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In memory of Bill Anderson (1928–2011)
“Just keep working.”
I miss you, Dad.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am fortunate in the extreme to be able to do what I do, and there are many people who make it possible for me to do it.
Ben, Will, and Sam Anderson have been the constants in my life. As my sons become young men, with all their individual challenges and difficult decisions ahead, I realize once again what truly remarkable people they are, and how fortunate I am to be their father. Their roads are beginning to diverge from mine, as they must, and none of us yet knows where those roads will lead. It is a journey, it is a process, and it never ends … but I am happy for them and eager to see what happens next.
While writing this book, I was delighted to reconnect with my critique group from years past. Michael Miller and Sami Birchall give me insight and thoughtful, honest perspectives on my writing. While the chairs once belonging to Dave Stanton and Judy Tillinghast are empty at the table now, I strongly feel that their spirits are very much with us.
My colleagues at Slice magazine and KCSC Radio continue to be supportive above and beyond the call, and my spiritual family at NWCC nurtures my life in more ways than I can even understand, much less name.
My agent, George Bick, is a gentleman and a professional—a rarer combination than one might think. He took a chance on me, and there is no finer advocate in the publishing business. He is always willing to lend an ear on nonpublishing matters as well, and I am grateful for this.
I am so pleased with my publishing home at Forge. From publisher Tom Doherty to publicist Alexis Saarela and copy editor Susannah Noel, the dedicated sales and marketing staff and phenomenal art department, there is nowhere I’d rather be. Of course, my editor, Kristin Sevick, is the one who drives this process. For starters, she is an editor who really edits, and her instincts are always on the mark, challenging me to be a better writer. She helped me to shape this story and the people who populate it, and I am most grateful for her fine editorial hand. Plus, she doesn’t mind talking baseball, which is a plus in any relationship.
For research assistance, I would like to thank the following: Chad Bailey, information technology specialist with the Jeannine Rainbolt College of Education at the University of Oklahoma, for serving as computer security consultant; Michael DiRenzo of The Silver Institute; Ray Flowers of the Fort Fisher Historic Site, who gave me a private tour and pointed me toward additional resources; Darren Hellwege and Amy Leneski, for location details in Missouri and Michigan, respectively; Danny McClung, Oklahoma Highway Patrol trooper (retired) and aviation security officer with the Federal Transfer Center, for prisoner transfer procedures at the FTC; Charles Newcomb, friend for thirty years and licensed pilot, who keeps me accurate on aviation matters; Darrell Tracker, attorney, “freelance historian,” and expert on the nooks and crannies of governmental operations; and Shellie Willoughby of the Office of Geographic Information, Oklahoma Conservation Commission, for answering questions on georeferencing technology. I am also grateful to officials of the Cripple Creek & Victor Gold Mining Company of Victor, Colorado, for a tour of their facility. As always, Rob Boss arms my characters in style, not only suggesting firearms, but tailoring his recommendations to the individual character.
Any errors of fact, or any changes I may have made, are certainly my own and not attributable to the above individuals or organizations.
I would like to extend notes of personal thanks to Terri Cullen, for her support and encouragement during the early stages of this book; and Martha Anderson, for her ongoing patience and flexibility.
Shortly after I began writing this book, my father, Bill Anderson, was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. He was a gentleman and a gentle man, and he taught me everything I know about quiet dignity and courage, both in his life and how he faced his illness and death. He was a great reader, and no one was more proud than he of seeing my work in print. In the last few weeks of his life, the family framed a picture of the cover of my book Cold Glory and placed it beside his bed. I am told he would show it off when anyone came into his room. The last time I saw him, he held on to my hand for a long time before I left. Then he pointed at the book cover and said, “Just keep working.” It seemed like a benediction, almost a blessing. They were the last words Dad said to me, and he died a few days later.
At the time we shared that moment, I was stuck in the writing of this book, bogged down, unable to focus. A week after Dad’s death I began to work in earnest on this story, and I worked every day in the light of his memory and the good-natured nudge he gave me at the end of his life. It was one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraphs
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Author’s Note
Also by B. Kent Anderson
About the Author
Copyright
Read history, and you will find that the causes which bring about a revolution rarely predominate at its close, and no people have ever returned to the point from which they started.
—ROSE O’NEALE GREENHOW
What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you? And they covenanted with him for thirty pieces of silver. And from that time he sought opportunity to betray him.
—MATTHEW 26:15–16
PROLOGUE
October 1, 1864—3:30 A.M.
THE NORTH CAROLINA COAST, NEAR THE MOUTH OF THE CAPE FEAR RIVER
She woke to the sound of the guns, and as her senses adjusted, Rose Greenhow became aware of the ever-present wind and water. The sea had turned rough in the night. Then the ship was turning, turning hard. Waves broke and crashed, tossing the Condor side to side. Then more gunfire, and Rose knew with all certainty what she had to do.
She crawled out of the tiny berth and began to dress, moving quickly, silent
ly, not even bothering to brush her hair. Rose found her heavy black wool dress and pulled it on, slightly askew. She grabbed the leather pouch from the post at the foot of the bunk and put the quarter-ounce gold coins into it, the checks drawn on the Bank of England, and then the papers, the dispatches for the Confederate secretary of state from the British commissioners—papers of no real consequence.
Then she took a thick envelope and caressed it as if it were the item made of gold, for indeed it was much more valuable than the coins. In the Tuileries Palace, alone with the most powerful man in Europe, she had watched Napoleon III write out the words himself—not trusting any secretary or clerk with the task—seal the envelope, and place it in her own hands. The emperor had held her hands and, in perfect English, said, “Go with God, madam. You carry the hopes of both our nations.”
The ship lurched again, and Rose felt the sickening crunch of its bottom striking land. They had run hard aground. She tucked the envelope into a smaller leather pouch, then reached under her mattress, withdrew another package—a folded cloth, really—and slid it into a pocket of her dress.
More guns sounded, and they were closer still. The wind howled. She heard loud voices from the deck above. She quickened her movements. In the other berth, her maid was stirring. The younger woman sat up.
“What is it?” Elizabeth said.
“Lie down,” Rose said. “I must go alone, Elizabeth.”
“But—”
“You’ll be fine. But the Yankees mustn’t find me here.”
Rose turned away and hurried from the compartment. She slipped the first leather pouch around her neck, keeping the other—the crucial one—clutched in her hands. Rose made her way to the deck of the Condor, the three-stack iron steamer that had been built in Scotland for the specific purpose of slipping past the Union navy’s blockade of Southern ports. Drizzle hit her face; wind tugged at her. The guns were louder, now from two directions: a Union blockader, and the batteries from Fort Fisher, protecting the Condor.
It is not enough, Rose thought. She would not be captured … she would not be imprisoned. Not again.
She’d heard people call her the Confederacy’s most “notorious” spy. Early in the war, she’d passed intelligence to General Beauregard that helped the South to win at Manassas. She had relayed messages to President Davis even during her imprisonment. But none were as vital as the letter she carried from Napoleon, the one she must put directly into Davis’s hands. Publicly the emperor had said one thing—but alone with her at Tuileries, he had committed to a very different course of action.
The guns boomed.
Shadows moved along the deck. No lanterns burned—it was part of running the blockade, steaming without lights. The voices increased in number and tone. She saw a looming shadow in the waters of New Inlet, near the mouth of the Cape Fear River. Fort Fisher was perhaps three hundred yards away. She was almost home. Confederate soil was close. Perhaps …
No! She clutched the pouch. I know what I must do.
A sailor ran by her, swearing. Rose winced at his coarse language, making her way forward, holding the rail. She felt the wind on the back of her neck, the fine spray of water. To her right—no, starboard, she thought, on board ship it’s called starboard—she saw the flash of light and heard the cannon roar. The Condor shuddered under her again.
She reached the wheelhouse and pulled open the door. The captain, younger than Rose by several years, stood in a cluster of men, one arm on the wheel, looking calm. “Mrs. Greenhow,” he said, and bowed from the waist. “So sorry you were awakened. A spot of bad luck for a maiden voyage, but all is well. You will be more comfortable in your quarters. One of the men will take you—”
“What is happening, Captain?” Rose said.
“Pardon me, madam?”
“Will the Yankees board us?”
The captain put out both hands, as if patting the air in front of him. “You mustn’t worry about such things. The guns from your Fort Fisher will protect us. We had the misfortune of having to steer around a wreck—a fairly recent one, I’d say. Now if you will kindly go…”
Rose shook her head, the fear rising within her. The ship was immobile, lying motionless, her keel against the bottom. The guns were relentless on both sides, dueling each other over who would claim the Condor. “I must get off this boat, Captain,” Rose said, keeping her voice steady. She would not become hysterical, not in the face of these Englishmen, and certainly not to the Union sailors who would no doubt be swarming the ship in minutes. “Get me a lifeboat and some men. I must get to Fort Fisher.”
The captain smiled, but he was straining to maintain his typically British nonchalant air. “We will wait out the night, Mrs. Greenhow. An unfortunate situation, to be sure, but not dire. The Union will not board us here, I assure you. The morning will see us safe.”
A wind gust stirred the waves, and water broke over the bow. The Condor rocked against the current. Rose gazed out across the blackness of the sea toward the coast … toward home. She touched the pouch around her neck. “Now, Captain! A lifeboat!”
“The wench is daft,” muttered an old seaman. “Serves us well, for taking a woman aboard.”
“That will do,” the captain said, and turned back to Rose. “Mrs. Greenhow, you must understand—”
“I am an emissary of the Confederate States of America, and you—and your ship—were engaged to conduct me safely to Confederate soil. This ship will sink, or it will be boarded, and I must be away from it when either of those things occurs. I will write to the queen and I will see that she is informed of your ill behavior, if you do not get me a lifeboat … now!”
The captain folded his hands together. “You are safer on board the ship. The current is strong here. We are not moving, but we are safe.”
“Captain,” Rose said, and lowered her voice. “Please. You must heed what I ask.” She reached out and touched the ship’s wheel. Her fingers were inches from the captain’s. “Please,” she said again.
The captain stared down at the wheel, and then slowly shook his head. “So be it.” He turned to the sailors behind him. “Harlow, Roberts … you will lower the number one lifeboat and escort our passenger to shore. Find our other passengers, as they, too, are Confederate citizens, and see if they share Mrs. Greenhow’s interest in leaving the ship now.”
“I’ll be damned if I will,” growled Harlow, the old seaman who had spoken up earlier. “It’s a fool’s errand, Captain. Do you take orders from a woman, then?”
“Mr. Harlow,” the captain said without raising his voice, “unless you mean to raise a mutiny here and now, you will take Mrs. Greenhow and anyone else who wishes to leave the ship.”
Harlow was at least two decades older than the captain, with a gnarled white beard and stooped shoulders. He spat on the deck, between the captain and Rose. “Aye, Captain. I’m no mutineer, but I do this under protest.”
“Your protest is noted, Mr. Harlow.”
“Get your things,” Harlow said to Rose.
Rose squeezed the pouch again. “All I need is here. And I require you to treat me with the proper respect.”
Harlow stared at her. “Of course … my lady.” He gestured at Roberts, a beardless boy who looked all of sixteen. “Go find the others.”
* * *
The surf pounded the Condor’s hull. Even in the heavy dress, Rose shivered. She wished she had brought her coat to the deck, but now there was no time. Elizabeth pleaded to go with her, but Rose ordered her below. The young woman had been a faithful friend and dutiful servant, but this was not her battle, and Rose would not put her in danger. Rose stood on the deck in the hard, spitting rain and waited for the lifeboat to be ready.
The seas grew stronger, but the guns had fallen silent, though Rose could still see the outline of the Union gunship and the shadow of another ship, presumably also a blockade runner, that had run aground nearby. She waited, clutching her leather pouch.
“You carry the hopes of both our
nations,” Napoleon III had told her.
The men stomped onto the deck: Judge Holcombe, the Confederate commissioner to Canada, whom the Condor had picked up in Halifax; Lieutenant Wilson, a young Southern naval officer; the disagreeable Harlow; Roberts; and another young seaman named Jones. They climbed into the leeward lifeboat, and other crewmen began to lower it toward the sea. Wind gusts tore at the ropes. Rose grasped the side of the boat as the wind lashed the tiny craft and the rain stung her face. Her stomach clenched—she had never liked the water, never learned to swim, was always prone to seasickness, and this was worse than she had ever imagined. The boat swayed, hanging in the air above the water. Crewmen shouted. Harlow shouted back at them. Rose looked over at Judge Holcombe—his face was gray, and he was staring straight at her. She nodded to him, her mouth a tight line.
The boat touched the water, swells breaking across the bow. Rose, in the stern near young Roberts, drew in a hard breath, but she did not scream. She would not lose her dignity in front of these men.
The lifeboat cleared its davits. “Pull!” shouted Harlow from the bow. “Pull, damn you!”
Roberts and Jones had scarcely dipped oars into the water when Rose turned to her right, looking toward shore, toward the freedom of the Carolina coast. In the blackness of the night, she felt the wave as it caught the boat broadside. It was as though the hand of God had reached down and pushed the boat to the top of the breaker, where it hung suspended for an excruciating second.
Dear God, no! Rose thought. Not after all this, not after all those who have died, not when I have the power to see their deaths were not in vain.…
Then her thoughts turned to Little Rose, her daughter, in the convent school in Paris. Thank God I did not insist on bringing her back with me.…
The men were shouting, Harlow cursing the others, cursing her, cursing God and the waves. Rose dug into the pouch around her neck, and from it she withdrew the one containing the letter the emperor had placed in her hands. The letter that must not fall into Union hands.
She turned. The oars were torn from young Roberts’s grasp. The boy—for he was, indeed, only a boy, Rose saw—was crying. Rose screamed his name. He looked toward her.
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