It was the kind of day that seasons mix —the warm depths of summer and the crisped edges of autumn —just before the leaves turn. It was as if the trees’ leaves were holding back their vivid colors until the right moment when, like showgirls, they could kick in unison to the applause of reedy grasses and chilling streams. I walked the path home in the strands of a glorious sunset feeling as if I would never be able to fully breathe in the richness of the season. The thick heat of summer was behind us and with it the angst of flies and mosquitoes that had nearly made us lose our minds with their incessant buzzing, preying on men in the wards who were incapable of defending themselves from such minute but hideous enemies.
Turning up the street towards the house, I paused. Thom and Charlie stood at the end of the walkway ahead of me, near the gate. They appeared to be awaiting my return, something that they’d never done before. I was used to seeing them nearly every morning, but not in the evening. The older boy nervously kicked the fence post as if he had grown bored.
Most mornings they chirped out conversations like dependent birds not yet out of the nest, and sometimes fought among themselves like typical kids and less like the little men that the war and their job had demanded they become. I enjoyed listening to both their conversations and differences of opinion while I worked in the kitchen. And, quite honestly, I didn’t mind the company or the information that came with their visits. Their informality made me feel more accepted into their world and that feeling took away the loneliness that sometimes stretched before me like a dusty, blank horizon.
“Didn’t I just see you two this morning?” I asked approaching the gate. “I s’pose I could round you up some dinner if that is what you need.”
“Miss, Miss Cunningham,” the older brother stammered, “We’re not here for dinner. You see, we found somethin’ might bit strange and wanted you to have it. Thinkin’ that you might know what to do. We tried to show it to Mr. Beard but he was busy unloading some parcels at the train depot, so we came here.”
“Something strange? Come inside and show me what you mean.” Motioning them down the side path, I found my key and opened the door.
The boys followed me into the cozy kitchen, a few newspapers still under their arms indicating that their work wasn’t quite finished for the day. The last bit of sun shone through the window but I instinctively drew the curtains, wondering what they could possibly have to show me. I had to be especially careful given Quimby’s fate and Warren’s warning.
Charlie, the younger boy, set down the newspapers and whipped off his hat exposing a sturdy, small packet, carefully wrapped. Handing it to me, I turned it over in my hands without opening it. The thick, white paper had a creamy quality to it, some of the finest paper that I’d ever seen.
“Where did you find this lovely little packet?” I asked.
Thom started to explain. “Well, Miss Annie, you see, we do a good business with the troops, uh, and we followed the path passed the tents and down to some wide open fields hoping to sell a few papers to ‘em.”
“Yeah, those fields was all tromped down, the farmers around here won’t be happy with them soldiers,” chimed in Charlie.
“Soldiers? What soldiers do you mean?”
“The Rebels, why of course, Miss, they’ve been moving up and around these parts of Virginia like a big parade. And, and they musta left that.”
He pointed to the packet, and then went on. “Just that my brother and me, we didn’t know what it was. But wrapped so clean like that, we thought it must be important, so we figured you’re a smart lady…you’d know what it is and what to do.”
“Why thank you boys. I’ll check into and if it’s something someone’s lost, I’ll look after it. No need to worry yourselves. I’ll take care of it. Now it would be best if you went on home to your aunt’s, she’ll be getting worried if you’re not home by dark, I’m sure.”
Handing the boys a few apples and the rest of a loaf of bread from breakfast, I closed the door as they left and lit a lamp. Sitting at the kitchen table I’d have a look. Brushing crumbs from the table cloth and then carefully, with clean dry palms I unfurled and spread out the curled paper before me. It had been wrapped around three thick brown cigars. One of the Confederate officers had been protecting his delicate tobacco with an order from his superiors.
At the top was carefully written: ‘Battle Plans’.
Flattening out the paper again, I scanned the detailed writing and map. I knew that the information there before me was a windfall. Precious information. Wiping the nervous sweat from my palms, I glanced around the room, and then read the paper in whisper to myself.
“Occupy The Heights.” I knew of that place. It was along the Potomac River. There before me balanced between my hands, at my kitchen table was our Rosetta Stone, the clear statement, not guess work, of Lee’s strategy. Indeed, the document spelled out Lee’s plans to invade Pennsylvania. He intended to rid Maryland of Union occupation and take a major city like Baltimore or even Washington itself.
“My God,” I whispered to myself and to the cat that had just walked in from the parlor. “Here’s just what we needed, right here in my hands. General Lee’s battle plans. What great luck we have. What fortune!” Pausing, I sighed and looked up around me as if the darkening kitchen could answer my question, “And, what the Hell am I to do with this now?”
Each Other Page 33
