Spy of Richmond

by Jocelyn Green

  Only eight blocks stood between Libby and Sophie’s house, but their hills reared up and dipped and reared again beneath her trembling legs. Every lamppost looked like a sentinel, every bare tree limb, a reaching arm. Her feet itched to run. But she must not attract attention, and she must keep a pace that Dr. Lansing, unused to such exertion, could match.

  At long last, her home came into view. Fighting the urge to look over her shoulder, Sophie walked through her gate, left it ajar, and skirted the house. After stopping at the kitchen house for a moment, lest any observer wonder why she did not use her own front door, she crossed to the main house, entered through the rear, and waited.

  By the time Dr. Lansing, too, stumbled through it, she felt as breathless as he was, panting from the uphill climb.

  “Thank God!” She locked the door quietly behind him. “Were you followed?”

  “Not that I could tell,” he wheezed, and she pressed a tumbler of water into his hands.

  The smell lifting off his clothing was enough to turn her stomach. “How could you stand it? Hiding with the dead all that time?”

  “I tried to think of them just as my former patients. As they were not menacing in life, neither were they in death. But I confess it gave me ample time to regret losing them.” His grey eyes shone like polished silver. “And courage to make it North, where I’ll have the tools and medicine to do my job properly. I’ll forever be grateful to you, you know.”

  And so will Charlotte, Sophie thought with a smile, remembering that he was engaged to be married. “Come with me.” She had waited as long as she dared to let him catch his breath.

  Sophie led him up the stairs and into the spare bedroom until they were standing in front of a closet. She unlatched the knob from its hook and swung the double doors wide. After removing the bottom shelf, she pushed on the false back until it opened.

  Dr. Lansing bent to peer inside the small, squat room with sloping ceiling. “Underground Railroad?”

  “My mother’s idea.” Eleanor had secretly arranged for this space to be built into the house in the early years of her marriage, and had put it to use when Sophie’s father was out of town to follow the news, which was often. To this day, he still didn’t know it existed. Neither did Fischer. Like so many other immigrants, he was pro-slavery, if only because it meant the immigrants were not the lowest class of society. “There is food and water, a lantern, and pallet inside. Try to rest. A farmer named William Rowley will come for you at midnight. You’ll stay with him until he deems it safe to move from there. He’s gotten you a pass to allow you out of the city.” She did not mention it had cost the Unionists three thousand Confederate dollars and the help of a colored railroad superintendent, Samuel Ruth, to get it. “Here is a suit for you to change into. You’ll be free soon enough.” Fischer would never hear the soft tread of Rowley and Dr. Lansing from his quarters in the basement. “Thank you,” the doctor breathed, and Sophie nodded.

  “Now, once you are inside and I replace the shelf and latch the doors closed, you’ll not be able to get out.”

  “I’ll be content to stay hidden.”

  “Good.” Sophie motioned to the door, and the doctor crawled through the small opening toward the glow of the kerosene lamp.

  Dr. Lansing pushed the false door closed behind him, effectively blocking the light—but not his voice. “Thou art my hiding place,” she could hear him say, though just barely. “Thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.” Then, silence.

  Hands trembling from anxiety and fatigue, she replaced the shelf into the closet, redistributed old clothes on top of it, and latched the double doors securely. By the time Sophie reached the doorway to the hall, his faint snoring turned her head. Should she wake him just to tell him not to snore? She couldn’t bring herself to. Just a few hours of slumber would do him good.

  Downstairs, Sophie found Bella fidgeting in the parlor. Of course she was ready to leave, especially since Daphne had died. And especially since Fischer, who had shed no tears for Daphne, clearly disapproved of Bella’s presence, though he had at least promised not to tell anyone she was here.

  “Everything settled up there?” Bella asked, brown eyes intent. She was aware of their secret visitor.

  “Yes. I think so, yes.” Suddenly exhausted, Sophie eased into the armchair. “He’s snoring, though.”

  “You can hear it through the closet?”

  “He’s very tired.” A giggle bubbled up from Sophie’s throat, and she covered her mouth to trap it. It must be the stress, she supposed, that made her want to laugh when there was no joke. “What time is Mr. Caldwell coming?” She still could not believe he was here in Richmond.

  Bella glanced at the clock on the wall. “He didn’t say.”

  “I’m glad you decided to go.” She could scarcely trust her ears this morning when Bella asked if it might be helpful for her to stay with Sophie. Her place was in the North, the only land of the free. Thankfully, she’d been able to persuade Bella of this truth.

  “Well.” Bella shifted in her chair, awkwardly, and the clock ticked in the silence between them. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

  Sophie nodded. “And there’s nothing else you can do for Abraham by staying. Didn’t he tell you to go home?”

  “He did.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Sophie leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. Saw Daphne again, and her eyes popped open. There would be time enough to process her grief tomorrow. And the next day, and the next … Unseeing, she focused her weary gaze on the fire behind the grate.

  When the knock sounded at the door, she jolted. It was not yet midnight. “It must be Mr. Caldwell for you.” A lump shifted in her throat. Once upon a time, Mr. Caldwell had come for Sophie.

  As she smoothed her hair back into place, the knock became a pounding. Then he rang the doorbell, which chimed downstairs in Fischer’s room. She hurried to let him in.

  It wasn’t Harrison.

  “May I help you?”

  The man pushed through the door and into the main hall, then turned to face her. “Dick Turner. Warden, Libby Prison.”

  An electric charge coursed through Sophie. “You’re trespassing.”

  Mr. Fischer burst into the hall then, disheveled from getting dressed so quickly after he’d clearly already gone to bed. “If Miss Kent did not invite you in, sir, then you will kindly vacate the premises.”

  Turner answered the servant’s loyalty with the back of his hand, and Fischer stumbled backward, knocking his head on Mars’s pedestal before sinking to the floor, unconscious. Sophie flew to kneel by his side and check for blood.

  “Now.” Turner growled above her. “Save us both a whole heap of trouble and explain why an inmate at my prison had this hidden away in his cloak.” He produced a map of the city, creased every few inches. A dark circle ringed her address.

  “I don’t understand!”

  “Pity. Then I’ll have to search myself. If you’re a friend to one of my prisoners, you’re an enemy of the Confederacy, and I intend to find proof! Unionist!” He spat the word.

  A friend to a prisoner? Had he discovered Dr. Lansing’s ruse so quickly? Sophie’s stomach rolled and china rattled in its cabinet as he stormed through the first floor, ransacking the parlors, dining room, and library. But if he were looking for the doctor, why was he tossing books from their shelves and capsizing Grecian urns barely large enough to hold a cat? Has he gone mad?

  “There must be some evidence here,” he muttered. “A stash of greenbacks. A U.S. flag. A Northern newspaper. A hiding place for escaped prisoners.”

  When he bounded up the stairs, two at a time, Sophie fisted her skirts and followed him from room to room. Turner rifled through drawers, threw open the French doors to the second-story porch and snarled in rage when he found that empty, too. With each passing moment, his face grew darker. He was beginning to look like a fool for his fruitless theatrics, and by the
storm gathering on his countenance, he knew it full well.

  Then he came to the spare room where Dr. Lansing hid, and Sophie nearly forgot to breathe. He threw the counterpane off the bed, looked beneath it, then unlatched the closet doors and wiped everything off the shelves.

  Finding nothing, he pushed past her into the hall, and in a dark whirl, went up the spiral staircase that led to the cupola, while Sophie waited below, as still as the needle on a sundial. There was nothing up there but glass and wood.

  Time halted until Turner thundered back down the stairs. “Think you can hide it from me forever?” She heard his slap on her face before she felt it, then covered the smoldering pain with her hand.

  Just how long she stood there after she heard him slam the front door behind him, she couldn’t guess. It was Bella who came to her and broke the spell.

  “That devil hurt you?” she said, anger edging her tone.

  “It just smarts.” Her voice was unsteady. “But where did you go?”

  “Ran up here to wake up Dr. Lansing, tell him to quit snoring for pity’s sake or all would be lost. Then I climbed out onto the porch and shimmied down the railing ’til I could jump. I went to the kitchen house, and found he’d been through there first, so I figured I’d stay out of sight there. He may have seen me talking with Abraham today.”

  Sophie nodded. “And he definitely has noticed me at Libby.”

  “You might think twice about going back.”

  Sophie’s chin quivered, but she could not contradict her. “At least Turner didn’t find the doctor, thank God.”

  “I don’t think he was looking for the doctor. Didn’t he just say something about hiding ‘it’—not ‘him’? He was looking for evidence of Union loyalty. Although, an escaped Union prisoner certainly would fit that description, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sophie shuddered to imagine what may have happened if Turner had found the doctor. “But why did he come here? If it was my visits to Libby’s hospital room that aroused his suspicion, why didn’t he come before?”

  “I saw the map he waved in your face before I took off. It was Mr. Caldwell’s. I think he’s in trouble.” Bella’s eyes flashed, and dread snaked through Sophie’s middle. When they deemed it safe, they opened the closet and spoke with Dr. Lansing. He confirmed that a new arrival had joined the ranks of Libby prisoners. “Brown eyes, a freckled nose, and shocking orange hair. He’s also a journalist,” Dr. Lansing said. “From Philadelphia.”

  Bella groaned, and Sophie stood silently, suspended in disbelief.

  Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia

  Saturday, December 5, 1863

  “That better be Daphne,” Abraham muttered to Peter. But as she came closer, he knew it wasn’t. He cursed under his breath as he lugged a crate of rations off the supply wagon and carried it into the prison.

  “Looks like she’s got a piece to speak,” Peter said. “I’ll carry on.”

  Abraham grunted. By the time he and Peter returned to the wagon for more, Bella stood waiting between the buckboard and Robert Ford, with Turner’s horse, shielding her from view. The wind flirted with a stray curl of her hair, and played with the fringe of her shawl. But her eyes were deadly serious.

  So am I. “You were supposed to be gone two days ago.” Though frustration buzzed in his veins, he kept his tone even, as though he were merely chatting with Robert as he lifted another crate. As his breath clouded in the chill air in disappearing puffs, ancient words of wisdom scrolled painfully through his mind. Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. Abraham wished his wife would vanish from Richmond.

  “Harrison Caldwell was arrested. He’s in there.” She nodded toward Libby.

  Abraham’s gut twisted in a spasm of dismay. Bella was trapped. Same as him. I should never have sent that letter! Anger leapt over his fear for his wife. “Blast him!”

  “I don’t think arrest was his aim.”

  He shook his head, too furious to make excuses. While Peter carried his burden away, Abraham’s hands flexed uselessly on the edges of a crate. “That boy brought you into the lions’ den—and left you here to fend for yourself!”

  Canal Street traffic bounced off the river, filling the crackling quiet between them. Then, “He brought me to you, Love. I had to see you. Had to see Daph—” Bella’s voice broke on her sister’s name. “I couldn’t save her.” She pressed a fist to her lips.

  The fury in Abraham’s chest gave way to a crushing ache. So long beleaguered by war and prison, he had grown calloused to his own pain. But not to Bella’s. He reached out and touched her face, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. She covered his hand with hers, and, closing her eyes, leaned into it.

  “You miss her,” he said.

  Her eyes opened, drawing him into their warm chocolate depths. “And you.”

  Abraham nodded impotently, unable to find the words that would make everything better, or at least easier to bear.

  Peter returned for another load, and Bella released her husband’s hand. Tears clung to her long lashes as she fished small bundles from her basket and passed them to Abraham, Robert, and Peter. “Salt pork.” A miracle.

  Turner’s horse pawed at the ground behind Bella, twitched its tail. “Warden coming,” Robert Ford warned, instantly severing Abraham from his wife. As she tucked her head and swished away, Abraham dragged the last crate off the wagon and followed Peter back toward the prison.

  “What are you doing?” Turner’s voice carried. Abraham did not envy Ford his position, daily subject to the warden’s tempers as he was. “What’s in that basket?”

  Abraham froze. Basket? He whipped his head around. No.

  Turner ripped the basket from Bella’s arm, upended it, righted it, smelled it. Cast it on the ground. “You bringing food to my prisoners? Curse you!”

  “I meant no harm.”

  “Harm? I’ll show you harm!”

  White-hot alarm knifed through Abraham as Turner ordered two guards to his side.

  “Steady…” Peter, beside him.

  But Abraham was not steady. The ground reeled beneath his feet. His crate fell with a thud, and sawdust spilled from between splintered planks. The guards dragged her toward a barrel. Please God, have mercy!

  One guard subdued her flailing fists while the other grasped her collar and ripped her dress open down to her waist.

  “No!” The shout burst from Abraham at the same time Peter dropped his crate and grabbed his arm.

  “Can’t do nothing about that, now. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you if you try and interfere.”

  Spots darkened his vision. The filthy Rebel guards yanked through the laces of her corset until it loosened enough to be cast off into the dirt. Their ribald comments and gestures about a slave using a ladies’ undergarment was the match to Abraham’s fuse. He jerked free of Peter’s grip and stumbled forward, only to be toppled again by Peter.

  “They will kill you, man! Maybe her too! Let it go, stay alive another day!”

  Abraham seethed. He sat on his heels in the dirt and bit his fist to keep from shouting obscenities that had never entered his mind before. His wife was tied over the barrel, naked from the waist up. Head tucked down, her head scarf had fallen off, and her hair tumbled in ribbons to the ground. Her fingers clawed at the metal bands ringing the barrel. Her back rippled with knots and scars.

  Turner uncoiled his whip. It flicked like the tongue of Lucifer himself.

  “You two! Boys!” Another guard aimed his rifle at Abraham and Peter. “Hoof it back inside with those boxes! Or do I get to drop me some Yankees today?”

  “Come on now,” Peter said, helping Abraham to his feet. In an agony of helplessness, he turned his back on his wife at the time she needed him most. His every dragging footstep was marked by the snap of leather on flesh, and Bella’s sharp cries, until it almost seemed that it was his walking away that caused it
. Tears spilled down his face for the first time in memory. The cost of mere survival was becoming too great a price to pay.

  Fire burned in Bella’s back, but it was the soft murmuring at her side that pulled her back to wakefulness.

  “We are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed …”

  Bella opened her eyes and found herself on a pallet in the back of the kitchen house. Rachel, the same age as Bella’s daughter Liberty, sat reading to her, while Sophie laid a warm cloth soaked with comfrey on her bare back, extinguishing the smoldering itch of her open wounds. She must have lost consciousness before Turner finished filleting her. She had no memory of being brought home by a couple of slaves from a neighboring household. “How many stripes?” she asked.

  Tenderly, Sophie laid another towel over Bella’s fraying skin. “Many.” Her tone was quiet, heavy.

  Too many to tell, Bella guessed, wincing. It had been twenty years, maybe more, since she’d born the lash in Georgia. She’d forgotten how it stripped her of both humanity and skin. Humiliation churned in her gut still. She had never, never wanted Abraham to think of her as a slave, and yet today he’d seen her dignity ruthlessly peeled away.

  It made her want to fight. Not just in revenge for herself, but for all the colored people who still lived in a place where bondage was normal, even considered God-ordained, and violence was an acceptable if not regular occurrence. For sixteen years, Bella had been free. She married the man she chose, and was able to watch her daughter grow up without fear of any of them being abused or sold away. If she had forgotten what life was like before Gettysburg, it all came rushing back to her now in rivers of scarlet.

  “You want me to read some more?” Rachel asked. “Or you maybe want to rest?”