The Ironclad Alibi

by Michael Kilian

  “It has?”

  She came up to him again in a rush, close enough to take his hand and clasp it to the bodice of her dress. “You’ve come back to Richmond, and you do so in the service of the Cause. You’ve seen the light at last, Harry, and come back to me. And I am overjoyed.”

  “Bella, you presume …”

  “My word, Harrison. You stole General Hooker’s horse! You brought it to our president as an inauguration gift. What I presume, Sir, is that you have at last cast aside your foolish notions on the ‘peculiar institution,’ and have joined us in the struggle for our rights.”

  The reference was to slavery. Harry caught himself before indulging in an honest reply. It was his hatred of the institution that had driven him first from his father’s home and then from Virginia. Bella’s family owned nearly as many Negroes as did the Raines, and she had believed in slavery as passionately as Harry did not. “I’ve not expressed myself on that question.”

  Bella kept hold of his hand. “You need not, Harry. Your man Caesar Augustus himself proclaims that he has returned to a state of bondage, which he accepts as the price of remainin’ your servant.”

  He could feel her breast rise and fall with her breathing. Her face was flushed.

  “And how do you know that?” he asked.

  “Because he came by my house and spoke those words to my face.”

  Still the Southern coquette Harry too well remembered, she dropped his hand and twirled away from the window, dropping herself into a red velvet armchair with a billow of skirt and petticoat. She affected a stern demeanor, but seemed to be enjoying the moment as might a little girl.

  “He came to your house?” Harry said.

  “He was sniffin’ around my Estelle, like he was always doin’ in the old days in such pesky fashion. I’ve come here to ask you to make him desist. To demand it. We’re havin’ enough trouble with our darkies as it is.”

  “Whatever your reason for coming here,” Harry said, as gently as possible. “You should not have. A married woman, alone with another man in a hotel? Has the war changed Richmond that much?”

  “It has changed me—and my marriage. Palmer is never home. Always at the Ironworks. Or at Norfolk. Feeding the Monster.”

  “What monster?”

  “They haven’t talked of it up in Yankeeland? They soon shall, if they haven’t. It’s that ironclad ship our Navy has built from the burned hulk of the Merrimack they refloated at Gosport. I am surprised that you don’t know of it. Folks are sayin’ the whole northern coast is terrified and that even Washington City is atremble.”

  “They greatly exaggerate.” That could be said of any of Richmond’s newspapers, and Washington’s, too. “What has Palmer to do with it?”

  “Why, he’s the most important lieutenant in the Confederate States Navy right now. He has responsibility for producing the iron plate for the Monster. President Davis is truly pleased with his accomplishment, for the job is nearly done.”

  Mills’s family were investors in the Tredegar Ironworks, the largest industrial complex in the Confederacy. Palmer was very knowledgeable about heavy metal. It was perhaps his only talent.

  “Monster.” Ironclad ship. Harry had come to the Confederate capital so uninformed he’d been ignorant of the fact that it was Jefferson Davis’s inauguration day. Now, amazingly, here he was acquiring knowledge of precisely what he had come to learn all about, brought to him with a rustle of skirt.

  But Bella could be a prattler, willing to say almost anything that might keep attention fixed on her.

  “You should be more discreet, Madam,” he said, knowing that any remonstration would only goad her to be more contrary.

  “When have I ever been that, Harrison Raines? And don’t call me ‘Madam.’”

  “You are a married woman. You should be with your husband.”

  “I’m never with him. And he’s never with me. Anyway, Harry, I wasn’t supposed to be with him in the first place. I was to marry you, as memory serves.”

  “We were younger then.”

  She rose, standing before him defiantly. “Are you saying I’m an old crone?”

  “You definitely are not that.”

  “I saw you in the crowd today.”

  She’d been the one who called out his name. “Was that Palmer you were with? I couldn’t see clearly.”

  “I’m not tellin’ you who I was with.”

  “But it wasn’t your husband?”

  “I told you. He’s busy all the time with the ironclad.”

  Harry would have to be leaving soon for Elizabeth Van Lew’s.

  “What do want of me, Bella? If you want me to chastise Caesar Augustus for importuning you, I shall. It was very bad manners to intrude upon your household like that. I will talk to him.”

  “I don’t expect manners from Negroes, Harry. I do expect better manners from you—a gentleman belongin’ to one of the First Families of Virginia.”

  He sighed. “I will call upon you, Bella, if you wish. At your house, in appropriate fashion.”

  She didn’t budge from the chair. “If you think a rendezvous in a hotel is inappropriate, why would you be wantin’ one in my home? What if Palmer was to return?”

  “I would enjoy seeing him again.”

  “That, Sir, is a ridiculous lie!”

  Sighing again, loudly, Harry went to the door and opened it. This was a rude and ungentlemanly gesture, but he had to gain control of the situation. “I will call upon you both, Bella.”

  She glared at him, bright fires gathering in her green eyes. He noticed someone waiting out in the corridor—a large, muscular black man, carrying a carpet bag. Harry thought at first it was Caesar Augustus, but, looking again, he saw that it was Arabella’s coachman—an excellent horseman, whom he remembered from plantation days. Back then, the man had only been a groom.

  There was someone behind him—a young black woman, Arabella’s maid.

  “I’m not going to leave it like this, Harrison.”

  “For now, you must.”

  Her eyes were very moist. “Please, Harry. Don’t send me away.”

  “As I said, I’ll come by. Where do you now reside?”

  “Across the river in Manchester.”

  He bowed, keeping a hand on the knob of the open door. “As you wish.”

  At long last, she rose with a swirl of skirt, then marched past him, halting on the landing just outside the door. “When you do come, Harry, please leave that Caesar Augustus of yours behind.”

  “Bella. You’ve known him half your life. Why deride him so?”

  “Because he’s impudent. And a rascal. And I don’t want him foulin’ our stock.”

  “Stock?”

  “My house servants.”

  “Last I looked, your Estelle was a human being. So is this gentleman in the corridor who’s been so patiently waiting for you.”

  At last she was ready to retreat. “You’re a fool, Harry.”

  He started to close the door. “Good day, Madam.”

  Her eyes were now ablaze.

  “The damn Negroes, once again!” she said, loudly enough to be heard in the lobby downstairs. “Always the Negroes. All you care about, Harrison Raines, the damn Negroes. It’s, it’s unnatural!”

  Another swirl of skirts, and she swept on down to the stairs, the heels of her pretty blue shoes thudding on the carpet as she descended. Her coachman gave Harry a quick look, his expression revealing nothing. Then he turned to follow.

  Harry closed the door and bolted it, as though that futile act could make any difference. He’d handled this badly, ineptly. But had he been more receptive to her, he feared the encounter would have ended dangerously indeed.

  He went to where he’d left his flask and took a calming swallow. Then he gathered up his coat and left his quarters, fearing he was late.

  Ascending Church Hill by way of Broad Street, Harry walked past the imposing Van Lew house and continued on until he came to the end of the street. Pa
using to light a cheroot, he stood there smoking a while, pretending to look down at the gas-lit city below while actually trying to ascertain if he’d been followed. Nestor Maccubbin, the Virginia State Guard agent, might prove a considerable nuisance—especially with all the attention Bella Mills’s visit must have attracted.

  But no one stirred. Not even a dog’s bark disturbed the decorum of this geographical and social height. Dropping the little cigar and crushing it out, Harry retraced his steps. A wrought iron gate at the side of the Van Lew property opened onto a narrow lane that led to the rear. Harry took that path, crossing through the garden and announcing himself at the kitchen door.

  He was greeted by two familiar faces. One was the dark, friendly countenance belonging to Mary Elizabeth Bowser, Miss Van Lew’s maid, a comely and remarkably well mannered young lady.

  The other face belonged to Caesar Augustus.

  “Good evening, Sir,” Harry said, as he stepped inside. “What a pleasant surprise to find you here. What a pleasant surprise to find you anywhere, as I’d no idea where you’d gone.”

  “I’se a free man, Marse Harry.”

  “You won’t be for long if you insist on roaming around this city where your fancy takes you.”

  Miss Van Lew appeared in the far doorway, her expression a mixture of concern and confusion. “Mr. Raines, welcome. Is something wrong?”

  Harry bowed, then stood very straight. “Hello Miss Van Lew. What’s wrong is that my friend here went visiting where he shouldn’t have—calling at the house of Palmer Mills.”

  “I don’t need your permission, Marse Harry.”

  “That’s not the point. They’re a dangerous clan—and you riled his wife. She sought me out at the hotel to complain—after you told her where I was staying.”

  “Do you mean the Palmer Mills whose been put in charge of the ironclad project at Tredegar?” Miss Van Lew asked.

  “Yes. They’ve made him a lieutenant in the Confederate Navy. He and I never liked each other much, but his wife and I are, uh, old friends.”

  His hostess seemed to flush a little. “Why don’t we all go in to supper?” she asked.

  The dining room was large, with space enough at the table to seat twenty guests comfortably. Miss Van Lew took her place at the head, motioning Harry to sit at her right. He was surprised, though he realized he should not have been, when she then gestured to Caesar Augustus to take the chair on her left.

  The black man hesitated, then did as bidden, treating the invitation as a command. With the exception of when he and Harry dined alone, Caesar Augustus was seldom a guest at a white man’s table.

  Miss Bowser took the chair next to him. An elderly Negro servant, however, remained standing—then moved on Miss Van Lew’s signal to the sideboard to commence serving the first course.

  Miss Van Lew nodded and smiled to Caesar Augustus, then turned to Harry. “Just how angry was Mrs. Mills—and why?”

  It was Caesar Augustus, however, who made the reply. “I was visiting with her maid Estelle,” he said, “She’s an old friend. Mrs. Mills took exception to it. We had some harsh words.”

  “You’re not her slave,” Miss Van Lew said. “She has no right to be harsh with you.”

  Harry recalled that every African person in Miss Van Lew’s household was free and paid generous wages—a Richmond anomaly that had sorely displeased the local society.

  “Yes’m,” said Caesar Augustus. “Mrs. Mills carried on like I was bent on doing something sinful with Estelle—but that wasn’t why I went there. Anyways, it wasn’t why I stayed there. Estelle told me about what Mr. Mills is doing for the Secesh navy. I thought I might learn something.”

  He was addressing these remarks directly to Harry, who glared at him sharply across the table. He’d sung “Dixie” in Richmond’s most public street. He was blabbering aloud about their mission—to a woman he’d only just met. What next?

  “Why did you come here to Miss Van Lew’s house instead of to the hotel?” Harry asked.

  “Mrs. Mills was so agitated, I feared the worst. Didn’t want to go back to the hotel—thinking I might bring trouble with me. So I took some shortcuts I remembered, and here I be.”

  He’d been nervous and stiff after taking his seat, but now he relaxed a little.

  Miss Van Lew, her blue eyes very bright even in the candlelight, remained serious, her gaze studious and fixed upon Harry. He returned the stare, until she at last broke the silence.

  “Why are you in Richmond, Harrison Raines?” she asked.

  He coughed, politely. “As I told you, some personal reasons. Family.”

  “Your mother has gone to her reward, and your father and brother are horse soldiering above the Rappahannock—with Longstreet, as I recall.”

  “That’s true.”

  She took a spoonful of soup, pondering a thought.

  “Does this visit involve a woman?”

  “In part.” He was going to go looking for Louise Devereux the next morning.

  “Mrs. Mills?”

  “No, Ma’am. That encounter was entirely unexpected—and unwanted.”

  Another spoonful. “Shouldn’t be. That woman can be a great help to us.”

  “Did you say ‘us,’ Miss Van Lew?”

  She sat back, smiling sweetly. “After dinner, Harry, I should like to take a turn with you through the garden.”

  It was very chilly in that place. Miss Van Lew had added only a woolen shawl to her ensemble, and was hatless. She was bone thin, and Harry worried for her health. Yet she gave the wretched weather no mind. Harry caught himself shivering and compelled himself to stop it.

  They walked the path from one end to the other, Miss Van Lew chattering about life in Richmond before the war. Then, as she raised a finger to her lips, they fell silent, and remained that way, listening.

  In this drizzle, not even night birds called out.

  “I have a question for you, Harry. Before you left Washington, were you given certain times of day and place you might repair to here in Richmond if you had an urgent need for help from someone you could trust?”

  Harry returned her stare, but, uncertain, could not bring himself to speak.

  “Was the place not the Church Hill burying ground at St. John’s and the times noon and midnight?” she continued.

  There was no point in evading this any further. “Yes.” He watched her carefully. “Were you the person I was to meet?”

  “Me, or if necessary, someone to represent me.”

  “But for you to be in such a place after dark …”

  She moved closer to him now, glancing about the shrubbery. “I was told they would be sending someone,” she said, her voice only slightly above a whisper, “I’m so pleased it’s you—and yet I fear for you. They’re arresting people now on the slightest hint of treason. There’s talk of hangings.”

  “I don’t think I’m in much danger. I’ve been accused in the Northern papers of being a Southern sympathizer—and worse. I stole General Hooker’s horse and made a gift of him to Davis. I’m home, as it were, and know a few who will vouch for me. I think I’ll be all right as long as we stay in Richmond. It’s getting out of here that may prove the problem.”

  “Yes. Always.” She looked about them again, fixing her eyes finally on the lane that led to the street. “I need to know why they’ve sent you.”

  A sudden wariness came over him. He had learned at the near cost of his life that confiding in people outside of Mr. Pinkerton’s immediate circle was a dangerous practice. But Miss Van Lew had been despised in Richmond for her Abolitionist sentiments for as long as he had known her. If he couldn’t trust her, there was no one. “I’m here about the ‘the Monster.’”

  She looked about the shadowy trees as though such a creature might lurk there. “Monster? You mean the armored vessel?”

  “It’s what Mrs. Mills calls it,” Harry said. “The ironclad ship the Confederate Navy has constructed from the remains of the Merrimack.”


  “Now called the Virginia.”

  “Yes. I need to find out how close they are to completing her—and what their plans for her are.”

  She drew closer still. He wondered now if she were feeling the cold. “Harry. You are not alone in this pursuit.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Washington is powerfully worried about this infernal machine. I think even Mr. Lincoln believes some of the wild tales going on about it. How it might steam up the Potomac and destroy everything in its path.”

  “They’re all true,” she said. “But it’s said to have weaknesses as well.”

  It occurred to Harry they must look like two lovers in a bower, but for the drizzle—and the disparity of their ages.

  “Whatever I am able to learn, I need to get the information to Fortress Monroe by the most direct means possible, so that it might be telegraphed to Washington and New York. Do you know a way?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course. But it’s less easy than before.”

  “I’m uncertain how to proceed,” he said. “I am yet unaware of any means at hand to accomplish what’s required of me.”

  “You said you had this encounter with the wife of Palmer Mills.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you once enjoy a close friendship with this lady?”

  He saw where this turn of talk was leading and wished he could turn it back. “‘Friendship’ is perhaps not the most appropriate term for it,” he said. “Matters ended badly. I fear she accepted Mr. Mills’s proposal of marriage for the wrong reason. And now …”

  Miss Van Lew beamed. “And now the means you seek are at hand.”

  “No, no, Miss Van Lew. You don’t understand. It’s impossible. Mills is a bad tempered and jealous sort of man. What you’re suggesting, I fear, would only increase the danger for us all. Besides, she and I quarreled in parting. She’s a racialist—irredeemable.”

  “Harry, it’s a heaven-sent opportunity. Her husband knows all there is to know about ‘the Monster.’ You must ingratiate yourself with them both as much as you can.”

  “No. I’d rather no further encounters with her. And anyway, Miss Van Lew, I doubt he’d receive me.”

  “But you must try. Lives, I think, will depend on it. Lives, and the cause of Father Abraham.”