your presence. Your parents, Annabel’s parents, we have all been so worried for you.’ Then came the words of doubt in her heart. ‘You are well?’

There was a long pause.

So tense.

‘No,’ he said.

‘No?’

‘I am sick, very sick.’

‘I’m sorry.’ My friend glanced at the clock on the sideboard. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said, ‘I better begoing.’

The door to the landing swung shut with a bang that shuddered right through me.

I read the panic in my friend’s face as Robert moved towards her. She seemed to be paralysed, as ifcaught in a kind of hypnotic trance - his eyes were glowing red.

‘I can’t let you go.’

‘Can’t?’

‘I need your blood.’

‘Robert! What are you saying?’

He led her to the room where he conducted his experiments, the place where he rested - his lair. I attempted to follow but the door was closed to me. I tried to get in, frantically turning and pulling atthe doorknob. I could feel the door but could not affect any influence upon its motion. Urgently myhands felt around the edges, the frame, looking for a way in, and, with each passing second, I becamemore and more terrified of what was going to happen. It was all my fault; my friend was going to bemurdered, and I was the witness. Another of Maishia’s despicable tricks.

I heard raised voices.

My friend was begging Robert to let her go. She promised she would not speak of this to anyone, ifonly he would let her be. She sounded so helpless, pathetic.

He did not listen.

There was a struggle.

I heard the sound of breaking glass.

Screams.

Then it fell silent, a silence that swept over me, leaving me numb. A tear slipped from my eye andtrickled down my cheek, wetting my bottom lip.

I heard a voice -her - Maishia. Again it originated deep within my head, echoing and reaching everyaspect of my being, fraying my nerves and chilling my blood.

‘Why do you not enter?’ said she. ‘See Hanis... as he really is.’

I knew not how but in an instant I had passed through the wooden door and was standing insideRobert’s room. He was peering into the clothes trunk, the lip of which came up to his waist. The lidhad been thrown open and the two hefty padlocks dangled from the lock. He could not see or hear me.His eyes were solemn, his mouth turned down. Blood was smeared across his chin and neck and thefront of his white linen army shirt. He gazed down into the clothes trunk in which he had slept thesepast months since we left the South. There was but one place Emma could be, and, as I neared thetrunk and peered over the edge into its inner region, I saw my friend.

She was not dead.

She was lying at the bottom, gagged, her arms bound behind her back and her ankles bound togetherwith a piece of rubber tubing taken from his apparatus. Her eyes nervously flitted from left to right inthe heartrending manner of a terrified patient on the operating table and about to be sawed up. She wassemi-conscious, her skin drained of all colour, bleach white. Her eyes, once so bright and full of life,were dull with encroaching death. Blood was on her dress and on her neck. It was swollen and bruised,and there were two small puncture marks. Oh horror of horrors, she had become a Vampire’s larder.

I walked and walked, trying to rid myself of the ghastly images, haunted by the memories of my friendwho had been so alive. What ever love I had had for Robert I was sure had now gone. I went to thepark and stood in the bandstand looking out across the greenery, my fingers so tensely gripping thebrass rail they seemed part of it. Periodically, I gazed up into the heavens, half-expecting a bolt oflightning to streak down from the sky and kill me. If only... So many choices, and I had chosen thewrong path... out of selfishness. I had brought evil to my home city when it could have been in theheartland of Brazil on the coffee plantation Maishia had left the Delta to purchase. What were the livesof a few slaves who would die anyway or a few simple-minded villagers, compared to the destructionof my friends and family?

I could not imagine my friend’s despair at lying in that clothes trunk, gagged and bound, waiting forhim to gorge himself upon her blood, with each visit to drain a little more of her life away. I didn’teven know if she was dead or if he had initiated her into this accursed cult, this ungodly hybrid ofmankind. That answer awaited me, if I had the courage to return to the lodging house. The fact that Ihad tried to shield my friend was scant consolation, perhaps a naive underestimation of the strength ofthe forces arrayed against me. I had captured a wild beast and taken it from its habitat and attempted totame it, to control it; but everyone knows a wild thing is always wild. Such stubbornness. Suchselfishness. It tempted me to go to the police, to confess my crime, to lead them to Robert. Perhaps hewould surrender his life to me, and perhaps I might now have the courage to take it? I had held thesword to his exposed neck. One strike and my friend would still have been alive.

I remained in the park until the afternoon shadows had lengthened into early evening and the grasswas patched in areas of ink black and the wind had turned cool. I stood there, never more profoundlyalone. The outcast. I tried to summon up hope, to be positive, to think that it was not too late forEmma, that I could somehow save her. If this were the case, however, I realised Maishia would not have revealed her fate to me. It crossed my mind that it was an illusion, another way of eroding Robertand I’s love for each other. I could not face the truth, it was too ghastly.

It was seven o’clock when I returned to the lodging house. I had forgotten the dramatic events of theprevious evening, the policemen gathering their evidence, and Mrs Doyle. She looked at me withscorn. As soon as she spotted the reward for information leading to Emma’s whereabouts she’d tell theauthorities. But I could only think that it had been she who let my friend in. She, Mrs Doyle.

‘I expect you’re feeling mighty pleased with yourself,’ said she. ‘I know that you’ve been talking toher, my Betsy, putting silly notions in her head. And when she starves, it’ll be your fault. I took her in,put a roof over her head, put food in her belly. There’s no place for her kind in this city. I won’t takeher back. Not even if she begs me.’

‘All you ever did for that poor girl was exploit her. And my only regret is that I didn’t give hermoney. I could have, but I was too selfish. And I think you’re wrong, I think she will make out. Ourworld is changing, the war has seen to that. She was exploited all her life, right from the day she cameinto this Godforsaken place we call America. Mrs Doyle, she was vulnerable, and all you offered herwas more exploitation. You’re no better than the slavers who kept her in bondage. In fact, I would sayyou are worse.’

‘Is that so, miss high and mighty.’

‘Don’t bother to threaten me with an increase in rent, because this evening I shall be leaving here. Ishall be gone before sunset, and shall never return. It’s been a bad day for you, hasn’t it, but I’m sure you will find yourself another bundle of misery to exploit, and you have the gall to call it charity. Youare the most despicable woman I have ever met. Drink your gin, Mrs Doyle, count your pennies, andpray God finds it in his heart to forgive your sins.’

I had expected a violent reaction but she did nothing. She slipped away down the corridor to theroom in which her whore had been murdered. The corridor was in shadow and deathly quiet. At thebottom, beside the entrance to the laundry room, two of her other girls stood, looking sheepish, clad intheir satin hooped dresses, their faces painted for the night’s work they would have done anything toavoid.

I climbed the stairs. If I was to leave this place I must be quick. All thoughts of saving Emma,making sure she had died had gone; I had to preserve myself, to escape the clutches of Maishia’s evilbefore it consumed my last vestige of decency. The clothes and my other belongings I could have leftthere but not Robert’s letters and his picture, which were in the top drawer of the sideboard. And I hadto take a last look at those rooms, as if to exorcise the demons, I suppose like the soldier picking hisway through a battlefield after the fighting had ceased, with darkness descending. Whatever we do inlife there is always something of ourselves we must leave behind.

I opened the door, my hand shaking so badly that I had found it difficult to insert the key in the lock.The room was, as always, cold as an ice house. No matter even if my mood had raised when I hadbeen out among the living, out in the sunshine, this cold that greeted me each time was a soberingexperience and one which doused my faint feelings of optimism. I looked at the bed, the cracked andmould-covered plaster walls, the flower picture I had hung up in an effort to brighten the place and theyellow curtains in the kitchen area, and the old woodstove which I had kept on in a vain effort togenerate a little warmth and upon which I had cooked my food, and there was the tatty couch and thesideboard, dusty and battered and riddled with woodworm. Then I looked at the door to his room.

There was no time to waste. I quickly gathered up my clothes, stuffing them into the carpetbag onthe bed. I opened the drawer of the sideboard and removed the bundle of letters, pausing to gaze uponRobert’s likeness, remembering how happy I was the day we had gone to Mr Gardner’s photographicstudio to have the portrait made. The place had been heaving with soldiers, most wanting to becaptured in heroic fighting poses with their weapons, and how many of those brave souls were nowstood upon mantelpieces, testimony to the destruction, a treasured but useless reminder to loved onesthat they had lived. I kissed the picture, then put it away in the carpetbag along with my other things.But fate, I suppose, was destined to interrupt, it could never be so easy an escape, and as I was about tomake my way to the landing I heard behind me the unmistakable creak of a door opening.

I froze.

‘You know?’

‘How could you do it?’ I said in a quivering, feeble voice and standing with my back to him.

‘How could I not?’

‘You would excuse yourself?’

‘I warned you, that you, the person I loved above all others might not be safe.’

‘All these weeks,’ said I bitterly, ‘me thinking you had found a cure... and you were feeding off theblood of Emma. What price your youth and your remarkable insights, what price your knowledge andyour newly developed faculties? Would you care to impress me with a feat of memory, an astoundingfeat of mental arithmetic, some insight into a race that came from the stars and tragically lost theircivilisation?’

I went to leave. He blocked my path, appearing before me on the landing, his movement so swift itwas not perceptible to the human eye. I ordered him to step aside but instead he picked me up andcarried me back inside the room. The key, which I had left in the lock, turned with a noisy click,responding obediently to the effort of his mental concentration, such was his power, and I was hisprisoner.

‘I tried to find a cure,’ he said. ‘And I couldn’t keep sending you to the hospital, the risk was toogreat. I couldn’t bear you being imprisoned or committed to a lunatic asylum.’

‘So you decided to murder my best friend. The one person, other than you and my parents, I trulyloved. We were like sisters. How could you do this to me?’

‘Annabel, don’t leave me. Please.’ There was great emotion in his voice, and what woman can failto be moved when a man, so long used to suppressing his real feelings, expresses them. ‘I love you.I’m still Robert, deep inside.’

‘You’re a killer. How many is it now? The three seamen, those three hoodlums, and Emma. That’sseven. And you’re not even a full Vampire yet. Professor Brennier told me it was hopeless, that thetransformation was too advanced.’

‘Don’t speak to me about that coward, who left a woman to do the work he should have done.’

‘To be murdered by you, Robert? Or Maishia? Or torn to pieces by one of her jackals? He is not acoward for perceiving the true extent of the forces arrayed against us.’

‘But who will look after me?’

‘We have but one thing in common now,’ I said icily, ‘we are both selfish to the core.’

‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘It’s the disease. You saw how hard I worked these past weeks. I know I’vebeen distant and difficult. I tried to resist the temptation, honestly, as God is my witness. But justimagine, Annabel, that you had gone without food, not for a day or two days, but for weeks, and thensomeone put a well-cooked steak in front of you. Would you eat it? Of course, you would... devour itravenously. Except the hunger I suffer is a thousand times more profound than any desire for humanfood. You’ve seen the hunger, what it does to me, how the morphine is useless at deadening the pain.The hunger drives me, it’s at the centre of my being. If I could live off the blood of animals, I would.As I would, the blood you could bring me from the hospital. But there is only one way, Annabel, tosate this hunger, and that is to take the blood from the source while it is still warm with life.’

‘Talk no more, please spare me this. My friend was not a piece of meat. She was a person, awonderful person, at the start of her life. Robert you forget, you are not a predatory animal. You’re notout stalking your prey in a forest like a wild boar.’

He grabbed me by the shoulders, forcing me to gaze into his deep blue eyes, and, shocked as I was, Icould not remain completely impervious to his torment.

‘I am a predator, that’s the whole point. I don’t think about moral issues... all I think about is thekill, drawing off the blood so that I can nullify, for a while, the hideous pain inside of me. I am in hell,don’t you see! I tried to spare you this, and loved you all the more for your stubborn devotion to me.’His voice quietened. ‘Perhaps I half hoped you would leave these last weeks when I have been so cruelto you. Do you think I don’t want to talk with you, to share my innermost fears and feelings with youas we once did? What am I to talk about, how much I crave blood?’

‘You’re trying to trick me. You’re saying those things because you know it’s what I want to hear.You can read my mind, Robert. You know my every fear, my every weakness, and how can I live withthat strain?’

I made to leave.

‘Robert, let me pass. You belong with her now.’

‘Run out on the patient,’ he said scornfully. ‘I thought you were a better nurse than that.’

‘I can’t treat your kind of sickness, Robert. If you had lost a leg or an arm or had been blinded,paralysed, I would have nursed you for as long as it took, and never deserted you.’

‘You must not go.’

‘Robert, please!’

‘I am close to a cure.’

‘No more chances, Robert. I can’t bear it,’ I said as a deluge of tears flowed down my cheeks.

‘It’s true. Last night I isolated the rogue cell which carries the virus. The catalyst, the instrument ofthe infection of the healthy cells of the blood which causes the disease to spread. I witnessed this cellattacking a healthy cell on one of my slides, it was awe-inspiring to behold; I saw good beingdestroyed by evil before my very eyes. Now that I understand which cell is responsible, all I have to dois find a means of destroying it. I could affect a special agent, a serum, some kind of vaccine. I couldstop the process, and I’m sure even reverse it. There are still enough unaffected cells for me to make afull recovery. A week. That’s all I ask. We have come so far, you and I, too far to give up now theremight be an end in sight.’

‘How could you ask this of me?’

‘Because I love you.’ He held me close, his breath smelt vile; I had noticed that, for all his youthfulappearance, his breath was akin to that of an old mule’s.

‘And what about the hunger, Robert? Will my reward be to finish up as my friend, gagged andbound in the clothes trunk while you keep me alive for your feeds?’

He stood back from me.

‘I have thought of that prospect, and you’re right, I cannot be trusted. There is, however, a solution.It will keep me strong and able to concentrate on my work.’

‘I’m not going to the hospital.’

‘No. That’s useless, anyway.’ He hesitated as if frightened as to my reaction at what he was about tosay. ‘You can give me your blood. With a tube and needles and a pump, I can take the blood from youand pump it into my veins. A pint every few days. It would weaken you but if you eat heartily it willbuy us sufficient time to conquer this evil.’

My body tensed as Robert pushed the blunt needle into my vein. He had adapted the hypodermicsyringe I’d used to inject the morphine, attaching to it a length of rubber tubing from his apparatus.This was connected to a bottle on the small table beside the bed. To help force out the blood, he hadgiven me a piece of rag to squeeze on. I could not bear to watch the blood collect in the bottle. Robertspoke encouragement to me, as I had so often to soldiers in the wards when the surgeons changeddressings on painful wounds. He seemed human again, like Robert. And perhaps he was close toperfecting a cure? At least in giving him the blood I would prevent him from killing again. When hehad finished the procedure, he removed the needle and took the bottle of blood to his room and closedthe door.

I cringed.

During the next week I gave blood to Robert twice more. Under his instruction, I rested and ate aswell as I could. I had forgotten what it was to have an appetite; eating food for me was no pleasure, butan act of willpower. Yet for all the strain, I appeared stronger and gained a little weight. No longer didhe speak in the ancient dialect, no speaking with wonderment of the changes to his body, which hadsickened me, no long periods of silence, of exclusion. He spoke to me with kindness and included me even with his experiments. We worked together, he and I. I cleaned his slides, his apparatus,researched passages and read them out as he studied the samples of his blood under the microscope.He showed me the rogue cell he’d isolated; we had grown it on a piece of rat’s skin and seen howincredibly fast it could multiply. It seemed to eat away at the tissue until nothing remained but therogue cells, which had become larger in size. They interacted with the blood of animals at an evengreater rate than with Robert’s blood, the explanation, we supposed, being that human blood was morecomplex, thus harder to pollute. It was good being destroyed by evil, a truly frightening thing to behold.

Using a sample of his own blood Robert had even calculated the degree to which the evil cells hadinfected him. With his superior vision and mathematical skills, he was quickly able to count thedistribution of cells on the slide, which was then calculated as a percentage of his total blood volume.He believed the evil had destroyed seventy percent of his blood’s healthy cells. He had drunk myblood but as he had indicated that night to me also injected it into his veins, and this was to provide uswith the most remarkable and uplifting news. It gave us hope. When we worked we talked endlesslyabout our past life together, though our newly found optimism did not permit us to dare speak of thefuture. Maishia could not have seemed further way from us, and the theory that united in love wecould somehow stand up to her evil, appeared, against all hope, to be holding good.

There were no physical relations, but implanted in my mind was a nagging doubt that I was alreadywith child. I said nothing of this to Robert, I did not want it to distract him from his work. WhenRobert was listed as missing, during those long months of not hearing word of him and believing himdead or taken prisoner, I had desperately wanted his child. What a cruel blow to us it would be, and tothe child, to be born with evil flowing in its veins - unholy - fated to grow up into the most vile of allpredators on this earth, loved my none, not even the mother who gave birth. It would be a test nomother who had ever lived had been faced with; not even the famed wisdom of King Solomon couldunravel such a tragic problem.

‘Fifty-two per cent,’ said Robert excitedly one evening. ‘The last transfusion reduced the evil cellsfurther.’

‘That’s marvellous,’ I said wearily. ‘But I cannot keep on giving you blood indefinitely, Robert.’

‘Of course not, but at least we’re making progress. I need an agent to help destroy the evil cells,maybe a combination of your blood and a chemical. We are replacing bad blood with good, but thenthe evil cells destroy those new good cells.’ He rushed into his room, rummaging through his booksand apparatus. Then he returned to the side of the bed and looked at me the way someone doesenthused by an exciting idea but who is afraid of the obvious drawbacks.

‘There may be one way.’

‘Robert?’

‘If we were to transfuse all my blood... then possibly the evil could be eradicated.’

‘To kill again?’

‘I know. It sounds terrible. Do you think I don’t know that. But one more death and I might be free.Eventually, I will kill... unless we find a cure.’

‘Surely it’s too complicated a procedure? We could not be sure it would work.’

‘And we cannot be sure it wouldn’t!’ he countered forcefully, like the dormant volcano erupting. Hebecame calm, apologised for his show of temper. ‘It would give us a chance to have our future back. Achance to live in the world of men and sunlight. A chance to love.’ He spoke with great sadness and itwas impossible not to be moved. ‘How I wish I were normal.’

‘You are assuming that only the blood is evil.’

‘There are no guarantees.’

‘It still doesn’t destroy Maishia. As you have said to me so often, she would find us wherever wewere. It’s hopeless.’

Five more days passed. We spoke nothing of Robert’s idea. I could not sanction such an action, even ifin the long run it might save many lives. Only God could make such a decision. Robert took bloodfrom me on Tuesday evening but I fainted afterwards and it was clear that he could take no more for atleast another week. He worked tirelessly, trying all manner of chemical mixtures to affect an agent todestroy the rogue Vampire cell. On Thursday he announced that the ratio of good to evil had changedagain in favour of evil. It was then, beholding his crestfallen face, that I realised we had lost our battle.He did not seek approval for the taking of a life to save his. But it was spoken in his silence. He wouldpace the room, for hours, pausing to gaze out of the tiny window in the kitchen area at the stars.Throughout the apparent turn around in his condition I had noticed the rooms becoming warmer, wewere having a mini heat wave, but now the cold had returned, to chill.

I began to regret this period of false hope that I had been so careful in avoiding inflicting uponRobert’s mother. I had put myself through more pain, though I could not be sure Robert would have letme leave. I began to fear for my own safety, my mind full of heartrending images of what hadhappened to my dear friend, Emma. The hatred engendered by his actions had returned as the cold had. I could not look at him without anger stirring within. We began to fall back into our separateexistence’s; he in his work; I lying on my bed, unable to sleep throughout the daylight hours, tooweary, too dejected to be bothered to get up during the day.

‘You can’t forgive me?’ he said.

‘No,’ I replied.

‘I thought not.’

‘She has won, as she boasted she would.’

‘I checked my blood under the microscope an hour ago. The rogue Vampire cell is multiplying.Sixty-five per cent evil. There is very little time. You must save yourself, go as far away from here aspossible. Just keep on running.’

‘And you?’ I asked anxiously.

‘I must continue with the work. They say a good captain is prepared to go down with his ship.’

We spent the remainder of the night in silence, each of us retreating into our inner thoughts, we hadlost so much. At dawn, after Robert had returned to the clothes trunk to rest, I packed my carpetbagwith my clothes, his letters and his picture, then left.

I walked to the docks.

I had $400 remaining, enough for passage on a steamer to Europe or the Far East. I stared ruefully atthe ships in the harbour, watched the dockmen load and unload cargoes, watched the passengers on thequayside, waiting to board. Steam horns sounded loud in my ears, dimming the excited chatter. I saw alittle girl who reminded me of myself at that age. It was painful to look at her, she so innocent, so pure.She was dressed in a bonny yellow cotton frock, a matching bonnet and white lace trim. With her,standing tall and proud, was her father, clad in a black morning suit and a shiny top hat. He wasleaning slightly on his cane, possibly the legacy of a war wound. He could have been Papa. I was his princess once.

My parents, I had to see them. I couldn’t just leave and write a cowardly letter from a foreign land.There was no need to reveal the details of this ghastly tale.

I headed for my father’s warehouses on Lewis Wharf. Now the war was over the government wouldcancel its army contracts. How we’d argued about him profiting from the war. It had seemed a straightforward question of right or wrong, but the trials of these past months had taught me toappreciate the grey areas. I had discovered the innate need for self-preservation; preaching on moralitywas a luxury for those who didn’t have to get their hands dirty. Many an orator had delivered aninflammatory speech from the speaker’s platform on the evil of slavery, but how few of those had shedblood on a battlefield?

I felt empty, limp, soulless, as if all the energy had been drained from my body. Was this the truemeaning of unhappiness? Perhaps the effect of losing so much blood? Perhaps I could have done moreto help Robert? No, there was no fight left in me. It was over.

I was free.

Free to be what?

Sad?

To rebuild?

How?

How does one rebuild after all I had been through?

A wagon laden with cotton bales trundled past, the driver shouting at me to stand clear. The largemetal-rimmed wheels turned before me, and, for a dangerous moment, as on the ship during thestorms, I again flirted with death, the temptation to hurl myself underneath the wheels strong. Death.Peace. No more struggle, no more meals to force down, no more sleepless nights, no more painful self-criticism, no more silly quest for hope, no more fear.

The end.

Peace.

I had seen wounded soldiers give up the ghost, until now not understanding how anyone could reachthe point whereby they could not go on. But they were right... Take Sergeant Plunkett. I recalled theday following the amputation of his other arm, how I had tried to give him encouragement and to makehim eat the chicken broth to rebuild his strength, how I had pleaded with him to try to recover for hiswife’s sake. I wondered if he was still alive, and if so, how he was managing.

Such sadness.

Such self-pity.

But the world went on, didn’t it?

The huge brick walls of my father’s main warehouse loomed before me, regimented rows ofwindows, some boarded up. I watched the comings and goings of the merchants and clerks, and thewarehousemen as they manhandled their heavy loads, sleeves furled, revealing bulging muscles... theywere healthy with life, and oh how I envied them. And there were the negroes. They had endured suchdegradation as slaves, but somehow found a way to survive. They retained their spirit; a flash of anivory tooth in a smile, a burst of tuneful song. No matter how cruel their existence on the plantations,there was always the promise of God’s kingdom. Men may have battered and worked their bodies intoearly graves, but God would look after them. But I would rot in hell.

I wanted to cry. What price freedom? So many sufferers. I felt the pain of every widow, orphan,lover separated. What use were my tears? The tears of a sinner? I could not cry enough redemption towash away all of my sins.

Father’s office was on the second floor, accessed by a narrow wooden staircase on the side elevation. What day was it? Friday? Perhaps he wouldn’t be there? He’d built up the business single-handedly - the warehouse distribution, the workshops for hardware and farm implements, the fleet ofships - a self-made man. I realised now he had resented my friendship with Robert out of love notspite. He’d warned me that idealists seldom made a woman happy; they’d always go in search of thathigher goal. Robert did not have to join the army, he volunteered. Had I married one of father’ssuitors, a banker, an entrepreneur, I would be living safely and comfortably, nursemaid to half a dozenadoring children, like my sister Clara. But the prospect of being the pioneering doctor’s wife hadthrilled me. Maybe I wasn’t that dissimilar to Emma, after all, I had chosen the path of true love? I hadgambled and lost. I had memories, but you cannot exist on the past; the warmth from a cherishedmemory soon wanes in the cold presence of tragedy.

I picked up my bag.

I looked out into the harbour at the sailing ships and paddle-steamers. My parents were not young; ifI left without seeing them, I might not get another opportunity.

Several carriages were parked in the drive. One an undertakers, the other a police wagon. As my cabcame to a rocking halt, I immediately reached out and unlocked the door and hurried up the gravelleddriveway. A policeman with a shiny silver shield on his blue tunic stood in the columned portico at thetop the steps. A reporter scribbled details in his notepad. They were bringing a body out on a litter. Asthe forward bearer stumbled on the bottom step I saw a slim black arm drop down from underneath thegrey woollen blanket that had been laid on top of the deceased. Millie. It was Millie.

I suddenly felt dizzy.

‘Are you all right, Miss? Miss?’

I opened my eyes to see a grog-reddened face, a pair of inquisitively bright green eyes studying me,trying to unlock any secret I might have, a story.

‘Miss?’

‘Millie. That was Millie.’

‘You knew her?’ He had turned to a fresh page of his pad, which he had held up before his nose, andwas ready to scribble with his pencil.

‘Yes,’ I croaked.

‘You’re a servant here?’

‘No. I’m Annabel Merrick. And I want to see my Father and Mother.’ I tried to get past him andhead for the porch steps, to enter the house. The reporter held me back, his hand rested firmly on myshoulder, and, as I struggled, his grip became more resolute. Then he said in a solicitous tone, whichwas unexpected given the uncaring reputation his profession had gained reporting the horrors of the war,

‘You don’t wanna go in there, Miss.’

‘I have to.’

‘I’m telling you now, you don’t.’

‘What happened?’

‘It was the work of a wild thing they say... A wolf, can you believe?’

‘A jackal,’ I corrected.

‘A what, Miss?’

‘I said a jackal. A silver-coated Asiatic jackal. And a Vampire. Four thousand years old. A blood-sucking fiend, that’s what’s happened.’

He scribbled this also down in his pad; I could tell he saw me as a candidate for the lunatic asylum.But then again there might just be a story in it for him, a few dollars to make, so he was prepared tolisten.

‘Just exactly what do you mean, Vampire?’

I didn’t answer.

‘Aren’t you a friend of Emma Lambert, who has been missing these past weeks? I’m sure I saw thetwo of you together at a party once, a long time ago, before the war. I never forget a face. And youcertainly don’t forget a woman as handsome as her in a hurry. Her disappearance has caused quite astir. Most of the journalists at The Herald are on the lookout, hoping to land the $1,000 reward.Rumour has it that she’s run off with a sea captain, fella by the name of Jim Redfern.’

‘No. No, she hasn’t.’

He looked at me puzzled. He was wearing a brown beige suit and derby hat. He wasn’t tall, in factsmaller than I. His face was clean shaved. His shoes were scuffed and his collar dirty with a rim ofgrime where sweat had trickled down his nape. What was the point of holding back? Why not give hima story? The story of stories, so unbelievable no one would ever believe it, even as it unfolded beforetheir very eyes.

‘She’s dead.’

‘Dead, Miss?’ He scribbled this down.

‘Vampires.’

‘You mean Vampire bats?’

‘No. Human Vampires.’

‘You need to rest, Miss. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you look...’

‘Like death?’

‘What have you been doing with yourself? Whatever it is, it obviously doesn’t agree with you. Andhow do you know Emma Lambert is dead?’

‘Because I saw her die,’ I said in a daze.

They were bringing out another body. Instinctively I knew it was my mother.

I cried.

I went to the home of Mr and Mrs Gray. Both Robert’s parents were dead. I walked the city. For hoursI wandered the streets. Alone. Profoundly alone. Then I saw a church. I went in, kneeling at a pew atthe back, in the shadows, away from the sea of candles that flickered silently on the altar. I prayed forthe souls of our parents. I did not have the effrontery to ask God for his forgiveness. I said a prayer forRobert, though. How could I despise him for her evil? He was a victim, deserving of pity andunderstanding, comfort, love even. Robert had not murdered my friend, she had.

The church was empty. Roman Catholic. There were many such churches in the city owing to astrong contingent of Irish, Italian and German immigrants who’d settled there. But a church is achurch, and what does it matter whether it be Papal or Protestant? Were we not all equal in the eyes ofour maker? Not I, though, I was a devil. I could not hope to wash away my sins with a paltry prayer oroffering of regret. I had made choices. Evil choices. It was I, not Robert, who had brought the evil hereto our city. And every day more people died... because of me. And if Professor Brennier was correct inhis assessment of the feeding habits of these creatures, every week Robert lived another person woulddie. I would, in a month, kill four people; in a year fifty; in a decade 500. At which point Robert wouldhave forgotten he was ever human, forgotten me, and I’d be dust in the ground but my terrible legacywould go on. He would be with her, his creator. Robert Gray, the dedicated surgeon would not heal -he would kill.

I began to feel dizzy. I had had several such attacks during the course of the morning. The shadowy,candlelit world of the church’s columned interior became a blur, the yellow flames of the candles onthe altar becoming pinpoints dazzling my eyes. My legs started to buckle. My breathing came in short,erratic gasps. As I leaned on the pew for support I dropped my bible. Suddenly it went black. The nextthing I was aware of was looking up and seeing the face of a priest.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Father O’Brien.’ His voice was calm and kindly.

He went to mop my brow with a damp cloth. I drew away from him.

‘Don’t touch me!’

‘Why ever not, child?’

‘I am unclean. And this is the house of God.’

‘We are all God’s children and no matter how great our sins, he can forgive them, providing we areprepared to repent.’

‘No! I shall rot in hell for my sins. For me, there can be no peace, no forgiveness.’

‘You are ill, child. You need to see a doctor. I shall send for Doctor Morgan on Beaver Street.’

‘No... No.’

I tried to raise myself up from the couch. I was so weak. My vision was blurred, my head throbbed.In my mind I thought I heard her voice and responded, spoke back, a feeble act of defiance thatregistered in a bemused look from the young priest. I was sure he had made the desolate feelcomforted. But not I.

I managed to stand.

‘You will not take a meal?’

‘Do you have blood?’ I watched for a reaction.

‘The blood of Christ.’

‘No, real blood. Human blood.’

‘I know not of your trouble, my child, but I may be able to help. Whatever you say here, will go nofurther. You could lift your burden.’

‘With words?’ I said mockingly. ‘I am not a Catholic. I am not here to make confession or to seekabsolution.’

‘In the late war I took the last rites of many a dying soldier. Their denomination did not seem thatimportant. Is your trouble from the war? Have you lost someone dear to you?’

‘Robert,’ I said. ‘I lost Robert.’

‘Your husband?’

‘My fiancee.’

‘The war,’ he said reflectively. ‘It left it’s mark on so many of us.’ He became distant. His eyeswere solemn, cast downward, his mood one of pure melancholy. ‘I have secrets, also. Perhaps if Ishared my burden with you, you could share yours? Do we have a bargain?’

‘And what would your sin be?’

He hesitated, then replied,

‘A great one. I am not holy. I live in the house of God because it is safe. I became a priest because Iwas not brave. My brothers fought with the Irish Brigade, General Hancock’s II Corps. But I chose thesafety of the rear to give last rites to those with the courage that I lacked. No one knows this, exceptme. I do not have to toil, the Church takes care of me. Everyone thinks I am good.’

‘You behave like a priest.’

‘A clever deception.’

‘And are you not trying to gain God’s favour?’

‘It is not God’s forgiveness I seek. One of the men I gave the last rites to on the battlefield ofGettysburg was my youngest brother, Shamus. Even he did not know the truth. Good Father O’Brien,the coward hiding behind the Holy Book, rosary beads and a crucifix.’ He removed from around hisneck his shiny gold cross and looked at it plaintively. ‘I’m not sure I even believe. I want to leave here,this city, but it would break my poor mother’s heart; like all Irish mothers she wanted a priest for ason. So I stay, and pretend, like I was pretending with you.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because we are two of a kind... both deeply troubled, both outcasts from society. I would giveanything to retrace my steps, to shoulder a musket, to do my duty. For the war, in freeing thebondsmen, was God’s work. Prayers of the righteous would not have ended slavery; only fire andcourage. I am a coward.’

I could see the shame in his eyes. His hand was shaking slightly, and he was in deep thought, I wasconvinced he could hear the cannon booming, the shouts of the soldiers, the pleas of the dying.

‘I shock you?’

‘It took courage to say what you have. But I still cannot share my burden with you.’

‘If that is your wish, my child.’

‘It is.’

Collecting myself, I walked unsteadily to the door that led from the vestry and into the main part ofthe church. Turning to say a parting word, I said, ‘Thank you, Father. And I am sure you are a goodpriest. The battle I face is mine and Robert’s.’

‘He is alive?’

‘No, he is dead.’

I left the church. Darkness approached, blurring the outlines of the newly built mansions. The buildershad been heavily influenced, as I understood it, by the thoroughfares and boulevards of Paris. I hadbeen in Arlington St Church, Boylston Street, which was in Back Bay, a tidal flat which formed thesouth bank of the Charles river. They had been filling in land along the necks since 1850, using gravelbrought from West Needham by railroad. My parents’ mansion was beyond the Public Garden, acrossthe common. After discovering Robert’s parents were dead I had not bothered myself with direction,just walked. The docks were to the east, a distance of about a mile. The slums of South End, mylodgings in Perry Street, was a similar distance.

I walked up to Boylston Square. I thought of Robert, the padlocks to the clothes trunk clicking open,the lid creaking open, and, seeing in my mind years from now, him climbing out of a coffin, to stalkhis prey. Then Maishia; the beautiful face that in an instant could turn to a hateful snarl; the voice, softand seductive, that became a shrill, wicked laughter that clawed at the spine -the voice I half-expectedto hear.

I stood on the corner, clutching my carpetbag to my breast, looking at the houses and envious of thesnug middle-class security enjoyed by those inside, whom I considered could not have anything lessthan a perfect existence. I pictured my mother with her embroidery in the drawing room, my father satin his favourite armed chair, reading his newspaper and drinking brandy. I watched the horse-drawntraffic pass by, watched the lovers strolling, subliminally happy. Again I felt I was being observed.That morning I was certain about seeing Tom but was in such a confused state would have believedanything that promised me hope. Tom, he would possess the courage to do what was necessary.

It drew darker.

Colder.

I shivered.

Then I heard it. The long, eerie wail. How it chilled my blood to hear that unholy noise again. And,as I looked up ahead along Essex Street, narrower and not so well lit by the gas lamps, I saw a pair ofglowing red eyes.

It was the same in Washington Street, to the north. Red Eyes. A jackal.

And behind me.

The grim realisation settled in the pit of my stomach with a terrible feeling of nightmare -my way tothe docks was blocked.

SOUTH.

SOUTH.

They wanted me to go SOUTH.

TO THE LODGING HOUSE.

There were three of them - possibly more. I could hear their snarls. See those eyes.

I headed down Washington Street - to the south -my heart pounding. The street, normally busy,suddenly became deserted. By what trickery I knew not but the people had vanished.

MAISHIA.

‘I am his and he is mine.’

‘Why? Why? Why not leave me alone?’ I said.

‘Your love against mine. He must choose.’

‘You murdered his parents, do you think that will make him love you?’

‘He will hate me, but will come to love me. We have centuries... forever and forever.’

Then the voice was gone.

I looked behind; red eyes glowing in the darkness.

I moved forward. Still walking slowly, periodically glancing back over my shoulder. The jackalskept their distance, coming no closer. I walked and walked, increasing to the speed of a trot, untilfinally, I turned into Perry Street. And there was my lodging house.

I ran up the stairs. Panting, my breath coming in uncertain gulps, I slotted my key in the lock andstole inside. Robert was in his room working on his experiments and stopped immediately. He stood inthe doorway. We stared at each other, then unable to restrain myself I rushed across the room andflung myself into his arms. I held him tightly, though he held off, as if frightened of his reaction to ourembrace.

I drew back and looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. How could I tell him?

‘My parents are dead,’ said he.

‘Robert, Robert, she murdered them... and my parents too, just as she murdered those seamen on theship, those three hoodlums and Emma.’

‘She is close by,’ he said. ‘It’s too late for you now.’

‘The jackals, Robert... I couldn’t... I tried. They blocked my path, forcing me away from the harbourand to return here. Oh, Robert, what shall we do?’

There was a long, eerie wail. It echoed like a noise would resonate in a cave.

Silence.

We looked at each other.

‘Perhaps we could both leave the city together?’ said Robert. He shook his head with frustration.‘No. The evil in me is now at a level of eighty per cent.’

‘I could give you blood.’

‘It would be too dangerous. You are already weak.’

‘And the alternative?’

‘Yes, you are right. She would kill you.’ He avoided my gaze. ‘But she would not harm me. Andthat makes it so much harder to make decisions. And despite all that she has done, I cannot hate her.As much as I try, I cannot.’

‘Do not reproach yourself, my love.’ Reaching out, I tentatively placed the flat of my hand againsthis cheek, which was cold. ‘Never do that.’

‘You forgive me for what I did to Emma?’

‘Freely.’

‘I love you.’

‘And I love you, Robert Gray.’ I kissed him full on the lips, the slightest of contact but more sensualthan any kiss we had shared. ‘My place is with you. I was free to choose in the Delta, and I chose ourlove.’ Again I nestled into his arms, my hands holding onto the wide expanse of his upper back andshoulders as I fed on his strength. The smell of his bad breath, his changed physical appearance, hisfangs, did not matter, it was Robert. My love.

At length he spoke. ‘Our parents? How?’

I sighed. ‘The jackals. I spoke to a reporter. He said it was the work of a wild creature, the policethink a wolf. The reporter thought me insane. I confessed everything to him, and he didn’t believe aword. There’s no one we can talk to, no one to ask for help. I was going to tell the priest.’ Robertlooked puzzled and I explained how I had wandered, in my state of confusion that morning, into the Catholic church. ‘He was very understanding, but I couldn’t tell him. How could I? And if I had, itwould merely have been another person we would have got embroiled in this unholy mess. And I can’tbe sure, but before I went to the church I thought I saw Tom. I was walking round in a daze. Perhapsit’s what I wanted to see?’

‘Tom, here in the city!’ There was an excitement in Robert’s voice that only comes from genuinefriendship. ‘If Tom were here, then we would have a chance. She fears him.’

‘Robert, it was just a split second, it could have been anybody. I’m sure there are many boys wholook like Tom in Boston.’

Again I nestled my head against Robert’s chest. Bringing his hands up, hesitantly at first, he beganto stroke my hair. I relaxed, closing my eyes and hoping against hope that when I opened them theworld would be, for me, as it once was. Robert’s body was so cold. I did not care. We held each other,as lovers, bathing in sweet memories, dashing the water over each other’s naked bodies, the sunlightgolden and reflecting in the air-born droplets and making them sparkle as diamonds. We were laughing, happy. The sun beat down upon us. The summer of 1859, hot and long, seeming never toend. Love, how we were in love. And still, even now after all we had endured, we were in love, and a woman in love will do anything for her man - even kill.

‘Robert?’

‘Yes, my love?’

‘If you were to undergo the total transfusion do you really think it could make you well?’

‘You would do that for me? You would stoop to such a wretched act?’

‘If it would make you well? And one life to save so many others, when you look at it that way...’

‘And spare me the torment of taking those lives.’ He regarded me in earnest. ‘You, could, kill me.’

‘I will not perform such an act! If you must take a life, then take it.’

There was a knock at the door. We were still as the night, the only sound, our breathing. Waiting forwhomever it was, probably Mrs Doyle, to go away. Perhaps it was the police, I thought, we werediscovered at last. I saw visions of myself mounting the scaffold, the hate in the eyes of the crowd, myhooded and bound body plunging through a trapdoor in a grey rain-swept prison yard.

The knocking persisted.

Louder.

More intense.

‘Robert, shall I answer it?’ said I in a whisper.

He didn’t respond. Then said,

‘It’s the priest.’

‘Father O’Brien?’

‘Bloody fool. He’s come to wash away my sins, to exorcise me, to prove to himself he has courage.’

‘Perhaps he can help?’ I said moving across the room towards the door.

‘Perhaps he can die also,’ said Robert in a scornful tone. ‘But let him in, if you must. Let us see thepower of God, versus her evil.’

I opened the door. Father O’Brien stepped in, his face flushed with the exertion from climbing thesteep staircase. He wore his black priesthood gown, and, around his neck, the golden crucifix.

‘My child, you were so greatly troubled this afternoon that I had to seek you out, to see if I couldhelp.’ The young priest’s eyes fell on Robert. ‘I followed you down Washington Street.’

‘Then you saw the jackals?’

‘Jackals?’ he said in query.

‘You did not see them?’

‘My child, this is Boston, not a forest. There are no such beasts in the city.’

‘But there are, Father. There are.’

‘The beast is man.’

‘How true,’ said Robert.

‘This is my fiancee,’ I explained, for in my mind there was an idea that the priest could help us. Iwent and stood beside Robert in the doorway of his room, which he seemed to be guarding, for it washis lair and the priest was a man of God, his natural enemy. ‘Robert was a surgeon in the army.’ Ifound a smile born of past admiration. ‘A fine surgeon. He saved many lives. He did lots of goodwork, risking his own life to save the lives of others.’

‘I don’t doubt that, my child.’

‘Alas it’s ancient history,’ said Robert.

‘You speak with much bitterness,’ said the priest.

‘I have good cause, sir.’

‘I, myself, was with the Army of the Potomac.’

‘Yet you did not carry a rifle.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘I served in New Orleans,’ Robert unexpectedly volunteered. ‘Nathaniel Banks, the Red RiverCampaign. I was... I was about to join,’ he paused, ‘General Sherman in Atlanta when at the lastminute I was posted to the interior, the Bird’s Foot Delta, a Godforsaken swampland to the south-westof the city. The command of a Colonel Ralph Picard, 28th Ohio.’ He spoke the colonel’s name with venom.

‘So you did not fight. You were in the rear, looking after the souls of the dying. In the hospitals. Wehad priests too, men of God, but the men still died, the fever, the gangrene, they still died.’ There wasa cruel mocking in his words and I could see the hurt manifest itself on Father O’Brien’s florid face;beads of sweat were dotted across his forehead. ‘Your God did not save them. But are you a man of God? That is the question, isn’t it?’

‘God did not cause the war.’

‘He did not stop it either.’

‘Man was free to choose.’

‘And in man is the beast.’

‘The Devil lives in all of us.’ Father O’Brien wiped his sweaty forehead with a white handkerchiefdrawn from a side pocket of his priesthood robe. ‘God gave us the wisdom to choose for ourselves...the path of righteousness or the path of evil. Sodom and Gomorrah were not created by God, but byman. And the Lord destroyeth them for their wickedness.’

‘Godly words, but you have no faith. Nor no courage. You would not fight in the war because youwere a coward and it has haunted you ever since. There is nowhere for you to hide, Priest, and nowyou have come in search of a true test of the courage you fear and believe you do not possess. Let metell you, Priest, you have come to the right place.’

Suddenly, Robert motioned forward. So swift his movement, seeing him move across the room waslike beholding a distorted image in a trick mirror at the fun ground - a flash of clothing in thejaundiced light, boots seeming to be raised off the carpet. His razor sharp fangs, gleaming white, werebared as he emitted a hissing noise, pointed tips extending hideously down over his bottom lip. Hiseyes were red, glowing, sparking hell’s infernal fire, like flames in a skull, and his face white andsmooth as if it were sculpted from bleached bone. A total transformation I had not before witnessed.Shocked and terror-struck, Father O’Brien staggered back towards the landing door, which closedbehind him with a loud bang. He fumbled for his cross, holding it up before him.

‘You have to have faith,’ said Robert.

The priest crossed himself.

‘By what manner of a creature are you?’

‘A Vampire,’ hissed Robert again baring his gleaming white fangs. ‘Neither dead nor alive. AnUndead. And the only way I can live is by taking the blood from the living. I have killed seven people.And you will be the eighth.’

Under the power of Robert’s concentration I saw the key turn in the lock and then drop out and landon the floor with a spine shivering clank.

‘Robert no!’

‘Why not? One life and we could be free. Remember what you said to me earlier on, Annabel, thatyou were prepared for this, to give me a chance for freedom? To let me live in the world of sunlightand men again.’

‘Are you insane, man? Do you want to burn in hell?’

‘I am in hell!’ screeched Robert moving closer to Father O’Brien, who drew further backward untilhis back was pressed to the hardness of the landing door and there was nowhere else for him to retreatto. Robert closed in on him. I should have interceded, yet I knew that with one more life we could be free of this evil curse. But just as it appeared that the priest would be devoured, he once more reachedfor the large golden crucifix around his neck and held it up before Robert. Using his hands to shield hiseyes, Robert recoiled, like infantry I imagined in the final throws of a desperate charge and repelled bya deadly volley of musketry. He uttered the most abominable cry of pain, then scurried back to hisroom, the door slamming behind him.

I sank to my knees and wept.

‘Do not cry, my child.’

‘But I would have seen you killed.’

I told Father O’Brien about Robert’s experiments and how he had isolated the rogue Vampire celland how we had believed that by totally transfusing Robert’s infected blood with unpolluted blood wecould eradicate the evil and free him from Maishia’s evil clutches. I told him as much of, and, as coherently as I could, about the tale, which, as I recounted it, visited upon me the great pain I hadsuffered. Throughout he listened attentively and I did not detect his scorn, indeed incredibly heappeared to understand. It was my confession.

‘You must save yourself,’ said I. ‘Leave here before Maishia comes.’

‘I’ve done all the running I’m going to do in my lifetime. And what value has the life of a coward?This is the chance to re-fight the battles I ducked in the war, and, with God’s forgiveness for my sins, Ishall enter his kingdom.’

‘She will destroy you.’

‘Yes, my child, but at least I shall have a hero’s death. We should pray for your fiancee now, try toexorcise the evil spirits. Let us pray together.’

He opened the door to Robert’s room and bade him to come and join us. All three of us kneeled onthe carpet, hands clasped together, heads bowed in reverence to our maker and saviour the Lord JesusChrist. We followed Father O’Brien in saying Psalm 1:

‘Blessed is the man that walketh not in the council of the ungodly, nor standeth in the

way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.

But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and

night.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit

in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The ungodly are not so but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.

Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgement, nor sinners in the

congregation of the righteous.

For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall

perish.

Father O’Brien turned to face me, offering the golden crucifix to my lips for me to kiss it. And I did,freely and with love of thy maker. He turned to Robert.

‘Do you, my son, do you embrace the Lord Jesus Christ, the true creator of life on earth and in theuniverse, the creator who gave you life and who will take you into his kingdom for everlasting life? Doyou, my son, renounce all other gods and idols and worship him only?’

Robert was silent, it was as if a mysterious force had removed his powers of speech.

‘Do you renounce evil, my son? Do you embrace the Lord? Speak or forever be damned to hell.’

‘I do.’

‘Do you repent your sins?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you spurn the evil within you? Do you cast it out, to live in the world of your fellow men, to cast out her evil, to harm no life, even if it should mean your own destruction?’

‘I do.’

He held the shiny golden cross out before Robert.

‘Do you embrace the Lord Jesus Christ and forsake all others to love him and him alone?’

‘I do.’

‘Then, my son, by embracing this holy symbol of his love and suffering for us, you must show himthat devotion. You must kiss his cross, my son, drive away the evil that has infected you. Are youready for this? Are you ready!’ he repeated loudly and more forcefully.

‘Yes.’

‘You fool!’

The voice of Maishia.

It filled the room like an icy wind. The door to the landing burst open with the blast of an explosion.The windowpanes shattered, the shards of glass spraying over us and the floor. The oil lamps flickered,blinking us into seconds of a terrifying pitch-black unknown.

‘You fool...’ she said with contempt. ‘Do you think you can challenge me with that trinket?’

High-pitched wicked laughter ringing out, so intense. I clamped my hands over my ears. Robert, Inoticed, was unaffected. Father O’Brien had sunk to his knees and appeared racked with pain. He, too,had his hands clamped fiercely to his ears to debar her shrill laughter, which was all pervasive and hadbecome the most unearthly wailing noise. I watched the Father’s face contort, the muscles of hischeeks and jaw rippling under the effect of the forces acting upon him. His eyes bulged from theirsockets, the skin tightened around his head, revealing the contours of his skull; I could almost see thebone jutting out.

The chill wind intensified.

Maishia’s laughter.

Wicked, wicked laugher.

Demons, the most hideous distortions of humankind imaginable, took form. They gathered in heightand stature. Round protuberant eyes, burning with a fiery glow, mocking, hanging open, showing teethbared in snarls of rage. Howling like a fierce desert wind they circulated, darting through the air withincredible rapidity, their elongated bodies tapered to comet-like trails of smoke, laced with the headystench of decay. A sickly, cloying smell - the smell of embodied evil.

I looked to Father O’Brien.

He was lying face down on the floor and shaking as if having a fit. It was clear that if this assault didnot abate he would succumb and die.

Then, to my astonishment, Robert stood up. ‘Go from here spirits of Anubis. Return to your tombsin the desert and be at peace. Rest.’ His voice was changed and I believed it to be the voice of theEgyptian Hanis. ‘Rest, my children,’ he said in almost a whisper. ‘Rest.’

He bent down and picked up the golden crucifix Father O’Brien had let slip from his grasp. Thewind abated slightly. But the spirits continued to circulate, whizzing around the confines of the roomat fantastic speed, across the ceiling, up the walls, in and out of us, the stench of their decay forcing itsway up my nostrils, an awe-inspiring display of colours, which instinctively I knew was dangerous togaze upon, for I found myself being drawn in, my resolve to struggle against the evil attenuated, and Ifelt a need to embrace them. They were after my soul, beckoning me to their darkness.

Robert held the cross up. His attention had been caught by something and I followed his gaze to theworn oval mirror on the wall. There, I saw the face of Maishia. The almond-shaped eyes, the highlyglossed lips, the long graceful neck, and upon her head the gold and blue headdress, at its centre arearing cobra that seemed to be alive, ready to lash out and spit its deadly poison.

‘I am not evil. I am not you... or yours,’ he said to her. ‘I love Annabel. I love God.’

He brought the crucifix closer to his lips. His hand was shaking, his lips quivering. No one, unlessthey had witnessed what I had these past months, could know how hard this was for him. The shinymetal was infused with light and a power from the heavens, God’s sign that he was with us. It twinkled, like in the night sky that had guided the three wise men, an irresistible energy force, but notof evil, but of love and goodness. I could feel the power also of her will; I could almost hear the soundof her voice inside Robert’s head as she tormented him with her being. But he resisted, shouting outaloud in a deafening roar of defiance, ‘No! No! No! I love God.’ And then he kissed the shiny metalwith an undisguised love of a man repenting his sins. And in an instant the spirits, the image ofMaishia’s face in the mirror, the chill wind, the shrill laughter - were gone and the room had returnedto normal and was in full light.

It was God’s room.

We were safe.

Praise be the Lord.

We’d stripped wood from the wall panels and furniture in the vestry, hammering the planks across themain doors of the church and also the stained glass windows, except in the crypt, where the windowwas too large to make secure. Father O’Brien had offered us St Arlington’s as a sanctuary, believingthat if there was any means of destroying Maishia it would be in the house of God. We’d gatheredfood and water, prepared weapons with which to kill the Vampires; wooden stakes and bottles of holywater, filled from the font used for baptisms; Robert carried Lieutenant Hamilton’s sword. And we’dbrought the clothes trunk for him to sleep in. The solid oak doors were six inches thick with ironsupports, yet I felt anything but safe. Back at the lodging house, hearing all the commotion, Mrs Doylehad come upstairs and seeing Robert in his Vampiric form staggered from the room and ran off intothe street, and shortly afterwards we heard a long, eerie wail, followed by a terrible scream.

On the altar and limestone walls candles flickered. If we should have to fight the evil forces, yesbetter it were here. I’d wanted to go West but we could not have escaped the city in the middle of thenight. St Arlington’s was the first Catholic church I had been in. My family had worshipped at thePark Street Church, just around the corner from our house. We Protestants tended to view Catholics asbeing socially inferior, especially the Irish. The people of this parish had certainly provided for a finechurch. The stained glass windows, arched and cut into the walls on either side, were quitemagnificent. There was a red carpet on the central aisle and highly polished pews and intricatelycarved confessional boxes, and red velvet cushions for worshipers to kneel upon when they prayed,and shiny black leather bibles with gold leaf lettering etched on the front and gold crosses. It was aplace of beauty and we had polluted it with our presence, nailing up the doors, planking over thewindows. Soon she would be here to complete this violation.

Behind me was the crypt.

Where the bones of the dead lay.

Rotting in their tombs.

I felt sick.

‘What time is it?’ asked Robert.

Father O’Brien flipped open his silver pocket watch. ‘Ten minutes to three. It won’t be dawn untilhalf-past four. You believe we will be safe then?’

‘Until sunset.’

‘I’ve had an idea. It could give us a little more time. It’s blood that you need, am I correct? Youcan’t take any more of Annabel’s. But I could give you some of mine.’

‘The closer to a human, the less evil I am, for sure. You can stand the pain? It’s an unpleasantprocedure, I assure you.’

‘Jesus withstood the pain on the cross.’

I helped Robert set up the apparatus. Father O’Brien lay down on the front pew, a yard or so fromthe altar and the statue of the Virgin Mary which he focused on as I pushed the needle into a vein ofhis right arm. Robert had dragged another pew alongside and lay on it. It was difficult for, I, who hadundergone such anguish, to conduct this transfusion. As the blood was drawn from the Father throughthe hypodermic and drained into the bottle, it was then pumped out and into Robert. Father O’Brienwas rigid with tension and as he squeezed the rag in his hand to speed up the process, I spokeencouragement to him. I could not bear to look at the blood collecting in the bottle. There was no wayof knowing that the Father’s blood would interact favourably with Robert’s or how Robert mightrespond to having the blood of a man of God pumped into his veins. We feared a violent reaction, atitanic contest between good and evil. It was a risky procedure at best, and all the while I was acutelyaware of how vulnerable to attack we were, like a deer who had just given birth and was trying toprotect her unsteady, weak-legged fawn from the wolves who had gathered in the forest for their feast.

‘How are you feeling, Father O’Brien?’ I asked.

‘I’ve felt better, child. It’s a peculiar sensation. Never could stand the sight of blood. In the hospitalsI did my best to stay clear of the operating tents. Such butchery. But the more mangled bodies I prayedover, the worse I felt in myself for not fighting.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

‘No! Other men found courage. And how brave you are. You’ve got enough courage in you for anentire regiment.’

‘That is an illusion. Besides, it is easy to be brave when you have no choice.’

‘You had a choice, my child.’

I was silent. He was right. Then I said seriously, ‘Father, I have a confession.’

‘You do, my child?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Then you should confess. Confession is good for the soul.’

‘I should have to take very good care of mine, Father, for I think I am in very good danger of losingit.’

‘God will look after you.’

I smiled. ‘Anyway, I haven’t told you my confession. You see I’m... I’m also afraid of the sight ofblood.’

Father O’Brien laughed. ‘Then, my child, as Vampire slayers we are in a precarious position.’

In the hospital a few soldiers had talked through their operations or nonchalantly smoked a cigar asa surgeon hacked through a long bone. Mostly they were silent, gritting their teeth until their sufferingwas over. I supposed Father O’Brien’s willingness to talk was a sign of his nervousness.

But about giving blood?

Or the Vampires?

Glimpsing the blood collecting in the bottle, I grimaced. The bottle was half-full, it taking longer toflow out on its short journey via the brown rubber tube to Robert. I imagined myself in old age,surrounded by grandchildren and asking myself, Had I really done this? Perhaps I had deliberatelycourted danger? If not, I would have married one of the wooden gentlemen father had introduced tome; those long evenings sitting at our dining table, trying to be pleasant and make interestingconversation. What could have been had I not met Robert that day I fell from my horse on thecommon? Would I have married one of those men? Perhaps our meeting was fate?

‘Pity Tom’s not here,’ said Robert. ‘We sure could use him. He’s a dab hand with a bow. That’show we defended the barn at the Farley Plantation against the Undead whom Colonel Picardsummoned from the grave. A bow gives you a chance to kill these fiendish creatures from a distance. Iremember the second time I met the African; I had escaped from our camp at Skegg’s Farm and wasbeing pursued by Sergeant Kirby. I was in the Farley’s barn looking for weapons for our side to makea stand. And in he came, right in among us and told us our guns were no good. That was the first time Iheard the term Vampire. The African, Tyler, he was a man of few words. But without him none of uswould ever have come through that night. He taught me in a few hours how to shoot the bow. Imaginethat, a surgeon, a man of science, an officer in the Union army, being instructed in the use of aprimitive weapon. I felt perfectly preposterous. And he was so damn arrogant. The most aloof, impatient son-of-a-bitch I ever met.’

‘What happened to him?’ asked the Priest.

‘Same as what happens to most people who go up against this fiend... he got killed. A booby trap inthe forest. There was nothing I could do for him, his chest was crushed in, an awful mess. It left me togo on to the Grafton House alone. It’s near New Orleans, the Delta,’ explained Robert, responding tothe puzzled look on the Father’s face. ‘That old plantation house was the centre of the evil. They sayan evil house attracts evil. I often wonder how things might have turned out had I not gone on to thehouse and instead ran. We sure could use the African, Lieutenant Hamilton... Tom.’

‘Maybe I did see him,’ I said hopefully, after delicately as possible pulling the tube and hypodermicsyringe needle from Robert’s arm.

He got up.

‘No. Tom is safe in New Orleans. Taking care of his Mother and Sarah-Jane, and I’m glad of that.’

‘You thought a lot of Sarah-Jane?’

‘Yes, Annabel, I did. But I did not betray our love,’ he replied again reading my thoughts. ‘Not withher, at least.’

We moved away from the altar and down to the bottom end of the church where we were out ofearshot of Father O’Brien. Robert seemed troubled, his blue eyes filled with the sadness of regret, aprofound vulnerability, as if what he was hiding from me could change forever our relationship. Themuscles in my lower stomach clutched up, and, for a moment, I had lacked the courage to ask whatdark secret lay in his heart.

‘Robert, is there something I should know?’

‘Maishia and I...’ he stumbled, then finally went on to say in a flurry, ‘We made love. It happenednot too long after I had left Tom and Sarah-Jane in the forest, the night we torched the Grafton House.She took me back to the underground temple, which had scarcely been affected by the fire. She gaveme a goblet of unmixed wine, drugged me I think.’

He paused, consciously avoiding my gaze; I had not seen him so distraught.

‘It was that night that I became a Vampire. I drank her blood. Yet the vilest aspect is that part of me,I fear, might have enjoyed it, partaking in the act with her willingly, being her lover, being physicallydrawn to her. She made me commit an act of sodomy. The effects of the drug, I don’t know. There’salways been a certain attraction. It’s really frightening, but I cannot hate her or trust myself to destroyher. I didn’t realise what I was doing, what she was doing to me, until I saw the reflection in the goldgoblet, and saw the blood dribbling down my jaw, my eyes red as a demon’s. I attacked her, and shelaughed at me. She said that I would grow to love her. She was so confident, I believed her. I didn’tknow what I was doing. Annabel, I didn’t want this. You have to believe me.’ Reaching out hetenderly put the flat of his hand to my cheek, which felt so cold yet I nestled into it as if it burned withwarmth. ‘I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. I want it just the way it used to be.’

‘It’s not your fault, my darling.’

‘If I had somehow resisted, spurned her, she would have killed Sarah-Jane and Tom and Mrs Farley,at the barn. And my assistant Hoppy. I had to buy them enough time to get away.’

‘You had no power. In this you were no different to one of those poor slaves on the Southernplantations.’

‘You have forgiven me, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, my love.’ I gazed deep into his blue eyes. They had brightened. The nose was narrower at thebridge, straighter, the jaw firmer, the forehead higher, the hair blonder and more curly, and gone wasthe cute dimple on his chin I had so loved, but underneath it was Robert. How could I deceive him a moment longer, when he had bared this torture to me? That which I had buried so deep and beyond thereach of my conscious. He had the right to know the truth, and if this be our last night on earthtogether, it had to be now that I told him.

‘I have a secret of my own, Robert. A terrible one.’

‘You’re with child,’ he said.

‘Oh, Robert, what shall we do?’ I fell into his arms, weeping. ‘If the child should be born evil...’

‘You are sure?’

‘Since we made love I have feared, yet wanted it also. It’s almost as if it was preordained, a furthertest, perhaps of her doing.’

‘No, not her.’

‘I could never love such a child. Robert, if you were killed and I were left alone, what should I do?Should I take my own life? Or take the life of the child as soon as it is born? I have heard tales of poorwomen killing their new-born children because they cannot afford to raise them.’

He smiled bravely. ‘I’m going nowhere. We’ll face this trial together. And if we can destroy Maishia, then the evil in the child’s veins could, as mine, be destroyed.’

Four o’clock.

‘Another half an hour and it will be dawn,’ said Father O’Brien, flipping open his silver pocketwatch.

It had grown markedly colder, a sure sign that evil lurked close by. Outside, it was still and silent.You could hear nothing through the thick walls of the church. I remembered spending the night in thebarn on the Farley Plantation, terrified of each new sound. The candles on the altar and mounted on thewalls gave off a strong smell of burning wax. Father O’Brien had lit incense, and spoken prayers, and Ihad crossed myself like a true Catholic. My mother, a devout Protestant, would have been furious withme. Why didn’t Maishia come? In the morning we might have a chance to leave the city, to head outWest. Whatever, we could not remain long in the church for fear of being discovered by the authorities.

Father O’Brien handed me a cup of hot coffee. ‘Hope you take it black. Drank gallons of this stuffwhen I was in... Sorry,’ he corrected himself. ‘When I was working alongside the army.’

‘So did Robert.’

I looked to my fiancee. He was standing beside the big main doors, which were shored up with thejumble of pews. Aided by his superhuman strength making the church more secure had posed fewproblems. He’d said he intended to stand his ground; he was tired of running. I noticed him listening tothe sounds outside, he, with his acute sense of hearing. He looked so dashing in his natty blue woollenuniform, the sword of his dear friend Lieutenant Hamilton at his side. I could only guess at his internaltorment, his parents killed, so many of his comrades dead, and now the knowledge of me carrying hischild. Yet I could not believe there was no bond between he and Maishia. The thought of them makinglove sickened me - the spectre of her touching his body. I remembered her beautiful face, the almond-shaped eyes, framed by exquisite long black lashes, the high cheekbones, the painted sensual lips.

Perhaps her beauty made her all the more sinister? I didn’t just hate her as an evil being, I hated her asa woman hates a rival in love. Could she really love as a woman? How many more times would I askmyself this question? Was Robert, in their lovemaking, Hanis? And had Hanis loved her?

‘It’s quite a fix we’re in,’ said Father O’Brien awakening me with a fright from my deep thoughts.‘But it will soon be dawn, thankfully.’

‘I can’t believe she has not come.’

‘Maybe she’s done with you?’

‘Then we are doomed,’ said I. ‘Doomed either way. Our only hope to free us of this curse is todestroy her. We cannot take another life, even if it might help us destroy the evil in Robert. We haveembraced God as our maker and saviour and sought his protection.’

‘And he will look after you, my child.’

‘You are a good man, Father... And a brave one.’

‘We’d best not draw any conclusions about that just yet. If you want the truth, I’m scared chickenshit. My Mother always wanted a priest for a son, and in Ireland it’s usually the only way toescape the poverty. I was the youngest. My Mother saw to it that I had some rudimentary schooling.She scrubbed other peoples clothes, anything to earn a few extra pennies. She’s a grand old lady. MyFather died in an accident at the docks, crushed by a load when a pulley snapped. They came overfrom Ireland in 1847, driven out of their homeland by the potato famine and British landlords.’

‘Will you remain in the priesthood?’

‘Personally I’d rather do a hard day’s graft at the docks. It doesn’t seem right having good food,wine, a roof over my head, when the blessed poor that provide this bounty with their contributions gohungry.’

‘You take care of their spiritual needs?’

‘They need food. Shelter. Not kind words. They need hope, Miss Merrick.’

Then, at last it came - a long, eerie wail. There was scratching at the main doors, the work of sharpclaws, a dog or a wolf, or a silver-coated Asiatic jackal.

Robert unsheathed his sword and moved closer to the doors.

Scratching of claws.

It went cold, icy cold.

Silent.

So silent.

The candles blinked as if threatening to be snuffed out. I began to shiver. My hand was shaking. Iasked the Father what time it was. He said it was quarter past four.

Oh light come, I prayed. ‘Please let the light come.’

The scratching noise. The claws of a jackal. Louder. More persistent. Then suddenly it ended.

A voice. What I heard Robert say next I could hardly comprehend, even given what I may have seenthe morning before.

‘Tom!’ he exclaimed.

‘Let me in.’

I rushed forward down the red-carpeted central aisle - between the rows of pews - joining Robert,my heart beating with excitement, which quickly turned to dread.

The big iron door handle rattled as the person on the other side energetically twisted it. Then therewas knocking, hammering on the six-inch thick oak.

‘Ain’t ya gonna open up, Major?’

Robert went to shift a pew out of the way, then stopped.

‘What is it?’ I asked quietly.

‘How do we know it’s Tom?’

‘I saw him.’

‘You think you saw him.’

‘Well, don’t you recognise his voice? I do.’

‘It could be Maishia. Maybe she wanted you to think you saw Tom.’

‘You have all the powers of perception,’ I said angrily. ‘The power to read thoughts. Can’t you even tell if it’s your friend?’ I had so wanted to see the boy that I refused to believe this could be one ofMaishia’s diabolical tricks.

‘Tom, is that you?’

No answer. Silence engulfed us. It grew colder. Inside my head I thought I heard the shrill wickedlaugher of the High Priestess, mocking me. Father O’Brien had joined us before the oak doors, holdingup his golden crucifix, uttering prayers in Latin. ‘Esparto Santa...’

There came a shout from the other side. ‘Will you lay off with the priest talk, Major, and let me in.These goddamn blood-suckers will do for me.’

‘Sorry, Tom, we can’t take the chance. It’ll be dawn in fifteen minutes. If you are who you say youare, you will be able to come in then.’

‘By jiminey, Major, I figured we was fighting on the same side. Comrades.’

‘We are, Tom, the best. And we will be again.’

‘I’ve a good mind to go back to New Orleans.’

‘But the Vampires are here, Tom.’

The boy didn’t reply. How glad of heart I was to hear the voice of my dear friend, my protector inthe Bird’s Foot Delta. Without Tom, Bob Hatcher would have robbed me and left me for dead longbefore we ever reached the Grafton House. I remembered the boy’s innate playfulness -the mischievous smile, the lively green eyes, part hidden by a big mop of ginger hair. But why would Tomsuddenly have come North? What could have happened?

Dawn. The first rays of sunlight filtered in through the large stained glass window in the crypt, whichhad been too high up and too wide to be boarded up effectively with the materials on hand. I listenedto the chatter of the birds. Robert looked towards the light, tinted blue and yellow and red as beams ofgolden sunshine angled inward and shone across the top of the church. He watched them form as if hewere beholding something truly miraculous. It was clearly too much for him, he so long accustomed to the dark, and he had to shield his eyes, cringing.

‘I must leave you now,’ said he. ‘You will be safe until this evening.’ He reached out and grippedthe arm of Father O’Brien, firmly so as to register his presence. ‘Look after her. And thank you forgiving me your blood. Tonight will be a telling contest between good and evil, and one for the sake of our fellow man we must win.’

Before returning to the clothes trunk in the crypt to rest, Robert cleared away the pews we hadstacked up against the main doors. It was a mind-boggling display of strength; he moved these heavyobjects as if they weighed practically nothing. He expressed a desire to see Tom, though that wasimpossible - it was dawn. And in an instant he changed form to a mist that spread out around my feetand across the stone floor. I watched the mist move along the central aisle between the pews, float upand over the altar steps and disappear into the crypt beyond. Every time I saw Robert do this part ofme died. And if after such a short period of Vampirism Robert possessed such power, then how muchstronger would be Maishia?

Sunlight flooded the interior of the church, chasing out the last of the night-time shadows. God’ssunlight. It was day. No one, unless they have experienced what I had, could appreciate the coming ofthe dawn as I did now. It warmed my heart. I was glad to be alive. My parents had died, Emma,Robert’s parents, but all the more reason for me to survive; I had to carry the flag, to live for them.

My thoughts returned to Tom. We had heard nothing from him for a while. Imitating the voice ofTom, as Robert had suggested, would be very easy for her or simply making us think we had heard him, for she was a master of trickery, of illusion.

‘Well, Father, shall we open the doors and find out?’

‘If you’re sure it’s safe.’

‘Safe, what’s that?’ I smiled. ‘The whole of life is positively unsafe.’

‘It becomes unsafer when you have Vampires around.’

‘You will find the courage, Father, when the time comes.’

‘If only I could be as sure.’

Father O’Brien inserted a key in the lock of the big oak door and turned it. It clicked. If it wasn’t soterrifying, it would have been exciting. I had read in a newspaper during the war that General Lee,whilst observing the battle of Fredericksburg, had apparently commented to one of his staff officers, ‘Itis as well war is so frightful, otherwise we should become too fond of it.’ I felt so alive, perhaps because I was so close to death.

The great arched door whined open as the Father pulled it back. The sunlight, which seemedunusually intense for so early in the day, shafted in, hurting our eyes and temporarily blinding us.Looking to the Father for reassurance, I stepped outside. My legs were stiff, all the walking I had done.I cautiously made my way along the crooked paved path that snaked down a slope through the mossy headstones to the iron railings and the street beyond. There was no sign of Tom. So, thought I, it hadbeen a trick. We could have been destroyed. Thank God Robert had had the good sense to realise this.Then I heard a Southern accent, the unmistakable low flat drawl of the Deep South.

‘Looking for somebody?’

I froze. Then replied,

‘Tom?’

‘Who the hell do you reckon it is, some blood-sucking Vampire that can stand sunlight?’

Twisting my head left and right, I scanned the headstone-jutted landscape of the churchyard. At firstI couldn’t see him. He was sitting on the grass, his back resting against a headstone, his brogan ankleboots and lower part of his brown patched homespun trousers showing. I walked over and oh what ajoy it was to behold that cheeky freckled face. He was wearing his favourite slouch hat, heavily sweat-stained and frayed at the rim and seated slackly on his head, his thick ginger hair poking out at thesides. He had on a double-breasted blue fatigue shirt, the sort soldiers wore. Slung over one shoulder,hugging his chest, was a blanket roll. Confederate general Stonewall Jackson had supposedlyencouraged his men to carry kit in this manner, whilst our soldiers had mainly used knapsacks. Hiswoollen socks were tucked inside his boots, another soldierly trait. The brogans were badly scuffed,the soles coming away from the uppers. He must have walked miles and miles, poor soul.

‘You look as though you’ve been campaigning with the boys in grey, Tom.’

‘Ma should-a let me go.’

‘No she shouldn’t.’

‘We’d-a skunked you Yankees iffen we’d had more powder... And a couple-a hundred thousandmore men,’ he added.

‘The war’s over, Thomas.’

He bowed his head. ‘Yeah, so I heard.’

‘It’s real good to see you,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I expect you must be hungry. Why don’t you comeinside and grab yourself something to eat?’

Father O’Brien cooked us all a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham and fried bread, withlashings of piping hot coffee. Tom devoured three helpings, spooning the food into his mouth at such arate you would think he’d not eaten a morsel in a month. He knew about the death of my parents; he’dgone to their house to try and locate me. When I asked how he knew we were held up in the church, hedidn’t answer the question. Though it had only been a few months, he appeared considerably older. Iasked after his brother, Zeke, who’d rode with General Nathan Bedford Forrest. Sadly, Zeke had beenkilled in the last weeks of the war when our General Wilson raided deep into Alabama. The battle forSelma, 2 April, 1865, just seven days before Lee surrendered at Appomattox.

The boy was clearly not over the loss. He had idolised his brother. I made sure we did not dwell onsuch a miserable subject.

He drew the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth, then washed the last mouthful of food down with a good swig of coffee. He burped. Father O’Brien took the plates. We exchanged a smile across thetable. Yes, Tom did look older, and by my reckoning must have grown too. There was somethingfascinating about him, he was simple in tastes but sharp as a tack. I was glad that he had not gone intothe army as so many boys his age had and got himself killed. But what we faced was infinitely morehazardous than going up against shot and shell. Oh, dear, was there no end to this nightmare?

‘So,’ I ventured, ‘how is your Mother and Sister, Sarah-Jane? Are they well?’

He avoided my gaze, his green eyes narrowing and filled with the same hurt I had just witnessedwhen we had broached the death of his brother Zeke.

‘Tom?’

‘They’re dead,’ he somehow forced the words out. ‘Same way as your parents. She came, her andher jackals. Iffen I’d-a bin there... but I was away in the Delta, selling the farm to a speculator from upNorth.’

‘Tom, I’m so sorry.’ I felt numb. ‘Are there no bounds to this woman’s wickedness?’

‘I came to destroy her.’ He showed me his Indian bow and quiver of arrows. ‘This time I will.Tonight,’ said Tom, ‘it’ll all be decided, one way or the other. We be awash in a sea of blood, you andI, and it has to end here, tonight. I can feel the evil gathering. And I’m ready. That blood-sucker killedthe African, Gabriel, now Ma and Sarah-Jane. And Colonel Somerby.’

‘George is dead?’

‘Yes, Ma’am. And that blood-sucker, she set Sergeant Kirby free from the hospital. I’m gonna killthat son-of-a-bitch too.’

Tom desired to fight it out. Robert did. So, there was no point in contemplating trying to escape and goWest. I felt for Tom, the anger, the pain burned in his eyes like the destructive flames of a pillagingsoldier’s pine knot torch. He was so young to have his heart full of revenge. I hadn’t fully appreciatedhow young he was during our escapade in the Delta. He was scarcely out of diapers, scarcely scrapinga razor across his smooth face, yet was preparing to do battle in the manner of a full-grown man. ButDavid had slain the Philistine giant Goliath with a sling shot. Maybe Tom could slay Maishia with awell-aimed arrow, with God to guide it? The bow, intricately carved, looked truly awesome, andTom’s biceps bulged as he pulled back the bowstring. He had brought with him another bow andquiver, dozens of arrows.

Father O’Brien had gone quiet. Tom’s eagerness to fight and show of courage must have stirred upthe Priest’s fears about his own bravery. I was used to the tension - we humans can get used to, Ibelieve, almost anything eventually. Hence why the soldiers in the late war had endured; sadly, thekilling, the inherent dangers of combat, had become the norm.

‘So, Tom, how do you think we shall fare? We are not the first to have tried.’

‘I reckon it’ll all be down to the Major in the end. He has some of her power now. The Africantaught me all I need to know about Vampire hunting. He and Pa went up against the Vampires in theGrafton House, the evil Evelina Grafton and her brother, who had courted the Devil ‘cause they wasbored with idle wealth, and had been initiated into the world of the Undead by Maishia. They drovestakes through their hearts while they lay asleep in their coffins. Then they cut off their heads. TheAfrican reckoned that when a Vampire makes another Vampire, it somehow weakens them. I guessshe would find it hard to destroy that which she has created. A moments hesitation, that’s all we’ll get,but that might just be enough.’

He was silent.

‘Tom?’

‘I don’t reckon we can count on the Major. Right now, among us, his friends, it ain’t a true test forhim. But when she’s here, tonight, he might choose her. Darn blood-sucking bitch.’ His face reddenedfrom embarrassment. ‘Pardon me, Ma’am. Ma would-a scolded me for that.’

‘I expect Bob Hatcher is the only one who will survive this unfortunate affair,’ I said.

Tom shook his head, he was grinning. ‘No, Miss Annabel. Hatcher’s dead.’

‘The Vampire?’

‘Nope. Got himself killed at Lafitte’s, a brawl over a dancing woman. Drunk as a skunk, he pulledhis bowie knife on some fella... who just then pulled a six shooter on him. Pumped him so full of lead,he fell out through the bat wing doors of the bar into the street, or so I’m told.’

‘He was a horrible man. And that other man, Ferret. But Mr O’Malley, I quite liked him. You knowin my mind I can still hear their screams from the pitchy undergrowth, when the jackals got them.’

‘That ain’t no way for a man to go, that’s for sure. I had figured we got all them-there jackals whenwe burned down the Grafton House. You recall how I told you that they lined the hallway, bronzestatues that came to life at night? I reckon she must have gotten herself some reinforcements fromsomeplace.’ The boy glanced round the church. ‘Reckon this-here place is better to defend than an oldbarn, anyhows. Last time we went up against an entire company of Undead, commanded by ColonelPicard. Robert severed his head good and proper, sent it rolling on the straw. Let’s hope he can do thesame thing to her tonight.’

During the morning there were several callers. Father O’Brien dealt with them, saying the churchwould be closed for a few days owing to repair work on dangerous roof masonry. He was extremelyshaky, hardly convincing, mopping his sweat-beaded brow as he lied. I began to feel he might desertus. He spoke little, spending his time pacing up and down the central aisle or repeatedly walking roundthe church, pausing to nervously finger his crucifix, which I believed could not be prized from him atany cost; he sought from it the comfort a baby might seek from a mother’s nipple. I wanted to offerhim reassurance, but how could I? Meanwhile, Tom and I reminisced about our experiences in theDelta, our comradeship, and, for as unpalatable as it had been, there were a few lighter moments.Again I enquired about the time he spent with Robert and the late Colonel Somerby. I had been jealousof Sarah-Jane from the outset, and felt beastly now she was dead. The Farleys had been drawn into thisnightmare by their association with Robert; had he not happened along they would all be safe, alive.I’d no right to resent Robert returning to the Grafton House to rescue Sarah-Jane.

I told Tom about my voyage north; the deaths of the seamen; the ongoing storms; the visit toProfessor Brennier in New York; the death of my dear friend Emma Lambert; and my feuding withMrs Doyle, whom I now believed dead.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

It was becoming the longest day of my life.

And perhaps the last.

At four o’clock, after Father O’Brien had prepared us chicken sandwiches and red wine, which wedrank from silver goblets, Tom said he would instruct the Father in the use of the spare bow he hadbrought with him.

‘Are you certain I can learn this in such a short period of time, my son?’

‘The African, Tyler, he taught the Major in a couple of hours. That afternoon, they headed off to theGrafton House to fight the blood-suckers.’

‘We know what happened to Major Gray, don’t we? And we know what happened to the Africanwith the booby trap in the forest. So you might say, for all their training, they didn’t fare too well.’

Tom’s eyes narrowed. ‘You ain’t got a yellow streak, have ya, Mister?’

‘I’m about to lose my soul. Scared, my son... of course I’m scared,’ he said, his voice raised andanimated. ‘I wouldn’t have a modicum of the sense the good Lord gave me, if I wasn’t.’

‘I ain’t so sure that you’d lose ya soul, iffen she bit and killed ya outright.’

‘How very comforting. I’ll only lose my life and my blood.’

‘We all gotta go some day, Priest.’

‘I plan to grow a little grey hair first.’

Frowning, Tom handed Father O’Brien the bow. He had set up a target at the bottom of the centralaisle, just before the large oak doors and jumbled pews shoring them up. A piece of paper cut into acircle was pinned to the notice board that had displayed the order of the services.

‘Remember, this is God’s house.’

‘You tell that to the Vampires.’

Tom drew out an arrow from the deerskin quiver slung across his back. He had taken off his shirtand around his forehead tied a strip of rag to prevent sweat running into his eyes. His bicep musclesbulged as he stretched the bowstring to its limits. As he held it there, the strain showed in his face andwrists. Then, emitting a warlike cry, he loosed the arrow. It hissed through the air, landing with a dullthump on the target, the arrowhead buried deep.

‘Good shot,’ said Father O’Brien, ‘you’ve clearly done this before.’

‘Now you have a go,’ prompted Tom. ‘You best learn fast, Priest, we ain’t got too many people inthis-here army of ours, and she ain’t one for taking prisoners.’ He grinned. ‘We fight or we die. Noquarter given.’

Father O’Brien, whom I could see becoming progressively annoyed, awkwardly fitted the featheredflight to the bowstring, using two fingers to hold the string below the arrow, as instructed. He did not,however, possess the strength needed to stretch the taut bowstring back and his entire body shookunder the stress, and with Tom bellowing at him like a bullyboy drill instructor it was no surprise whenthe Father’s face flushed with anger and he stopped, glared at his young instructor.

‘You-all have to concentrate?’

‘Look here, you, this isn’t my fight, I volunteered.’

‘You’re no goddamn use to us,’ said Tom derisively. ‘You have to have faith. Self-belief.’

This seemed to galvanise the Father into action and with renewed effort he pulled back thebowstring and aimed the arrow at the target. He loosed it. The metal-tipped shaft whirred through theair, but instead of striking the target veered off to the right and ricocheted off the limestone wall.Father O’Brien cast down the bow and stormed off into the vestry, slamming the door behind him.

‘You shouldn’t be so hard on him, Tom.’

‘We ain’t going for no Sunday stroll. That cowardly asshole could be the difference between uswinning or losing. My brother, Zeke, told me that when he enlisted he had a sergeant who made hislife hell, but that tough training helped him survive a dozen battles.’

‘Tom, may I make a suggestion? You’ve used sandpaper. I would try silk from now on.’

The church bells rang out six times as Father O’Brien announced the coming of the hour to hisparishioners. He had kept time for the inhabitants of the parish throughout the day believing that if thebells stopped chiming more people would come to the church to investigate. When he had finishedpulling on the cords, which disappeared up into the lofty heights of the bell tower, he again tried tomaster using the bow and arrow. Thankfully Tom was more patient. I knew it would not take muchmore for the Father to leave us, and, frightened as he was, we stood a better chance of defending God’shouse with him.

Time had seldom passed so slowly. I thought of Robert lying in the clothes trunk - resting. Tonight,he would come under the full influence of Maishia’s power; her love against mine; good versus evil. We had seen her power; the power of God was unproved. I kept hoping for a sign of his presence. AsRobert had said to Father O’Brien back at our lodging house, God had not prevented the war. Nor hadhe stopped plantation slavery, which had continued unmolested for centuries. Yet since Robert hadtaken the Father’s blood in the transfusion he appeared changed, stronger in the cause of good. Butunderneath I feared still lurked the evil, ready, waiting to pounce on her behest. In the lodging house,he had lost control. It was as if he had shed the outer skin, becoming the wild beast, the Vampire, hers. Tom had been right when he had said the outcome probably depended upon Robert.

Seven o’clock.

The bells chimed.

Loudly, it seemed.

The light was fading. It had been a hot day. I went outside. Tom was lying on the grass, his facetilted to catch the warmth from the beams of sunlight angling through the branches of the trees thatgrew along the iron railings of the graveyard. A few people passed by in the street, and how envious Iwas of them. I breathed in deeply, savouring the pleasant sensation of the early evening air in mylungs. The sky was a pale blue, with patches of red beginning to gather around the few low-hangingpuffy white clouds. It was truly serene. Perversely so.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it Tom?’ I said. ‘Are you afraid to die?’

‘I ain’t gonna die. That blood-sucker is. She killed my friend Gabriel and the African... And Ma...And Sarah-Jane. And I’m gonna git even with her.’

‘Many must have tried, Tom. Four thousand years... We could do with Shaba and his warriors. Ifonly they had killed her instead of entombing her in the desert, awaiting some unsuspecting soul to sether free.’

‘I’m gonna shoot an arrow right through the centre of her heart,’ the boy said confidently. ‘I’ve beenpractising all these months. Last time I weren’t ready for her.’

‘You’re very brave, especially for one so young.’

‘My brother, he rode with General Forrest. Skunked you Yankee people good and proper in a dozenbattles. And we got a fine tradition of Vampire hunting in our family. I reckon I’ll measure up.’

‘Looks like you come from good stock, Tom.’

‘I’m a Southerner,’ he said proudly. ‘I told ya, we’d-a won the war iffen we’d had more men andmore powder. ‘Course, I don’t mean to say I see you that way, I mean as a Blue Belly, an’ all. Nor theMajor. I recall the first time I met up with him. He was lost and asked me and Gabriel for directions tothe Union encampment at Skegg’s Farm.’ Tom chuckled. ‘Course, we made him pay in coffee andflour. I wouldn’a traded with him excepting Ma was short of food. He never, right from the start,seemed quite like the enemy, though.’

‘Tom?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Would you mind if I held you for a moment? It might be the last chance.’

The boy twisted his head and looked up at me, his eyes shielded by the rim of his floppy slouch hat.

‘Holding girls is for sissies.’‘Then humour me, Tom.’

‘Aaah shucks.’ He stood up, his hands plunged deeply into the pockets of his patched brownhomespun trousers, his shoulders hunched a little. There was a sulky look in his green eyes suggestinghe was, for once, unsure of himself. He had grown up fast from the effects of the war, running a farmand looking out for his mother and sister. I wondered if he had had opportunity to discover girls. But asoldier should always have a sweetheart to wave them goodbye as they march off to war, as I hadwaved to Robert at the railroad depot, along with all the other women.

‘Have you a sweetheart, Tom?’

He appeared embarrassed by my directness. Then replied,

‘Nope.’

‘Have you ever kissed a girl?’

‘Why you asking all these dumb questions?’

‘Would you like to? Would you like to kiss me? I’m sure Robert wouldn’t mind. And I should verymuch like to kiss you. And if you are old enough for fighting Vampires,’ I smiled, ‘then I think you areold enough for kissing.’

The sunlight faded. Tom, I and Father O’Brien locked the main doors, shoring them up with the heavyoak pews. We dared not wait for Robert’s help, for he would not rise from the clothes trunk in thecrypt until after sunset, by which time the forces arrayed against us would be in place, ready to strike.We were silent, each of us immersed in deep thought. Death loomed and hearts were heavy as wetoiled. For Robert, of course, it was different; he had already crossed the grisly threshold of death, andit was not he she would destroy. As I stood watching the last of the light disappear from the stainedglass of the big arched window in the crypt (which depicted saints with halos) I thought of what itwould mean to be dead.

Death.

It was so final.

In my moments of despair and self-pity I might have wished for it, but realised now I wanted to live.But the doors to the church were shut and it was almost dark and I was trapped, and when the lastvestige of light had gone, I shuddered. If I was alive by dawn, I would save myself. There was shame,yes. And regret. But I had to live, even if that life was without Robert. It seemed terribly straightforward, now it was almost over and life was beyond my control.

‘You must be looking forward to seeing Robert, Tom,’ I said shakily.

The boy nodded. He was so brave, so young.

‘He’s a Billy Yank and I’m a Johnny Reb. But we’re like brothers.’

‘Both Americans, Tom,’ I smiled.

‘It’s getting colder,’ said Father O’Brien. ‘Can you feel it?’

‘I suppose I’m used to it,’ I said.

‘Don’t let ‘em spook ya,’ grinned Tom. ‘Only goddamn Vampires. Nothing that an arrow in theheart won’t sort out.’

‘And courage,’ said the Priest.

‘You just remember what I taught ya and you’ll make out.’

Just then I heard the lid of the clothes trunk creak open, and, looking back over my shoulder, sawRobert. He came slowly down the steps from the crypt, past the candlelit altar and statue of the VirginMary and up the central red-carpeted aisle, between the pews. His head was held high, his shouldersbroad. Indeed, he walked with the nobleness and grace of a prince, looking truly magnificent in hisnatty blue army uniform, brass buttons of his double-breasted frock coat gleaming, around his waistthe red sash I’d purchased for him, his kepi strapped tightly underneath his chin, the black leather ofhis knee boots supple and well-polished, and slapping at his side the sword of his dead friendLieutenant Hamilton. If ever there was a warrior, then surely it was he. He filled my weary heart withpride and hope.

‘Tom, we-all gonna win this battle?’ he said in a distinctly Southern drawl, his tone playful.

‘You bet, Major.’

‘How about you, Priest, you-all feeling brave?’

‘I’m still here, am I not?’

Robert smiled. ‘Well, in a few minutes you could be wishing you had got stuck in at Gettysburg andhad nothing to prove to yourself. Personally, I’d rather fight at Little Round Top... any day. Faith,folks. We have to have faith.’

‘I have faith,’ said the Priest.

‘Good. That is good.’

‘I have faith.’

Robert did not answer.

‘I see you’ve brought suitable armaments along, Tom.’ The young Southerner gave Robert his bow.‘I remember the first time I saw this. It was hanging over the fireplace in the African’s cabin. Tyler. Hewas an arrogant son-of-a-gun, if ever I met one.’ Robert now spoke up, as if addressing a large crowd.‘But he had plenty of courage... I’ll give him that much. Tonight... Tonight, we’re here to avenge thedeaths of all our friends and loved ones. Let us not forget that. We each of us have a stake in this,’ hesmiled, ‘some of us, of course, more than others. And let us not forget all the countless victims we didnot know... and all the victims to come, should we fail here.’

‘Ya talking like a politician, Major,’ shouted the boy.

‘They know plenty about wars, Tom. Certainly how to start them. How to get men to fight eachother. We have to have that same fighting spirit the boys had when they marched off in ‘61. Do youremember how that was, Tom?’

‘That blood-sucker killed Ma and Sarah-Jane,’ said the boy tearfully, his Adam’s apple vibratingwith emotion.

‘I know, Tom. I read your thoughts last night.’

‘Then why the hell didn’t ya let me in, instead of leaving me to freeze out there in the goddamnchurchyard?’

‘It could have been a trick,’ said Robert. ‘I’m sorry. But it’s good to see you. And there’s no one Iwould rather have at my side going into this fight. You little Johnny Rebs fight well, as I recall.’

The two of them came together and embraced each other in a manly hug. Two friends united. Twocomrades. It warmed my heart to see it so.

‘All for one, and one for all,’ said Robert. ‘The Four Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas.’

Our spirits were lifted. Even Father O’Brien appeared more at ease. He fetched wine and we drankfrom silver goblets - the blood of Christ our saviour, including Robert. We took the holy sacrament.Then the Father said Psalm 23 and we joined in:

‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’ssake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointestmy head with oil; my cup runneth over.Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I willdwell in the house of the Lord for ever.’

I felt God’s presence within. My heart filled with hope at salvation and I knew that even were I tofall in battle, my Lord would welcome me into his kingdom for everlasting life. Better one repentantsinner, than all the souls of the righteous. I had heard that prayer many times and not before now trulylistened to the words, which were like a revelation to me. Father O’Brien now spoke aloud the wordsof Psalm 27.

‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength ofmy life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes,came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though a host should encampagainst me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I beconfident.’

A long, eerie wail.

Scratching at the doors.

Then a voice.

‘Sergeant Kirby,’ said Robert.

‘Maishia freed him,’ said Tom.

‘We have a score to settle, you an I,’ shouted Robert at the top of his voice. ‘You listening, Kirby?’I’d never seen him more resolute. The non-com had tormented Robert when held under house arrest in the army camp at Skegg’s Farm, doing the evil bidding of Colonel Ralph Picard, himself under thespell of Maishia. Robert had escaped but Kirby had pursued him into the forest, and Robert, fearingwhat Kirby might do to his medical assistant Hoppy, had nobly agreed to go back.

‘I can’t hear what he is saying,’ I said.

‘He’s bating us,’ said Robert. ‘A man such as Kirby will always be no good. George should havehad him shot as a deserter, instead of trying to treat him.’

Laughter.

It died away.

Replaced by silence.

‘Which way do you reckon they’ll try and get in?’ said Tom.

‘I wish I knew. She can change form, but the jackals and Kirby, they won’t be able to walk throughwalls. I would say,’ I followed Robert’s gaze around the thick and discoloured walls of the candlelitchurch, ‘it’ll either be this main door or the stained glass window of the crypt. I wish we could havemade it more secure. We planked up those smaller windows well enough. But then again, do we want to keep them out? We have to settle this tonight... one way or the other.’

A long, eerie wail.Scratching at the doors.Claws.

Kirby’s laughter.

We instinctively drew closer together. Behind us was the jumble of pews of the shored-up doors.Again we were quiet, focusing on the stained glass windows, our eyes responding to each movement;the flicker of a candle, a change in the shape of a shadow, the slightest noise. It occurred to me thatMaishia could not enter a church, God’s house. But she had not appeared frightened of the crucifix atour lodgings. Holy water, bows and arrows, not much of an arsenal to combat she, who had survivedthousands of years, destroyed countless enemies. If only Shaba and his brave warriors were here to aidus. If there was any mortal being she had truly feared, then it must have been he. And how her angerand hatred must have matured as she spent those centuries incarcerated in the tomb in the desert.

Robert appeared to hear something.

‘What is it, my son?’

‘She’s here.’

‘Maishia,’ said I almost unknowingly.

‘Father O’Brien, would you please not call me my son. Firstly, I am not a Catholic. And secondly, Iam probably younger than you are.’

‘Of course, my son.’

We laughed.

‘Force of habit,’ explained Father O’Brien.

There was a crashing sound. Glass breaking. Suddenly beasts were smashing their way through ourdefences. Red eyes. Snarls. Half a dozen. In seconds, they were out of the crypt and upon us, andsavaging the Priest. Tearing at his flesh, their razor sharp fangs sinking to the bone, the agony of whichI had experienced in my dream on the common. From all angles they assailed him.

I cowered backward, seeking cover behind a pew.

Robert entered the fray, combating one of the beasts, wrestling with it, then picking it up andsavagely hurling it against the wall. It whined pathetically, twitched in spasm, its body smashed. Tom,drawing back his bowstring with a remarkable calmness, shot another with a well-aimed arrow.

Meanwhile, the surviving jackals were relentless in their attack on the Father, and, before Robertand Tom could do anything to help our comrade, they had finished their devilry and had gone, leavingbehind the bloodied body of Father O’Brien on the hard stone floor. I watched his blood soak throughhis black priesthood robe. In his hand, tightly gripped by what remained of his hideously chewed upfingers, was his golden crucifix.

‘He wanted to be brave,’ said Robert. ‘At least he has kept his soul.’

A long, eerie wail.

A voice.

It was Sergeant Kirby, and this time I could hear him. ‘One down, Sawbones.’ He laughed. ‘Who’ll be next?’

‘Darn blood-sucker,’ muttered Tom standing over the carcass of the beast he’d slain, the featheredflight of a fresh arrow to bowstring.

Incredibly, the dead jackal was undergoing a metamorphosis, the once living flesh hardening towhat I supposed was a metallic dust. When in the Delta Robert had been attacked in the forest by thesedevils and in the morning hunted for evidence that he had, indeed, struck one, all he’d found was acouple of piles of powdered bronze.

‘You shouldn’t have come, Tom,’ said Robert.

‘It’s my fight too. You kept me out of it once, Major. Remember? You and the African made mestay behind and see after Ma while you went up to the Grafton House.’

‘You were too young, as I recall.’

‘Well, I’ve grown up some... And I don’t have no Ma to look after, no more.’

I’m not sure his mother would have agreed to him being here, had she been alive. But what right didwe have to exclude him, to deny him vengeance? But I feared for his safety more than Robert’s andmine. We had no choice in this matter, Tom did. The fact that the jackals had burst in and picked offFather O’Brien the way they had suggested Maishia had a special fate in store for each of us. Therecould be no doubting the jackals ability to overwhelm us, had it been the design of their evil mistress.

It fell quiet.

To help relieve the tension, I presumed, Tom and Robert reminisced about the attack on the barn byColonel Picard and his Undead, which they had so valiantly defended. It made me feel excluded. I wasn’t a soldier, I didn’t possess a soldier’s courage. I began to realise how helpless Southern womenmust have felt during the war with their menfolk off far way in Virginia with the main Confederatefield armies and our pillaging soldiers tramping on their land, destroying homes, livestock and crops.All I could do, like they, was wait. It was hard to imagine how anyone could get themself into such afix. I dared not think too deeply, because that would bring tears. All those years of growing up... just todie; the years of learning the social etiquette, the speech lessons, the lessons in decorum, dress andtable manners. My mother spent hours with me, naturally hoping it would allow me to find an eligiblemarriage partner, to please my father. A comfortable, happy and carefree life. I wondered if my sisterClara was safe.

I went to Father O’Brien’s blood-soaked, torn body and took from him the silver pocket watch. Iflipped it open. It was one o’clock. I pulled at the chain of his shiny golden crucifix... until finally itcame loose from his fingers. Crossing my heart, as a good Catholic might, I said a prayer for him.Were it not for me he would still be alive; a chance meeting with a stranger had brought catastrophe.He’d gone in search of courage. What price that courage now? Better a coward and alive, than dead. Iwas utterly confused. My head throbbed. I felt dizzy, and was weaker than at any other point since thistrial began three months ago in the Bird’s Foot Delta. I was afraid of resting, falling asleep, for thatwould be the last of my life, gone.

‘It’s two o’clock,’ I said to Robert. ‘Why don’t they come? Robert, don’t be distant. I know this ishard for you. Come here, please. I need you to hold me.’

‘They’re wearing us down,’ grinned Tom. ‘Like enemy artillery softening you up before an infantryassault.’

‘Then they are succeeding. Robert.’

He was standing beside the altar, looking pensively at the hundreds of flickering candles, as ifbeholding something truly miraculous.

I went to him. He remained distant, and, when I reached out to link my arm in his, moved away.

‘This is not the time for emotion.’

‘It might be our last opportunity.’

‘Quite possibly.’

‘I’m carrying your child, Robert. I love you.’

‘We have not the right to love. It is out of our hands now. It is to be decided by God.’

‘And where was God when the beasts came for Father O’Brien?’

‘He knew the risks.’

‘How could you say that?’

‘I have lost my soul, Annabel. There is evil in me. I am not compassionate. Am I any less evil thanthe evil lurking outside these walls?’

‘Of course you are. You kissed the cross, God’s holy symbol. You joined us in prayers. You foughtthe jackals.’

His mood was one of reflection. He had retreated into himself, so distant from me, untouchable, and I knew the loneliness of the past months trying to cure him condensed into one unbearable moment.Then his mouth twisted into a wry smile.

‘Yes, you are right. But these creatures are very deceptive, Annabel. They will stoop to any level toget what they want. I am hers and she is mine... for all eternity.’

I stood back from him.

I called to Tom.

The boy could not come, for, whilst I had been preoccupied with Robert, evil had stole into thechurch, and there, before the great doors, Maishia hovered.

Her form was as if it were lit up... the outline of her breasts, her hips showing through the sheer bluefabric of her gown. Incredible beauty, even to me, a woman. Upon her head a glittering blue and goldheaddress, at its centre a rearing cobra, that seemed alive. The hem of the gown rippled about hersandalled feet in the strange wind she had brought in with her. Aware of her hypnotic powers, I tookcare not to gaze upon her image. She would not draw me to her as she had no doubt charmed hervictims over the centuries. She was not beautiful, but ugly, to be feared.

Then in my mind, I heard soft voices. The music of an ancient Egyptian instrument, that instilled inme a sense of tranquillity and belonging, a music I loved. I could not fight it, it was no use. I felt thecool wind of the desert upon my skin. I saw the temple, its white limestone walls and thick pillarsglowing in the moonlight under a dark blue night sky studded with stars, bright as diamonds.

I heard the chants of priests; the dialect of the ancients. Then saw before me the Jackal God, Anubis,its dog-like head carved from ebony and on the body of a man. Anubis, carrier of the souls of the dead to the Underworld. Long pointed ears. Long nose. I understood the ceremonies of this god; the

transition of life to death, and then life as an Undead. There was no fear, just beauty and life eternal.

I moved closer to Maishia.

She beckoned me.

‘Annabel,’ said she. ‘Annabel. Do not fear me. Come to me. Come, my sweet child. ’

Her voice was soft.

‘Don’t look at her!’ shouted Tom.

He had drawn back his bow.

‘You killed my friends. You killed my Ma and sis. Die, blood-sucker.’

His aim was good but the arrow merely passed straight through her. Maishia laughed mockingly, thediabolical noise echoing around the church, building to such an intensity that I might have beenstanding in a bell tower with a dozen bells ringing.

Tom took another arrow from the deerskin quiver across his back, fitted the feather flight to thebowstring, drew the string taut.

‘Fool. Many have tried to kill me over the centuries. Do you, a mere boy, think you can succeedwhere they all failed?’

I urged Robert to do something. All he said was, ‘I am hers and she is mine, for all eternity.’ It wasas if he had been drugged with opium. I shook him vigorously, begging him to come to his senses, tosave the life of his good friend Tom. To no avail, he just met my impassioned pleas with a blank starethat suggested he wasn’t even sure who I was anymore.

‘I am hers. And she is mine.’

The voice of Maishia.

Inside my head.

‘Annabel, come and watch Tom die.’

By some trickery of internal combustion the boy’s bow had turned into a sheet of flames, forcinghim to drop it. Maishia’s eyes glowed red. Her shrill laughter again filled the church, along with wind,cold, intense and freezing. Tom sank to his knees, his hands clamped over his ears. I heard the chantsof the ancient priests, their mumbling prayer words. Tom cried out, urging Robert to give him succour.Robert stared blankly at the spectacle, dispassionate, as if he were watching a common occurrence andnot the death of his best friend in all the world.

Against the odds, Tom tried to stagger forward, but the forces acting on him swept him back. Hegroaned and whimpered, writhing on the stone floor in a seemingly indescribable agony.

Then he was silent.

Thomas Jacob Farley, the Southern boy, from the Delta, mine and Robert’s dearest friend, was dead.

As I tried to reach Tom twenty-foot jets of fire shot from Maishia’s molten eyes, setting the pews oneither side of the aisle alight and driving me back to the altar and Robert. The Vampire turned herunholy fire on Tom’s corpse, engulfing it instantly as if it’d been doused in whale oil. The cloyingsmell of Tom’s burning flesh filled the church, making me to retch. I looked to Robert, hoping hewould act. He just stood there, locked in a semi-trance, child-like in his absentness, and mumbling thewords of the ancient dialect. Maishia continued to hover above the stone floor at the other end of the church, her form surrounded in light. We were two women in love with the same man and who’d doanything in our power to win, except I had no power. Nothing to combat her evil, except the love inmy heart and a few bottles of holy water and a golden crucifix I’d taken from a dead priest.

‘You believed you could overcome me, Annabel... you, a mere mortal. I am his and he is mine, for all eternity.’ She put out her hand in a welcoming gesture to Robert. ‘Come to me,’ she said in aseductive voice. ‘My Prince. Hanis, we shall walk together in the land of our ancestors. Let me loveyou. Live forever, my Prince.’

Responding, Robert started towards her.

I stood in his path. I refused to let him pass.

‘No!’

I shook him vigorously by the shoulders, trying to awaken him from the trance, trying to make himresist the evil.

‘Robert, listen to me?’ I said impassionedly. ‘I understand now. She cannot take you. You have togo to her freely. That is why she has waited all these months. You have the power to choose, Robert. To choose good, if you wish.’

He did not appear to hear. I tried holding him back, tugging at the sleeve of his blue woollen armyfrock coat in the manner of a mad woman, tearing the garment, until a portion of the sleeve came awayin my hand. It was useless. And I, much weakened from bloodloss, quickly grew faint with theexertion.

‘Robert, I love you. Think of our child.’

He stopped.

Looked at me.

Seemed to understand.

‘It’s true. We’re going to have a baby, conceived in love, and if you destroy her, we shall be free of this curse, able to live in the world of men. To laugh and to love, and to grow old, Robert. Not to livein the shadows, despised.’ I pulled the sword of Lieutenant Hamilton from its shiny steel scabbard andplaced it in Robert’s hand, enclosing his fingers around the grip. ‘She is your enemy. Destroy her andwe can know peace. She murdered you, Robert. Remember Hanis? The dagger she plunged into yourribs when you were a good man, a physician, a preserver of life. Do you remember how she put thisevil curse into your veins and all your victims over the centuries, all the lives you blighted because ofher, to satisfy the hunger she inflicted upon you, the agony of having to choose evil, and how you onlyfound peace in the fire of Vesuvius with the destruction of Pompeii? Do you remember, Hanis?Remember the woman you gave love to and who betrayed that love and help with treachery and deceit.The woman who murdered you, left you to die in a pool of your own blood on the cold marble floor ofthe temple of Tut?’

His grip on the sword tightened. I saw resolution in his eyes, purpose, acknowledgement of what Ihad said. Thank the Lord.

He looked to Maishia, and the fear in her face spoke of her vulnerability. He had, indeed, the powerto choose. Perhaps, however little, she retained a trace of the humanness Professor Brennier hadmaintained could be the Vampire’s downfall. Yes, this was a contest between good and evil, but in reality it was a battle between the will of two women.

The sword of his friend Lieutenant Hamilton held out before him, Robert started towards her. The fear showing on her painted face intensified.

‘Hanis, destroy her!’ she commanded. ‘Destroy her. I command it. By all the powers of Anubis,God of the Underworld.’

He hesitated, then to my relief continued forward with his sword. In my mind, I willed him to findstrength and to strike the head from her shoulders. To kill her, and send her soul to hell, for eternaldamnation.

He pressed on, I imagined like a soldier marching forward on a battlefield into a hail of enemy shotand shell, the red striped flag of the Republic fluttering, bayonets flashing, drums beating, the incessant rattle of musketry.

On, on, closing on her.

It was as if she were waiting for him to strike the fatal blow -she - hovering a few feet above thefloor, the shape of her curvaceous body (that no woman could fail to know the beauty of in a man’seyes) showing beneath the sheer blue fabric of her gown, which rippled in the mysterious and hauntingwind that surrounded her but was nowhere else in the church. Then, when Robert was less than ten feet from her, finally she acted.

She summoned a hurricane-force wind that blasted the main doors to the church wide open, forcingaside the tangle of pews we had stacked up against them. This icy wind slammed into our faces, nearlyblowing Robert and I to the floor. Yet as quickly at it had stirred up, the wind subsided, and it wascalm again. I saw a figure emerge from the darkness of the outside. A man in Union army uniform.Dirty, bearded, round-faced, with a massive jaw and a grin of chaw-blackened rotted teeth. On thesleeve of his short shell jacket, in paler sky blue cloth, there were three stripes. It was Sergeant Kirby.

‘I’d put that sword down iffen I were you, Sawbones. My pets here,’ he gestured to four jackalsstanding about his scuffed black leather knee boots, poised perfectly to pounce, ‘they wouldn’t taketoo kindly to you harming our queen. Now you be a good boy and put the sword down, just like I toldyou. Then my friends here gonna have themselves some fun with that-there meddlesome wench. It’stheir feeding time. Sassy wench, I’ll grant you. I reckon she’ll taste all the better for it. Iffen circumstances was different, I wouldn’-a minded giving her a good poke. Got more grit and gingerthan you ever had, Sawbones. Though you don’t seem quite so cowardly these days. I recollect youbeing scared of your own shadow once. I waited a long time for this reunion.’

Robert dropped the sword.

I was doomed.

Laughter. Shrill laugher.

It was Maishia.

But something else was afoot. One look at my tormentor told me that, whatever it was, it was not ofher trickery. I could hear a pounding, like the sound of a faraway surf. ‘Horses,’ said Robert, stillapparently locked into his stupefied state. ‘And chariots. Shaba!’ he said.

The noise increased. I could hear horses neighing, almost see chariot wheels spinning round at greatspeed, jouncing over the hard rocky ground of the desert. Flashes from swords in the moonlight. Largewooden shields. Short-thrusting spears. Half-moon axes. Faces of warriors, set with determination anda thirst for battle. The walls of the church, the stained glass windows, the pews and confessional box,began to vibrate. The floor beneath us moved. The candles of the altar and on the walls blinked,sending us into a half-light. Sergeant Kirby looked about himself in terror, and then looked to his evilmistress, seeking protection from the storm about to break loose.

‘Shaba,’ Robert said. This time excitedly. ‘Shaba comes. Now! Now! Now!’

Chariots, heavily armed men, horses came through the thick limestone walls, landing in our midst.More soldiers, carrying spears and medium-sized shields, ran into the church from outside. Horsesneighed, as charioteers and horsemen pulled hard on reins to steady their animals. Before us strange-looking men, ancient Egyptians, with dark sun browned skins and thick black hair cut round at theshoulders, with a severe straight fringe high up the forehead. Men naked except for kilts, sandals andthe leather body armour across muscular chests. Each shield, pointed at the top, bore a differentpattern. The tips of their spears, I surmised, well-bloodied, thrust into the bodies of their Pharaoh’senemies.

The men in the doorway parted, stepping back in reverence as a magnificent lightweight chariotdrawn by two white horses with plumes and blue and gold body covers, was steered in through themain doors. In this chariot, standing beside the driver, was an archer. Without a flicker of emotion, hetrained his bow on Sergeant Kirby and loosed an arrow, striking the non-com in the heart, killing himinstantly.

The jackals snarled and adopted an attacking stance, but the archer so skilful, so swift, despatchedthem before they could act.

The archer took aim.

This time it was at....

Maishia.

No longer did she hover above the floor, the halo of light, the mysterious wind that had blown thehem of her gown ragged, gone. And for a moment she stood before all, a mere woman frightened forher miserable existence. Then sparks of hell’s fire came to her eyes and she spat,

‘Shaba.’

‘Yes, evil one, it is I. I should have slain you, not entombed you. But my people were scared of yourpowers. Now I shall avenge the dead. I shall wash away the blood on these hands. And then your asheswill be scattered in the desert, evil one.’

‘You... You fool.’

‘You have no power against me, evil one.’

‘This is not of your concern, Shaba. And do you think you can destroy, I, who have lived so long?’

‘I am as dead as you are. I have been summoned from my resting place, and when I have destroyedyou, I shall return to the land of our ancestors, and finally rest.’

The soldiers, I counted thirty to forty, started to close in on the Vampire. The white horses ofShaba’s chariot whinnied as they pawed the hard floor. Robert had come back to himself and wewatched the spectacle together, neither sure we weren’t hallucinating. The warriors, moving in onMaishia from all sides, held their shields up high, forming a wall from which she could not escape.She, like a wild animal caught in a trap, turned first one way, then another in her desperation.

I could not understand why she was powerless. It did not make any sense.

I saw Shaba take up an axe. He was a giant of a man, at least six feet seven tall, his firm, chiselledfeatures bespeaking his bravery; the legend from the book Gods and Man come to life. How I had wished as I read that book over and over in search of a solution to the evil curse upon us that I coulddiscover more about him, and now he was here, before my very eyes.

They forced her to kneel, a man holding each of her arms stretched out and twisted cruelly behindher back, a third man clutching a handful of her long black hair, to expose her neck to the bronze bladeof the half-moon axe.

Shaba positioned himself.

He raised the axe.

Then, just as he was about to deliver the fatal blow, Robert burst forward, the ancient Egyptianwarriors restraining him as he attempted to battle his way through the wall of shields.

‘No! I must do it,’ said he.

The High Priestess looked up at him, her almond-shaped eyes a mix of sadness and tragedy. I knewthen that whatever her evilness, she truly loved him.

‘Hanis, my love.’

‘You,’ said Shaba, ‘you have the courage?’

‘This is my work.’

‘Then you must choose,’ said Maishia. ‘Determine who you really are. Hanis, my prince? Or RobertGray, the Union soldier?’ she said sternly and with undisguised venom.

She addressed Shaba, ‘Let him have the choice of striking the head off the one he does not love.How else could it be settled? I am weary of living without him. The desert of our kingdom is a coldand desolate place to wander alone. He is mine and I am his, for all eternity. Choose, Hanis.’ Againher tone became harsher. ‘Your faith, Robert Gray, against mine. Are you afraid? How else could yoube free?’

‘Is this to be?’ said Shaba to Robert.

He nodded.

‘Let it be so,’ said Shaba.

I cowered back towards the candlelit altar as the ancient Egyptian soldiers approached. Theygrabbed me by the arms and dragged me to the other end of the church and the ring of shields. A gapopened up for me, and closed again. They forced me to kneel alongside Maishia, who smiled at mewith a devilish conceit that said it was I who was going to die, then made herself ready for theexecutioner’s blow. The soldiers forced me to lower my head. I tried to look up at Robert, hoping tosee the man whom I had loved. But he was dispassionate, his face fixed into a stare of concentration.

‘Let it be done, by all the powers of Rah and Isis,’ said Shaba addressing his men and holding outhis hands as if he were addressing the gods themselves. ‘Let it be done.’

I saw the axe rise in the expressions of the sun-browned faces of the observing warriors. Saw ithanging there, waiting to fall - to kill. Saw, felt through their eyes, Robert’s dilemma, his burden as hestruggled against the evil flowing in his veins. I began to mumble The Lord’s Prayer. Inside my head, a voice, soft and seductive -Maishia. ‘Annabel, are you afraid to die? You, who have lived for such a short time. You will die this night, and I shall live, for Robert is Hanis, and Hanis is mine... for alleternity. I have willed it to be so, and should I risk sacrificing my life to prove that love, then so be it.But he shall strike the head off your shoulders and together he and I shall be one, for all eternity,forever and forever.’

In my mind, I combated her, blotting out her words, refusing to listen, a timeless interval whereby awhole lifetime seemed but a few seconds. I prayed, prayed Robert could be strong, that he wouldremember our love and spurn her evil. That he would think of our unborn child.

‘This is her trickery,’ he said.

‘You said you would act,’ said Shaba in a harsh and unfeeling tone, born of the bitterness ofcenturies. ‘You will destroy the evil one or she will be set free. You must choose. You! By all thepowers of the gods.’

Epilogue

Eight months later. A sod cabin on the prairie. A woman gives birth to a baby boy. She pushes its headout with pain, regret, not a shred of motherly love, and when the old woman puts the new-born in herarms, the mother looks plaintively at the features of the infant; the deep blue eyes, the quaint dimpledchin, the soft curls of wispy blond hair on the infant’s well-shaped head. Things that conjured upmemories of life, not death, of lost love, of hope, lost in a torrent of torment. A tear slithers down hercheek, and she turns her head away.

‘Take the child, kill it,’ she says.

‘It’s your son.’

‘It is the Devil’s child,’ she says. ‘And I am evil. For all eternity, forever and forever, my souldamned to hell’s fire.’

THE END