The talk was that the Federal troops, led by the Army of the Potomac, would rout the Rebels in Manassas, Virginia—a mere thirty miles away!—and then march on to take the Confederate capital in Richmond. And that, they claimed, would be the end of the war, the finish of the conflict, the put-down of the upstart Rebels.
That couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen, and Constance was one reason that was so.
It was in mid-afternoon, and she’d just left Rose Greenhow’s house. In her possession was a map that her friend had somehow acquired—although Rose wouldn’t tell Constance how precisely she’d come to have it. The map had red dotted lines that indicated the route McDowell’s army was going to take to Manassas, and Constance was going to deliver it to General Bonham in the small village of Fairfax Court House. He would ensure it got to General Beauregard.
Constance was wearing a very simple dress with only one spare crinoline that she’d borrowed from Lacey, the maid who took care of Mrs. Billings. Rose had helped her to comb out her long honey-blond hair and then showed her a small packet, only the size of a large coin, wrapped in gold satin—to match her hair. The packet was rolled up in the long length of her hair and secured in place with three tucking combs that held the thick cylinder at the nape of her neck.
Constance’s coiffure had never felt so heavy, so important, so complicated as it did right now—though it was the most simple of styles she’d ever worn. In fact, Jelly would be astonished to see her mistress in such a plain fashion. She looked like a young housemaid or laborer’s daughter, with her hair parted in the front and merely a simple straw bonnet with a narrow ribbon to tie under her chin, and no other ornamentation. Only she and Rose knew how very unsimplistic she really was, with Union Army secrets bound up in her hair.
Rose had arranged for Constance to ride in a tanner’s cart across the Chain Bridge to Virginia, and it was with no great trepidation that she climbed into the cart at two o’clock on July 9. The two mules hitched to the wagon stood placidly as a cloud of flies and gnats buzzed around them in the sticky, hot afternoon.
“Be still, miss,” said the driver—whose name was given to her as Buck—when she fussed nervously with her skirts, although there was far less fabric, lace, and layers than she was used to. In fact, she felt almost indecent with only a simple, plain calico skirt and one thin layer of cotton beneath it, instead of the eight layers she was used to wearing. “Now, don’t say nothing if anyone stops us, or when we cross the bridge. Let me do all’a the talking.” He took a big pinch of tobacco and shoved it in his mouth, then “hawed” at the mules.
The Chain Bridge was on the northwest side of Washington, even beyond Georgetown, so it took nearly an hour to navigate through the clogged streets. Constance tried to keep her nerves steady by making conversation with Buck, and asked him about his occupation as a leather tanner.
It didn’t take long, however, for her to wish she hadn’t, for he rambled on and on about tree bark, of all things—all the while rolling, sucking, and chawing on his tobacco cud.
“Now, you take a hide and you soak it in the grit from ground up hemlock—the tree bark’s got all those tannins in it—and it only takes maybe three, four months for it to tan,” he said wetly. “So it’s fast to make leather with hemlock bark. But chestnut—well, she takes longer—five months or more. But it don’t crack when you use chestnut bark, and it holds the color of the dye longer.” He shook his head, tsking. “That’s why I do all my hides with chestnut oak because you buy black boots, you want’em to stay black—not get all cracked and lose the color and turn brown.” He shot a stream of tobacco juice from between his teeth and she shuddered, focusing on the two mules plodding along in front of the wagon.
“But if you use hemlock, it makes the leather go heavier and thicker, annat means you can charge more for it at the saddler or the cobbler,” he went on. “Make more money on the same piece o’ hide because it’s heavier. But like I says”—another stream of light brown juice squirted in a long arc—“it don’t hold the black dye, and the good leatherworkers don’t want bad quality like that with cracks and the dye fadin’.”
Thus, Constance was almost relieved when they approached the Chain Bridge, even though this would be the first test—whether the Federal troops guarding it would allow them—her—to cross into Virginia.
She clenched her hands in her lap and attempted to appear bored as the driver drove the two mules up to the long wooden bridge that crossed the Potomac into Fairfax County. It was made from wooden trusses that crisscrossed thickly over the flat top and all along the sides. It reminded her of a long and deep garden archway where climbing roses might grow, except that this was not in a garden, was much longer, and—worst of all—it was populated by Union soldiers standing guard.
She swallowed hard and buried her twisting fingers beneath the light cloak she wore as the wagon rolled to a stop when two men blocked their way with rifles.
“Name, occupation, place of residence, and purpose for asking to cross,” said one of the men. He sounded bored, and after one quick glance, Constance averted her eyes in an effort to escape notice.
“Buck Riffler,” the driver said, rolling the wad of tobacco to the other side of his mouth. “I’m a tanner, and I live in Washington City. I’m goin’ out to pick up some chesnut bark for the shop my supplier’s got waitin’ for me over by Pimmit Road.”
“And who is this with you?” The soldier on Constance’s side of the wagon tipped his rifle slightly in her direction.
“Oh, that’s my sister. She’s goin’ to visit our cousins, live right there on Pimmit Road.” Buck rolled the chaw into the opposite cheek.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“W-Wisteria,” she said softly.
The other soldier took up the interrogation again. “When are you going to return? And will she be with you or is she stayin’ at the cousin’s house?”
“Yeah, she’s comin’ back with me. Her husband don’t like her gone more’n part of a day. He’s like that.” Buck scratched his forehead. “How long? Four hours maybe—gotta load up all that dried-up bark. It’s in crates, but still takes some long time, specially if you drop one and the damned thing splits. Gets all over the damned place, and then—”
“All right, then. Go on.” The soldier was apparently no more interested in tanning details than Constance was.
She exhaled softly as the wagon started up again. It seemed to take forever for them to cross, clattering over the bridge in what felt like an eternity, with the mules taking their sweet time. Every moment she expected to hear someone shout after them to stop.
But they made it to the other side without incident and passed by the soldiers patrolling the other end without slowing. Although they weren’t in the clear yet, the worst was over. Now that they were in Virginia, there were many places to go and hide. And just as many sympathizers to their position as not.
“It’s almost two hours to Fairfax Court House,” Buck said. “If we don’t get stopped again. You did good back there, just looking quiet and docile like my Berry there,” he added, gesturing to the mule on the right.
In her entire life, Constance had never been called docile, and had never been likened to a mule—except the one time she remembered Jelly calling her stubborn as one. But she tucked away the sharp words she wanted to say and sat there silently as Buck jabbered on about tanning (what else was there to know? Good heavens, apparently a lot), as well as the weather, his mules, and a variety of other topics she lost track of and could care less about.
The whole time, her insides were tight and twisted, and her palms were damp inside their gloves. At every moment, she thought she might vomit or faint. Would they ever get there?
But at last they did. It was only just five o’clock when the wagon reached the outskirts of the small town.
Only a month ago, there’d been a small skirmish here between some Union and Rebel troops. Constance had heard about it—about how the Union troops tried
three times to ride through the town, and how three times they’d been forced back by her boys. Eventually, they gave up and retreated back to their camp, and since then, the small town had remained in Confederate hands with General Bonham responsible for the area.
It was to him she must deliver the map—and only to him.
To her surprise and relief, the process was shockingly simple. With the town being in control of the Confederates, it was no difficulty asking for the general. Perhaps Bettie Duval’s visit—if indeed she had made it yesterday as planned—had smoothed the way for Rose’s other spy.
Spy.
Constance hadn’t really thought of herself in that way until she was helped down from the wagon and escorted into the courthouse, which General Bonham had taken as his headquarters.
She was officially a Confederate spy as of the moment she pulled the tucking combs from her hair and it all fell down past her shoulders, dropping the silk-wrapped packet to the floor.
CHAPTER 12
It was going to be as dark as George had hoped it would be tonight. Clouds had rolled in, obstructing the sun before it even set. That boded well for him and Brownie and the task set before them.
Brownie Bixley was another free black man, and he and George often worked together. They’d outfitted George’s wagon with a secret hiding place beneath the driver’s bench. Taking one-third of the fronts of three barrels, they’d attached them together to create a sort of door that set just beneath and behind the driver’s bench. On the back side of the barrel fronts, which were deep enough to appear real unless a man actually tried to move them, was the empty space under the driver’s seat. A space large enough to hold more than a dozen rifles and their ammunition, an array of cannon balls, two or three small powder kegs—or a living person or two.
George unlocked the door to his office when he heard Brownie give his particular whistle outside. It was only getting on to seven o’clock, so they had three hours before curfew set in—but that would only be barely enough time for what they needed to do. It was a two-hour drive over to where they were going in Maryland.
“We taking cargo?” asked Brownie, and then his eyes widened. “What the hell happened to you?”
George grimaced. He was still bruised from the beating last Friday, and his broken rib had a long way to go before it healed so he didn’t wince every time he moved. “Nothing.”
“Nothing for cargo, or nothing happened?” Brownie asked. He was a strong, wiry man with a quick wit and a sassy, pretty wife who was home with their three kids tonight. Every time he and Brownie did a trip, George had to struggle with his guilt that if things went wrong, a woman and her babies were going to be without a husband.
But Brownie was just as stubborn as a certain white woman George couldn’t seem to put from his mind, and the man insisted on helping his people just like George did. And so they were as careful as possible every time.
“Cargo should be here soon” was all George said on the topic.
“What the blazes is that awful smell?” Brownie said with a grimace. “You been cutting up dead bodies again?”
“Hush,” he snapped, glancing warily toward the door, which was ajar. “I was, but I sent ’em away because they were too far gone to keep on ice anymore.” He hadn’t found anything interesting on Billy Morris’s body, either, other than the obvious: he’d been strangled the same way Pinebar Tufts had been. And he’d had a lot of ale to drink beforehand.
“Still stinks in here. Can’t you get some of them mothballs?”
George merely shook his head as they went outside to outfit the wagon for the journey. “Hope the cargo gets here in time.”
Brownie didn’t respond right away. He was probably remembering, like George was, that the last time their cargo didn’t arrive on time was back in May. Deucy Short was supposed to be coming with his sister, and he never showed up that night.
Two days after, George heard what happened: Deucy had been beaten to death by his master the day before. That was a rare occasion for a master to whip his slave so hard he died—since the death of a slave meant the total loss of a worker, a financial waste. Sure, they often got beat to within an inch of dying, but not too often did the master go so far as to actually murder them.
But Deucy’s master was one of the frighteningly mean and violent ones. No one knew whether he’d meant to kill his slave, or whether his temper had just gone too far.
Deucy’s sister, Brilla, was still in the city somewhere, working in the same household. George had tried several times over the last two months to contact her secretly so he could help her, at least, but he hadn’t been able to get word to her.
Just then a shadow fell across the small arc of light from their lanterns. George’s head whipped up—yes, he was still far too het up about being taken by surprise—and he was relieved to see Jelly standing there. Her eyes were wide and her dark brown face seemed to have a touch of gray to its color, but determination rolled off her solid figure. She carried a small bundle clutched to her middle.
“How’s that middle toe of yours, Miss Jelly?” he asked, to make certain she truly wanted to go through with this.
“It’s still painin’ me something bad,” she replied, glancing at Brownie warily. “You hear anything ’bout my son, Dr. Hilton?”
“Jeremy’s in Pennsylvania,” he replied, then explained to Brownie, “Mistress Jelly here asked me to find her son who run off when he was sold away from her clear down in Mobile. That was, what, four years ago, ma’am?”
“That’s right,” she said. “He was only fourteen at the time.”
“I got word of a Jeremy Poole in Chester, Pennsylvania. It’s just over the river from Maryland, Miss Jelly. It’s a three-day trip the way you’d have to do it. This here’s Brownie Bixley, ma’am. He’s really good at helping me fix sore middle toes.” George smiled at her.
Having a sore middle toe was how Jelly had asked him for help to escape back in April. It was one of the ways in which his people communicated with each other. It was a sort of code—using certain phrases or singing songs with words that whites wouldn’t notice or understand.
“All right, then,” Jelly said. But her smile was still tense and nervous.
“How did you get away from home?” George asked curiously as he and Brownie prepared the wagon for their journey.
“The Good Lord was looking out for me, He was,” she said, still clutching the small bundle—which was surely everything she owned. “Miss Constance left at two o’clock and said as how she wouldn’t be home until late, and to just have her bed ready when she got back. And James and Louise and Lacey—they free, and they go home at night. Mr. Lemagne be sleeping, and Mrs. Billings was upstairs sleeping too. I jes’ walked out that door, Dr. Hilton. I jes’ walked out and I ain’t never gonna look back.” Her voice was strong and her eyes glinted with determination.
“All right, then, Miss Jelly,” George said. “We’re going to get you all settled here under the seat. It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable—”
“Ain’t no more uncomfortable than when my son was sold away from me,” she snapped.
“You’re right about that, ma’am,” said Brownie with a sad smile. “Now let me help you up in there, all right?”
They got her all settled, lying down on a thin blanket beneath the driver’s bench and with a hammer, in the unhappy event she needed to let herself out. Jelly tucked her bundle under her head and the last thing George saw before he replaced the trio of false barrelheads were her dark eyes glinting at him in the dark.
He said a quick, heartfelt prayer as he always did as he and Brownie nailed the barrel fronts in place. Please protect us and all who help us in our mission, and deliver her safely to freedom and her son.
And then, as Brownie hitched up the pair of horses, he climbed into his place on the wagon.
Moments later, they were off.
* * *
It was just growing dark when Constance and her driver reached the Virginia
side of the Chain Bridge.
As before, she curled her fingers deep into her cloak—which was now a welcome covering in the cooling evening—as they approached. This time, however, she wasn’t nervous or unsettled. She’d done what she came to do, and having dispatched the secret bundle, she was free from any indication of wrongdoing. Even if the Unionist soldiers stopped them, they couldn’t prove she’d done anything wrong.
Nonetheless, as Buck drove the mules up to the bridge, Constance had to remind herself to relax.
As before, there were two soldiers, each with rifles, that blocked their way from entering the wood-covered bridge. Another four men stood just beyond them, on the bridge itself, talking among themselves.
“State your name, residency, occupation, and purpose for crossing,” said the soldier.
Buck responded the same way he had on their way across, but this time explained, “I got me some bark for my tanning shop in the back there. Had to pick it up out to Pimmit Road. Took a coupla hours to load it up—but I told them on the other side when we cross—”
“And who are you, ma’am?” The soldier on Constance’s side lifted his lantern to illuminate her face.
“That’s my—”
“Let the lady answer for herself.”
“My name is Wisteria Jones,” she said smoothly, remembering that she was supposed to be married to a husband who didn’t like her to be gone very long. “Buck—he’s my brother—why, he dropped me off at our cousins’ house for a visit while he was loading up the supplies for his shop.”
As she spoke those words, Constance glanced over at the group of men, which was just starting to break up. In that moment, while she was brightly illuminated by the soldier’s lantern, she saw the face of one of the men.
Adam Quinn.
Her entire body froze. Her insides dumped to her feet in a rush of nausea as their eyes met and she saw the flash of surprise and recognition in his face.
“Miss Lemagne?” he said, striding over to the wagon. He was dressed in a sort of army uniform: a dark gray coat instead of his long, flapping frontier coat, gloves, and a hat she’d seen some of the troops wearing in their parades.
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