by Ginny Dye
“Yes, please.” Carrie wasn’t up to engaging in idle small talk tonight, anyway. She much preferred what she knew would be the more serious conversation of the men. She had stayed close to her hospital work for months now. She was surprised to realize how much she had missed the stimulation of conversation.
Moments later Robert was leading her up to a small knot of men. “Gentlemen,” he said, nodding slightly.
“Welcome, Mr. Borden, isn’t it?” a short, round-faced man asked.
“Indeed it is, Mr. Whipple,” Robert answered. He pulled Carrie forward. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Carrie Borden.”
Mr. Whipple bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”
The other men in the group graciously acknowledged the introductions but then turned back to their talk. Carrie was content to listen. She was suddenly hungry to find out what was going on - and to hear it from more than just her father’s perspective.
Mr. Whipple was the first to speak. “Our Congress has just given Davis writ of habeas corpus again,” he said sourly.
“I don’t know that he had much choice,” another man replied in a reasonable voice. “Our armies are being crippled by absenteeism. The number of deserters has increased, and many of the men who are drafted just aren’t showing up.”
“I would venture it safe to say the enthusiasm for the war has rather declined,” one added. “That’s hardly a reason to give Davis such power.”
“That’s not the point,” the man on Davis’ side insisted. “We are losing battles because we don’t have enough men. Lee is forced to stay on the defensive or just plan rather moderate offenses because he simply doesn’t have the men he needs to do something more effective.” He took a deep breath, obviously gearing up for his final point. “There are so many absentees that if they were all to show up in camp at the same time we would be able to face the North on equal terms.”
Robert coughed, and all eyes turned toward him. He was the only one present in uniform. “I’m afraid your sources might be somewhat incorrect. I agree there are a horrible number of absentees, but it is simply not possible for the South to match the North man for man. Their population is quite a bit more substantial than ours.”
“Then you’re saying there is no way for the South to win?”
Carrie watched Robert closely. How would he respond. He opened his mouth, but Whipple interrupted him.
“Don’t y’all understand that the writ places in peril the sacred principle that led to secession in the first place?” Whipple protested. “I fear that with our whole country under martial law, with our imminent president enforcing it...” He paused, his voice leaving no doubt of just how imminent he thought Davis was, and shook his head dolefully. “I fear our constitutional liberty has become a mockery. I think it would be much better for our country to be over-run by the Yankees, our cities sacked and burned and our land laid desolate.” He paused again. “I would much prefer that to our citizens’ personal liberties being taken away by professed friends.”
Carrie gazed with interest at the man’s reddened face and bulging eyes. He obviously knew he was a minority, but he was quite determined to state his case. That he had done so with great passion could not be denied.
One man, a touch of irritation in his voice, swung to face Whipple. “Were you not in favor of secession?”
“Well, of course I was,” Whipple snapped.
“Then surely you realize the price that must be paid. Oh, I know you’re parroting the sentiments of Vice-President Stephens. You people are all the same,” he snapped.
Whipple flushed even redder. “What do you mean?” he demanded angrily.
“Everyone has to have someone to blame when things don’t go right. This spring you were praising Davis,” he reminded Whipple sternly. “After the battle at Chancellorsville, you were touting that all of us had to make great sacrifices for the country. That no amount was too much.” His voice grew scornful. “We run into a few setbacks, and now it’s all Davis’ fault. You criticize everything he does. How convenient to have a scape-goat!” Having spoken his mind, the man wheeled on his heel and spun away, his eyes flashing.
“He is a close aide to Davis,” Robert whispered to Carrie.
Carrie nodded and continued to watch Whipple. The man’s attack had subdued him, but he was certainly not cowed. His face was set stubbornly, his lips narrow with anger.
Another man spoke into the silence. Carrie remembered him as Mr. Count from North Carolina.
“I believe the President received a letter from Governor Vance of North Carolina recently.”
“I had heard something about that,” Robert said eagerly. “What can you tell me?”
Carrie watched the tension dissipate as the attention swung away from Whipple. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, then listened eagerly. Carrie had to admire his courage. It was never easy to take a disparate stand when a person was the only one of his belief present.
“Vance wrote to Davis to appeal for his help,” Count began. “As most of you know, North Carolina’s was not a loud voice for secession. We went along with the rest when Lincoln called for us to take up arms against the South, but I’m afraid we simply don’t possess the passion some of the states do.”
“Well, at least you’re willing to look at it honestly,” Robert said.
Count shrugged. “It’s the truth,” he said simply.
Carrie looked at him more closely. She liked his kind face and intelligent eyes. Gray hair swept down over his creased forehead. She leaned forward closer to listen.
“Vance informed Davis there is much discontent in our state. He believes it can be removed by negotiation with the North.”
“He is calling for submission?” one man asked in a shocked voice.
“Certainly not,” Count said firmly. “Vance is quite certain Washington will reject the fair terms we would submit to him. But he believes if our people see that, it will greatly strengthen and intensify the war feeling. He believes it will rally support for the government.”
“Vance is saying that such a move would convince North Carolinians that the government cares about them and would truly never ask them to risk their lives any longer than necessary,” Robert stated, his brow creased thoughtfully.
“Exactly!” Count agreed.
“But negotiation has been tried,” one man offered. “They wouldn’t even receive Stephens six months ago. You can’t negotiate if you have no one to talk to.”
“And Davis has been announcing his desire for peace since the beginning of the war,” another added bitterly. “We have made our desire to be left alone quite clear. I don’t know what else can be done.”
“Nothing can be done,” another announced in a loud voice, stepping forward into the center of the circle.
Carrie tried to remember who he was. Finally it came to her - Mr. Mitchell from Georgia.
“President Lincoln has made his position quite clear. He has informed us in the last few months that we can expect his gracious pardon only with our emancipating all our slaves and swearing allegiance and obedience to him and his proclamations.” He took a breath. “In point of fact, Lincoln would desire that we become the slaves of our own Negroes.” His burning gaze swept Count. “Can there really be in North Carolina one citizen who has so fallen beneath the dignity of his ancestors as to accept those terms?” His voice left no doubt where he stood.
Mr. Mitchell, realizing he had the attention of everyone, drew himself up proudly and proceeded to fire another round. “It is with Lincoln alone that we could ever hope to confer, and he has made himself clear. He will never treat with us - on any terms. Our only possible recourse is to go on fighting until the enemy is willing to admit complete defeat. Not until then will it be possible to speak of peace.”
A heavy silence fell over the group. As much as some might not want to admit it, the South had indeed set a course that was too late to change now. It was either fight on to complete victory or adm
it to complete defeat. Gone were the days when Lincoln appealed for the South to return, saying he would not interfere with its right to own slaves. The viciousness of the war had changed all that. It had changed everything. The dark cloud that had descended on the land had blinded men to anything that might have ended the destruction. The only recourse was to fight on - hoping that the raging fire would leave something worth rebuilding when it had burned itself out on the hearts and souls of men, women, and children.
At eight o’clock sharp, Matthew and Captain Anderson moved the stove away from the kitchen fireplace and opened the hole. Solemnly they shook hands with the other thirteen men who had made the tunnel possible. No words were spoken. None were necessary. Everything had already been said.
Matthew took a deep breath and climbed down into Rat Dungeon for the last time. At least he fervently hoped it was for the last time. Peter, his partner in the allotted twosomes, was close behind him. Captain Anderson and Lieutenant Wilson were right behind them.
Matthew felt his feet hit the bottom, then lit one of the candles, and attached it to the wall. Without waiting for the rest of the men, he dropped to his knees and began to crawl. He carried no light. He didn’t need one. Every inch of the fifty foot tunnel was imbedded in his brain and heart. It had become his child - now it was offering him freedom. He could feel Peter breathing behind him. The two had come in together - now they would go out together.
Matthew reached the end of the tunnel and raised himself to his knees. He reached up and carefully pushed aside the dirt-covered board that hid the tunnel exit. His heart pounding in his ears, he eased his head up slowly and looked around. The sky was still crystal clear, so cold it made him gasp for breath. He grinned broadly, pushed himself up, and crawled out onto the ground. Reaching back a hand for Peter, he helped his friend up and then shook the dirt from his hair and beard.
Peter looked over at him and gave the thumbs-up signal. Matthew reached over to shake hands with him; then they stood and walked out of the lot, heading down the dark street. Matthew held his breath, every second expecting a loud call to announce their presence. They strode briskly but steadily for two blocks, before they turned right and ducked into the darkened shadow of a building.
Matthew brushed at the sweat on his face and tried to steady his breathing. They had done it! They were out!
Peter peered around the corner. “I don’t see anyone else,” he whispered.
“It’s too soon,” Matthew replied. “Anderson and Wilson were to wait three minutes before they came out. It hasn’t been that long.”
“It seems like hours.”
Matthew nodded. Their stroll down the street had indeed seemed like a lifetime. He glanced ahead and then waved his hand at Peter. “We have to keep moving,” he said. “All of us are on our own from this point.”
Peter peered around the corner again for a second then followed him. Matthew understood. He was fighting the temptation to rush back and make sure nothing had gone wrong. Four men would have offered more comfort than two, but they also would attract more attention. They had agreed everyone stood the best chance of escaping capture if they proceeded in groups of two. Matthew knew he might never see any of his friends again. They had indeed escaped the prison, but they were still deep in the heart of the Confederate capital, and as soon as the alarm had been raised, the search would be on. Matthew figured they had twenty-four hours at the very most to get out of Richmond.
Matthew glanced quickly at the street sign. He knew the city fairly well from his earlier visits, and he had prepared the other men the best he could. Turning right on Canal Street, he headed east for several blocks, then turned north on Twelfth Street. Minutes later they passed the imposing Capitol building, glowing softly from the brightness of the sky.
“It’s beautiful,” Peter commented.
Matthew was still too tense for casual talk. He knew they had a long way to go before they were safe. All his energy was directed toward one thing - getting them out of there. He frowned as he realized the streets were practically deserted. He knew the cold weather was keeping people in their frigid homes. He also knew it would cause the two men to stand out even more. Their nondescript prison clothes would identify them as workers. The fact that neither of them had coats on a night that had already dipped well below freezing would make them look like lunatics. Matthew hugged the shadows as they strode along.
“Halt!”
Matthew hesitated as the commanding voice rang out in the still air, but then he kept walking forward. Peter tensed and looked around but continued to follow him. Praying desperately, Matthew hoped that whoever had called out was not referring to them.
“Halt!” The voice was closer behind them this time.
Matthew groaned silently and swung around. “Are you talking to us?” he asked with forced cheer.
A burly policeman strode up to them, scowling. “What are you fellows doing out this time of night?” he said suspiciously.
Matthew prayed Peter would let him do all the talking. His friend’s strong New York accent would give him away in a heartbeat. “Just on our way home from work,” Matthew continued.
“Yeah? Where do you work?”
“Down at the Ironworks,” Matthew said steadily. He figured it employed enough men that it would make him the least suspect.
The policeman edged closer. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
Matthew’s heart pounded faster. “My folks sent me up north to go to school,” he managed to laugh. “I guess some of the accent rubbed off. I’ve been trying to get rid of it ever since I got home,” he said with great indignation. “I don’t want anyone to think I’m a Yankee!”
“That’s a real good idea, son,” the policeman laughed. His tone became friendlier. “How are things down at the Ironworks?”
“Can’t complain,” Matthew said, breathing a little easier.
“You’re the first!” the policeman laughed then leaned closer. “Ain’t you got kids to feed? My friends with kids say they can’t make enough to feed them with the prices the way they are.” He paused. “Come to think of it, you don’t look like you’ve eaten much yourself.
“No kids.” Matthew decided to ignore the officer’s observation. He knew exactly how thin he was. “Just a wife.” An idea sprang into his mind. “But I reckon I’ll be having one real soon. She’s pregnant.” He smiled. “And she’s waiting for me. I promised her I wouldn’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t want to keep the little lady waiting,” the policeman agreed willingly. Suddenly he leaned forward and peered behind Matthew.
Matthew glanced over his shoulder. Peter had been standing back just a little during the whole exchange. “Good to talk to you,” he said cheerfully. “I guess we’ll be going now.”
The policeman held up his hand. “Wait a minute there.”
Matthew’s heart started pounding wildly again. He longed to just run for it, but he had too much respect for the pistol strapped on the man’s waist.
“What’s with your friend here? Don’t he talk?”
Matthew thought quickly. “He’s been awful sick. Has laryngitis real bad. The cold air makes it worse on him.”
“That right?” The policeman leaned closer, staring under Peter’s hat.
“That’s right,” Peter croaked in a hoarse voice, barely audible, before he doubled over in a spasm of coughing.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Matthew had to hide a grin. Peter’s laryngitis was very convincing. He hadn’t even been able to detect his New York accent himself.
The policeman still seemed unsure, but he nodded and waved his billy club. “The two of you get on home,” he growled. “It’s awful late to be out,” he added. “Where are you going?”
Matthew cast in his mind for a plausible address. “26th Street.” He had said the first thing that popped into his mind.
“Awful nice houses for an Ironworks’ man,” the policeman said sourly.
“A frie
nd of the family,” Matthew said, almost desperately. “They’re letting me rent out a room. My friend here is next door.”
Finally the policeman waved them on. “Be on your way then.” He turned and walked away, his heavy shoes thudding on the frozen dirt.
Sweat pouring down his back, Matthew watched until he was out of sight then sagged against the building.
“Whew!” Peter whispered. “That was close.”
“Too close,” Matthew said grimly. “We’re not going to get out of here tonight. We stand out like a sore thumb. There just aren’t enough people on the roads. Anyone who sees us walking will remember us.”
“What are we going to do?” Peter asked in alarm.
“Go somewhere and wait till it’s light. We’ll keep going as soon as the sun comes up. We’ll be less noticeable then.”
“We can’t just stand around,” Peter argued. “We’ll freeze to death.”
Matthew had to admit he was right. He stared up at the sky for a minute and then nodded his head sharply. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going now?”
“You’ll find out,” Matthew snapped, angry that his carefully laid plans were going awry yet filled with sudden anticipation.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mr. Whipple turned to Robert. “Captain, what is your perspective on the condition of our armies? General Lee’s in particular.”
Carrie hid a smile. All the armies were important, but it was impossible not to take a greater interest in Lee’s. It was his, after all, that had rescued them from disaster time after time.
Robert frowned. “I’m afraid our armies are struggling right now. General Lee has the most experienced, efficient soldiers in our entire country, but I don’t know how much more they can stand.”
“What exactly are you referring to?” Count asked.
“They’re starving,” Robert said bluntly. “Lee’s army is wretchedly fed and clothed. Just last week their meat ration was cut again. The men are trying to keep their hopes up, but the brutal weather and their own hunger are sapping it from them.”
