The Sapphire Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  “Major”—she stopped to clear her throat and lower her voice—“Major Carlton Jackson Mallory, Second Corps Army of Northern Virginia.”

  The pen squeaked across the paper. “Where’d you receive your medical training?”

  “New York Medical College.”

  “Do you own any slaves?”

  “Of course not.” She gulped, knowing she needed to temper her responses. “Our slaves have been granted their freedom.”

  “Yet you fight for the rebel cause.”

  “I’m a doctor, not a soldier.”

  “The Federals need good doctors, too.”

  Her mouth had gone dry as paper. She gnawed the inside of her cheek and tried to summon a little saliva. “Virginia is my family home and has been for over two hundred years.”

  “Where in Virginia?”

  Fortunately, she knew her ancestor served the Second Corps until the end of the war, which meant he had not been captured in Strasburg. She would be safe giving him the answer to his question.

  “Mallory Plantation is about ten miles north of Richmond.”

  “What would you do to save your home from being burned to ground?” Sheridan glared intently.

  For one shocking moment, the steady hand of time stilled. Had her presence in the past suddenly put her ancestors at risk? She took a long, steadying breath, then another, suppressing a roar of fear.

  “Whatever I had to do.”

  She knew in her gut she had committed herself to a task she wasn’t going to like. There’d be no return trip home in the near future.

  He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. Charlotte squirmed under the intensity of his glare. Then he sat forward again. “I’ve been ordered to send you to Washington.”

  She blinked and swallowed hard. “Why? You didn’t even know who I was until a minute ago.”

  “Three rebel surgeons are now my prisoners. They’ll spend the remainder of this war in prison. Do you want to join them?”

  “They all turned you down.” There was no humor in her voice, no pride, only a statement of fact.

  He crossed his arms and stared down his long, straight nose, past the scar where she knew a bullet had grazed him. “One of you will go.” There was no gloating in his voice either, only the steely command of a general. The threat no longer hung in the air. It smacked her in the gut.

  She swallowed hard again before asking, “When do I leave?”

  5

  Washington City, 1864

  In the afternoon, Charlotte and a small company of Federals traveled east on the Ashby Gap Turnpike, leaving Winchester behind. She had no choice but to go with them. Her ancestral home was at stake. If it was destroyed, it might possibly wipe out her existence, and her brother’s as well.

  Jack had to be frantic with worry, and Ken, too. How long had she been gone? An hour? A week? A month? When she went into the fog, she had dropped her haversack. Would Ken find it? What would he think happened to her?

  Fear struck yet again, bringing fresh waves, unending waves. This was not a game. Her life was in danger. What would happen to her when they reached Washington? The bigger question haunted her as well. How was it even possible to go back in time? But the how didn’t matter right now. Neither did the why. Surviving took her total focus.

  The Union Cavalry treated her well enough, considering she was the enemy. Soldiers guarded her, but she wasn’t restrained. For safety reasons, they had also given her a Union jacket to wear. She had cringed when she put on the smelly, bloodstained coat. Being inconspicuous came with a price.

  Riding a horse through the fall chill without any privacy wasn’t easy either. She had a miniature case in her pocket to freshen her stage makeup, but the wig and beard itched. Fortunately, early in her reenacting days she had perfected the art of taking care of personal needs without drawing attention. It was all part of the gig.

  The Union forces had control of the area, so the threat of being shot out of her saddle was low. She took her cues from the battle-hardened soldiers who formed her escort. When they eased their shoulders and talked about their homes in Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, she relaxed, too.

  As Washington drew closer, a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Nothing good could come of this.

  The small party rode down the Columbia Road toward Fort Runyon, one of many earthen forts surrounding Washington. Before they were allowed to pass, their traveling papers were thoroughly inspected.

  Charlotte and her escort then crossed the Potomac River by way of the Long Bridge and entered the city. Mud covered the streets and clung to wagon wheels and horses’ hooves. The animals slung the gloppy mess onto the sidewalks and her trouser legs. Open ditches were filled with carcasses and sewage, which poisoned the air, gagging her with the stench of death and decay.

  Although she’d had little sleep in the past two days, she was awake enough to know the Washington she knew was barely recognizable beneath the dirt and grime. They trotted their horses down Maryland Avenue toward the Capitol Building with its partially constructed dome. In the distance, the Washington Monument was an unfinished, truncated shaft.

  The dull rumbling of heavy army wagons across cobblestone and the steady tramp of marching feet met them as they turned down Pennsylvania Avenue. The grand city of the future was nothing more than a grimy military fortress and an incubator for typhoid and other diseases.

  Charlotte’s stomach growled, but she was afraid to eat anything unless she personally witnessed the food cooked, boiled, baked, or burned. The coffee, however, was cooked so black and thick germs couldn’t survive. She wasn’t so sure her stomach could either.

  Her vaccinations wouldn’t completely protect her from the onslaught of germs which she knew outnumbered and outgunned the enemy here. Under such unsanitary conditions, disease could wipe out the city’s entire population. Wherever she was going, she prayed for a hot bath and thoroughly cooked, edible food. She was as grubby as she’d ever been in her life.

  The patrol continued along the avenue toward the White House. She knew Lincoln walked over to the War Department several times a day, and she hoped she might see him going by. She studied the faces of the men on both sides of the street, searching for the tall, gaunt president.

  Her escort stopped in front of the White House. Although the building didn’t have the additions made in the 1900s, the mansion was clearly recognizable.

  “Are we…going inside?” Charlotte asked in a halting voice. The last time she’d been in the White House was six months before her mother died. Charlotte never thought she’d return. Never wanted to, in fact.

  “Those are my orders,” the company captain said.

  She dismounted and stretched. Although horseback riding had been part of her life growing up, her busy medical practice didn’t leave much time for riding. As a result, she’d be saddle sore for the next few days.

  Days? She didn’t have days. Jack would be sick with worry, and her absence would create havoc at work. What about her own distress? She’d fallen through some kind of frigging time warp and her life and her family’s property had been threatened. Whatever the Union Army wanted her to do, it had better be quick.

  She marched after the captain in charge up the steps, through the front door, and into the entrance hall. They made their way through the crowd into the cross hall, then turned and went up the stairs to the second floor. At the top, they entered a reception room where at least a dozen men waited.

  A thin, dark-haired young man with a widow’s peak and goatee approached the captain. “Can I help you?”

  She recognized Lincoln’s secretary, John Nicolay, from old photographs in Jack’s Civil War collection.

  The captain handed Nicolay an envelope. “From General Sheridan.”

  “I’ll make sure the president receives this.”

  The captain cleared his throat and nodded toward Charlotte. “The letter refers to this surgeon.” Then he lowered his voice.
“We gave him a Union coat. Didn’t think he should come in here dressed in Confederate gray.”

  “Oh, I see,” Nicolay said. “Wait here.”

  A few minutes later, Nicolay returned. “Mr. Lincoln wishes to relay his thanks to General Sheridan,” he said to the captain. Then to Charlotte he said, “If you’ll follow me, the president will see you now.”

  She gulped and pushed aside all thoughts of why she was flung into another time or how she was going to get home. The Make-A-Wish Foundation, sponsored by the time travel gods, had granted her wish to meet Abraham Lincoln. She pressed down the sides of the borrowed, loose-fitting, and filthy jacket, wishing she could stop in the ladies’ room to make herself presentable.

  Nicolay led the way into Lincoln’s office.

  The president stood at the back of the room, holding a document and gazing forlornly out the window toward the Potomac and the encampments of Union soldiers, a shawl draped across his shoulders. Secretary of War Stanton, an identifiable, round-faced man with a graying beard, was absorbed in reading a document, standing next to an old mahogany writing desk with pigeonholes full of books and papers. This was a snapshot in time, a photo which would trend on every social media site, and she blinked rapidly as if taking multiple pictures, hoping her memory wouldn’t run out.

  While waiting for the president or Stanton to acknowledge her, she took a quick inventory of the room. Blink. Blink. Blink. Jack would ask her later to set the scene for him, and he would expect her to describe the room in detail. Blink. Blink. Blink.

  From her previous visits to the White House, she was familiar with the public rooms and the main rooms in the private residence. The room Lincoln used for his office, located in the southeast corner of the second floor, was referred to as the Lincoln Bedroom in the twenty-first century, and it was the same room in which she now awaited the president’s acknowledgement.

  The gas lamps’ dim golden light provided spotty illumination of the green and gold wallpaper and dark green striped carpet covering the floor. There were no recognizable pieces of furniture. The only painting she could identify was the portrait of Andrew Jackson hanging over the fireplace. In her time, the painting hung over a doorway behind her. Folios of maps leaned against the wall next to the sofa. Blink. Blink. Blink.

  “How did you come to be captured, Major Mallory?”

  Lincoln’s question jolted her. She snapped to attention then took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I was tending General Ramseur when his ambulance was captured in Strasburg.”

  Lack of sleep showed in the president’s dark-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He shuffled away from the window and sank into a chair at the end of a long walnut table piled high with maps and books. Directly in front of him was an eight-inch-high pile of documents written on heavy parchment.

  “How’s the general now?”

  “He was mortally wounded, sir. There was little I could do. God was not on the Confederate side at Cedar Creek.”

  “My concern is not whether God is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on God’s side—”

  The Lincoln quote was one of many Charlotte had memorized. She finished it, saying, “For God is always right.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Indeed, He is.”

  “Please, Doctor Mallory, have a seat,” Stanton said.

  She hovered over a chair before sitting, studying Lincoln closely as if he were one of her patients during morning rounds. Although lanky and plain-looking, his face radiated intelligence and kindness. The mole on his right cheek, the asymmetry of his face, large jaw, and drooping eyelid were all consistent with photographs and historical observations. He also appeared to be several pounds lighter than his reported one hundred eighty pounds. His hair was disheveled, but his clothes were neatly pressed. Blink. Blink. Blink.

  She eased into the proffered chair, sat near the edge, and leaned forward, never taking her eyes off him.

  “You’re probably wondering why you’re here, Doctor Mallory,” Stanton said.

  “It has crossed my mind several times since General Sheridan threatened me,” she said with a thread of steel in her voice.

  “We need medical assistance which only you can provide.” Stanton impaled her with a fierce glare having nothing to do with her and everything to do with her allegiance. To have to ask the enemy for help must have riled him.

  “The Union has very capable doctors, I’m sure,” she said.

  Lincoln clasped his hands and rested them on the table. “This is a delicate matter and requires more than simply a capable doctor.”

  Stanton sat heavily in an armchair next to the window overlooking the unfinished Washington Monument. “One of our best agents has been wounded and captured. He’s currently being held in Chimborazo.”

  “Chimborazo isn’t a prison hospital. Why is he there?”

  “He was shot while escaping. Chimborazo was the closest hospital. They want him alive for questioning.”

  “He should receive excellent care. Why do you need me?”

  “You don’t need to treat him. You need to get him out.” Stanton enunciated each word for effect, especially the get him out part.

  Whatever she’d expected to hear, this wasn’t it. Chimborazo sat on top of a hill in Richmond. She couldn’t march up there and steal a patient. “Do you have a plan for how it might be accomplished?”

  Stanton tapped his cigar against the edge of an overflowing ashtray. “No. You’ll have to devise a plan once you’ve made an assessment of the major’s condition. It’s to your advantage, though, that he’s not in a prison hospital.”

  Lincoln’s keen eyes challenged her. “Once you get him out, other people will take him to safety.”

  She sat back in her chair, not at all sure if what they asked of her was even possible. “If I facilitate a Union spy’s escape, what happens to me?”

  “You’ll be free to return to your unit.”

  “None of this makes sense.” Frustration throbbed in her every word. “I’ll be considered a traitor.”

  Stanton puffed, filling the room with a cloud of smoke. “We’re confident you can find a way without compromising yourself.”

  “You’re confident.” Maybe it was time to yank off her wig and beard, confess, and throw herself on the mercy of the president, but it might get her thrown into prison instead. She waved away the smoke blowing in her direction. “If I don’t do this, Sheridan has threatened to burn my family home to the ground. If I’m found to be a traitor, my neighbors will do it for him.” She made a low sound, like someone absorbing a body blow.

  They sat in silence as the noise level in the hallway increased in sharp contrast to the present-day White House. How did the president work in this environment with dozens of people waiting outside the door to see him? No appointment needed. All you need do is show up and wait.

  “How serious are your agent’s wounds? Is he able to walk?” she asked.

  “We don’t know his condition, but we have to get him out. He has valuable information Jefferson Davis wants, which could compromise a dozen or more northern sympathizers,” Stanton said.

  Something in his expression told her he wasn’t telling the truth…or he wasn’t telling all the truth. “Will his information shorten the war?” she asked.

  Stanton tapped his cigar against the edge of an ashtray already filled with a day’s worth of ashes. “The information we get from the sympathizers is invaluable. If we lose even one, we lose a link which took us months to establish.”

  “Do you want the war to end?” Lincoln asked.

  “I never wanted the war to start,” Charlotte said. “But what’s to stop me from assisting Jefferson Davis?”

  “I’m a firm believer in people. If given the truth, they can be depended upon to meet the crisis. You want the war to end. This will bring the end closer.” He picked up a pen and placed a sheet of writing paper in front of him. The scratchy nib didn’t glide effortlessly across the surface of the paper, but it didn’t seem to bother t
he president, who scratched away with a flourish.

  “A ship will take you to City Point, where you’ll be met by an escort who will introduce you to General Grant. Then he’ll see you through the lines,” Stanton said.

  “Will I be on my own in Richmond?”

  Stanton puffed more smoke in her direction. “You’ll be met by a member of the underground.”

  Lincoln put down his pen, folded the note, and handed it to her. Then he sat back and swung his legs over the chair arm.

  As she held the paper, still warm from the president’s touch, her fingers quivered. “I need food, sleep, and a bath.” Her voice was hoarse with emotion.

  “It can be arranged on board ship,” Stanton said.

  She cleared her throat. “I have one more question. If your Richmond contact can get me in, why can’t he get your agent out?”

  Stanton’s face tightened. “He’s a railroad president, not a doctor.”

  “And one of the northern sympathizers you can’t afford to lose.” She looked first to Stanton, then to the president.

  Lincoln reached out with his long arms and drew his knees up almost to his face. “He’s one of them, yes.”

  “Does your agent have a name?”

  Lincoln and Stanton shared a quick glance then Stanton said, “Major McCabe.”

  Charlotte rolled the name around her tongue. “A Scotsman.”

  “A lawyer,” Stanton said.

  “And a damn good friend,” Lincoln said. “Bring him home.”

  6

  City Point, Headquarters of General Ulysses S. Grant, 1864

  After a long day, Charlotte trudged aboard the sidewheel steamer River Queen, Grant’s private dispatch boat. She could barely stand, but her mind wouldn’t shut down. If she did sleep, she’d probably have fitful dreams about wounded soldiers and a magical sapphire brooch.

  Charlotte’s Virginia Civil War knowledge was legendary among her peers. She could be a winner on Jeopardy if all the questions related to the Commonwealth’s history between 1861 and 1865, or medical history during the same time period. When Stanton told her she would travel by riverboat to City Point, she knew exactly where she was going and why. Since June, the small port town at the confluence of the James and Appomattox Rivers had been Grant’s headquarters and the base for the forces fighting in Petersburg. Her meeting with Grant would take place at his command tent on the east lawn of Dr. Richard Eppes’s plantation known as Appomattox.