Each Other

by Pamela Erickson

Years later, probably sometime in 1878 or ’79, Katherine paid me a visit. It was a delight to finally see her again. Her visit was not a surprise in itself, but held a few surprises that were revealed to me over an afternoon and a long evening. We shared glasses of summer wine, a loaf of crusty bread, fresh fruits and cheeses and stories about Warren after my arrest.

  “There are some things I need to tell you Annie,” she started. “In fact I’ve tried to look you up for years. You were mighty hard to find.”

  Katherine had grown different, quieter somehow, less impressed with herself in the years since I had last seen her. Perhaps it was part of the aging process or her business slacking off, or being out of her element, but I liked the woman before me and I was very grateful for her visit. Like a puzzle of cut pieces with the picture becoming clear, I listened to her stories, sometimes crying quietly as she spoke to me in her lyrical and comforting way. I suspected she knew that as she spoke that I was seeing the events she described unfold in my mind’s eye – Warren’s movements, his chiseled face, his pondering jaw.

  “He came to visit me the day after your arrest, Annie. He spoke to me in the garden, in a whisper with his back to the Lanterns, somewhat fearful of being overheard, I think,” she explained. “I’m sure he never discovered that I, too, worked for the Union. He was exhausted and afraid for you, Annie. Warren said that he was tempted to keep riding in the direction of Westerly just to see if he could bribe his way in to see you. However, he knew that if he arrived at Westerly without a plan, he might endanger you all the more. Of course, I agreed with him.”

  “‘Kate,’” he asked me with his head in his hands, “ Why should it end like this? I may lose her for good. I need her. I need Annie. You see that don’t you, Kate? I love her. I have to get Annie out of there. I’ve tried to find a way, and I think I’ve found something that could work, Kate. Remember Lucy’s husband, Samuel?’” he asked me. “I’ve asked him to see about arranging a prison trade.’”

  “You see, Annie,” she went on, “Warren wondered if Samuel would act on your behalf. He thought that he might help out in some way knowing how Warren loved you. And Lucy too, she was heartsick about you. Mad as hell, but heartsick too.”

  She told me in some detail, over several hours, what Warren did the night of my arrest. She spoke slowly, kindly, in a very deliberate manner having gathered and stored the details in her own mind like a newspaper reporter might until the story could be compiled and shared.

  These are the details as Kate relayed them to me: It was late in the evening, past dark when Warren arrived at my little house. He must have entered the kitchen quietly as if trying not to awaken me, though he knew that I’d sleep in a prison that night and possibly for many months or even years to come. He realized as he pushed the door open that there was no need for a key. They’d already been there, the Confederates, looking through the house, ransacking the desk papers, pulling the wardrobe apart, throwing clothes about, chair cushions cut, but from what Warren had heard over dinner, all that they had found was the book of poetry, Abolitionist poetry. Whittier.

  After he heard of my arrest, he knew that he’d have to allow for a military search before he entered my house. To be caught in the house first would have been disastrous. He had agonized at dinner in the officer’s mess. Trying to remain poised, he managed to remove himself early with the excuse that he had to check some traps before dark. Then out in the forest, while the others smoked and read he came up with a plan. He’d get whatever remained, whatever they missed and bring it to a safer place.

  Moving into the kitchen to find a light, he found the lamp as I’d left it next to a large bunch of dried yarrow. He lit it quickly and moved on farther into the house, stopping to listen. He had little time and of course he could not risk being seen by anyone. However, if he were asked why he was even in my house, he’d answer that he had orders to remove the belongings of ‘the traitor’ and that answer should suffice to stop any further questioning.

  Kate said that a carriage driver was waiting just up the street beyond the house, and had been bribed not to breathe a word of their midnight journey. It was extremely risky but Warren was determined. He’d even paid the driver in silver, and paid him very well.

  Warren must have done a quick look of the house, searching in desk drawers, under baskets, and beneath furniture. I knew he’d do whatever he could to protect me. And, I hadn’t left anything but decoys in the desk. Note paper, sealing wax, and sketch pads along with my books on herbs.

  He would have found the brass key there just as I had left it, on the far wall of the oven, just as I had shown him. Then he’d have descended to the cellar by pulling up the trapdoor and climbing the ladder downwards. Behind the loose bricks at floor level, tucked back into the corner was a space just big enough to hide a cigar-sized box, locked tightly against intrusion. Using the key Warren would have removed the contents of the box: a folded map, some notes about the prisoners’ health conditions, then beneath all that, a stack of letters that I had written him, but had never sent. They were tied up with a ribbon. All the top envelope revealed was the letter ‘W’ . The letters revealed some of the work I had done and where I had come from. Carefully removing papers from the box in the dim light, he stuffed them into his inner coat pockets. Proceeding to the bedroom, it was the trunk that he was after, but there was no time to search it. All he had time to do was remove the letter that he had written from his pocket, place it carefully within the folds of a flowery dress, and lock it securely with a lock he’d brought along.

  Stealing away, the carriage arrived without delay at the officer’s barn. There, Warren brought the trunk into Ches’stall and covered it with a blanket and hay, put another bale on top of it and left again, all without even waking the guard.

  One evening soon after that, Warren found his way into town and decided to visit the Three Lanterns. The music at the tavern was winding down and Warren approached Ian and had a seat at the bar.

  “Looks like you could use a drink, Captain, sir. Read ‘ya right?”

  “You do read people,” he’d have said laughing. “A whiskey, straight.”

  Setting the drink down on the bar, Ian turned to wash a few more glasses, while Warren sipped his drink, then glancing side to side, saw Samuel come through the front door. His driver must have brought him down, but he was doing well getting around on crutches.

  Greeting Warren, Samuel sat down at the bar and ordered a drink.

  “I was hoping you’d be here. I’m sorry to hear about Annie, but I have to ask you Warren, did you know anything?”

  “No, Sam, that’s the thing. I’m as surprised as you and Lucy must be. God, I’m devastated. But between you and me, I miss her fiercely. You know, I’ve want to get her out of there. It would be just like them to prove they could hang a woman even though it’d be the first time.”

  Taking a sip of his drink, Samuel went on, “Yeah, but Warren, she must have had Lee’s plans. How could she have gotten a copy? I hear it was traced back to her. When the plans were delivered to the Union, a Confederate spy was in the room, for months having worked with the Union. He was the one who reported back. I have to tell you, Lucy is hysterical. She’s in shock I think, but she’s also screaming about the war. I can see her strength is wearing down, eroding. The doctor came and gave her something to help her rest. She keeps saying that Annie is a friend and they can’t take her away. I wish there was something I could do for all of you.”

  Warren looked up and then over at Samuel. Patting him on the shoulder he said, “Drink up, Sam. There is something you can do.”

  As the men stood to leave, Warren talked quietly to Samuel. “I need you to telegraph Washington and arrange for a trade. You will be seen as the insider here and no one in the Confederacy will find out who arranged the trade. You can sell it on the fact that Annie had a lot of contacts, that she got hold of Lee’s orders. In their mind, she’d be pretty important to get back. I bet it would work. Please, Sam, it’s
our one hope.”

  The wide street was dark and relatively quiet as they departed the bar and headed towards the telegraph office.

  Chet, Quimby’s replacement, was asleep at the desk snoring ugly snores, with a lamp lit low. As the men entered, he stirred.

  Warren whispered in Chet’s direction, “Tell me my friend, if I wanted to send a birthday greetin’ to my Mum, would I do that here?

  Like a tattered but well stuffed scarecrow, Chet looked up from the desk for a moment and replied in a drunken stupor, “Yep, you could do it, but it’ll cost ya.”

  “Okay, how much?” asked Warren.

  “Quart a whiskey,” was the reply, then he collapsed back on the desk.

  Meanwhile, Samuel had entered the darkened telegraph room and started hammering out a message. After just a couple of minutes, he reemerged and nodded to Warren to follow him out the door. In the darkened street he explained,

  “I told them to arrange the trade they’ll need to contact the warden directly. That way, I’m hoping, the guy at Westerly prison will think that since the request to trade came from the north, it must be their idea. Like you say, it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Besides, I don’t have much time,” said Warren. “I’ve got orders to prepare for more battles and reconnoiter near Sharpsburg, a place called Antietam Creek.”