by Barbara Best
“I see. It is Savannah, then. A gem of a place and thriving port, once.” Alvin pitches forward in his chair and lights his reed from a burning kerosene lamp on his desk that puts off a disturbing glare. When he is satisfied his tobacco has properly ignited, grand puffs of smoke circle his head like a false halo. The aroma is sickly-sweet.
“I imagine there are a few Savannah boys in that prison across the bay.”
Jane’s eyes dart involuntarily to her friends. She is so surprised she comes up out of her chair.
“Maybe we should be on our way,” she sputters. “And thank you for your time, sir.”
Sophie and Colette stand too.
“Now-now, young ladies, don’t go and get your dander up. You must forgive me, truly. I have become an inquisitive ol’ seadog and a cantankerous one at that,” he chuckles. Lowering his tone to a grave pitch and leveling a piercing glare at Miss Peterson, he adds, “I think we have common interests, you and I. Sit, won’t you?” It is more like a command. He extends his hand in invitation.
“I think we will stand, Mr. Staff. I don’t know where this interview is going.”
“As you wish,” Alvin says. Making an audible grunt of irritation and effort, he stands himself. Then, with the awkward clacking gait of a man with a wooden peg strapped to his knee, he marches across the room. He opens the door, checks the hallway, then closes it soundly.
“There are times when we need our privacy,” Alvin grins, deepening an old gash along his cheek that comes dangerously close to one eye. He scratches the peppered stubble under his chin.
“Really,” Jane huffs. They should leave, but somehow her feet will not do her bidding. It seems the same for her friends. Their wide-open eyes are glued on Mr. Staff.
“There’s the door, of course, but I suggest you hear me out.” Alvin’s expression hardens, “What is discussed in this room will be entirely confidential. I have a great amount of respect for confidentiality. It is to be upheld, regardless of risk or price.”
“Well now.” With his pipe clamped between his teeth, he noisily moves to the window. Alvin has learned to ignore the brazen looks from people who see his old injury. Losing part of his leg had earned him the nickname Peg Leg Al from his mates. With a shrug, he promptly turns his back.
“How did we arrive at confidences?” Jane musters lamely, trying to hold it together. She thinks there is a hidden threat in Mr. Staff’s words. “We came for a room, sir.”
“That you did, but please, humor me,” Alvin ventures, habitually evaluating the condition of the sea through bubbled panes of glass that are clouded by salt and dew. “I assure you, there is no harm in it,” he says over his shoulder.
Feeling their stares like needles on his back, Alvin commits, “The war between our states has created a rather complex situation. My family lost two of its best. My two younger brothers were killed when General Grant’s army converged on Vicksburg.” Alvin pauses, awed by the fresh sorrow that visits him. He rests his elbow on the other arm that is folded against his chest.
“When war moves through a place it leaves a terrible residue. The news of my brothers’ deaths was devastating. My mother died a few weeks later of a broken heart, they say. Our loss is bittersweet, for I would like to think Samuel and Simon took up arms for what they believed in, for flag and country. For the Confederacy they held dear.” Alvin draws on his pipe for comfort. The smoke swirls up, stinging his eyes and adding moisture where the hint of tears already exists.
The women stand as motionless as a tide pool.
“No man can infuse a more patriotic fervor than in laying down his life for a cause. I have three married and very industrious sisters, who produced a slew of nieces and nephews. All are grown, or near ’bout. Three nephews have enlisted. Lord knows where they are now,” he pauses a minute or two for meaning. “All reside in the South, you see. My birthplace and by rights, my heritage. This makes me somewhat . . . sympathetic.”
Alvin sighs and turns to face the women. He had given them time and is glad to see they have not bolted. Two of them are striking in appearance and a head taller than he is. They would likely stand out in a crowd. His dark bushy eyebrows furrow as he draws again on his pipe and considers the woman, Colette.
“You don’t sound like a Southerner, Mr. Staff. If you don’t mind my saying,” Sophie speaks for the first time. She covers her nose with a black lace handkerchief, praying she does not puke on the imported cranberry and teal rug at her feet.
“Well sink me, the widow has a tongue,” Alvin chuckles. “My dear, I don’t imagine I sound much like anything at all. I’ve sailed the seven seas and moored in every port. Traveled the world, I have. It is in my blood. I yearn for it to this day,” Alvin’s eyes sparkle to life. The lines of age and weather on his face seem to disappear as he talks in his queer sea manner. “Ah, but I have a handful of dreams!” he smiles widely, showing a line of yellow chipped teeth under his unkempt beard.
Jane glances at Sophie, who has turned an unnatural shade of green. “Mr. Staff, my friend here is trying her best to be polite, but I am afraid her senses are much too delicate. If we are to talk further, you will have to resist your pipe.”
“Why, how thoughtless of me. I do beg your pardon.”
Alvin immediately puts his pipe in a dish to cool.
“If you don’t mind,” Jane says. She boldly removes the burning object to the far side of the room and sets the dish on a small cluttered table to let it smolder out of range. Her rustling skirt can be heard in a moment of stark quiet.
When she returns to stand by her friends, Mr. Staff rudely inspects them from their bonnets to the tips of their boots.
“Get on with it, Mr. Staff,” Jane says with a note of impatience. “We’re listening.”
“Stellar,” Alvin exclaims, more to himself, and crinkles his eyes genially. “If we should get to know one another better, you will find I am a man of many notions. Aye, well now,” he harrumphs and grips his hands behind his back. “If you please, ladies, either be seated, or I will thank you to leave. I grow tired of this crick in my neck from looking up.”
Chapter 74
AIDING AND ABETTING
In the murky shadows of a great Civil War, citizens North and South of the Mason-Dixon line are aroused by rebellious feats of valor. Scouts, spies and masters of disguise work covertly on both sides. They risk life and limb in staggering proportion to subvert the enemy and fight the war on their own terms. Aiding and abetting the escape of prisoners from enemy camps or moving slaves in the Underground Railroad is commonplace.
Brave men and women like Lafayette Baker, Belle Boyd, Rose O’Neal Greenhow, Harriet Tubman and Timothy Webster know the risk of their endeavors. Nonetheless, they are inspired by a profound sense of allegiance and hard-driven purpose despite the consequences. If they are found out, imprisonment is absolute. Under the vilest conditions, they will be convicted as war criminals and most likely die a traitor’s death by hanging or firing squad. With that being said, it is remarkable how even more nameless souls willingly collaborate with rival sides to commit treasonous acts.
During the spy war, a secret network of loyalists operates on the fringes. Alvin Staff is one such individual. Obscure in his devotion, he seeks justice for the blood of his family shed at the hands of Union forces. After the deaths of his brothers and heartbroken mother, he cannot stand by a passive witness to the atrocities. He wages a personal vendetta and will do anything possible to aid the Confederacy.
The expediency of Alvin’s conscription came as a stunning surprise. His orders followed almost immediately. He must prove his loyalty by establishing communications between the city’s Union prison and the outside.
Two Confederate diplomats being held at Fort Warren are of great interest to the South. The men had been captured on a mail packet ship returning from France and Britain. The Confederacy is sure Murray Mason and John Slider succeeded in obtaining financial aid and military support from one or both countries. Althoug
h their assignment was corrupted by Union suspicions and the amazing luck of a Naval officer, Mason and Slider have committed a massive amount of key intelligence to memory. The Confederacy wants that information.
Not always a religious man, Alvin swears the three women who showed up on his doorstep are Godsent. Miss Peterson, or rather Mrs. Peterson-Hopkins as he would learn, and Widow Downing unknowingly provided the missing piece to his plan. Colette is the vital link he desperately needs to communicate with Confederate prisoners at Fort Warren.
Writing a letter at one end of his study, Alvin catches bits and pieces of the conversation across the room. He has shared his ideas and given the women a brief recess to mull it over.
At first, they balked at his proposal. However, like dangling carrots on a stick, he wagers the potential rescue of Mrs. Hopkins’ husband, Confederate Major Matthew Henry Hopkins, has given him the leverage he needs. What’s more, his raw instincts and audacious nature — which enabled him to work his way from scum of the dockyards to quartermaster and survive a shark attack that bit the lower half of his leg clean off — tell him the women are capable, and uniquely so.
“Laundress! Is he serious?” Jane fumes under her breath, pacing a three-foot radius in their corner. The thought is not only distressing, but the strenuous domestic chore is an insult. She stops, “It’s just not right, Colette.”
“Do not upset yourself, mon chéri. It makes sense. This is especially the work of a freed Colored.” Colette settles on the pale-blue settee that forms a grouping of furniture. Sophie joins her.
“We may be in the North, but there is prejudice everywhere. The men at Fort Warren will never suspect my intelligence and cunning,” Colette smiles impishly, “Or think I could possibly do anything useful with their information.”
“Colette has a point, Jane. Your red hair and green eyes, your height alone draws attention. Mr. Staff is right. You can’t go. You or me.” Sophie glances down at her expanding waistline encased in black. “We’d stand out too much. Someone will remember us.” She immediately thinks of the soldier who recognized Jane at the hospital and how a reporter had tracked the Mystifying Ghost Lady to Mrs. Finch’s boarding house. They can’t be sure Mr. Cadbury has given up entirely. Boston is just across the bay. Unhappily, she also thinks of Clayton who turned on her when she needed him most.
“Well, none of us should go,” Jane insists, trying to keep her voice down. “It is far too dangerous. I can figure something else out.”
Both Sophie and Colette’s eyebrows arch.
“Like what?” Sophie says.
“I don’t know,” Jane groans. “I can row a boat.” Her short chortle has a hollow ring.
“What, row a boat and scale the wall? Not that again. It’s crazy-insane, Jane. Honestly,” Sophie cites, “You’re not a bloody superhero.”
Jane takes a deep breath and rubs her temples. All she can think of is she wants Matt back, safe and sound, but not by risking the lives of others. If Matt knew what she was up to, he would have a fit.
Sophie studies Jane’s complexion. Although her skin is basically fair, it has lost its golden glow from the days when they worshiped the sun. The signature fiery-red hair that once liberally flowed over her shoulders and down her back is parted in the center now and snugly captured in a braided bun. Her bonnet with faded silk roses, like her clothes, looks a tad shabby. Sophie thinks her appearance is not much different. The days of shipping things off to Goodwill when they showed the first sign of wear and constantly shopping for replacements are over.
“See?” she says. “You are giving yourself a headache and, last I checked, there’s no aspirin. I think we are deep into this thing. Freaking out won’t help, Jane.”
“Our being here is a gift, no?” Colette says, as optimistic as ever. “We must make the best of it.”
“Some gift,” Jane scoffs. The ghosts of terrible injustices come to life. Of being pawns in a cynical game of chess, of a national narrative she knows something about, yet cannot control.
“I will say this one last time,” Colette asserts firmly. “I am going with Mr. Staff to Fort Warren next week. Mrs. Staff has hired me out for five days as laundress at Harbor Manor to fill in for a woman who quit. I will learn everything I can. How hard can it be?”
“Are you quite finished?” Alvin pronounces evenly. The women have had enough time to quibble over his offer. He squints his eyes. His vision may be going bad, but he can hear with the ears of a bat. The women’s peculiar mannerisms worry him. If he had his druthers, he would send them on their way. His patience grows thin, but he also realizes the unlikely trio is his best option.
“Mind you watch your ‘Ps’ and ‘Qs’ ladies. The dialect you use among yourselves is manifest and strange to me. It would be the same to anyone.”
Jane, Sophie and Colette’s eyes dart to the interruption, having temporarily forgotten Mr. Staff’s presence.
Black ink that pooled on the nib of Alvin’s pen drops to the paper he has been scribbling on for the past fifteen minutes.
“Blast! Look what I’ve done,” Alvin explodes. He dabs at the spot with a small piece of fabric, making it worse and getting his stumpy fingers stained in the process.
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Staff,” Jane quips. The man’s fluster is comical.
“I’ll have to do this over,” Alvin frets, looking up from his spoiled document.
Jane gives Mr. Staff time to come from behind his desk and cross the room to join them. She nods her head at Sophie and Colette and takes a formal pose.
“We are a very rare and clever threesome. Our dialect may be somewhat foreign, but no doubt you see potential in us. I worry about this daring venture of yours. There are serious pros and cons, but there always is in every course of action,” she looks at her friends for support. “Overall, I believe the pros have it. And, I trust that life’s experiences have made you adept in pulling this off.”
A broad smile almost splits Mr. Staff’s face and he tilts his head. “Well now, it sounds like we have an accord. And well said.”
Jane motions, “Colette?”
Colette gracefully stands and steps forward, extending her hand to Mr. Staff in invitation for a handshake. He hesitates, but extends his hand to take hers.
“You can rely on me, Mr. Staff,” Colette says.
“I expect you to keep your end of the bargain and follow my instructions to the letter,” Alvin’s tone conveys solemnity. He blatantly wipes his hand on his trousers and slips it into his pocket.
“Oui,” Colette says, noticing the man’s rudeness. She will never get used to the bigotry, but it is nothing she can change. At least, not now.
“It is a fine plan. You have much to gain and do us a great service.” Alvin’s eyes sweep the women. “Stay the course, and ye will reap the bounty, eh?”
Chapter 75
ADVERTISEMENT FOR LAUNDRESS
The groundwork of his plan has been laid. Alvin Staff is effectively ready to execute his mission to penetrate the prison fortification on Georges Island. Who would have thought men’s dirty laundry afforded him the perfect opportunity to establish a line of communication for the Confederacy? For the first time in a very long time, the ol’ seadog feels alive and useful again. Somehow the phantom pain in his missing limb hurts a little less.
Two weeks to the day after the three women magically appeared on his doorstep, Alvin will have an audience with Quartermaster Yancey at Fort Warren. The quartermaster is a busy man, but willing to see him about the advertisement for laundress.
Early for their appointment, the wait is just long enough to make his insides squirm. He had expected sufficient treatment, considering he and Yancey each obtained the rank of quartermaster, be it by land or sea, but it is well past the hour now. Alvin’s nostrils flare in agitation as he checks his timepiece again. He glances sideways at Colette to see if she is in proper form, as he is never really sure about her. Her composure will suffice. It is only marred by the nervous twid
dling of her thumbs.
The footfall of a fast gait makes them both straighten.
“Sir?”
“Yes, yes,” Alvin awkwardly rises from a hard bench that made his back ache. Colette stands and steps meekly behind him.
“This way, sir,” the corporal nods and motions for them to follow.
They travel through a small room with a writing table, cabinet, two barrels and a crate to a door. When the corporal raps, a deep male voice briskly calls out, “Come in.”
After introductions, Alvin begins the meeting by offering his condolences and expounding on the difficulties of getting adequate help these days. He says he had heard the woman, whose vacancy they hope to fill, died of consumption.
“Indeed,” Quartermaster Yancey shrugs. He is a tall, thin man with thinning hair combed straight back and a fixed expression that resembles a buzzard. He sniffs and rubs his beak of a nose. He had just enjoyed a pinch of fine snuff, and suffered the sneeze reflex it triggered.
“The poor woman was ill,” Yancey says, not wanting to discuss the recent sickness circulating among the men. “You have come at a good time, Mr. Staff. Won’t you please be seated?”
When the Negro woman looks around with uncertainty, “You too.” He flicks his hand at the empty chair next to Mr. Staff. “I like to see what I am getting.”
As a rule, Yancey needs four washerwomen for every hundred men. The loss of one has already caused a hardship. He was elated when Mr. Staff answered his advertisement. The seaman’s concubine, he brashly assumes, is not only available, but in his judgment, capable.
The woman’s form and demeanor strike Yancey as peculiar. She is suitably clothed and sits strong and erect. Although her turbaned head is lowered, he has seen enough of her quick glances to know the whites of her eyes are clear of disease. Her dark skin gives off a healthful sheen and her teeth are near perfect. In truth, the woman seems unaffected by the tedious labor she subscribes to.
