Nearly a week had passed since my visitor had come and gone before dawn. She’d left reluctantly with a gray uniform folded tightly in the bottom of her bag hidden beneath a large clump of fresh parsley.
Standing in garden boots, ankle deep in turned soil, my mind was wandering in long trails like the ragged roots of the weeds I was unearthing. I knew that by now, Constance would have utilized the “tracks” of the old Underground Railroad and other spies, still called ‘conductors’, like Sarah, would be guiding her between safe houses until she reached her destination.
Looking around I was grateful for the winter garden that Kate had planted in the fall. Now I figured I’d have to quadruple its size to grow the produce and herbs that would be needed for my work. Cabbage, lettuce, parsley, carrots and beets had provided a small income at the grocery and, more importantly, the vegetables provided cover for the delivery of my intermittent messages to the grocer who passed them on to the Union. My herb garden was another matter. I needed to find seeds or wild herbs for my long-term plan.
In between digging and planting I pondered if Constance had gone safely and without incident or if her real identity had been discovered by the Rebels? I would not allow myself to dwell on that. When I caught my thoughts falling between pragmatism and pessimism, I tried to shake them free and told myself that my visitors, the spies who had become friends or acquaintances in this lonely effort, would be protected. Thinking such thoughts allowed me to reassure myself that my work remained secret and that I wasn’t in any danger. But if my messages were discovered, what then? I couldn’t take that mental path. It was too uncertain and would haunt me if I let it. So I moved, unconsciously perhaps, to my more immediate concern: ‘What could I do to keep the weeds down in the garden?’ It seemed that those unwelcome visitors grew each night by the light of the moon, because by morning they were choking off yet another row of plantings.
Warm morning sun reflected the season. It was early May. Rising farther to the north each day it came up a bit earlier. On clear mornings upon waking, I made it a habit to step outside, onto the porch, my hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea to survey the day. Spring seemed to feed my chemistry with energy as if the world was awash in new colors freshly mixed and dabbed to liven up the darkened corners of my spirit, made gloomy by war. Besides the other daily chores of making bread, washing, and keeping the house in good repair, my garden needed attention; the attention that every new garden needed at that time of the year —composting and turning the soil, removing rocks and adding low fencing, and determining the best placement for new seedlings. Fresh new shoots, carrot tops covered with dew and glistening spider webs, greeted me as I pumped water to fill an enormous spouted can.
On clear days young slave women utilized the common work yard adjacent to the garden for doing the laundry of their local masters and if possible, a few thin articles of their own. On the other side of the fence, freshly cleaned sheets snapped in the cool morning breeze. One of my fondest memories of those days was hearing the low singing of the women as they worked. Pulling myself up from the soil and standing erect, I stretched my back and decided that a cup of tea at the garden table was just what I needed.
In minutes, my hands cleaned up and a pot of steaming mint tea on the table, I decided to speak to the young laundresses. Walking towards the fence I wanted to call to the slave women who stood stirring a steamy tub of laundry with a thick club-like stick. If it wouldn’t give away my position, I’d say, “Good morning. Beautiful day.”
Head down gazing at the tub below, the woman looked up at me briefly and gave a shy nod. I did say quietly just above a whisper , “I’m Annie, your neighbor,” I said, in the direction of the other woman hanging socks and undergarments on the nearby clothesline.
The two slave women looked at each other and back to me, then looked down, determined not to have to answer, unaccustomed to such conversation with a white woman. Sensing their embarrassment, wondering if I’d been foolish to think it was all right to make this introduction, I turned away from the fence, sat down and poured myself a cup of tea. Their discomfort reminded me of their life led as chattel to a master and his business. Farms and plantations were the places where breaking the spirit of a slave was a science and creating fear had become an art.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the flowering trees near the house. In the quiet morning, the rhythm of a slow—walking horse caught my attention for some reason. Opening my eyes once more I saw a cavalry man approaching. His gray uniform created a landscape for his uniform’s glinting brass buttons as he walked his horse up the packed dirt road. The horse was a tall chestnut, probably eighteen hands high who appeared to be enjoying the relaxed pace of the morning as much as its rider.
I recognized the rider’s face though it was shaded by the brim of his jaunty hat. It was the captain whom I’d seen over my beer at Kate’s a week before. Setting down my teacup, I rose from the table, smoothed my skirt and walked to the edge of the yard as if to inspect a flowering bush.
Slowing down, the Captain stopped his horse in the street on the other side of the shrub border from where I stood.
“Good morning Miss,” he said, tipping his hat slightly.
I could see his face more readily. Clear eyes, smooth skin, and a confident smile accompanied his greeting. The double braids of his sleeve insignia were evident as he raised his arm to touch the brim of his hat offering me a nod as well. However, the clearest sign of rank was one that I had had to memorize and distinguish months earlier in my hasty training, the decorative collar badge of the Confederate officer. His collar had three bars indicating the rank of Captain. From where I was standing I could see the shiny buttons that had caught the sun as he approached. Even from that distance, I could see another mark of the Rebel uniform. Each button was marked with the sign of the Confederacy …the capital ‘C’.
He was sure with his movements, tightening and loosening the reins of his horse as the creature chewed at the bit or shook his neck and mane. I looked at him quite directly and felt my earlobes warm, my neck tighten.
“Good morning, Captain. It appears that you are not running off to any battles this fine day.”
“It is a beautiful morning, isn’t it? Just thought I’d take Chesapeake here out for some exercise. Got to keep her in shape during these quiet times.” He reached down to the horse’s neck and patted her as he spoke.
“I imagine your work is either quiet or quite frantic,” I responded.
“It certainly is,” responded the captain with a pause. Then he added, “By the way ma’am, I enjoyed your performance last week, Miss…”?
“Cunningham. Annie Cunningham. And you’re Captain…?”
“Dodd. Warren Dodd, “he responded. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Cunningham. Will you be performing again soon?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied. “The troupe with whom I worked decided to return to Richmond after all. Apparently, the place is so dismal now performers have been given top pay to stay there and raise morale, and they’re not picky their audience.”
“Will you be leaving soon then?” Dodd asked.
No. Not now. I rather like it here. With all the moving around I did with the troupe, I became exhausted. I needed a quiet place to plant my boots for a while,” I replied.
“I’m sure that your staying is Virginia’s gain indeed,” Dodd grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope to see you again, Miss Cunningham.” He nodded and prodded his horse forward. “Good day.” The “ay” was drawn out slightly from looking back over his shoulder as he moved on.
“Good day Captain,” I said. My eyes followed him up the road. Then, under my breath I repeated to myself, “I hope to see you again, Miss Cunningham. Looking up again I added, “And, I hope to see you again Captain Dodd.”
Turning back to the yard and humming to myself I returned to my resting spot and sipped the last of my tea, but I couldn’t have missed the exchange of looks the laundresses gave one another as I re
turned from speaking to the Captain. Donning my work apron, and with a trowel that I pulled from the ground, I bent over the new seedlings. I was happy to finally meet that man, even if he was a Captain for the Confederacy.
“I hope to see you again” I whispered aloud.
I was flattered when Kate, my landlord and also the proprietress of the Three Lanterns Tavern, told me later that Captain Dodd had inquired about my whereabouts a few days after he bought me that drink. She had only offered him the general location as not to completely disrespect my privacy and she said that the rest was up to him to find me or not. He had walked Chesapeake up and down that square block area several times with no luck until that morning. Later, he told me that if he had been a Private he would have offered to dig my garden for me. But I reminded him that if he was a Private, he would be living in the mud, not gardening in it.
Gardening was not just my work and sustenance. It was truly my muse. For an hour I contented myself with digging the soil, turning it over to warm and transplanting the seedlings that had grown sturdy on the kitchen window sill, while outsmarting the cold, wet spring beyond the glass. Laying out the garden patterns in my imagination was like applying texture and color to a canvas, with new productions each season. Flowers and vegetables, herbs and berries, all required forethought and constant care for their growth. In wartime, especially, it made more sense to plant lots of vegetables given the precarious nature of supply lines and food stuffs. And of course, I saw to it that I planted all the herbs I could find room for. It was my living apothecary.
In more northern climates, planning a garden and securing the beloved seeds occupied the minds of folks for months during the winter. From just after Christmas until the first skunk cabbages of spring when daffodils, too, showed their smooth necks like green cormorants emerging, people traded seeds. Then they drew out their ideas into garden plots on long sheets of paper at their kitchen tables and recalled the patterns the sun traced across their yards in summer. Quite different from its winter route. Thoughts of gardens and designing spring landscapes were the lifelines that pulled winter residents out of their gray doldrums with visions of color that a garden, planted in spring and ready to be harvested in summer, could offer even the sourest of souls.
Standing ankle deep in soil and mulch my thoughts drifted between Captain Dodd’s visit and the placement of my herbs. Personally, I delighted in having a mind that fluctuated between fantasy and practicality. One balanced the other. Anyone who knew me would have agreed with the words of my mother, who when I was a child, used to tell me that my “daydreams made for a lithe spirit.” Without my daydreams, I would have been as serious as a wooden plank because of the depth and density of my thoughts. Especially since loneliness was beginning to gnaw at my spirits like the acidic stomachs of hungry southern soldiers distanced from supply lines. Loneliness, alone, did not attract me to the captain. I’m convinced that chemistry had an overwhelming voice, deep within my veins. And, his eyes. It was something about those vivid clear blue eyes that found the core of me.
Hearing the approach of a carriage I set aside my tools quickly picked up the corners of my apron and wiped the sweat from my face. Hands grimy with soil, I brushed them off as best as I could. By that time, I saw a woman dressed in white who arrived like a flapping dove preparing for its descent; she stepped down from her carriage, and out -paced her footman who had rushed to intercept the carriage door. Lucy Talbot didn’t seem to notice my state of grime and disarray. If she did, she never let on.
Though breathing fast, she spoke with alarming clarity, color rising to her peach cheeks, her hat neatly secured around her head with a gauzy scarf. And as Lucy lighted from her carriage I noticed a glow in her lightly powdered face, a pink hue spreading over her porcelain cheeks. A mole below an outer corner of one eye, resembled a ladybug or beetle pausing on the petal of a rose.
“Annie, Annie, I had to come tell you,” Lucy called, catching a breath and then going on, “Samuel has sent word that he’ll be home tomorrow, on leave for at least the next ten days. We’re so excited with his news that I’m personally visiting each guest this morning and inviting everyone I know to a dinner party in his honor. It’ll be tomorrow night. Please tell me you can make it. I want all our dear friends there to welcome him home. Kate had to decline, but you’ll come, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I said without hesitation, “I’d love to come. Can you stay for tea, Lucy? It’ll just take me a bit to heat up some water, the stove is still hot,” I said.
“Thank you dear,” Lucy replied, “But I must be off. I still have several more visits to make this morning and plans for tomorrow’s party will take all afternoon and probably half the night.”
Pulling me close to her Lucy went on, “It’s been so long since we had a party like this. Back before Manassas, I believe, even before I knew you. Oh, do come. We’ll dance and eat prawns and crab and anything else Cora can procure for us, and besides, maybe you’ll meet one of our handsome friends to keep you company.”
With a nod Lucy turned in her full skirts, and raised a gloved hand, waving it and talking as she walked. “Wear something you’d feel pretty in, dear, and we’ll have a grand time indeed.”
With that, Lucy called out the window to her driver, “To the Stuarts,” then turning, she blew a kiss and shouted, “See you at six. I’ll send a carriage for you.” Then off with a kick of dust, Lucy’s coach departed.
Looking around me as if to carefully piece together the tornado that just blew in and out again, I took notice of the sky. Clouds were building for a light shower.So, Samuel was coming home. How odd that he had time off. After all, last I heard, he was headed for the Mississippi to thwart Union advances there.
It always struck me as curious that from the first day that we met Lucy and I had become such close friends. We’d met months at the mercantile store while purchasing ribbon. She would never have been there herself but accompanied by her maid, she had wanted to pick out fabric and ribbon to supplement what her tailor had purchased. She’d brought her fabric and turned to me casually to ask about whether the pale blue ribbon would be better than the cream to match her fabric. We weighed the two against one another only to settle on a creamy yellow when all was said and done.
Turning to me, Lucy thanked me for my assistance and asked me to accompany her to the tea room just down from the tavern. There we got to know one another and I introduced myself as Kate’s cousin, and living at her house for the time being. I sensed in that short time over tea that Kate was very lonely. Relatively new to the area herself and without children, her husband had gone off to fight and it was just she and her slaves running the plantation. Her father-in-law lived in separate quarters on the land but really there was no one to keep her company except her women’s guild and their get-togethers to help her pass the time.
Our backgrounds couldn’t have been more different if we had been time travelers and come from different centuries. Lucy having been brought up in a wealthy southern family, had married a peer, Samuel, and both of them were used to their black slaves doting on them for their every need from morning until past supper.
Lucy had gotten the impression that I was from a distinct and wealthy family in the Washington area, undoubtedly another rumor that Kate had started and later filled me in on. Kate was known in the community since she was a rarity, a stylish female business women who stood out in the small down and ran the only real meeting spot, a restaurant and theater. I’m sure that Lucy gave little thought to any of the other services provided there and managed to remain innocent or look the other way as I had. Over tea, Lucy filled me in that she had heard that I had left the Washington area, specifically Arlington County, Virginia because of a feud with my father. Kate had also added that I studied medicine, thus giving reason for my visitors at all hour if anyone had taken the time to notice. It would also explain my work at the hospital. I offered little information about this fictitious story unless I was asked, and Lucy asked me
few details. Overall, Katherine’s inventions made it easier for me to keep my stories straight. I was good at following a script but I had to be extremely careful. A few simple slips or inconsistencies about my actions or identity could lead to suspicion and danger – not just for me but for all of us who were in Rebel territory working for the Union. I had to mind my every word.
As an actress of sorts, spying tested my ability to create a fictitious personal history and then live the part. At the base of it all, I had to live out lies and deceive my new friends. I rationalized it by thinking of myself as an actress; an actress with a clear mission, one who with the help of many others working together, could save lives and advance the Union’s cause, or so I hoped.
My attention to deception was ironic. Prior to the war, the characteristic of honesty in a person would have gauged their level of honor for me. Honesty developed a relationship of trust and without trust we had no character, I assumed. Boiled down to that logic, one’s character was based on their level of honesty and personal integrity. If only the world could be explained so logically it would be a gentler place but the war challenged everything we knew. As a spy, I had come to realize that deception was a necessary path to a victory for the Union, for an undivided nation as I saw it and ultimately, the future of the nation without enslavement.
Practically speaking Lucy’s friendship offered me comforts that would have otherwise been unavailable and most importantly, her friendship offered a sense of attachment, an anchor to the small community of Marsh Station. Without Lucy’s kindness and good humor, my efforts would be dogged with drudgery and laced with fear. Instead, I fed off of Lucy’s childlike bounce, as if I were holding on to a kite string in a strong gust, moving on the ground, mirroring the kite’s twists and turns.
Wiping my hands again on my apron I threw it over my shoulder. Pausing, I looked down at my rough hewn hands with fresh soil under each fingernail and thought back to Lucy’s and the Captain’s visits. My hands were symbolic of what magic I would have to render to prepare myself for the party.
I let out a sigh, and thought as I gathered up the tea things, “At least I might be able to get some information on troop movements.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Each Other Page 6
