Free Unholy Fire by Robert J. Mrazek Page A

you he was absent without leave for more than a week,” said the other lawyer. “At first, General Patrick thought he might be the victim of foul play from someone he’d prosecuted. But then he just turned up again at his office. Everyone is talking about it.”
    â€œHe should be court-martialed,” pronounced Tubshawe, his cherubic face contorted in anger. “The man is a disgrace to the legal profession.”
    â€œAnd to the army,” added the other lawyer.
    They noticed me staring at them and went back to their work.

C HAPTER F OUR
    One stormy night in mid-September, I was having supper with the other boarders when Captain Spellman came rushing in from his staff job at the War Office, his uniform cape streaming water.
    â€œA great battle is taking place in Maryland,” he announced excitedly. “The armies have collided near some little village called Sharpsburg.”
    Mr. Massey was still an unrequited believer in General McClellan, and he loudly proclaimed to us that this time Little Mac would completely annihilate Lee’s invading force.
    â€œIsn’t it grand?” he said, with a triumphant smile. “This battle will surely end the war.”
    â€œIn that case, Captain Spellman, your wife will certainly be glad to have you back in Boston, won’t she?” asked one of the civil servants, with a leering glance at Mrs. Massey.
    The captain’s smile disappeared as his eyes moved in her direction, too.
    â€œWell, I won’t be discharged right away, of course,” he said lamely.
    At the asylum the following morning, the same air of excitement and anticipation filled the corridors. Every time another military van arrived from the War Office, a new rumor would sweep through the building. It was reported at around nine that Lee had been killed and Jackson was now in command of the Rebel army. Our boys had won a crushing victory, was the next one, and General McClellan was on his way back to Washington to claim the presidency by popular acclamation.
    Considering the number of times our army had been defeated, the pendulum of emotion was capable of swinging from euphoria to panic in a heartbeat. As the day wore on, the tenor of the rumors began to change. By noon a report swept the corridors that General Hooker had been killed, and that the army was in flight toward Washington again. Tubshawe, who had never seen active service, left the asylum at around two o’clock to warn his family of the possible need to evacuate the city.
    I happened to be looking out the window of my office late that afternoon when I heard the sound of galloping horses. As I watched, a troop of cavalry came pounding up to the entrance portico of our wing. In their wake came a large black brougham drawn by four white horses.
    As if they had been waiting at the door, three white-jacketed orderlies came rushing out as the carriage pulled to a stop. The coach door opened, and two soldiers in the brougham gently lowered a sedan chair to the men waiting on the ground. Strapped to the chair was an inert form wrapped in hospital blankets. The orderlies carried the sedan chair inside. A minute or so later, I heard them coming down the hall toward the convalescent suites at the end of our corridor. Silence returned and I thought nothing further about it.
    When I arrived for work the next morning, unofficial reports from General McClellan’s headquarters near Sharpsburg, Maryland, had finally reached Washington. The general was claiming a great victory. Based on similar inflated press accounts in the past, I remained skeptical.
    â€œAs I recall John Pope claimed victory last month,” I said to Harold Tubshawe. He had taken the precaution that day to wear a large pistol on his belt, as if the Rebels might storm the asylum at any moment.
    â€œThere is no way those barefoot vagabonds can defeat us again,” said Tubshawe fiercely.
    That morning, General Patrick, the provost marshal