by Tara Johnson
It was his fault.
Dropping the missive to the worktable, Gabe pinched the bridge of his nose. He must find a way to care for his old friend. He would take on the bills himself. But how?
Since General McClellan had forced them to hunker down so much over the past months, Gabe had captured few photos the newspapers were willing to buy, few scenes wood engravers could easily manage to reproduce. Brady had already told him as much. His last letter had been firm. “While in long stretches of inactivity, you must be creative. Look at your world with new eyes. Think of what the papers would want to print. Scenes from battlefields are easy enough to sell. Photographs captured during times of quiet show the grit and beauty of a world through an artist’s eye. Be an artist.”
A sharp rap on the door jolted him from his troubled thoughts. A soldier’s voice barked, “Ten minutes and we move, Avery!”
The rest had not been long. In mere moments, he’d be forced to climb atop the wagon and guide the plodding horses behind the mass of blue moving toward Richmond.
What could he possibly send to Brady that would garner attention? Jacob needed him. The pressure of his own failings clamped onto his soul like a hot iron. He needed money and quickly. Something must be sent today.
He riffled through the most recently developed photographs. Stern, rigid soldiers greeted him from the surfaces of the prints. They were all the same. Nameless faces holding their guns and bayonets. No action. No movement. No life.
He stilled for a moment before he yanked an altogether different image from the bottom of the stack, studying the grace and beauty of the woman who had captured his heart.
Cassie running her slender fingers through the trickling stream as she sat perched on a flat rock amid the autumn woods of her grandmother’s home. Her skirts pooled around her, the curve of her full lips, perfect nose, and long lashes. A lock of dark hair brushed her shoulder. The dress she wore hugged every breathtaking curve of her body. And her face . . . an expression of haunting sadness mingled with a sweet serenity lifted the image from one of simplicity to a profound longing for peace amid war, courage through adversity, beauty within pain.
Dandelions blooming in concrete.
This was the image newspapers would clamor to print. He could title it “Beautiful Heroines of Home.” Cassie’s likeness encapsulated so many other women who were forging ahead to fight the good fight from their houses and farms—picking up the work abandoned by their enlisted husbands and sons. Searching for hope amid the ashes. Brave, fearless . . . this photograph shone with the angst of them all.
But would printing her likeness reveal her identity?
No. The lovely Cassie bore little resemblance to battle-worn Thomas Turner. Nobody would correlate the two. Who would draw the comparison?
Gently tracing a finger over the delicate lines of her face, he swallowed. Why was he torturing himself? She’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. Had pushed him away over and over. His heart still stung at the way she had so coldly disregarded his feelings.
Repressing the niggling unease in the pit of his stomach, he grabbed an envelope and slipped the photograph inside, hastily scribbling a note to Brady.
He might not be able to protect her any longer. But he could help Jacob.
Chapter 27
APRIL 23, 1862
WASHINGTON, DC
Cassie kept careful step behind the guard escorting her through the somber office at 217 Pennsylvania Avenue. She nearly laughed at the irony of finally leaving the capital, only to find herself back once more. This time, the work would be markedly different.
They wove through a long hallway; then the guard ushered her into a room where four men turned at her approach.
“Private Thomas Turner, sir.” The guard’s words were clipped before he pivoted and left, abandoning Cassie to the group of staunch men, who eyed her curiously. She straightened to her full height and emptied her face of all expression.
A stocky man sporting a full dark beard, large ears, and thinning hair approached. His wide mouth quirked into a tight smile. “Allan Pinkerton, Private Turner.”
She grasped his thick hand and shook it. His deep-set eyes expressed a frankness that seemed a contradiction for someone who was a notorious spy. “An honor, sir.”
Pinkerton waved toward the man standing nearest the fireplace posed in a Napoleonic stance, his hand thrust behind the row of brass buttons lining the breast of his crisp uniform. An auburn mustache framed his mouth. “May I present your esteemed commander, General McClellan.”
Her mind scattered of all coherent thought. This grim, boyish-looking fellow was Little Mac? He was shorter than she’d imagined, having only ever seen him riding his horse during military parades. His broad chest was thrust forward, reminding her of a proud lion.
She saluted sharply and felt a thrill when he returned her salute with a glimmer of respect.
Pinkerton lifted a cigar from a silver case on the table. “I understand your Captain Johnston has apprised you of our current situation, as well as our need for intelligent, stout-hearted men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, Turner.” Pinkerton lit the thick cigar with ease and perched it between his lips. “Why would you desire to engage in so perilous an undertaking?”
She straightened her shoulders, looking Pinkerton in the eye. “It is my sacred duty, sir.”
His brows rose. “Sacred, you say? In what way?”
“Slavery is morally repugnant and is against the freedom God has willed to every man.”
“You speak such convictions quickly, almost as if they were memorized.”
“No, sir, not memorized. A philosophy I was inundated with since my youth. Our community is filled with abolitionists and Quakers, you see. To be honest, it wasn’t until I enlisted and worked side by side with the contrabands that I truly began to comprehend the depth of their suffering.” She cleared her throat. “My initial motives for enlisting were not so pure, but I’ve grown to understand the tremendous call such a cause requires.”
Pinkerton pursed his lips. “So you believe Providence is opposed to slavery, yet you feel no hesitation to deceive? To play the part of someone you are not?”
Was this not the very argument Gabe had so strongly verbalized over and over again since he’d discovered her true identity? The time since he’d first given it voice had allowed her to ruminate often over the difficult question.
“Don’t the Scriptures tell us David himself acted insane to escape the wrath of Achish, king of Gath, so that he might later fight for the greater good? And what of Rahab, Joshua, and Caleb? King David employed the use of spies all through his reign, and wasn’t he called a man after God’s own heart?”
Suffocating silence descended. Perhaps she had overstepped. A bead of sweat rolled down her spine.
A smile tugged at Pinkerton’s mouth. “Well said.”
Cassie nearly sagged as she released the breath trapped in her lungs. Perhaps she was only rationalizing her own deceptive behavior.
Pinkerton turned to the other two men studying her from the corner of the room. “Forgive my manners. I need also introduce General Heintzelman and General Meagher.”
She saluted each of them in turn and waited.
General Meagher stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were a schoolmaster preparing to scold his student. His high cheekbones reminded her of a hawk, though a comical one, for despite his pomaded, meticulous hair, one long wild curl sprang forward on the right side of his head, making him appear unbalanced.
“You do understand you’ll be going undercover, do you not? You will not be wearing your uniform, a uniform that garners at least a modicum of respect in war. You’ll be wearing ordinary clothing. If you are caught, the Rebels will not treat you as a prisoner of war, but as a spy.” He turned his head, studying her from a different angle, causing his wayward curl to bounce. “Do you know what they do to spies, Turner?”
She
met his gaze coolly. “They are executed.”
General Heintzelman probed, “And you are prepared to suffer the same if the worst were to happen?”
“My life is in God’s hands, General. I will do my utmost for the cause of freedom and our blessed Union. And if I perish, I perish.”
Passing the marksman test had been easy. But waiting in the room for the physician to give her a thorough medical exam was another matter.
Maybe it would be as inconsequential as the first exam she’d endured upon enlisting. Height, weight, and the doctor had sent her on her way.
Please, Lord, let it be of no concern.
Between her apprehension and the sharp sting of antiseptic, her stomach roiled and soured. The door opened, admitting a short, wiry man with white-gray hair that puffed out on either side of his head like clumps of cotton. He peered over the top of his spectacles. “Private Thomas Turner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Dr. Smalley. I must determine if you have the God-given abilities to execute your duties.”
“How is that accomplished, sir?”
He pushed the spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose, wrinkling it as he responded. “Primarily through phrenology.”
She gulped. What was that?
“The shape and size of your cranium will tell me much.” He plucked the spectacles from his nose and polished the lenses with a soft cloth he yanked from his pocket. “For instance, there is a marked difference in the shape of a male cranium versus a female cranium.”
Her heart hammered, keeping rhythm with the blood pounding in her ears.
“A female’s organs of procreation and her longing for harmony elongates the central posterior portion of the head.” He hooked his spectacles back over his ears, moving toward her with outstretched hands. She resisted the urge to lunge out of reach. “Let’s examine you, shall we?”
She nearly cringed when his bony fingers began massaging her scalp. Could he tell? Please, God, don’t let him find out . . .
He grunted several times as his probing fingers traveled the length of her head. The motion would have been soothing had her nerves not been close to fraying. Several times he paused over a bump, exploring and squinting his eyes as if deep in thought. He removed his fingers and scratched several notes on a journal of some sort. Cassie tasted bile.
He reached for a measuring tape and ran it from one ear to the other before scribbling another note in the journal with the stub of his pencil. He said nothing. Spots danced before Cassie’s eyes. Perspiration gathered under her shirt binding.
He pulled off his spectacles and pressed his lips tight. “Private Turner, I must say I discovered something I’ve rarely encountered in my profession.”
Her breath seized in her rib cage.
“Your brain is remarkably developed. In particular, the organs that promote combativeness and secretive behavior are quite pronounced.” His eyes glinted. “Truly a strong man’s cranium.”
Relief flooded her body even as she squelched the urge to laugh. Obviously the good doctor lacked much in medical knowledge—a trait that could only help her continue her work.
Forcing a solemn nod, she extended her hand. “Thank you, sir.”
Dr. Smalley snapped his journal shut. “All you need complete is a renewed oath of allegiance to the United States, and your work will begin.”
Three days. That was all she’d been given to smuggle her way into enemy territory. She had returned to her own regiment as they had approached the boundaries of Yorktown, waiting for General McClellan’s next orders. At least she wouldn’t have far to travel.
But what to do about her clothes? Cassie had mulled over the possibilities, none of them satisfactory. Anything she’d considered was likely to draw questions. The fewer people who knew of her activities, the better.
Standing outside her tent, she cast her gaze across the camp to the traveling darkroom perched under a canopy of trees.
Gabe.
He had clothes an Irish peddler would wear. But would he help?
She marched toward the Whatsit with renewed determination. The hard part would be convincing the stubborn photographer.
Chapter 28
“YOU WANT ME TO GIVE YOU WHAT?” Gabe’s jaw went slack.
“Some clothes.”
His eyes narrowed. “You all but tell me you want nothing to do with me and then waltz back here requesting I give you my clothes?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
His words stung like a lash, but she could offer no rebuttal. They were altogether too true.
His shoulders sagged as if he was conceding. “Why do you need them?”
“I—I can’t say.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“I see.”
He stood staring at the walls of the darkroom, his arms folded. The way his eyes flickered back and forth between some unseen worlds told her he was wrestling over the request. When his jaw clenched, she knew he had decided to refuse her. Her heart shriveled.
She’d turned to leave when his soft voice stopped her.
“What will happen if you don’t acquire them? Will it increase the likelihood you’ll be caught?”
He knew it was for her spying assignment. Fearing his wrath, she was tempted to lie but pushed the temptation away. “Yes. I’ll have to steal them, which will make things a tad more complicated.”
“Why doesn’t Pinkerton provide you the clothing you need?”
“I’m to be seen with him as little as possible. The dispatches for assignment come, and I’m expected to use what I can to fulfill the request. I could send a missive asking for the items I need, but by the time they receive it . . .”
“It will be too late.”
“Yes. The generals need the information now.”
With a deep breath, he moved to his bag and opened it, yanking a shirt and pair of trousers free before thrusting them toward her. “Here.”
She grasped the clothes, warmth tingling up her arm when his fingers brushed hers. “Thank you.”
He said nothing, only nodded and turned away. She grasped the door latch.
“Cass?”
His hoarse plea snagged her, forcing her to look back at the tight lines around his eyes.
“Be safe.”
A knot lodged in her throat. “I will.”
When the latch shut with a nerve-strangling click, Gabe dropped into the chair, rubbing the palm of his hand into the socket of his eye.
Why had he given her the clothes? Was he really so smitten that he’d hand over whatever she wanted without a complaint, no matter what it was for?
He sighed. If the garments would help her stay safe, he’d gladly give her all he had. But it was more than that. Unease gnawed at him.
The gesture had been penance on his part. If she ever learned he’d submitted her photograph to Brady without her consent, he would lose her forever.
If he hadn’t already.
Every time he tried to dig himself out of the mess he made, he only sank deeper into the mire.
His carefully laid plans were unraveling faster than he could repair them.
Cassie waited, motionless, as she watched the bugler’s silhouette melt into the evening’s darkness. The shrill blast signaling lights-out had just sounded, shrouding the camp in repose.
She tugged the belt tighter around her middle and slipped between the tents, darting through the rows of identical canvas shelters. She kept her step light, fearing one misplaced footfall would alert the soldiers to her departure. Although Captain Johnston knew of her mission, he’d argued she should tell no one else of her plans. The fewer men who knew, the more likely the mission would succeed.
The loamy scent of damp earth filled her nostrils as she scurried through the woods beyond the perimeter of camp. Her lumpy trouser pockets bumped against each hip. One pocket was crammed full of hard crackers; the other held her revolver. The forged papers sh
e’d tucked into her shoes scraped the bottoms of her feet.
Her skin tingled. At least her costume was baggy and gave her body room to breathe. Her knapsack was filled with goods she’d managed to pilfer from camp—apples, a couple oranges, sets of pasteboards, dominoes, and soap—so her disguise as an Irish peddler would be plausible. She’d even managed to swipe a flat cap from Private O’Connor, who had often bragged about the treasure he kept stowed in his knapsack. She pushed down the twinge of guilt. She would return it. That is, if she survived the ordeal.
A breeze ruffled leaves overhead, causing her to pause and listen. She was past the Union pickets. How far until she reached Confederate lines? A mile? Two?
As she pressed closer to Yorktown, her nerves grew strained, more taut than the strings of a fiddle. Every noise was a gunshot. Every sound of brush and creature stole her breath.
She mentally rehearsed all the Scriptures about fear that she could recall until her trembling eased. A sudden motion to her right snapped her senses like a whip.
A man shifted not more than fifty feet away, moving between the trees with a slow gait. The faint moonlight glinted off the rifle he rested against his shoulder. Although the silver glow made it hard to tell the exact color, this man wore a uniform and kepi.
A Confederate picket. She’d found them.
Easing behind a tree, she watched and waited. Pinkerton had assured her the troops in Yorktown were known to allow peddlers in their midst. If she could somehow manage to gain entrance, she would be able to acquire the information the Union so desperately needed. Pinkerton had been specific. They needed the numbers of Confederate troops in Yorktown, artillery strength, and how many reinforcements Lee would be sending to secure the stronghold. She’d thought, after so many months of playing Thomas Turner, taking on another role wouldn’t be so nerve-racking. She was wrong. This trepidation was far worse.
She crept back the way she had come, using the trees for cover. If she’d thought herself tense before, nothing prepared her for the angst of willingly prowling around enemy territory. Once she stepped foot over the proverbial line in the morning, she would be trapped until God provided an escape.
