SAMPLE CHAPTERS FROM THE NEW FANTASY/HUMOR NOVEL
"DAMNED NATION"
by Nick Pollotta
Wildside Press, April 2005,
ISBN: 0-8095-1099-8

  "...and a wall of troops surrounded the campfire, guarding the civilians and children through the chilly darkness until the dawn.  So shall it ever be.  Soldiers standing bold against the creatures of the night."
                                      Marcus Aurellius
                                      Roman Emperor, 140 AD

CHAPTER ONE 
  Standing at a window in the mansion, Joshua Witherspoon gazed in torpid horror at the deadly battle raging across the Potomac River.  Somewhere over the horizon, entire divisions of Union and Confederate cannons were firing non-stop, the violent discharges of the heavy artillery filling the night sky with crimson flashes.  The massive guns must have been deafening to the ground crews, but the distance softened the titanic blasts and Joshua could only hear a muffled thumping.  Strong and steady.
  Almost like the beating of a human heart, Joshua observed sadly.  The analogy was disturbing.  A civil war, there was an oxymoron if I've ever head one.  
  Looking down at the sleeping city, Joshua couldn't see a soul on the cobblestone streets.  Washington seemed as deserted as a whorehouse on Christmas.  This eagerly awaited war-between-the-states was already eight months old by now, and the initial hope for an early victory was long gone.  The civilians were becoming accustomed to thundering cannons in the night, and the military was digging in for a prolonged conflict.  As a prelude against possible invasion, the Union Navy had anchored a dozen warships in a defensive line across the Chesapeake Bay to protect the entrance to the Potomac River.  And hidden in the thick forest along the river, the Army had hundreds of disguised gunnery emplacements, more than enough troops, rifles and Napoleon cannons to stop any conceivable Confederate attack on the Executive Mansion.  Built by the famous architect James Hoban, the great white house on the bank of the Potomac River was the official residence of the President of the United States, the headquarters of the northern War Department, and a prime target for the Confederate Army.  To take and hold the Executive Mansion would mean capturing President Lincoln alive, which would assure Jefferson Davis an almost instant victory.
  However, the War Department was prepared for such a scenario.  Encamped around the Executive Mansion was a thousand armed soldiers, the elite 110th 'Cassius Clay' Battalion, backed by more brass Napoleon field cannons than could ever be counted in a single day without the use of roller skates.  A dozen sharpshooters walked the flat roof of the Executive Mansion, and a score of heavily armed soldiers patrolled the sprawling grounds of the estate.  To the general public, the Executive Mansion was a military hardsite, a fortified redoubt.  What the Confederacy thought about the matter was anybody's guess.  
  Shaking his head at these dark thoughts, Joshua let the curtain drop back into place and turned away from the window.  The war was not his concern tonight, dinner was.  With a properly neutral expression, the head butler for the Executive Mansion lifted the silver serving tray loaded with foodstuffs and started along the dimly lighted corridor of the West Wing.   The War Department was still in session, and although nobody had rung for food, it was part of his job to know when such things were needed before being asked.  A good butler always anticipated the needs of his employer.  Like putting a kerosene lantern into the outhouse to warm the seat just after serving a large meal.  Or obtaining a wheelbarrow during a night of heavy drinking to help move the more inebriated guests to their bedrooms.
  Or dump them out onto the street, Joshua noted sagely.  It all depended upon how badly they had worn out their welcome during the festivities.  Getting drunk and vomiting was considered manly, messy, but acceptable.  But pinch the bottom of a maid and the president would personally heave the transgressor out the nearest window.  Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln didn't touch alcohol.  However, they didn't mind drinking, only drunks.  If a guest found himself airborne, then he must have committed a serious breech of etiquette.  It was always a shocking discovery.  Especially just before crashing into the rhododendron bushes.
  As Joshua walked through the huge mansion, only the creak of the floorboards disturbed the thick silence.  In spite of the late hour, Joshua was neatly dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and matching bowtie, along with a gay tartan vest he had purchased at a Boston pawn shop.  Orphaned at a young age, Joshua had no idea if his ancestry was Scottish, but he liked the bright mix of colors.  Besides, the vest was a small rebellion against the iron rules of decorum that governed the social elite in DC like invisible chains.  
  Unlike the real shackles that others wore in the South, Joshua thought sourly, glancing back at the curtained window.  Wish to Heaven there was something I could do to help them, but I'm just a butler.  If I was to join the Army, they would only assign me to be the aide to some fat general.  If I'm going to be a servant no matter what, then I might as well stay in DC and work for the president.  Besides, what possible difference could a single man make in the outcome of any war?  
  Moving past the railing at the top of the stairs, Joshua saw a dark shape lunge out of the shadows.
  "Halt, and be recognized!" the private ordered brusquely, then he smiled and lowered the shotgun.  "Hi Joshua."
  The butler paused.  "Private Augustan," Joshua replied politely, giving a little nod.  Then he looked at the ceiling and started whistling.
  Quickly shouldering the .69 smoothbore Remington, the private gently lifted the linen napkin covering a plate on the tray, and snaked out a sandwich from the stack of them underneath.  Lowering the napkin, the soldier hid the food behind his back and delicately coughed.
  "Good evening, private," Joshua said, facing forward again.  Giving a wink, he continued into the West Wing.  Oh, it was against orders for the staff to feed any of the soldiers around the mansion.  But in Joshua's opinion, a man could not properly guard the president and his family if the poor fellow was weak from hunger.  Some rules were meant to be adhered to at all cost, and some could tactfully be, well, bent every now and then.  It was all a matter of moderation.  Which every man had to decide for himself. 
Turning sideways to squeeze between two large packing crates blocking the hallway, Joshua fervently hoped that the private was not caught with breadcrumbs on his uniform by Sgt. Montgomery.  The wrath of the sergeant was legendary.  With just a stern glare, the big Irishman had once made a mule burst into tears.  Scary stuff.  
  Raising the tray high, Joshua maneuvered past a colossal packing crate with labels from France.  This collection of boxes was just the most recent purchases for Mrs. Lincoln's planned renovations of the Executive Mansion.  President Buchanan had been a fine man, but a total slob, and the mansion had been an absolute pigsty when the Lincolns moved in.  Incredibly, the new First Lady had gotten Congress to loosen it’s purse strings and grant her thirty-thousand dollars to repair, rebuild, and redecorate the Presidential abode.  To anybody with even the slightest dollop of political savvy, that was a miracle equal to the parting the Red Sea, and Mrs. Lincoln had wisely moved fast on the repairs before Congress had gotten sober and rescinded their outrageously generous offer.  
  Every day another crate arrived with more furniture, curtains, or fixtures; a chandelier from Paris, dinnerware from New York, rugs from Madrid, or crystal from Moscow.  Wherever that was located.  But even more importantly, an invading army of carpenters had done a splendid job repairing the creaky old mansion.  The windows could now be opened without resorting to the use of a crowbar, the banister on the main stairs no longer threatened to collapse, and everybody was delighted that the furnace was working again.  Sans the usual 'black fog' of escaping coal soot. 
  Sidestepping a sideboard from Sweden, Joshua grimly reminded himself that there was still the problem of the basement rats that needed attending to. There were several rooms below that the maids steadfastly refused to enter without pitchfork and burning torch.  On his first day, Joshua had declared war on the indigenous rodent population.  But the rats seemed to thrive on the arsenic laced cheese he put in the traps.  Only hot lead stopped the little monsters, and while Joshua was slowly becoming rather a good shot, the home of the President of the United States was as divided as the nation itself, with humans ruling the upper floors, but the Potomac River rats the uncontested masters of the dank basement.
  Softly, the distant cannonfire continued to thump in the background, the beat quickening.
  Spotting a tilted picture on the wall, Joshua scowled and placed the serving tray on top of a packing crate from Luxembourg.  Whatever the box might contain, the butler was positive that it could not possibly be as useful as a bloodthirsty farm cat.  Unfortunately, Mrs. Lincoln did not want any animals in the mansion out of a fear that they might scratch the new furniture.  Pennywise, pound foolish.
  "There you go, sir," Joshua said politely, leveling the frame.  "All better."
  In the flickering light of the ceiling lanterns, the unfinished portrait of George Washington seemed to wink in reply.  The butler chuckled as he took up the tray once more.  Amazing how a man could imagine such things late at night.  
  Traversing one last barricade of crates and barrels, Joshua slowly approached The Shop, the private office of the president.  Angry voices could be heard through the closed door.  Oh dear, what was wrong now?  
  "Poisoned bullets?" a deep voice growled, footsteps pounding along the floor.  "What does that madman Lee think he's doing?"
  A gruff voice replied, "Bah!  What could we expect from rebel scum?"
  "By God, that's inhuman!" President Lincoln sputtered furiously. "Are our spies sure about this?"
  "Well, our soldiers certainly aren't dying just because they looked at some hairy-arsed rebel!" somebody replied with a sneer in their voice.  "Sir, our troops are being found dead in the battlefields from minor wounds that shouldn't have slowed down a Spanish dandy!  Scratches, sir, mere trifles!  If the Apothecary-General wants money to hire chemists to try to find an antidote for this poison, plague, whatever the Hades it is, then by thunder, I say give it to him!  Give the man anything he requests!  Including the mucking Liberty Bell melted down into surgical probes if he so desires!"
  "And I agree," Vice President Hannibal Hamlin added in his booming oratory voice. "I say the War Department should assign the good doctor the sum of a thousand dollars for emergency medical research.  All those in favor?"
  The room chorused in the affirmative.
  "So passed," President Lincoln stated wearily. "Now what's next on the agenda?"
  "The planned attack on Leesburg, sir."
  "Oh, very well.  Any suggestions?" 
  Feeling the time was ripe for an intrusion, Joshua politely knocked.
  "Come in!" Vice President Hamlin demanded.
  Expertly balancing the tray in one hand, Joshua worked the latch and entered.   
  "Well?" President Lincoln wearily snapped in his standard greeting.  Both of his hands were full of papers, and the tall man was bent over a Hoban drum table covered with maps.  
  Across the room, several generals were drawing diagrams on a blackboard with squeaky sticks of chalk, and a couple of yawning Union soldiers stood exhausted in the corners, their Springfield rifles more holding them up than the other way around.  Bent over a desk, two of the president's secretaries, Nicolay and Hey, were busy scribbling away in journals, the scratching of their pens sounding like chicks trying to be hatched.
  "I brought coffee and sandwiches, sir," Joshua said, deftly closing the door with an expert bump of a hip.
  "Thank the lord," Vice President Hamlin sighed, rubbing his eyes with closed fists.  "I was getting ready to eat the furniture."
  Laying aside the papers, the president frowned.  "Coffee is not what this nation needs," Lincoln growled dourly. "Nor I, for that matter."
  "Speak for yourself, sir," General Henry Halleck snorted, rubbing his unshaved jaw to the sound of sandpaper.  The military officer had been freshly shaved when he arrived at the Executive Mansion this morning, but that was so long ago it seemed like another lifetime.  
  "That better not be Virginia ham," Lt. General Winfield Scott muttered in accusation, placing aside a piece of chalk, and dusting off his callused hands.  
  "Never, sir!" Joshua brazenly lied, placing the tray on an empty table.  "That would be unthinkable!"   Ah, politics, the fine art of splitting hairs with a sledgehammer.
  As the War Department descended upon the food like Alabama farm workers, there suddenly came a ghastly noise from outside that froze the men motionless.  Half gurgle, and half whimper, every manjack present instantly identified it as a deathcry.  Somebody had just been violently killed in the garden.
  "Lock the door!" General Scott ordered, pulling his LeMat pistol, and thumbing back the massive hammer.  "And sound the alarm!"
  As the guards rushed to obey, a window exploded throwing glass into the office, and a huge mangy dog landed on the India rug near the crackling fireplace.  
  Dropping a pile of napkins, Joshua recoiled from the incredible sight.  The beast was colossal, larger than a grown man, with fangs like daggers.  But how in Hades could anything that large have jumped to the second floor?  
  Snarling in a manner that almost sounded like a chuckle, the slavering beast looked over the array of gaping people, and launched itself at the President.  Slammed out of his chair, Lincoln went tumbling to the floor, and the monstrous animal closed its jaws on the president's throat with a loud snap.  

CHAPTER TWO
  Clutching his heart, Joshua gasped in fright, braced for a terrible spectacle of gushing red blood.  Sputtering in disgust, the werewolf turned to expel a mouthful of bristly black hair.  
  Overcome with joy, Joshua felt his heart leap.  The president was unharmed, saved by his bushy beard!  But the butler knew that mistake would not happen again.  In a surge of indignation, Joshua started forward with bare fists.  
  Shoving the president's head backwards to expose his throat, the werewolf opened his jaws just as a Union soldier rammed a Remington .44 revolver into an ear and fired.
  Pausing in his rush, Joshua saw the head of the beast rock back from the triphammer blow of the lead miniball, and flame actually shot out of the opposite ear.  Gotcha!
  Crossing it's eyes, the werewolf tumbled off the president and collapsed sprawling onto the floorboards, his limbs twitching.  Brandishing weapons, everybody rushed closer.  But then the werewolf rolled over and impossibly rose again, the flow of blood stopping and the gaping wound closed as if it had never been. 
  "Lord protect us, it's a demon from Hell!"  the frightened trooper cried, fanning the hammer and firing three more times into the hairy chest.  The lead bullets erupted out the back of the werewolf, throwing blood onto the stucco ceiling.  
  Snarling in annoyance, the monster leapt upon the trooper, ripping the man apart with both paws, gobbets of flesh flying everywhere.  A moment later the corpse of the Union soldier dropped to the floor looking as if the poor fellow had fallen into the working gears of a McCormick reaper.  
  "Protect the president!" General Scott bellowed, firing his pistol into the nightmare beast.  General Halleck did the same, Mr. Stanton threw a bottle of whiskey, and a Navy officer drew a saber.  Coming out of their shock, the two Army guards in the corners aimed and fired their Springfield rifles, the deadly duet of .58 miniballs slamming the demonic animal against the fireplace cracking the mantle.  
  As the billowing gunsmoke cleared, the men gasped as the fantastic creature slowly stood, the bullet wounds closing and smooth fur growing to cover the bald patches.
  "Sweet mother of God," a major whispered, making the sign of the cross.  "It's Satan himself!"
  Strangely, the creature seemed to flinch at those words, and Joshua felt a surge of hope.  So this was some sort of a devil dog, eh? he theorized wildly.  Well, my Sunday school teacher had told me how to deal with those!  Snatching a huge Holy Bible off a Hoban drum table, Joshua threw it at the beast with all of his might!  
  The book hit the werewolf in the haunches and harmlessly bounced off, the creature seeming more confused than annoyed.  
  "Oh crud," Joshua muttered, backing away quickly.  I'd best leave this to the men with guns. The butler had a 1776 Manton horsepistol in his room, but the .75 gun was loaded with gravel and arsenic for the rats in the basement.  Somehow, the butler felt that mixture would not do much against a monster from the deepest pit of the Unholy Abyss.
  Slamming aside the office door, four Union soldiers burst into the room, their rifles at the ready.
  "Shoot it!" Mr. Stanton shouted, yanking a sword from the ornate scabbard hanging from the belt of a paralyzed Naval officer.  "Shoot the damn thing!"
  Seeing the bloody corpse on the floor, the Union bodyguards needed no further prompting to aim their Sharps rifles and start rapidly firing.  The new-fangled repeaters unleashed a hellstorm of hot lead at the animal until the office was foggy from the blackpowder discharges.  
  Finished with their reloading, the soldiers in the corner added the strident firepower of their big bore Springfield rifles, and the devil dog was driven backwards against the wall again, howling and snarling like a lunatic in Bedlam. 
  "Summon the battalion!" President Lincoln commanded, rising to his feet, an arm pressed to his chest as if cradling a wound.
  At the sound of his voice, the werewolf turned and charged through the smoky gunfire, knocking aside Stanton.  Pulling out a silver-plated Colt with an ivory handle, Vice President Hamlin blew flame at the passing demon.  Nicolay threw an ink bottle at the beast, and Hey added a wooden stool.  Both of the impromptu missiles hit the target, but bounced off doing no more appreciable damage than the lead miniballs.
  Scrambling over the map table, the monster paused in surprise as President Lincoln dropped into a boxing stance and hammered a rock-hard fist at the sensitive nose of the canine. 
Blinded by the searing pain, the werewolf backed away, only now spotting the sterling silver ring on the hand of the bony politician.  Curse the luck, the prey was wearing death metal!
  Stepping between Lincoln and the devil dog, two soldiers raised their double-barrel shotguns and pulled the trigger.  Caught pointblank, the werewolf literally flew off the table, blood gushing from a dozen wounds, huge chunks of flesh torn off revealing the pulsating organs inside his body.  
  Sprawling on the floor, the beast landed in a pool of moonlight streaming through the broken window, and once more the impossible occurred as the monster regenerated, the ghastly wounds closing and healing even faster than before.
  "Eat steel, devil dog!" General Scott cried, swinging his saber.
  Then the steel blade hacked off an arm of the werewolf, and it howled in anguish.  The shiny sword was edged with silver!  But catching the limb in his other paw, the man-beast simply shoved the arm back into place, bones, tendons and torn flesh rejoining instantly. 
  "Lord, love a duck," the general muttered going pale, lowering the useless saber.
  With a low moan, Nicolay fainted, and a Union private dashed out of the room screaming hysterically.  But the rest of the War Department moved closer.  General Halleck began to empty a pistol into the devil dog, hitting it with amazing regularity, while others threw knives, bottles, and random pieces of furniture.  For a moment, the beast was driven backwards into a corner by the sheer mass of assorted projectiles.
  "Get the president out of here!" Joshua ordered, shoving a stunned soldier towards the panting Chief Executive.  It was obvious that the president had received injuries from the first attack.  Broken ribs if they were lucky, but there could be internal bleeding.  Please don't let him die.  The nation would fall if Lincoln perished.  
  As the guards closed around the president, a mob of soldiers knelt in formation to hammer the beast with concentrated volley fire.  Snarling in rage, the werewolf ignored the lead miniballs, and started forward once more. 
  The air in the room was becoming thick with gunsmoke, and Joshua's ears were painfully ringing from the constant fusillade of the indoor battle.  Guns, swords, footstools, could nothing stop this thing?  Looking over the devil dog to see if it had received any lingering damage, Joshua noticed the small cut on the monster's forehead that wasn't healing like the other wounds.  Less than an inch long, the tiny gash was still bleeding, and was oddly surrounded by a smear of green ink.  
  Joshua blanched.  The bulletproof monster had been injured by an inkbottle?  The butler felt his mind whirl in confusion.  Then he saw the twinkling shards of the silver crystal laying on the filthy floor.  And the president was wearing a silver ring on the hand that made the demon bleed.  Silver hurt demons?
  As the cursing Union soldiers paused to reload, the werewolf dove forward to rake a pawful of claws at Lincoln.  The president escaped, but only by the thickness of a prayer.
  Icy cold adrenaline flooded his body as Joshua grabbed the sterling silver tea tray on the sideboard, flipped off the food, and insanely stepped between the onrushing monster and the leader of the Republic.  Joshua raised the tea tray just in time, and the metal bent from the impact of the beast.  The butler was shoved backwards into Lincoln and nearly fell, but the president caught him by the arms.  
  "Thank you, sir" Joshua panted.
  "No problem, son," Lincoln replied tersely. "But what in tarnation are you doing?"
  "I'll explain later, sir."  Jerking free, Joshua peeked around the tray to see the devil dog crouching on the dirty floor, cradling the busted paw.  White bone showed through the matted fur, blood was flowed freely, but most importantly, the wound was not healing.  Checkmate!
  "Look there!" General Halleck cried out, pointing with a shaking hand. "The beast is wounded!"
  Without conscious thought, Joshua rushed closer to slam the silver tray over the head of the hairy hellhound.  
  The monster rocked from the blow as his skull cracked, and the werewolf turned to rush blindly through the gunsmoke only to stumble over the body of his first victim and slammed into the fireplace.  Moving fast, the Vice President snatched a brass lantern from a table.  Pitching it sideways like a cricket ball, he saw the lantern hit the monster, the glass reservoir shattering to cover the beast with burning kerosene.
  Howling in agony, the flaming werewolf tried to reach the window again, but volley fire from the soldiers drove it back once more.  When the soldiers stopped to reload, the fiery monster charged, only to find the way blocked by that darn butler again, still holding the tea tray.  As the werewolf headed for another window, Joshua swung the tray sideways and caught the beast squarely in the throat with the edge.  Hacking and coughing, the smoldering beast doubled over, and Joshua raised the tea tray to bring it down upon the head of the monster with every ounce of strength he possessed!
  The embossed metal bent from the staggering impact, and with a guttural moan, the monster dropped to the floor, trembled once, then went still.   
  Eagerly rushing forward, the soldiers and officers shouted a battlecry as they used swords and bayonets to ruthlessly hack the crackling monster into pieces.  
  "Keep going, lads!" General Halleck shouted, trying to get a clear shot at the beast with his Colt.  "Dice the hairy bastard into mincemeat!"
  But the group of men slowed in the mutilation, and started backing back away.  Many of the soldiers dropped their weapons and starting whispering prayers, or pulling out religious icons. 
  "Impossible...," President Lincoln whispered, lowering the fireplace poker he had snatched up to join the fight. "that... this can not be happening!"
  His hands still vibrating from the killing blow, Joshua looked down to see that the pieces of the animal laying on the floorboards were changing shape like wax melting in the sun.  The fur was retreating, the decapitated head altered, and the pulsating limbs were shrinking.  Talons retreated into furry paws.  Hair withdrew into pink skin.  The rear legs straightened, the pointed ears dwindled and the battered face took on a startlingly human appearance.
  Reloading his rifle, a soldier gasped dropping the paper cartridge from his mouth.  General Scott used a blistering oath, and a colonel tried to sheath his sword, but missed the scabbard entirely, stabbing the blade into an Ottoman instead.  
  Barely able to believe what they were seeing, the men stared at the incredible metamorphosis until the devil dog was gone, replaced with the vivisected body of a naked man laying in a spreading pool of red blood.   

CHAPTER THREE
  "What the Hades is going on here?" President Lincoln murmured, laying the dirty poker on the war map of Pennsylvania.  A single drop of blood flowed off the tip to drop onto some little town by the name of Gettysburg, completely obliterating the place.  
  "Hades is properly correct.  This is magic of some kind," Joshua said with a tight throat, lowering the tea tray.  Then the butler hastily added. "Sir."
  "Mayhap you're right," Lincoln muttered, warily looking about. "Or was the animal disguise a magician's trick, like that French fellow Houdin?  Merely a clever stage illusion?"
"No sir, Mr. President," a major replied, draping his uniform jacket over the mutilated face of the dead soldier. "Private Anderson has his throat ripped out, sure enough, and not by human teeth.  That's no goddamn illusion!"
  "Major Connors, your language is unseemly!" Mr. Stanton cried angrily.
  "Such vulgarity is quite understandable under the circumstances, Edward," President Lincoln countered, walking uneasily towards the disassembled corpse.  Several soldiers moved between their Supreme Commander and the body, drawing their handguns from sheer force of habit.
  "Well done, Mr. Calvert!" General Scott stated, slapping Joshua heartily on the back.  "Bloody well done, indeed!" 
  "Witherspoon, sir," Joshua corrected, massaging his stinging palms.  There was still a faint ringing in his ears from the killing blow.  "My name is Witherspoon.  Calvert was the butler that I replaced."
  Frowning slightly at being corrected by the household staff, Scott then nodded in remembrance.  Oh yes, the fellow who stole all the dinnerware.  What was it with butlers and silver?  
  Gallantly, the general flipped a hand to dismiss the matter. "Call yourself anything you like, son, it was a brilliant move.  How did you know the tea tray would stop him...er, it...I mean the assailant?"
  "I had no idea," Joshua said honestly, a cold sweat breaking out over his body now that the danger was passed. "I was simply defending my president."
  "Your employer," a soldier retorted gruffly to the civilian.
  Turning about, Joshua arched a stern eyebrow. "No, sir," he replied firmly. "My president."
  "Good man," Vice President Hamlin stated, tucking both thumbs into his belt.  "By Gadfrey, I haven't seen a mess like this since Bullrun!  Remember those photographs in the newspapers?"
  At the memory, Mr. Hey started to gag, and lurched for the open window.  Sticking his head outside, the man began to loudly lose his dinner, his legs shaking from the sheer force of the expulsion.
  "Ignore him, just a touch of Soldier's Flu," General Scott said, jerking a thumb at the shuddering secretary. "A lot of men do that after their first taste of combat."
  "Taste...ow..." Mr. Hey groaned, redoubling his efforts.
  Embarrassed at the slip, General Scott winced. "Sorry about that."
  The reply from the window was non-verbal.
  Exhaling deeply, President Lincoln sat down in a chair filled with bullet holes, tufts of wadding sticking out like cottony vitals. "By thunder, it was a good thing that Gustav or Charles weren't here.  They're fine men, but my secretaries would have wet their trousers."
  "Not exactly troopers, eh?" Navy Secretary Gideon Welles said as a question, mopping his damp face with a linen handkerchief. 
  "Neither am I," Stanton muttered honestly, brushing back his hair with stiff fingers.  The man felt queasy, and debated going to join Hey, but forced himself to refrain from such a lewd public spectacle.  
  "Is...is this what the rebel bastards are throwing at us?" General Halleck raged, starting to reload his revolver.  "Perhaps our men aren't dying of poison bullets.  Just think about it!  A wounded soldier, bleeding on the battlefield, alone, helpless, and then suddenly that appears...!"  He gestured angrily.  "Who wouldn't die of mucking fright?"
  Everybody in the room frowned in consternation at the notion, and a long moment of silence passed in which the only sounds were the ticking of the wall clock, and the visceral expulsions of Mr. Hey.  One of his shoes had fallen off by now, a single bare toe sticking out of a worn sock.
  "Mrs. Lincoln gets a bee in her bonnet if one of the rooftop guards can't reach the privy in time, and, ahem, 'waters' her oak trees," a lieutenant muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.  "When she learns about this, the First Lady will want poor Mr. Hey strung up for treason."
  "My family!" President Lincoln shouted unexpectedly, jerking up his head.  Stifling a groan of pain, the politician rose stiffly from the tattered chair, and started shuffling for the door.  "I must see to my wife and sons!"
  "They're fine, sir," Sgt. Montgomery reported from the hallway, tamping down a reload into his shotgun. "When I heard the ruckus, I sent half of my men there in case this was a kidnapping attempt."
  "Bless you, sergeant," the president sighed, gratefully collapsing back into the chair. "My sincerest thanks."
  "Quick work there, Monty," General Scott said, finished with the reloading of his LeMat pistol.  With a flip, he deftly slipped the French hogleg into a holster.  "You there, Chesterson!  Sergeant of the guard!"
  "Sir?" a soldier replied with a crisp salute.  His uniform was spattered with blood, the lid to the ammo box on his belt was open, showing it almost empty of paper cartridges.
  "Double the guards around the Executive Mansion until further notice," Scott ordered brusquely, then frowned.  "No, triple them!"
  "Yes sir!"
  "Then raid the pantry," the general continued. "I want all of the silverware brought here at once."
  "And coins," Joshua added, dabbing at his bloodstained coat with a handkerchief. "You might try loading a few shotguns with silver dimes."
  "Deuced clever idea," Mr. Stanton complimented, twirling his waxed moustache. 
  Coins and silverware?  The confused sergeant looked hopefully at the president. 
  "You heard the orders, son," Lincoln said, gingerly opening his shirt to peek at his bruised chest.  The skin was already starting to turn a mottled purple, but no bones showed.  Thank the lord for small miracles.  Then his fingers fondled his beard to find a chunk was gone about the size of a partridge.  Just one inch lower...  In his mind, Lincoln could still feel the hot breath of the dire beast upon his flesh.  Ghastly.  The president tried not to shudder, but did anyway.  This had almost been a successful attempt on his life, he realized somberly.
  "Move with a purpose, sergeant," Vice President Hamlin added curtly. "If there's one, there could be two of these things.  If your troops spot so much as stray dog on the grounds, shoot to kill, then set the body on fire."
  Snapping his boot heels smartly, Sgt. Montgomery gave a salute.  "Sir, yes sir!"
  "And summon a priest," Joshua added, tucking away the dirty cloth. "We need all the help we can get."
  Nodding in agreement, Sgt. Montgomery departed at a run already shouting orders.
  "Why a priest?  The Holy Bible did no damage to the thing before," a general growled petulantly, nudging the disassembled body with the toe of his boot.
  "That may have been more the fault of the holder, sir," Joshua commented dryly. "Rather than the author."
  "That is might close to blasphemy," Stanton declared with a stern frown.
  "So was this," Lincoln replied curtly, gently massaging his sore chest. 
  "Should I fetch a physician, sir?" Joshua said, kneeling by the politician.  
  "Just bruised," Lincoln said with a dry smile, brushing aside the offered assistance. "I suffered much worse learning how to split rails back in Illinois.  Wood chips have the darnedest tendency to fly back at you."  The politician offered a hand. "Thank you for saving my life."
  Thoroughly embarrassed by the unexpected honor, Joshua struggled to find some way to escape from the socially awkward situation, but he was trapped.  Placing aside the dented tray, Joshua accepted the offer and hesitantly shook hands with the leader of the nation.
  "By the way, I voted for you, sir," Joshua said crazily, unsure of exactly what to say at a time like this.
  His tired eyes twinkling in amusement. "So you were the one?" Lincoln said with a chuckle.  "My thanks again."
  "The election wasn't that close, sir."
  "Nonsense.  If the results had been any tighter, the numbers would have squeaked."
  With a low moan, Mr. Hey pulled himself out of the open window and collapsed in a chair.  His shoes crunched on the shards of glass covering the floor.  A chill breeze rich with the scent of flowers was blowing in through the smashed window, and the clouds of gunsmoke were beginning to dissipate in the office.
  "Feeling better?" Vice President Hamlin asked solicitously.
  "No," Hey groaned weakly, slapping a hand over his mouth and rushing to the window once more. 
  "All right, you, you and you!" General Scott snapped, pointing at the remaining group of soldiers. "Get on the roof, and warn the guards to stay sharp!  This could be a diversion!  A prelude to a full invasion!"
  "Do you really think that President Jefferson Davis sent a wild animal to assassinate me?" President Lincoln asked in disbelief, gingerly flexing his bandaged hand.  "I mean a man disguised as a ...that is....does anybody know what the deuce this fellow was?"
  "Don't know, don't care," Stanton commented rudely, using a sleeve to wipe some specks of blood off his cheek.  "You there, private!  Close the shutters on that window, and block it with the sideboard!  Lieutenant, build up the fire in the hearth in case anything tries to come down the chimney!"
  "And close the curtains," Joshua added, picking up the tray once more. "Silhouettes invite snipers."
  Slinging their weapons, soldiers rushed to obey.
  "How many men do we have on guard duty?" Vice President Hamlin asked, retrieving his knife from the wall.  As the blade came free, the cracked plaster sprinkled over the mutilated corpse like winter snow. 
  "An entire battalion," General Scott answered curtly.  "Plus, the house detail of a hundred."
  "Hope that's enough," Hamlin muttered. "A dozen of these things could slaughter half the army before they'd be stopped."  
  Kneeling down, the vice president folded the soiled rug over the body, then stood again, wiping his hands clean on his vest. "Ashes to ashes," he whispered softly. "Dust to dust."
  Just then, a squad of Union soldiers arrived, each of them armed with a Remington .69 shotgun, silver knives and forks jutting out of the large barrels as if they were going to attack a regimental dinner. 
  "No silver dimes," Sgt. Montgomery declared panting, his pockets bulging with extra dinnerware. "But I have some on the away.  Sent a runner to the Treasury."  
  "Most exemplary," Mr. Welles exhaled, going to a sideboard.  Ignoring the pile of coffee-soaked sandwiches, the Secretary of the Navy poured himself a long drink from the liquor cabinet.  His hands were shaking badly and more whiskey went on the floor than into the glass, but he finally got enough into the tumbler and quickly drained it in a gulp.  
  "Perhaps a round for all would be in order, sir," Stanton suggested. "Considering the circumstances."
  "Not while on duty," General Halleck retorted, even while glancing at the single-malt Scotch with a longing expression.
  "Unless you're Ulysses S. Grant," General Scott growled. "But then, you could hammer a tap in one of his veins and open your own pub."
  "Well, that's better than the hobby of General Hooker," Vice President Hamlin added, giving a wink. "Talk about poisoning your bullets!"
  As the roomful of men laughed, the door to the Shop was slammed open as a dozen more Union soldiers poured into the room, their revolvers and shotguns sweeping for danger.  One large sergeant was actually carrying a Stovepipe rifle, the gaping maw of the titanic .75 barrel looking larger than a Napoleon cannon.
  "At ease, gentlemen," President Lincoln commanded wearily from his chair. "And put that portable Howitzer away, sergeant.  The assassin has been neutralized."
  "So it was an assassin, sir?" the sergeant asked curtly, lowering the Stovepipe.  Then he caught sight of the naked, bloody, legs sticking out of the folded India rug.  "Who was it, sir, a rebel spy?"
  "Time to find out," General Scott muttered, advancing upon the rug. "Mr. Hey, you may want to leave the room for this."
  "No, sir," the secretary said, swallowing hard.  Going to the map table, he lifted a Colt and tested the weight in his hand. "I shall stay right here, and see it through.  In for a penny..."
  "...in for a pound.  As you say, old friend." 
  "Just don't get between him and the window," a private suggested to a friend in a stage whisper. 
  Kneeling on the bloody floor, General Scott took a fistful of bloody hair.  Wiggling the head out of the rug, he lifted it high for everybody to get a look.  There wasn't much of a face left after the accumulated damage.
  "Anybody know the blackguard?" the general asked gruffly, squinting at the remains of the slack features.  
  Everybody murmured in the negative.  
  Placing the head in the wicker basket full of coal near the fireplace, Scott flipped open the rug, and began to arrange the body parts until the chopped up corpse was laying in a somewhat more orderly fashion.  
  Comparing the length of the body to that of the squatting general, Joshua could tell that the intruder had been a big man, almost six feet tall.  Although as a devil dog, the fellow had been much taller.  That was interesting.  
  The corpse had very pale skin, as if he hadn't seen the sun in years, and the arms were covered with tattoos, some of them quite indecent.  The nose was lumpy, obviously broken many times in the past, and the left hand seemed disfigured until Joshua realized that the pinkie was missing, gone at the first knuckle.  
  "So he was a sailor, eh?" Joshua said, thoughtfully chewing a lip.  And a deuced clumsy one, too.  As a young boy, Joshua had seen sailors with missing fingers before, usually from them tying off a rope incorrectly and when it tightened the line would pinch off a finger clean as picking a grape.   
  "How could you possibly know he was a sailor?" asked Welles craning his neck for a better look. 
  The butler pointed. "See?  Right there on the shoulder, sir, that's a Union Navy tattoo."
  "Where?"
  "Just under the topless mermaid."
  So it was.  "Navy, eh?"  Turning the torso over, Scott grunted at the sight of old scars on the dead man's back, the brutal remains of numerous disciplinary whippings.  "He was a sailor, by gum," the general agreed. "And not a very good one, by the looks of these marks."
  "And a Freemason," General Halleck added. "I recognize that square and compass symbol on his shoulder."
  "As do we all," President Lincoln stated in an even tone. "But I find it highly unlikely that the Freemasons would try to assassinate me.  They detest slavery.  Even the Southern lodges."
  "Mayhap the tattoo is a trick," the vice president suggested, leaning forward in a chair. "A ruse to try and get us fighting among ourselves.  That's just basic military strategy."
  "Divide and conqueror.  Julius Caesar did that," General Scott stated. "So did Hannibal, Attila the Hun, William Wallace..." 
  "And Sun Tzu," Hamlin interpolated.
  The Union general raised an eyebrow. "The son of who?"
  "Tell you later."
  "Well, whomever our unwanted guest is," Joshua said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "There was no way he could have gone through Washington in his birthday suit.  The constables would have nabbed him within a block."
  "He might have still been a devil dog," Welles suggested hesitantly. "Maybe he only changes to human when dead."
  "And nobody noticed an eight foot tall dog running through the streets of Washington?" Joshua asked skeptically.  "In a city already on the alert for rebel spies, advance agents, and Confederate saboteurs?"
  Rising from his chair, General Halleck went to the door and flung it open. "Guards!" he bellowed.
  Almost instantly, a dozen soldiers arrived, automatically thumbing back the hammers on their Springfield rifles.
  "Is there a problem, sir?" a beefy corporal asked, trying to see into the crowded room. 
  "Damn right there is," Halleck replied gruffly. "Take some men, and do a sweep around the Mansion for a block in every direction.  There should be a pile of clothing somewhere, probably hidden under a rock, inside a bush, something like that."
  "No, they'll be someplace high," Joshua interjected. "Where the damp can't reach.  Nobody wants to wear soggy clothing."
  The general grunted.  "Fair enough.  Search the window ledges, saddle bags on horses, and of course any carriages or buckboard wagons.  Find those garments, and bring'em back here."
  "Yes, sir!" the soldier replied crisply.  The group of armed men moved off, exchanging puzzled looks.  First silverware, and now lost clothing.  What was this, a war or a scavenger hunt?
*                    *                    *
  In a dark alley across Pennsylvania Avenue, a shadowy figure watched the activity inside the Executive Mansion with intense displeasure.  Obviously, the werewolf had failed.  Another would have to be sent to finish the matter.
  Glancing down at the pile of clothing the werewolf had taken off before the metamorphosis, Drell adjusted the thick scarf masking his own features before reaching for the garments.  But suddenly a squad of heavily armed soldiers carrying lanterns burst out of the mansion and started across the cobblestone street.
  Without a sound, Drell moved deeper into the darkness.  A burst of electromagnetic radiation filled the alleyway for a split nanosecond, and he was gone, leaving behind only a dry patch on the ground that the damp quickly filled until there was no remaining sign that he had ever been there. 

CHAPTER FOUR
  Excusing himself, Joshua stepped into the hallway.
  "Well, this fellow should be easy enough to identify," Stanton declared in relief, shooting the cuffs on his shirt. "A sailor, and Freemason, missing a pinkie.  A simple advertisement in the local newspaper will-"
  "There'll be none of that!" President Lincoln snapped, fluffing out his beard in an attempt to fill the missing patch.  "This matter has to remain strictly on the Most Secret list."
  "But sir, how will we find out who he is, if we don't spread around his portrait and description?" Hey asked in concern.
  "A description of what?" Vice President Hamlin demanded, massaging his temples.  He felt a real corker of a headache coming.  "A devil dog who attacked the president inside the Executive Mansion?  Oh, the rebels would love that.  They'd claim that God has abandoned the Republic, and was now on their side, and all sorts of similar nonsense."
  "That kind of propaganda could prolong the war for months," General Scott said, cracking his knuckles.  "By thunder, it could make the blasted thing last for years!"
  Everybody scowled darkly at that notion.  A civil war that lasted for years?  It was too horrible to even contemplate.
  Sounding a polite cough, Joshua returned with a small army of maids armed with buckets of soapy water and mops. 
  "Perhaps we should adjourn to the Blue Room, gentleman," Joshua suggested, gesturing at the open doorway.   
  "Good thinking, son.  And remove that," Lincoln commanded, pointing at the crimson soaked rug. "Build a bonfire behind one of the Jefferson Mounds in the back yard and burn the body to ashes.  I want the Shop ready for business by the morning."
  There was no discussion in the matter.  Everybody wholeheartedly agreed.  As the War Department left the room, a couple of privates carried away the gory rug, and the grim maids got to work.  
  In the hallway, a platoon of soldiers armed with pistols and rifles saluted the President, and crowded around the lanky politician as he lead the way to the Blue Room.
  Pausing outside, the War Department waited as two soldiers entered the room and scouted for possible danger.  Joshua went with the men to close the window shutters and unlock the liquor cabinet.  There was little chance of hidden assassins.  The Blue Room was deliberately kept mostly empty as this was where the president held formal balls for visiting diplomats.  But that was why Joshua had recommended the Blue Room instead of the Oval Room, where they served tea every Sunday.  There were plenty of divans and couches, more than enough for the War Department and their escorts, but there were also way too many damn windows for the place to ever be properly secured.  On the other hand, all that light would make the Oval Room a fine office.  
  "All clear, Mr. President," a corporal reported crisply.
  Grunting in reply, Lincoln strode into the room and deposited himself in a cane chair that looked about as comfortable as a bamboo strappado.  The rest of the War Department chose similar chairs, or simply sat cross-legged on the bare floor, their weapons laid across their laps in plain view.
  As a maid delivered a bowl of ice, Joshua immediately started making drinks.  Mint Juleps were his specialty, but under the circumstances, Joshua made a round of Manhattans.
  "Well, gentlemen, as I see it, we have two problems," President Lincoln said, accepting a glass of iced water from the butler.  "The first is a need for absolute secrecy on this matter.  Think of the panic that would ensue if the word got out that the South was using trained dogs as assassins.  Much less if the truth was learned!"  
  "Whatever the truth is," Mr. Stanton spoke, sipping his drink. "But you're quite right, sir.  This must be of the highest secrecy.  War Department only, Burn After Reading, that sort of thing."
  "I can assign a couple of US Marshals to investigate," Vice President Hamlin suggested, pulling out a cigar.  Joshua struck a Lucifer and lit the slim panatela for the man. "We need somebody trustworthy to find out who this person is...was... whatever, and search his home for any clues to..."  Here the vice president ran out of steam.  Clues to his origin?  His pedigree?
  "To find whatever they can," Joshua suggested, going to the fireplace and stoking the coals to a cheery blaze. "Was he alone?  Are there more of these devil dog running about?"
  Devil dogs?  Good name.  "My people will get straight to the matter," General Scott declared, brandishing the LeMat revolver in his fist. "By thunder, I'll send a full battalion to..."
  "You will do nothing of the sort," the president countered gently. "That is exactly what I don't want, Winnie.  We're in the middle of a war, and anyplace that soldiers go, the people take note, and reporters take notes."  Lincoln gestured at the closed door to the hallway.  "Do you really want the...what did you call it again?"
  "Devil dog," Joshua supplied, over a shoulder.
  The president nodded. "Right. Do you really want this devil dog story on the front page of the Morning Chronicle, or New York Times?"
  "But surely the gunshots have been heard," a major stated, leaning forward in his cane chair, both elbows resting on knees.
  As if in reply, there came a string of crackling explosions from the Rose Garden outside, closely followed by a whizzing and sharp whistles that ended in soft bangs.
  "Fireworks?" the president asked, glancing at the closed windows.  Ever so slowly, the man turned.  "Is this more of your work, Joshua?"
  "Yes, sir," the butler replied, stepping away from the roaring fireplace and wiping the coal soot from his hands.  "I passed along the word to have the groundkeepers stage a little celebration.  A party to celebrate our great victory against the rebs."
  "What victory?" General Scott demanded suspiciously.
  "Does it matter?" President Lincoln asked, starting to smile.  "Good work again, Joshua."
  "Just doing my job, sir." 
  Oh no, you're not.  You're doing everybody's job tonight.
  From the roof there came a chorus of drunken singing, the bawdy songs building in volume, until breaking into a rousing rendition of 'The Union Forever'. 
  "See?  Just some drunken revelry at the mansion," Joshua said, pocketing the handkerchief. "The upper crust of Washington society already holds our noble soldiers in low esteem.  For once, that will work in our favor."
  The members of the War Department nodded in approval.
  "As I was saying, gentlemen," President Lincoln went on in a measured tone, templing his fingers.  He watched the blood-stained butler go around the room lighting candles, but ignore the new kerosene lanterns.  Those would make too much light, and betray our presence in the room.  "What this matter requires is a clandestine investigation.  A plain clothes detective.  A private agent, if you will.  Somebody whose presence on the streets will not ignite a blizzard of rumors."
  "Somebody who knows how to keep secrets," Vice President Hamlin said, glancing sideways at the butler moving a candle from behind the president so that it wouldn't throw his famous silhouette against the closed curtains.  This man thinks faster on his feet than a tap dancing mathematician.  "A local man who can talk to servants, soldiers, merchants and politicians with equal ease."
  "Somebody who knows the complex workings of Washington society," Mr. Stanton added, beginning to smile at Joshua.  "The backroom politics, the good ol' boy network, and the secret lodges."
  "It should be a soldier," General Halleck stated, resting a hand on his dress saber.  The protection of the president was the job of the Army, not the cleaning staff.  They needed a man armed with a gun, not a nancyboy carrying a mucking featherduster!
  "No, Henry, this special agent should be a civilian," General Scott corrected stoically grinning, stroking his beard. "Somebody outside the chain of command, so that he can move quickly, and get things done quietly."  A couple of soldiers had run away from the fight in the Shop, and one had fainted, but this butler charged into the fray and attacked a thing from Hell armed only with a tea tray.  A mucking tea tray, by jingo!  Give me a thousand such men and the South would fall in a week.
  Using his pocket knife to cut the seal on a fresh box of Cuban cigars, Joshua tried to conjure up a possible candidate for this august, but highly dangerous position, when he suddenly noticed that everybody was looking directly at him.  
  "Something wrong, gentlemen?" Joshua asked, checking his clothes.  Aside from some rips and stains accumulated from the recent brouhaha, nothing seemed amiss.
  "Nothing that you can't fix," General Scott grinned devilishly.
  Joshua felt himself blanche.  Oh no.  Impossible.
  "An invisible man," President Lincoln said softly, beaming a pleased smile. "Able to converse with the high born and common folks.  A man loyal to the Republic, somebody who has already demonstrated his quick thinking, and cool nerves in combat."
  "All those in favor?" Vice President Hamlin intoned.
  Every member of the War Department gave a solemn nod, even General Halleck after a moment.  To be honest, the general didn't like the idea, but he was a patriot, and Halleck would walk naked through a Turkish prison if Lincoln asked.  Well, I'd run through one, anyway.  
  Lowering the cigar box, Joshua tried to speak, but nothing come out.  Were these people serious?
  "Care for a promotion, son?" President Lincoln asked smoothly.  
  "B-b-but I'm the butler!" Joshua cried, his voice rising slightly into a squeak.  "I...I...I serve the tea!"
  "And the president used to work on a ferryboat for a living, and Scott used to be a grocery clerk," Vice President Hamlin added, dismissing the objection with a wave. "I sold hardware, and Grant raised corn.  We were all something else before entering government service."
  "You may be a butler," Mr. Hey stated forcibly. "But you're a damned good man in a fight, none the less, Calvert."
  "Witherspoon, sir," Joshua corrected, slightly woozy. "Calvert was the other fellow." 
  "Oh yes.  The drake with the spoons.  Sorry."
  "What exactly is your full name?" General Scott asked, placing one hand behind his back in a formal posture. 
  "Didn't know that butlers had names," General Halleck muttered petulantly.  But nobody paid him any attention.  Especially the president.
  "Joshua, sir," the butler said softly. "Joshua Parnel Witherspoon."
  "A powerful name."  Stiffly standing, the president went to the bookcase and took down a leather-bound Bible. "Please raise your right hand, Mr. Witherspoon," Lincoln requested, proffering the volume in his bandaged hand. "And place your left on this holy book."  Using his wounded hand was a bit theatrical, but Lincoln hadn't beaten Douglas in the election just because of his exceptionally witty jokes.  A strong leader must know when to ask, when to insist, and when to cajole.  It was part of his job to find people to do the work he personally could not.  And sometimes, the president sadly added, to send them to their deaths.  
  "Sir, is this really a good idea?" Joshua asked, doing as instructed.  His face felt hot, and there was the most curious ringing in his ears.
  "Two points," General Scott stated, lifting a finger. "One, yes, it is a good idea, so shut the Hell up.  In the military. we promote for excellence in the field of battle.  You've done that tonight."
  "But, sir," Joshua hedged uneasily. "Really, I only..."
  "Two," Scott interrupted, lifting another. "This is not a move the enemy could possibly have foreseen, and thus they could not have taken any measures to hinder your work."
  "Move fast, Worthington, and you'll grab 'em by the jollies!" a Navy admiral said, pantomiming a painful squeezing. 
  "Witherspoon," Joshua corrected, looking at the faces that were confidently looking right back.  Did I really attack a demon with a tea tray? he mentally croggled.  I must have been out of my mind!
  Pursing his lips, Lincoln could see the confusion in the young man's face.  Perhaps a bit of noodging was in order.  "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their nation," the president said solemnly, extending the bible. "Well, Mr. Witherspoon?  Will you answer America's call to duty?"
  Mister Witherspoon.  At those words, Joshua felt his last reservations slip away.  With his heart beating fast, the butler walked over to the president and placed a hand on the bible.  The leather was cool under his palm, and Joshua almost felt like he was going to cry there were so many emotions bubbling inside.  Or else I'll rush to the window and do a Mr. Hey.
  "Repeat after me," he heard the president say from someplace very far away. "I, Joshua Parnel Witherspoon..."
  A minute later, it was done.  Suddenly, Joshua was surrounded by the leaders of the nation, laughing and pounding him on the back in congratulations.
  "Welcome to government service, Mr. Witherspoon," Welles chortled. "You are now a US Marshall." 
  "Thank you, sir," Joshua said, still feeling a little drunk from the rush.  Marshall Witherspoon.  How the world changes with the addition of a single word. 
  "Is this legal?" General Halleck demanded. "Doesn't Washington already have a US Marshall?"
  "Mr. Lamon, yes.  But Mr. Witherspoon is a special investigator assigned to the War Department," President Lincoln explained coldly, impatiently tapping the bible against his trouser leg.  The politician was obviously annoyed at the reticence of the general. "There is no jurisdictional conflict."
  "Do you have some decent civilian clothing?" Vice President Hamlin asked, studying Joshua's bedraggled outfit.  "Something other than this butler's uniform?"
  "Of course, I do," Joshua replied haughtily, suppressing a flash of anger.  Sort of, anyway.
  "Then wear them from now on, Marshal Witherspoon," President Lincoln said, returning the Holy Bible to its place on the bookcase, right between Plutarch and Thomas Paine.  The president had his own unique way of organizing books and so far, nobody had been able to crack the code.  "To feel like a law officer, dress that way.  Clothes help form a template to guide our demeanor."
  Did they? Joshua wondered.  Actually, that made sense. "Yes sir."
  "And you will report directly to me," Lincoln added, turning around.  He tried to hide a wince from his aching ribs the action caused, and failed miserably.  "Not the War Department, or the Cabinet, mind you.  Me, personally."
  "And why is that, sir?" General Scott asked frowning.
  Trying to behave casually, the president crossed his arms to support his ribs.  "We're dealing with something unusual here, Winnie," Lincoln said, keeping the pain from marring his speech. "The usual lines of communication can not be trusted.  Mr. Witherspoon, you are to report only to me.  Is that clearly understood?"
  Unaccustomed to being the center of attention, Joshua simply gave a nod.  A special agent to the president of the United States.  My father would roll over in his grave.
  "In turn, I'll inform the War Department of anything pertinent," the president went on, walking over to ease down into the cane chair.  It creaked slightly under his weight.  "Marshall Witherspoon, you will pursue this devil dog matter as your sole concern.  Meanwhile, you other gentlemen will please concentrate on defeating Jefferson Davis and his rebel army."
  The War Department murmured general assent, admirals included.
  "Our new marshal will probably require some additional financing for this assignment," the vice president added tactfully, giving a little cough.
  "My current salary is quite sufficient, sir," Joshua said quickly, trying to be helpful. "I know how expensive the war is becoming, and I'm more than happy to do my part."
  "God save us from amateurs," General Halleck muttered, looking upward to address the ceiling.  
  "Mr. Witherspoon, you'll need additional funds for bribes," President Lincoln explained bluntly, casting a stern glance at Halleck.  "You can get more information with a golden Double Eagle, than with smile and a gun."
  I'm going to be armed?  The new Marshall blushed.  "I see, sir.  Sorry, I hadn't thought things through that much yet."
  Leaning back in the chair, Lincoln gave a smile. "You'll learn, Mr. Witherspoon," he said gently.  "We are all a little rattled tonight.  Being attacked by a demon has that effect on most folks."
  Smiling at the lame joke, Joshua felt the tension leave his shoulders.  All right, if Abraham Lincoln says I can do this, then by God in Heaven, I can!  Hopefully.
  "What if we are indeed facing magic?" Mr. Hey asked, wringing his hands.  The man looked pale, and everybody stepped away with all due haste.  "The supernatural, monsters, voodoo, and such?"
  "That's for our new marshal to confirm, or deny," the president stated, touching his sore chest.  The pain was growing, and he needed to lay down as soon as possible and get some liniment on these bruises or else he'd he stiff for a month.  "Mr. Witherspoon, I strongly suggest that first thing in the morning, you find Sgt. Montgomery, and get a weapon.  You'll need a sidearm, or two."
  At least two.  "Yes, sir."
  "Can you shoot?" General Scott demanded gruffly, pointing a stern finger.
  "Absolutely.  A crack shot," Joshua boasted.  With a hundred year old, muzzle-loading, horsepistol.  Better get something just a tad more modern that doesn't shoot once and then take half an hour to reload.  "Er...any problem with me getting two handguns, general?  Mayhap even three?"
  "Now you're talking like a goddamn soldier!" General Halleck stated, somewhat mollified by the response.  "There's no such thing as too much firepower."
  President Lincoln scowled at the profanity, but said nothing.  There was a time and place for vulgarity.  This was one of them without a doubt.
  "And I'll need that tea tray, sir," Joshua added, feeling a rush of power.  The promotion was starting to sink into his brain.  He could demand things now, and expect to receive them promptly.
  "Damn it, man, you're not the butler anymore!" Vice President Hamlin snorted, annoyed.  "Leave the cleaning for the maids!"
  "The tray is for making bullets," Joshua interpolated, keeping his tone cool from the implied insult. "If this creature was vulnerable to silver, then perhaps a silver miniball could kill the next devil dog."  At a nice safe distance.
  "Ah, I see," Hamlin muttered thoughtfully.  "Well then, better make a hundred additional rounds for the Executive Mansion bodyguards.  I'll have my wife send over a few items that can be melted down.  Candelabras, and such."
  "Thank you, sir." 
  "Will silver work as a bullet?" Hey asked in real concern. "Wouldn't it jam and make the gun explode?"
  "There isn't a lot of difference between silver and lead, except for their price in gold," Joshua replied in a sing-song voice that clearly indicated he was quoting from memory. "I remember that from my father."
  "He was a scholar?" President Lincoln asked curiously.
  Embarrassed by the slip, Joshua blushed.  "No, sir," he replied hesitantly. "He was a forger.  Specialized in fake silver coins.  One day he was caught and hung."  Right in front of me, too.  Shazam, instant orphan.  
  "So you know something of the criminal underworld?"
  Do I ever.  Joshua forced back a bitter laugh.  "More than you'll ever want to know about, sir."
  "Most excellent!" the vice president grinned in delight.  "An intimate knowledge of the criminal class, eh?  Obviously, you have skills beyond that of any common soldier."
  "Then you've never meet a quartermaster," General Scott muttered softly, and the all of the other soldiers present mumbled in hateful agreement.  Union soldiers killed Confederate soldiers, but the real enemy of any army was the goddamn quartermaster corps.  Even during combat, they held onto vital supplies like starving limpets. 
  "Best proceed swiftly on this matter, Marshall Witherspoon." the president directed, rising stiffly from his chair.  The dark purple blotches were plainly discernable through the rips in his shirt, but nobody dared to mention that. "The sooner started, the sooner done, eh?"  
  "I'll wake up the rooster, sir," Joshua stated confidently.  Always did anyway.  Who did these people think warmed their bathwater every morning, and got the coffee brewing, elves?
  Inhaling slowly, Lincoln gave a nod.  "Good man.  Every dog has a master.  I want this one found, and dealt with harshly."
  Did I just receive an executive order to kill?  "Yes, sir!" Joshua replied smartly, starting to bow.  Halfway, he changed his mind and began to salute, the combination resulting in the comical impression of a marionette operated by a drunk puppeteer.
  The members of the War Department broke into guffaws, and Joshua felt his cheeks burn with shame.  Oh, I'll be a wonderful US Marshall.  I'm certain to make the devil dogs laugh themselves to death. 

CHAPTER FIVE
  Stumbling through the billowing clouds of gunsmoke, Dr. Eugene Parker moved through the Virginia battlefield searching for wounded soldiers.  Countless bodies from both sides of the conflict were strewn across the cold grass.  But there was only death to be found this night.  
  Cannons roared, miniballs hummed through the air, men shrieked, and everything seemed to be exploding.  Temporarily lost amid the thunder chaos, Dr. Parker could not precisely remember why he had first thought that volunteering for the Union Army Medical Corps had been such a good idea.  To serve my country, and save lives.  Fine words, noble ideals.  But those didn't help a lot when rebel bullets were flying past a man in the darkness, and the screaming of the fallen soldiers never seemed to stop.  Not even in my drunken dreams.  How the Surgeon-General William Hammond could endure it all without becoming a drunkard, Parker had no idea.
  Stopping alongside a riddled corpse, Dr. Parker knelt in the mud and used a pair of pliers to remove a .577 miniball from the gaping chest of a Union lieutenant.  Dropping the bloody lead sphere into a tin box packed with red-stained cotton, he tucked the grisly object away, and continued looking for more dead soldiers to harvest.  
  With every step, the little boxes in his greatcoat rattled from the accumulated bullets.  The box in the right pocket held rounds from dead Union soldiers, while the left side held ones extracted from the Confederates.  That was his idea, to check the dead on both sides.  Every avenue of investigation must be pursued if they were to find a solution to these mysterious deaths.  Perhaps the rebels weren't using poisoned bullets.  Mayhap it was something else.  So the question became, was the same thing murdering the Confederates?  The only way to know for sure was to check all of the dead, Northerners and Southerners.  Blue or gray, they bleed red, Parker noted, shuffling through the muddy terrain.  There were bare human limbs strewn about the woods and field.  An eyeball here, some teeth over there, a boot with a foot still inside.  In spite of his work with cadavers, Dr. Parker felt sick, but pushed that thought out of his mind through sheer willpower.  Get in, do the job, get out and retch later.  That was the creed of every surgeon.
  Just then, the cannons paused for a moment, and blessed peace ruled the battlefield.  Probably just letting the barrels cool. 
Sporadic gunfire peppered the night, and Parker ducked low behind a splintery tree stump.  His hat bore the symbols of both sides, declaring him a non-combatant, but miniballs were notoriously egalitarian in the dark.
  A low moan of pain sounded from nearby, and Dr. Parker rushed forward clutching his medical bag.  Somebody was still alive!  His orders from the War Department were clear and concise, get the bullets from dead men and ignore the living.  But that's not why he became a physician.  To Hades with my orders, Parker thought resolutely, scrambling past a burning troop wagon full of roasting bodies.  With any luck, I might be able to save a life tonight!
  Dodging around the dead horse, Dr. Parker discovered several men laying in a hollow depression behind a fallen tree.  None of them seem to be wounded, merely bloody, muddy, and frantically reloading their Confederate rifles.  Oh crud.
  "A Yankee!" a soldier cried out, swinging up his Enfield rifle and cocking the hammer.
  "Neutral observer!" Dr. Parker shouted, raising both hands in surrender.  
  With a finger on tight on the trigger, the private frowned at the cry, then squinted at the symbols decorating the physician's hat.
  "Get moving, sawbones," a corporal drawled in a thick accent. Opening a Navy telescope to its full length, the man scanned the tumultuous battlefield. "No business for you here."
  "Not yet anyway," another private muttered, ramming a nimrod down the steaming barrel of his weapon to tramp down a fresh charge of blackpowder.  A crimson soaked rag was tied around the left sleeve of his gray uniform, but the wound didn't seem to be slowing down the reloading process.
  Silently nodding assent, Dr. Parker ran away from the rebel soldiers as they began to snipe at the approaching Union ranks.  Hiding behind a boulder, Dr. Parker paused to catch his breath, then dangerously jerked up his head at a familiar sound.  There it was again, a whimpering cry of pain.     
  Squinting through the roiling gunsmoke, Dr. Parker spotted a still figure laying on the torn up grass only a few yards away.  Moaning softly, the wounded man was dressed only in burnt rags, and covered with so much blood that it was impossible to tell which side he belonged to.  
  Licking dry lips, Parker debated trying to a sprint through the hail of bullets when the stricken fellow shuddered and went terribly still.   
  In the nearby woods, a bank of Union cannons roared, throwing hellfire and smoke across the landscape.  The brass Napoleons jumping up, their two wheels actually leaving the ground from the recoil of the blast.  They hung suspended in the air, then came crashing back down.  Instantly, the Union cannoneers rushed forward with damp swabs to clean out the hot barrels, and shove in a fresh load of death.
  Far across the open field came the roar of the Confederate Napoleons.  "Front line...volley fire!" somebody yelled in a Southern accent. 
  Through the murky atmosphere, Dr. Parker could dimly see the line of Confederate troops advance, level their British-made Enfield rifles, and fire just slightly out of sequence.  It sounded almost like a stick being racked along a picket fence.  
  Emerging from the trees, Union soldiers flew backwards from the incoming lead.  The Union cannons thundered in dire response, the tin canisters of buckshot releasing hundreds of miniballs at the Confederate lines.  As the swirling columns of acidic smoke reached across the battlefield, there could be seen gaping holes in the ranks.  The men on either side of the gaps recoiled in shock at the realization of what had just happened to their brothers-in-arms only inches away.
  Standing unharmed in the middle of a large gap was a young soldier.  With shaking hands the teenager raised his Enfield to shoot, then lifted his rifle high overhead and gave the dreaded rebel yell and charged the Northern cannons.  Taking heart, the rest of the Confederate battalion joined the rally.  At the sight, the Union troops broke ranks to rush out and eagerly meet the enemy.  Bugles blared, drums rumbled, and thousands of men began shouting, the ground shaking beneath their boots.  Cannons roared, guns fired, bayonets gleamed, blood sprayed, bodies dropped.
  Brave men, brave fools.  More goddamn bullets to harvest.  Wiping sweat from tired eyes, Dr. Parker turned away from the furious combat.  They were all so young.  Beardless youths playing at the most dangerous game of all. 
  Looking down a grassy side of a hillock, the doctor saw the effluvia of war everywhere; broken rifles, knapsacks, hats, canteens, bedrolls, burnt paper, and endless pieces of corpses.  Bloody swords jutted from the ground like some kind of horrible military flower, the colorful tassels fluttering jauntily in the bitter wind.  Roiling gunsmoke drifted across the hills and fields like clouds, and the moonlight gave everything a silvery hue.  Silver was the colors blue and gray combined, Dr. Parker noted philosophically.  Humanity could learn a lot from that ol' rock in the sky. 
  Flinching from the slap of the passing cannonball, the doctor dropped to a crouch.  Ruminate later, ya damn fool.  Dodge bullets tonight!  A crossfire of rounds from the North and South hummed dangerously close, the miniballs leaving little contrails in the smoky air.  Fueled by fear, the physician dove at the ground and hugged the mud.   
  As the fighting paused, Dr. Parker lurched to his feet and ran for the nearest depression in the ground.  Cannonballs never hit the same place twice.  Well, almost never.  A bomb crater was the closest thing to a safe haven that existed in the mad violence of combat.  
  Throwing himself into the hole, Parker landed hard, just missing a jagged rock.  He rolled away quickly trying to catch his breath.  Glancing about, the physician saw that there were others in the crater, a Confederate colonel minus a head, and a panting Union soldier holding his stomach in both arms.   
  "Doc, I seen him..." the soldier whispered, red drool flowing out of the corner of his mouth.
  "You'll be all right, son," Dr. Parker said soothingly, exactly as he had been trained.  The response was automatic.  The lad was probably talking about his commander, or mayhap Jesus Christ.  Hell's Bells, who wouldn't have hallucinations in this madhouse?
  The soldier reached out a trembling hand that dripped blood. "Don't let it get me...don't..."
  Ah, he meant Death, the Grim Reaper himself.  Of course.  Scurrying forward, Parker knelt by the wounded man, trying to check the damage.  The pale soldier flinched from his touch, so Parker swung around his canvas medical bag and poured a dose of laudanum into the man's mouth.  He sputtered, and coughed out some of the fluid.  But after a few seconds, the twisted features eased and the soldier slumped unconscious.  Gingerly easing away the soldier's crossed arms, Dr. Parker cursed at what he saw.  A belly wound.  Those were almost always fatal.  
  Rummaging in the kit, Dr. Parker slapped on the biggest cotton bandage he had.  There was still a chance, if he moved fast enough and the Fates were kind.  Tying a pressure bandage on the damage, Parker then liberally poured a tincture of lime mixed with boiled water.  While the Apothecary-General did not believe in this new theory of 'germs', Parker had seen the remarkable results first hand of sterilizing wounds, and surgeons washing their hands between operations with diluted carbolic acid.  The survival rate of patients shot through the roof, and that was more than enough proof for him.  Parker didn't give a damn why washing wounds saved lives, just as long as it did.   
  In spite of being stupefied by the drugs, the soldier groaned at the stinging touch of the tincture, so Dr. Parker gave him another taste of the laudanum.  Dangerous for a belly wound, but there was no choice.  Laudanum was nasty stuff, terribly addictive, but there was no better painkiller in the world than liquefied opium.
  Shouting a battlecry, Union soldiers raced past the blast crater firing their rifles.  Hot lead swarmed above the depression like angry bees, often followed by the angry splat of a man hit.  
  Somewhere in the distance, the deep-throated roar of a Seacoast mortar sounded it's presence.  Holding his breath, Dr. Parker looked at the starry sky, trying to spot the incoming shell, but the black bomb was invisible against the night.  Then a telltale whistle started building into a sharp keen to the left.  Too close!  Desperately, Dr. Parker threw himself on top of the wounded soldier just as the massive 220 pound bomb impacted.  The entire valley seemed to jump from the titanic explosion, the strident blast so loud that the world went silent for a moment.  Then the concussion hit with savage fury, slapping Parker off the bloody soldier.  High overhead, the leaves in the trees rustled from the halo of iron shrapnel, and a dozen voices cried out in pain, only to be instantly silenced forever.
  Crawling through the sticky mud, Parker found the soldier miraculously still alive, but the bandage had come loose and the belly wound was bleeding again.  Frantically fixing that as best as possible, Dr. Parker risked a peek out of the crater to survey the area.  There was no sign of a field hospital, or even of a corpsman moving through the combat gathering the wounded in a cart.  But there was a stand of pine trees only a dozen yards away.  There was no fighting nearby, and the big trees would offer some meager protection from shrapnel as he operated.  The damage to the man's stomach needed to be flushed out and stitched closed, and the sooner the better.  Every passing second put the boy closer to a coffin.  Parker knew there was no choice.  He would simply have to risk a run across the open field.  God help me.
  Gently cradling the limp soldier in his arms, Dr. Parker awkwardly waddled out of the crater, then crouched low in the weeds, waiting for a lull in the firing.  When it came, he stood and raced across the battleground.  At every step, Parker expected to feel the punch of a miniball.  The physician couldn't believe the luck when he reached the copse and slipped into the cool shadows of the pine trees.  Safe, by jingo!  
  Catching his breath, Dr. Parker looked around the open area inside the stand of trees.  As expected, other people were already here, Blue and Grey soldiers laid out in neat rows on the ground.  As if this was a hospital ward.  Parker angrily scowled at the patients laying on bare ground instead of canvas cots, and there were no nurses or doctors in sight.  There wasn't even a fire to warm the night air.  The only illumination came from the full moon directly overhead.   
  Holding the bleeding man in his weary arms, Dr. Parker walked along the lines of soldiers looking for someplace to place down his patient.  Then he caught a glimpse of their faces and froze motionless.  Every solider present was dead, their stiff bodies twisted into unnatural positions as if they had died in wracking agony, the lips drawn back to form a hideous rictus of pain.  More victims of the poisoned bullets?  But there were so many, who had been out collecting bodies?  Perhaps his opposite number from the Confederate Army?  That could be good news if the fellow would cooperate and exchange medical notes on the matter.  
  Noticing a movement in the shadows, Dr. Parker turned to see a large man glide out of the bushes.  The fellow was wearing a greatcoat and boots, with a wide cloth hat and knitted scarf that hid his face.  But a black leather doctors portmanteau was held firmly in one gloved hand. 
  A fellow physician!  Thank the lord.  At the welcome sight, Dr. Parker sighed in relief.  Then a chance breeze pushed open the coat revealing two additional arms inside the garment. 
  Four arms?  Tightening his grip on the unconscious soldier, Dr. Parker turned to flee.  But he only got a few feet towards the trees before white hot pain slammed him in the spine.  Shot!  I've been shot in the back!  B-but there was no noise of a pistol...
  Dropping the wounded soldier, Dr. Parker fell painfully to the ground and struggled to look backwards, desperately hoping this was just a hallucination from the laudanum fumes.  Bathed in moonlight, the approaching thing knelt by the dying soldier and removed the thick scarf to expose the obscene horror waiting underneath.
  "Impossible..." Dr. Parker gasped, raising a protective hand.
  Pausing at the words, the grotesque monster turned to look directly into his face.  Their gazes locked, and the inhuman thing began to crawl forward.  That was when Parker started to wildly scream, but the sound went unheard amid the deafening chaos of the furious battle. 
-END OF SAMPLE CHAPTERS-

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