Free Death in Saratoga Springs by Charles O'Brien

you’ll say nothing about this incident.”
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    Early that evening, as the orchestra was settling into its chairs, Crake and his wife entered the hotel’s garden. At dinner, his violent outburst in the cottage was put behind them, if not forgotten. He walked slowly with a cane, looking stolidly ahead, lines of pain etched on his face. She forced a sweet smile, fanned her face briskly, and nodded to acquaintances left and right.
    The musicians tuned their instruments. This evening’s conductor, the cellist Victor Herbert, stepped up onto the podium and a hush came over the crowd.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” he began, “we have a special request for the popular song ‘Marching Through Georgia.’ This is the thirtieth year since General Sherman’s glorious campaign during the late war. With us tonight is one of its brave veterans, Captain Jed Crake.”
    The crowd turned toward the captain and applauded.
    He waved his hand, but he didn’t smile. This attention was unexpected and unwelcome. After the war, he had polished his reputation for heroism and had never been challenged. But recently, a former comrade and he had a falling out. Since then, the comrade had grown embittered and had insinuated that Crake’s military record had a dark side. Crake now preferred less limelight.
    Rachel glared at him behind her fan and whispered, “Jed, you should look pleased. People are curious about your experience in Georgia. It must have been exciting and terribly important. After all, you and your comrades brought the war to an end and saved the Union.”
    â€œNothing glorious about it,” he snarled. “Dirty business. Sherman said it was hell.”
    As the orchestra launched into the tune and the crowd joined in, Captain Crake fell into uneasy thinking. Who had given his name to the conductor and had requested the song? Rachel seemed as surprised as he.
    This wasn’t the first worrisome allusion this summer to his past life. An hour ago, heads turned when he walked into the dining room. At dinner, perfect strangers inquired politely about his private life in New York City, doubt lurking in their voices. Enemies had brought tales about him from the city and were stoking curiosity. His spies in the city had earlier warned him that private detectives were asking questions that linked him to the mysterious disappearance of prostitutes. He’d put a stop to the snooping, but rumors persisted.
    He suffered through the song; but when it finished, he leaned toward his wife. “My arthritis is killing me. I’m going to our rooms for my medicine. I’ll come back as soon as I feel better.” She frowned, then shrugged; but he shuffled away.
    For the summer, he had rented a suite of rooms on the ground floor of one of the hotel’s so-called cottages. At the door he fumbled with the key. His eyesight had failed to the point that he had to feel for the lock. Finally, he got the key in and turned it. “Damn!” he exclaimed. His wife had left the door unlocked. Silly, careless woman! She kept valuable jewelry in her bedside cabinet. Anyone could walk in and steal it.
    He let himself in and went directly to the washroom. The laudanum wasn’t where he had left it. His wife was constantly moving things around and he had to hunt for them. Eventually, he found the drug, prepared a dose, and drank it down. While he waited for its soothing effect, he stretched out on a divan and fell into a fitful sleep.
    Memories from the war came back again to haunt him. Body parts—human and animal—melded into grotesque monsters. Lurid flames leaped from burning buildings. Screams of women and men pierced his ears. A beautiful woman’s defiant face, battered and bruised, loomed up before his eyes. He tried to drive these images away but couldn’t.
    Then he woke up, soaked in sweat. He had no idea how long he slept. The room was dark except for a thin shaft