PROLOGUE

Savannah Jail, Georgia

The disgusting lump of flesh once known as Samuel Patrick O’Hart paced anxiously in

his tiny, damp cell, angry and desperate as a defanged beast, or a bird of prey plucked of its

feathers. He could barely sit still despite the fact that he was more exhausted than he had ever

been in his twenty-four years. The stench of his cell was overwhelming: decaying flesh, rancid

food, blood, bile, vomit, and Lord knows what else stained the dirt and pebble floor. The vermin

that ran in and out of his cell through tiny holes in the walls seemed to hide from him most of the

time. Wisely, he thought, since their blood was warm and mostly satisfying if the blood of man

was unobtainable.

Having not fed for days, awaiting trial and probable hanging, he realized that he might

not live to see his birthday, November 2, which was All Soul’s Day, or as the Mexicans called it,

the Day of the Dead. Divine Providence made sure that he was not born on November 1, All

Saint’s Day. How fitting that such a ghastly creature would be born on the day when the church

remembered all of its dead, not just the ones whose holiness was obvious. Only God Himself

knew where they went, and whether their faith was true. Sam wondered if God has already put

his name on the ledger of the goats. He had never been good at being a lamb anyway.

The filth of his cell reminded him of the battlefield tents and hospitals, where men

screamed as their limbs were severed and tossed into buckets, sometimes still warm and damp

with plasma. It was a strangely warm October night in Georgia and the moisture hung like vines

on the walls. The cell’s cramped dimensions compressed the layers of southern humidity like the

layers of pies in an oven. The sea breeze that would often carry away the humidity was absent

tonight, and the air seemed to be a sticky, damp mass in itself that could be cut by a knife, or

sharp teeth.

His clothes were already matted and disgustingly damp and it pained this southern dandy

to realize how far he had fallen. He still wore the woolen gray uniform of the South, with green

patches given to him by the Irish Jasper Greens, but it was disintegrating quickly, having been

shot full of holes, and his once shiny black boots were smeared with mud, blood, and horse

manure that formed a paste that would not come off.

His skin no longer seemed to belong to a living man. He was so pale that his Irish

relatives would seem Mediterranean in comparison. His face was more gaunt and drawn, the

way it might look if he were peacefully laying in a coffin. He could hear his own heart throbbing

in his ears, a sound he had not heard since he had a fever in his youth. Maybe he was still human

deep down underneath layers of macabre repulsiveness. Perhaps it was not really all over for

mortal Sam. Did one have to live forever as a ghoul against one’s own will? Was the bite really

permanent? Was the blood he took from others permanently within himself? What was the

essence of a man, after all? A man might change, but is he not the same man?

He assumed his baptism would shield him from evil and grant him salvation in the next

life, but now he thought this a silly Christian myth. And if it was indeed true, St. Peter would

never call his name. He did not even know what the truth was anymore, for he was so deep in

the abyss and his soul was still trapped in its gloom, like an alleyway forbidden to any man with

an ounce of self-respect . But whereas the dawn chased away shadows of the night and allowed

a mortal man to smile in its light, forgiven of his faults and transgressions from the night before,

Sam could not know sunlight or forgiveness. He felt damned while still walking the earth,

excommunicate and anathema to all that was good in the world.

How strange that this creature of darkness was once so full of life. How ironic that he

would give up so much to help the Cause, and now that things were going so well for the South,

he was dragged from the battlefield in chains by his fellow Georgians. His Confederate brothers

had bravely fought the invading Yanks, spilling their blood and leaving him to feed on the dead

and dying ones from both sides.

He wondered if they would let him live until at least through the next day. He hoped his

attorney father would make this demand to the authorities, if Seamus Patrick O’Hart even came

to see the son who had openly defied him so many times and brought so much shame to the

family. Even a stay of execution would buy Sam time to substantiate a defense, but Georgia was

bloodthirsty for traitors and monsters. He should be praised as a hero, since he did assist the

surgeons on the battlefield who cut and sewed men like garments. He also ran missions no one

else wanted, risking his life and fortune running the blockade, and most of all ensured that

supplies made their way safely from the Caribbean, to Savannah, then to Atlanta or anywhere

they were needed by his Confederate brothers. Yet there were rumors that some of these

supplies went to the Union, with Sam’s permission. This was absurd, but lies were easier to

believe than the truth, especially in these suspicious times.

Sam was always in such a hurry to live that it never occurred to him how he would die.

He deserved it, after all the things he had done, his Irish Catholic guilt overwhelming him into

stony silence for the first time in his life. While his Irish grandparents had always told him that

the world would break his heart someday, the church also taught him that God was merciful and

loving. At the feet of priests he learned that Jesus died for all men, and that our trials would

someday be over. We would join Christ in paradise. But at the moment he felt undeserving of

mercy or love, for he had rarely shown any to anyone. His life was worth less than torched bales

of cotton rotting in the rain.

Sam also hoped that his brother, Father Andrew James O’Hart, would arrive from

Brooklyn in time to get him out of this mess. Or if the legal system, such as it was, could not

save someone accused of so many crimes, maybe the church could at least save his soul, if he

even had one anymore.

Sam’s nostrils were suddenly filled with the stench of alcohol, perspiration, and an aroma

that was obviously wafting from a mortal man approaching his cell. These scents were distinct

from his own stench because to him a mortal man had an aroma far more appetizing than fresh

bread. He sensed that someone was walking toward him long before he heard the slap of leather

boots on the stony floor and the jingling of keys that echoed down the hall like a gong being

banged by an executioner. The approaching mortal made so much noise that even the dead souls

in Bonaventure cemetery could probably hear him. It was a large, stupid bear of man named

Luther that Sam had hoped to never see again. So far he was the only custodian of this café of

clarion to make an appearance. Their enmity was entirely mutual, thick and repulsive as the

dried blood on the floors of the cell. Sam realized also that there were stairs leading down into

this area, so they must be underground, probably in a long forgotten subterranean tunnel for

yellow fever victims.

“Samuel! Welcome back! I’ve wanted to talk to you again for some time. Maybe you

can explain to me what happened when you broke out of here months ago. This was the very

cell I put you in, with those poor bastards that you killed.”

“I had to defend myself, you idiots would not. The others attacked me and I fought back.

You know this to be true. If they died later, it was not my fault. Does my father know I am here?

Have I had any visitors?”

“Visitors are not allowed for scum like you. Maybe you should call a priest. Isn’t your

brother a clergyman?”

“Yes.”

“Well, where is he?”

“He’ll be here soon.”

The burly, grotesque man with shaggy hair hanging off his balding dome leaned against

the bars, his body shaking enough for sweat to fly off and for Sam to catch his musky aroma in

even greater waves. It reminded him of corpses but worse. At least the stench faded from the

corpses, and for Sam, fresh corpses had kept him alive for months. But at the same time, this

was a living man, with delicious red honey in his veins. “You know, Sam, we ain’t hung nobody

‘round here in a while. Heck we ain’t even built scaffolding for you yet. So you do have some

time. Assuming they don’t knock down the front door of the cottage upstairs and just walk in

here and drag you to the square and hang you from a tree. I could forget to lock it, you know. It

could happen!” The jailer’s almost toothless grin reminded Sam of the creatures he had fed upon

during this strange journey from ambitious merchant with a fixed number of days in his life to a

bloodsucker that might outlive the pines of the Georgia forest.

“Shut up. I haven’t been convicted of anything.” But Sam wondered: would they drag

him through the streets? Kill a monster for amusement and retribution as in the days of witches

and inquisitions? The thought that Savannah had seen so many duels and such violence that men

would take and give life so easily made Sam shudder. Normally Sam could charm his way out

of any situation. He had stared down the barrels of guns and knives most of his life, bluffing to

win card games, hiding from jealous husbands, stashing surplus merchandise to sell for his own

profit. The Game made him feel alive. He never dreamed he could ever be beaten. There was

always one more card or piece to play, one more dollar stashed away somewhere. But ever since

Georgia seceded, his luck had risen and fallen, then fallen further. His charm had evaporated,

replaced by mortal fear. For the first time in his life, he had to beg. And somehow he knew it

would not be the last time.

“I’m a man, damn you! Stop treating me like a monster!” He could not hide the

desperation in his voice. He could no longer hide what he was in a dark tent with the army

sleeping soundly in a valley, volunteering for nocturnal guard duty to avoid the garish sun. The

spotlight of justice shone very brightly now, as his father would say, and he did not like it.

The jailer’s voice was suddenly quiet, almost a whisper. “Sam, there are people outside

that want to burn you at the stake. They think you are a monster. Why put off something we all

know is going to happen?” He looked to either side to make sure no one could hear him. There

were no other prisoners in the jail tonight; they were all off fighting in Virginia, building boats

and barges, or otherwise too busy to cause trouble.

“Then let me out of here! Just take me home. Or let me walk to the river. I can get

passage to Tybee Island and from there, I will sail to Nassau or Havana and you will never see

me again.”

“I’m not ready for that yet. We need to talk. I’ve heard some strange stories about you,

Sam. I always knew you wasn’t the high brow businessman about town that you’d like everyone

to think ya are. Yer a whoremonger and a drunk, and a damn nigger-lover, but everyone knows

that. What the hell happened in Virginia? Did you really--”

“Oh Luther, shut UP!” Sam glared at him. Sam tried to silence his captor with his stare,

but his eyes were dimmer and he could no longer influence a man with only a look as he once

could. Did people really talk so much? Damn Savannah and its gossip. Maybe this is why

people went to Atlanta, or New York, or New Orleans, where they could hide in plain sight

among so many other sinners.

“Sam, I want to know…did you really…well…do you really do all those things they talk

about? Tell me the whole story, and maybe I’ll letcha go. Maybe.”

Sam was sure he knew what things the jailer meant. His first impulse was to laugh off

such foolishness. His backup plan was to deny everything, like he often did so well. It was not

the business of these mortal fools to judge what he had done. He had his reasons. For months,

he was getting the men their most essential supplies, with or without railroads to help. He had

made it happen. There would be no starving men in the Valley Forges of this revolution if Sam

had anything to say about it.

But even his own men had grown to wonder who Sam really was, and what he was really

after. He feared that sooner or later his true nature would be discovered, but hoped the war

would end first and then he could conceal his hunger, feeding in the alleys and ports of the Low

Country. He could take his huge profits from selling war materials, stay on his plantation, and

live happily ever after when the Confederacy was finally recognized as the nation that it was.

Maybe his family would love and accept him for the monster that he was. They seemed caring

enough before, when he was merely a troublemaking young man.

But apparently word spread of the surgical assistant and frequent night guard who

narrowly avoided injury time and time again, who somehow survive and even win several

skirmishes, no doubt from some strange supernatural gift. Southerners were very superstitious,

and full of religious fire and fury, and had no problem turning on one of their own who seemed

out of place in their limited view of what a southern man should be.

“Tell me a good bedtime story, Sam, and I might get you some stout.”

“Go to hell! You can’t judge me! I will only talk to a priest. Where is Father James?”

“Oh you mean the one that moved north just as we were about to fight? That one? Is

your brother a traitor like you?”

Sam suddenly sprang to life and lunged at his jailer, but Luther merely stepped back and

let Sam slam into the ancient iron bars. He fell backwards to the floor, as though he were only a

limp rag, his head resting on the floor. “I am not a damn monster! I am a man!” Sam shouted,

his voice beginning to break. “A man of Savannah!”

Looking at him, the jailer wondered if Sam would indeed live to see the dawn, and

whether his end would be natural or due to execution. But how could this thing be natural

anyway? His flesh was pale, his reddish brown hair long and matted, his clothes in tatters, and

his fingernails disgustingly unkempt. How could this be the same man who was once a prized

son of Savannah, a rakish and charismatic social climber? Was he really no longer of this earth?

There were two other things that gave away Sam’s supernatural nature. His eyes were

still blue, but now they were a flaming, angry, hurtful blue, having seen and done too many

unspeakable things. And his voice was not that of a mortal man when it was raised in anger. It

was deep and guttural as though it was from another world, an anger from beyond the grave. Yet

still with a bit of a drawl, he never stopped crying out: “I’m not a monster! I’ve done nothing to

anyone but kill Yankees! Isn’t that what you wanted from me? I’m still Samuel! Samuel

Patrick O’Hart! Get me out of here damn you! Let me go back to my men! They need me! I’m

the leader of the brigade band! The General will---“

Luther looked at him contemptuously. “The General thinks you’re dead. You should be.

All those bullets an’ balls shot at ya, but the only blood on ya is on your fingernails…and your

teeth…” Samuel had forgotten how shocking his appearance must be. He walked to a corner of

the cell where a small puddle of water reflected his image in the torchlight, and could barely

recognize himself.

Since anger, threats, and pity were not working, Sam tried a different tactic on his jailer.

Despite his weariness Sam piped up in his best party boy voice, “Maybe I have been harsh. My

time in here seems to have…changed me. I would love a good glass of wine, my friend, and

some washcloths, and—“

“Aw shut yer hole! Ya ain’t gonna charm me, ya monster. Do you want a different

priest? They’re all the same, ain’t they?”

Sam stepped back from the bars of his cage, repulsed by the suggestion. “I don’t want

another damn priest! That’s how I got to be this way!”

“What? So you admit you are a monster after all, eh? And the church made you this

way? What do you mean, Sam?”

Sam hung his head but raised it enough for his scowling eyes to glare at the guard. “I

have nothing more to say to you. But where is my father, the attorney?”

The guard began to walk away. “He is on his way. He went looking for you, ya damn

fool”.

Suddenly Sam seemed to melt. His voice was suddenly rather like a boy than a man,

more like a wounded angel than a monster. Luther actually thought he heard Sam sobbing.

“Please…please…bring me some water. They have brought me nothing all day. Then I will tell

you everything.”

He may have not been a mortal man any more, but whatever he was, he was indeed

dying. Every hour that passed without him feeding, he knew his essence was slipping away,

melting like ice. He was told that he could live forever on this Earth if he did certain things and

avoided certain other things. His new hunger, combined with the fever of war, led him and other

soldiers to commit acts beyond any barbarism known before. And if his hunger did not kill him,

surely the people of Savannah would. Maybe the dawn itself would kill him first. Direct sunlight

made him sick, even when he was well-fed, and now he was starving. He was tempted to pray

for the first time in memory. But God does not listen to those already damned, does he? What

was the point? He was taught that God forgives, but…how could God forgive him for the things

he had done, the things he had seen?

After a few futile attempts at remembering prayers from long ago, the guard returned

with some water and stale bread. “There ain’t a whole lot to eat around here anyway. All

surplus is shipped off to Atlanta, then to the front. But here’s a little something for ya.”

Sam was sitting against the back wall, looking even weaker now, his eyes closed. His eyes

were closed, and for the first time, the guard was moved with pity for him.

So the jailer opened the cell with his key and while leaving the door ajar, walked over to

Sam, looking at his face, not paying attention to his hands, which were slowly, silently, flexing

and tightening into fists. “I’m not heartless, ya know Sam, I—“

All at once Sam leapt to his feet while the guard was still prone and leaning toward the

floor. Luther had seen many strange things in Savannah, but he had never seen anyone move so

fast. Sam kicked him hard in the face, his boot soles spraying blood everywhere. The guard

screamed as he realized his prominent beak of a nose was broken, and Sam was on him like a

buzzard, licking the blood on the surface, then slurping it out of the wound. As the guard tried to

shout again, thrashing around, Sam yanked his head hard to the right, then the left, then up, and

the guard breathed no more. But his heart was still beating loudly in Sam’s ears, and before the

furious clamor of smacking boots from other guards echoed down the hallway, Sam had already

drained much of the carotid artery, and was about to move to the legs to see if any more was still

in his thighs.

“My God! What have ya done to Luther? What kind of monster are ya?” This was the

shout of the head of security, Bentley, and as befit someone with a higher rank, he had a better

weapon, and the blunt handle of his ax knocked Samuel to the ground, stunning him long enough

to allow the other men to attach tight rope to his limbs and raise him to his feet. Much of the

blood he was attempting to ingest was dripping from his mouth and throat, as another guard

hastily approached the scene.

“Yer gonna die in the morning, but if it were up to me, we’d slice you open here, burn ya,

and throw your guts in the river. Stupid bloodsucking mick!”

Sam smiled at his captor, but as the guard walked out, Sam lunged for him and bit into

his arm, blood surging into his mouth, and in mere moments, before anyone could pull him off,

Samuel was fully alive again, breaking his restraints, and screaming with vengeance, the warm

blood of two men surging in his body, bringing it to life again, the roar of their hearts in his ears.

“Where is my brother? Where is Father James O’Hart? Is he back from New York?” He

growled in a voice not of this earth, the fresh blood rising in his brain. “He is coming, I know it!

Where is he? Why are you keeping my brother from me?” His growl echoed through the jail and

into the streets. No one who heard it would sleep well. “Georgia will burn! Let me out of here!

Bring me my brother! Let me go! Georgia will burn! If I go down, all of you are going down

with me!”

The guard got back on his feet, pale but alive. But now his sergeant had caught up to the

fracas, and pointed his revolver at Sam’s head from only a few feet away. “Your brother is not

here, Samuel. But I am. And a mob will be here in the morning, to give you what you deserve.”

“Why? What have I done? My father is an attorney, he can help...explain this!” He

almost comically tried to wipe the blood from his face, which was miraculously beginning to

look human again, pink and soft as he was before the transformation. Ironically he looked more

like a normal man after feeding because the blood returning to his face made him seem like an

unkempt human rather than a monster.

The sergeant pointed his cold pistol at Sam’s chest now, and Sam recoiled fully. “If I

shot you in the head, it might not matter, but the Gullah women say that to slay a monster, it has

to be in the heart. Is that true? Should we find out?” He deftly moved his pistol to his left hand

and pressed it into Sam’s temple, while his right hand held a wooden stake about a foot long,

sharpened at one end. “Maybe between the two of these…”

Sam did not move, his burst of strength fading fast. A biscuit is not enough to save a

man who has not eaten in days, he thought. “There is no defense for war crimes, Mr. O’Hart, or

Hart, or whatever you call yourself these days. You are a traitor to the Confederacy. You are a

war profiteer. But worst of all, you are a monster. You are a bloodsucking murderer. And to

top it all off, you’re a god-damn niggerlover who helps the Yanks! We know that you ran away

after we lost Fort Pulaski! You deserted us when we needed you the most! Georgia has no use

for scum like you.” Three guards, each probably twice Sam’s weight, were on him at once, and

they forced him back to the wall, where he slumped to the ground. Then the sergeant walked

away, his boots slapping the hard stone floors, smacking in the little puddles of rancid water,

spilled blood, and other odorous fluids that not even the rats would drink. The other guards

slammed the door behind them.

Sam slowly sank to the floor again and screamed, “Let me out of here!” But he was not

done yet. Samuel scraped at the stony earth beneath him. Between the stones he found a spot of

dirt in which he inserted his right hand. He grasped the soil in his filthy, blood-soaked fingers

and closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and focused on the energy of the Earth, and Georgia, and

his family, and all the brave men fighting for the protection of his home in Georgia, with its

churches and brothels, its schools and pubs, its sandy beaches of crabs and driftwood.

After each image flashed through his mind rapidly, his pulse quickened, and he saw the

battlefield, the men cut to pieces first by canister, then by disease, then by cannon, and on and on

and on. The blood of his brothers lay before him as a lake, and in his mind he bent down to

drink from it, as though it were the River Jordan, and not a pool of waste and tragedy. If they

only knew, he thought, as he smiled, opening his eyes. As he felt the fresh blood running

through his body, he summoned what little of it was left within himself, and sprang to his feet,

crying out again, in an echo that sent chills up the spine of everyone within earshot. It was a

voice that no son of God or Man could summon and as he had done so many times before, he

summoned an inner strength far beyond that of any mortal man. This was the strength of the

Earth itself. He tried to summon it as he had done on the battlefield, and as had happened then,

his strength surged like a dozen adrenalin bursts at once.

He lunged toward the bars of his cell, the shackles bending from his supernatural

exertions, but he was only able to scrape against the bars themselves them as he bellowed:

“Bring me Father Andrew James O’Hart! I will burn Savannah to the ground and the blood of its

children will run in the streets! I will be free! You cannot keep me here!”

This was the voice of desperation, with the sudden strength amid the death gasp that

Samuel assumed was just a device of the theatre, or a myth invented by the desperate, the old,

the damned. Now he knew it was real, and that Georgia was in great danger as well. “I have

foreseen the end of the war! Listen to me! Listen to me, damn you! Georgia will burn! Georgia

will burn! Yanks will march into Savannah! You must free me to stop it!”

Before the echo died, a wind howled through the streets, cold enough to douse every

torch, and suck the oxygen out of every fireplace. No one slept well that night in the Low

Country. Everyone had nightmares. They were having them anyway, with so many of its young

men fighting for their lives so far away. But tonight their nightmares were filled with horrid

visions of the war, not in Virginia, but right there in Georgia. Yankees in Georgia seemed

unthinkable. While many of the battles were not decisive victories, all they had to do was hold

off the Yankees and convince them to leave the South alone. But Georgia burning? No, it can’t

be. No one would speak of these visions the next day.

But Sam was not done. “Georgia will burn, damn you all! Let me out of here!” He

banged his tired head against the bars, trying to will the walls to collapse around him like

Samson.

Stories about Sam’s unusual adventures in Savannah and on the battlefield had filtered

back to Savannah and spread to other towns as well, especially among the Africans know

believed in supernatural powers. There were rumors of madness, of beasts and men found dead

without any trace of blood, of bravery in battle and long dark nights awake watching his

comrades. Everyone knew that Samuel was endeavoring to bring supplies to the front, but some

of them ended up in Union hands. If any of it was purely for his own profit, which was all that

Samuel Patrick O’Hart had ever cared about, then he did deserve to die.

No one was surprised that Samuel got into trouble, but how could he have sold supplies

to the enemies? The rumors must be a mistake. And what was he now, this pale creature? Was

he even a man anymore? Did he change somehow? Was he possessed by evil spirits? Had the

Yankees somehow cursed the southerners on the battlefield?

Bizarre happenings in Savannah were not seen as unusual by its natives; they added

flavor to their town. But when the war came, strange events and sightings seemed to take over

this already adventurous but polite oasis in the Southern desert of pines and live oaks. Murders

were more common. People were happy one day, despondent the next. Many took their own

lives or merely disappeared. Anyone suspected of not being completely for The Cause, heart,

soul, and body, had to leave Georgia forever or face ruin, and even hanging.

Sam was tired of trying to get attention, and when he knew no one was coming, he

suddenly wondered where was Julius, his fellow creature, who had taught him so much. For that

matter, where was his wife? His friends? Would they abandon him when he was tried and

convicted, or would they show up for his crucifixion? Sam lay down on his back, and spread his

limbs out as though practicing for a cross, imitating the many crucifixes in his childhood home.

Just then a distinctive, gentle but confident baritone filled the entire passage. It was a

voice that had converted many hardened hearts to Christ. “Don’t flatter yourself, little brother.

Georgia’s not gonna burn, and neither will you. No crosses for you. Stop these dramatics.

Trouble since the day you were born, you were.” From the shadows the tall dark form of Father

Andrew James O’Hart suddenly appeared in his view.

Samuel was taken completely by surprise, which rarely happened to him since his

transformation. But his hearing and sight were barely at a human level now. His physical

strength all went into that last heaving at the bars of his cell, and the fury of his primordial wail

was now long gone. “Brother, is that really you? Thank you for coming.”

Father James reached into his coat and retrieved a letter, and waved it before Sam.

“What happened? When I got this from Rosalita, I had to come at once.” The new guard came

with Father James, and a simple gesture from this priest was all it took for the guard to open the

door and let him in. “Well at least they gave you your own cell.”

“For all the good it will do me.”

“Well last time, they threw you in with the riff raff and look at what happened.” James

was one of only two men who knew what happened the other time Samuel was in this jail. They

would take comfort in his solitary confinement today, for his safety and the safety of others.

Father James walked over to Sam as he attempted to stand, and held his brother’s face in

his hands. Samuel felt the warmth in the priest’s hands ebb into him, and he closed his eyes. He

started sobbing, not for the first time today. Samuel was suddenly almost limp, his slight weight

now on Father James’s chest. “Thank you for coming, Jimmy. Thank you.”

“Brother, brother…what happened? Last I heard you were getting ready to take supplies

to the front, and got into a skirmish in Virginia, but then…what happened to your skin? You are

so pale, so cold. Should I send for a doctor?”

“I already did. And you are here. You have to fix me. They are going to hang me in the

morning.”

“Fix you? What do you mean? They have to give you a trial, don’t they?”

For the first time, Father James looked his brother over, foot to head, and realized that

something was indeed very wrong. Samuel had always been slender, almost elfin, but now he

was much too thin; his body resembling a rodent more than a man, so thin that he could slip out

right between his arms.

“I have gone to the other side, brother. I have been to hell and back.”

“I know, I know, the war is horrible, and—“

“No, that was only a taste of hell, an appetizer. The battles were just the start, bread for

the circus, crab soup for the grim reaper. Remember the she crab soup and rolls mother made for

us? Remember the pasta Rosie would make to go with it? Oh Jimmy she won’t even recognize

me now. I can’t go to her. And father does not know the whole story. Or maybe he does, and

that is why he is not here.”

“I still don’t understand. What do you want me to do for you? Father will be here in the

morning.” He retrieved his long fifteen-decade rope rosary from around his waist. “Pray with

me, brother,” and handed the rosary with the crucifix pointing toward him, but Sam recoiled as if

it were a knife.

“Sam…Sam what has happened to you?” The priest’s voice was deep and serious now,

and his deep blue eyes glared at Samuel brightly. “Sam, at least say the Lord’s Prayer with me.”

“No, no.”

The priest was puzzled. Sam was no saint but had always said his prayers. Both of them

were cradle Catholics, taught to say their prayers every morning and night from childhood. “Our

Father, who art…”

Sam spit and turned away.

“Here wash your hands…” The priest retrieved a small vial from his coat”.

“That is holy water, for baptism, not for hand washing, right?”

“How did you know?”

“I have to be careful.”

“How can you be repulsed by these things and not by me, a priest?”

Sam smiled. “Because I know you. I am not afraid of you.”

James was out of patience. “Well you still have not told me what you need me to do. Do

you need to make a confession?”

“No. Salvation is not an issue here. The lights of heaven do not shine for me.”

Father James frowned, his ecclesiastical arrogance on full display. This was hardly the

first time he had heard such self-pity. “Oh, that is absurd, Samuel. You know very well that

there is nothing you could do that cannot be forgiven. Why are you talking like a mad man?”

Sam looked right at him for the first time for more than a fleeting glance. They had both

become very good at reading people in their respective professions, but neither could read the

other one at all right now. Samuel looked for a solution that he knew Andrew James would

never offer, and in return the priest saw more despair in Samuel’s eyes than in all men’s faces

put together, even since the start of the war.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph….you have changed, haven’t you, Samuel?

“Don’t ask me to explain.” Suddenly Samuel sat up very straight “Father James, I don’t

want to die tomorrow.” He looked his brother dead in the eyes, their blue eyes flaring at each

other. “ I want to die now,” Sam barely whispered.

Father James almost laughed. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me! There is no time. Don’t tell me that I can’t choose when to die.”

The priest was emphatic, almost spitting his words. “You…can’t…choose…when to die,

Samuel. Life is precious, you have no right to throw it away. The Lord meant for you to be

born, he protected you on the battlefield, and here you are. And this is not the battlefield. It is

not up to you or I to decide when our time is over. We are all put here to accomplish a certain

number of things in accordance with God’s divine plan, and then the Lord calls us home. Our

Lord Jesus Christ faced his accusers, they took his life, and he rose again, as shall we all. As you

will also, if they condemn you tomorrow.”

“Well I must say, father, I am very disappointed in you. You have always had all the

answers, haven’t you brother, but now you have no answer for my prayer.”

“The damned cannot pray, but you and I can. You are not a condemned man, Sam. You

are not a lost soul”

“Yes I am. And where are the answers to my prayers? Why don’t I get what I want, what

I need?” Suddenly Sam went from sarcastically berating his elder brother to having to choke

back a sob. All of the insanity of the last few months hit him at once. “Damn you, James, you

always know how to bring a sinner to his knees.”

“Samuel, you know what our Lord told us: ‘Come to me, all who are burdened, and I

will give you rest.’ And we are all burdened in some way, and so we all must turn to God.”

“Then why doesn’t God answer our prayers?”

“Sometimes God Himself is the answer, Sam. You know these things. You were taught

the same as I. It is not too late. Whatever happened on the battlefield, or here in Savannah, it

can all be forgiven. Whatever guilt you might feel for killing, for surviving, lay it bare for the

Lord and let him give you pardon and peace.”

Samuel walked as far away from Andrew James as he could in this small space. “Then

you leave me no choice, brother!” Sam lunged at him, biting his thigh, but he could not

penetrate the heavy wool pants the priest wore, and Andrew James knocked him back with a kick

of his black leather boots. Sam skidded across the floor a few feet and was still.

Andrew James leapt to his feet. “What in God’s name was that? Did you try to bite me?

Have you gone insane? Maybe you are possessed. It can happen, especially with the war, the

destruction. Satan has come to America, and…” Suddenly Father James realized that Samuel

had not moved an inch and was still as a stone, unconscious.

“Sam! Sam, wake up! Samuel!” Father James’ screams echoed down the hallway, and

het did not care who heard him. “No, what have I done? Sam!” He ran to his brother’s still form

and fell to the floor. He held his brother’s lifeless body in his lap. Father James began sobbing,

despite himself, for he now saw that his little brother was dying. “No, no, you can’t do this, I

came as fast as I could, Sam! Please. So many…so many men have lost their brothers, fighting

for them, against them, but not us. Not now, not like this…”

One of the mangier guards who still had a few of his teeth snickered at him embracing his

dying brother. “Well isn’t that sweet, a Yankee padre and our little monster.”

“What?”

“I guess you haven’t heard. He sucks blood. He kills prostitutes and eats them. He

deserves to die. Him and all you other damn Irish.”

“Stop being foolish. This is my brother. Get me some water, some clean drinking water.

And some bandages, if you want to hang him in the morning, you at least need to keep him alive

until then.”

“Drop dead, ya mick. Visiting hours are over, Padre.”

Father James let Sam’s body slide down to the ground as gently as he could, and then he

stood up briskly. His long black cassock slapped against his legs, and his black boots smacked

the stony floor in anger. The guard was used to priests and preachers who were docile, almost

effeminate, who only growled when they were behind the pulpit. Father James was different.

Besides being over six feet tall with broad shoulders, he had a temper that only hours of prayer

brought under control. When his steely blue Irish eyes met those of the guard, the guard felt his

bladder unwind.

Andrew James was known for screaming without actually raising his voice, a whisper

through his clenched teeth that no victim of his anger ever forgot. “I am his priest, you fool!

And he is my brother! I will stay as long as I want! Look at what you have done to him!”

“Your brother killed one of my men!”

“That is impossible!”

“No it ain’t! Ask anyone!”

“Look at this place! Is this any way to treat a man of Savannah?”

The guard looked down at Sam’s nearly lifeless form, and then looked back up at Father

James, whose eyes were even wider and madder than before. This was the glare he had inherited

from his father. His blue eyes were frosty and unnerving, barely blinking. This man had faced

evil and stared it down many times. If Saint Patrick possessed a glare like that, then maybe he

really did clear the snakes from Ireland after all, with no more than the stare of saintly eyes.

His whisper was gone and the bellow of a man of God roared. “Now get me that water!”

The guard nearly fell over trying to run away before the echo died.

Even in his short career, Father James had become close to so many people, a

surprisingly number of whom were not even Catholic. He had an authoritative presence that

melted even those prepared to hate him for his religion or his roots. He had presided over

funerals, far too many for young men. He had watched older relatives waste away, but seeing his

brother like this, sicker than death yet still alive, was more than he could bear. He had buried

grandmothers and babies, and while he mourned for the lost ones and their families, Samuel was

rarely if ever sick, and Father James he had no idea how to handle it. His emotions were strong

but disciplined, and now he had no idea which impulse should be obeyed.

All of their lives, Samuel was the spritely leprechaun who had boundless energy and

charm, and now here he was, like Christ, beaten down by a world that could have been his

kingdom. Andrew James may have been the son the family bragged most about, but he often

had to hide his anger and lack of any real Irish charm, at least when compared to his father and

brother. The family counted on him to be perfect. Sam was the elfin troublemaker, but Andrew

James loved his brother and assumed Samuel would live forever.

He walked back to Sam and tried to rouse him. He was still breathing, but barely, his

pale skin fragile as paper, his nails filthy, his body weighing less than a shadow on the wall. He

tried to say the Lord’s Prayer, and suddenly realized he could not remember how to say it in

English or Latin either.

“Well look what you’ve made me do, Sam. I can’t remember my prayers!” He laughed

in his despair, realizing that he really loved his brother, despite all that had happened over the

years. They had drifted apart just as America herself had separated, like tectonic plates colliding

and then moving in opposite directions with everyone within a mile feeling the aftershocks.

Geographically, they had already drifted anyway, with Samuel building a business empire in

Savannah, and Andrew James completing the seminary in Brooklyn and working in parishes

there.

“Oh, what will the bishop say when I return to Brooklyn and can’t remember how to say

mass, Samuel? Did they do this to you on the battlefield? You were probably tending to an

injured soldier, or maybe they actually shot cannon at the band when you were there. War has

turned us all into savages. Monsters and dragons, all of us.” Then suddenly the scripture

readings leading up to Good Friday came to mind. “Like David, they have pierced your hands

and feet. I can count all of your bones.’ Or like Isaiah, ‘Oppressed and condemned, he was

taken away, and who would have thought any more of his destiny? When he was cut off from the

land of the living, and smitten for the sin of his people, a grave was assigned him among the

wicked and a burial place with evildoers, though he had done no wrong nor spoken any

falsehood.”

Samuel was awakening and could hear his brother’s prayerful voice. Although he would

never admit it, he marveled at his mercy and compassion. Such a good priest, so unlike most of

the others. He really believes in the Gospel, and honestly cares more about others than himself.

He does not know the truth of what I have done, he mused. One day they were drinking in

Savannah, toasting to their good fortunes, then suddenly they went their separate ways, and now

the road had led them back to Savannah.

“But the Lord was pleased to crush him in infirmity. If he gives his life as an offering for

sin, he shall see his descendants in a long life, and the will of the Lord shall be accomplished

through him.”

What shall become of Sam’s children? Father James wondered where they were. And

where was Rosalita? She was expected to meet him here. And where was their father, who

surely knew what had happened? Or did Samuel do something so terrible as to drive them all

away?

“Because of his affliction he shall see the light in fullness of days; through his suffering,

my servant shall justify many, and their guilt he shall bear.”

Suddenly Sam drew in a deep breath, and finished the prophecy. “Therefore I will give

him his portion among the great, and he shall divide the spoils with the mighty, because he

surrendered himself to death and was counted among the wicked; and he shall take away the sins

of many, and win pardon for their offenses.”

Sam sat up fully, as if he had come back to life. “Now is the triumph of darkness, Father

James. Savannah will have their revenge against me. It is over. I asked for this. I deserve it.”

“Oh for the last time, stop this nonsense. Don’t be so proud, and yet feeling sorry for

yourself. You are a son of God. You are among the chosen, but you are a sinner nonetheless.

You are not a king. You are not a monster.”

“Yes I am, brother. Yes I am.” Sam stared into space and did not move.

“Well then, confess your sins to me. Let me grant you absolution.” The young priest

retrieved his stole and gracefully hurled it over his broad shoulders and sat up, ready to grant

absolution

Sam bent his head down, gazing up sarcastically. “My own brother?”

“I am a priest you know! Besides, no one else will believe you, Sam. I doubt you could

confess something that a priest has never heard before.”

Sam smiled and laughed a bit, it was just too perfect. But then he began to cough, over

and over, and lost his breath completely, collapsing without even trying to break his fall.

“Sam! SAM!” He tried to lift him, but was afraid he would only make the wounds

worse.

Then Father James noticed something that was not so obvious before. There were indeed

rats making noise as they crawled through holes in the walls, but none came into the cell. And

even though Samuel hit the floor hard, cutting his face and arms, no blood seeped from his

wounds.

“Samuel! My God, what have they done to you! What sickness is this? How did it come

to this? Did war do this to you? Was it worth it, Sam? The freedom of the South? So much

blood for our pride?”

Sam did not hear a word. But a deep, dark voice, one that they had both known for years,

suddenly spoke. There had been no noise, nothing to warn Father James that he was being

watched. “Father James, how good of you to come all this way to see your brother.”

The priest looked up, startled. “Julius! Where did you come from? What have they done

to Samuel? Tell me! I’ve got to help him! What could he have done that they would imprison

him and consider hanging him?”

Julius strode closer to the disgusting cell, the body of his friend near death. “Oh

father….you have no idea.”

How had it come to this, after all? Who would ever believe it?