Propelled by curiosity, Mazorca approached the canal and looked at the box. Tucked inside, swaddled in a blanket, was a newborn baby. The child’s eyes were wide open, but it did not cry. At its feet, Mazorca saw the rectangular object that the woman had shifted: a brick. Actually there were two of them, and their grim purpose was apparent. It did not occur to Mazorca that he might reach into the water and pull the box out. As the baby meandered by, he felt nothing at all.
The child’s mother was obviously a whore, thought Mazorca. She did what whores so often do after giving birth, in their loneliness. The baby’s father might be a poor clerk or a rich senator. He had almost certainly vanished from the woman’s life long ago, just as suddenly as he had appeared, and he was not aware of what their brief encounter had created. Or what was now floating toward its doom.
Such was the way of things in Murder Bay, the seediest part of Washington. It slouched between the malodorous canal and the business district on Pennsylvania Avenue to the north, in a triangular section of the city between Ninth and Fifteenth streets. The streets were grimy and narrow, the buildings dilapidated, and the inhabitants dissolute. For all of its drawbacks, however, the area offered a concentration of amusements and diversions that could not be found anywhere else in the city: drinking saloons, gambling halls, and dens of ill repute.
Early on, Mazorca had learned to avoid the place. Although he was not above partaking of its vices, he wanted nothing to get in the way of his objective. Murder Bay posed too many risks: its cheap hotels weren’t safe, its alleyways were full of toughs and pickpockets, and its bars and bordellos were unwelcome distractions. Yet now he relied on the allure of its debauchery to help him reach his goal. Murder Bay was a magnet for certain types of men: young, far from home, unencumbered by the obligations of marriage and family. Soldiers were frequently all of these things at once. As day turned to night, they fell on Murder Bay in droves, intending to explore its decadent entertainments.
On this night, New York’s Seventh Regiment contributed heavily to their numbers. Its members came from the upper crust of their city-they were the sons of bankers and shippers. They had endured a long journey, marched past the White House, and settled into rooms at Willard’s and other fine hotels along Pennsylvania Avenue. In the morning, they were supposed to report to their new quarters in the House of Representatives, an empty chamber ever since the congressmen left town immediately following the presidential inauguration. Yet this evening was entirely theirs, and many of the New Yorkers were eager to pursue very particular forms of rest and relaxation.
Mazorca had watched them flock to Murder Bay. Some were loud braggarts who made no effort to hide their intentions. They boasted about their own prowess and the pleasures they planned to obtain. Others were less sure of themselves. Mazorca saw the guilt on their faces as they wandered about, battling their inhibitions as they contemplated entering establishments with names such as the Haystack, the Blue Goose, and Madam Wilton’s Private Residence for Ladies. Sooner or later, they all went inside.
The problem for Mazorca was that the soldiers traveled in packs. He suspected that their officers had warned them to stick together, like herds of animals that sought safety in numbers. It was good advice: Murder Bay was full of predators in search of prey. Most of them merely intended to separate the soldiers from their money. Occasionally, however, a denizen of this squalid district wanted something far worse. Murder Bay had not earned its nickname for nothing, and its victims were not always babes.
Outside the Winder Building, ten-year-old Zachariah Hoadly stood beside his father. He brushed aside his red hair, which kept falling in his face. He needed to visit a barbershop.
“You’re sure it’s him?” asked Isaac Hoadly, repeating a question he had posed perhaps a dozen times already.
“I’m pretty sure,” said the boy, sounding less than fully confident.
Isaac looked at the photograph. “And it’s because of the ear?”
“Yes, Dad,” said Zack, annoyed at his father’s doubts.
“And this is where they told you to come?”
“Uh-huh.”
Isaac was building up the nerve to go inside when a man in a blue uniform walked out the front door. “Excuse me,” said Isaac. “Can you help me?”
Colonel Rook halted in front of the Hoadlys. He looked tired and none too interested in helping anybody.
“My son came home with this picture,” said Isaac. He held up the photograph of Mazorca.
Rook’s eyes lit up. “Please tell me you’ve seen him.”
From a block away, Mazorca saw the sergeant walking along Tenth Street. Springfield was alone, which is what initially attracted Mazorca’s interest-he was searching for a bluecoat who was not part of a crowd. He figured that as the night grew older, soldiers would stumble away from their card games, bottles, and prostitutes. Most would have entered Murder Bay with companions, but many would exit on their own.
Springfield was far from ideal. For starters, he was a burly man who looked like he could put up a fight. He was also sober. Mazorca’s goal was to identify someone who was closer to his own size, and preferably drunk. Yet he decided to keep an eye on Springfield for at least a few minutes.
The sergeant’s behavior quickly puzzled him. Springfield walked methodically from brothel to brothel. He would enter one, remain inside for several minutes, and come back out. Then he would go to the next one on the street. At first, Mazorca suspected that the ladies of the house Springfield had chosen were preoccupied. After he came out of the third house, however, Mazorca wondered if Springfield was picky about whom he would pay for companionship. Mazorca soon decided that something else was going on.
When Springfield turned onto C Street, Mazorca was only a dozen feet behind him. As the sergeant approached yet another bordello-it went by the name of Madam Russell’s Bake Oven-another man approached him.
“Sir! Do not enter that house of sin!” he shouted.
Springfield stopped in his tracks and smiled. Mazorca halted as well, pretending to look through the window of a watering hole, as if he were searching for a friend. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the man who assailed Springfield was a bespectacled chaplain. He wore a broad-brimmed hat and a frock coat that extended almost to his knees. In one hand he held a cross and in the other a Bible.
“Walk through that doorway and abandon all hope of salvation,” pleaded the chaplain.
“Don’t worry,” laughed Springfield. “I will commit no sin by entering the Bake Oven.”
Springfield placed his arm on the chaplain’s shoulder. Their voices dropped, and Mazorca could not make out what they were saying. The sergeant seemed greatly amused. The chaplain maintained an earnest look on his face, but soon he began to nod, as if Springfield had persuaded him of something. Then Springfield handed the chaplain a slip of paper, headed for the door of Madam Russell’s Bake Oven, and went inside.
The chaplain began to look up and down C Street, apparently hoping to find more soldiers he might approach. His job must be a lonely one, thought Mazorca, and especially on a night like this and in a place like Murder Bay. Armies functioned because they built a sense of camaraderie among the young men who joined their ranks. The intensity of a battle might frighten them, but they would refuse to retreat because they did not want to let their buddies down. They preferred to take their chances against bullets and bayonets rather than risk the disappointment of the men who marched and fought beside them. Yet here was the chaplain, haranguing soldiers for doing what soldiers always have done. Mazorca realized that this chaplain might become attached to a regiment, but he never would be just one of the guys.