Spy of Richmond

by Jocelyn Green

  Lord, be merciful!

  Bella stood at the window, grateful for the glass and brick separating her from the throngs on Franklin Street. Bedlam spread like a pox, and the streets boiled over with panic. As clanging bells shook her spirit, and firing guns exploded in her mind, she wondered if the man Fischer had turned away was among them. They were so densely packed, it was impossible to tell.

  “Come back,” she whispered, her fingertips on the window, and winced when some fool in the street fired his revolver from within the crowd, triggering screams from women who should have stayed inside.

  By the time the frothing mob receded, Sophie was at Bella’s side, trembling. “Thank God none of the howitzers was fired.” But whatever the Union forces had intended to do, they’d failed.

  “It’s over.” Bella squeezed Sophie’s shaking hand.

  Sighing, Sophie cast one more gaze out the window. Then, “Oh no. Not for that fellow.”

  Bella looked, too, and found a Negro still lying on the sidewalk. Either he was very foolish or … very drunk? He pushed himself up on his elbows, grabbed his thigh, then held his hand up to inspect it. As he turned it in the moonlight, something shimmered on his fingers. He turned to the Kent house then, as if gauging the distance between.

  “He’s hurt,” Bella decided, and fled the room, Sophie right behind her.

  Cold slapped at the soles of Bella’s bare feet as she hurried down the stairs and out into the street. “Well, Brother, and just what were you doing out here this time of night anyhow?” She knelt by his side, her gaze fixed upon the dark red blood oozing ominously from his homespun trousers.

  “Looking for you,” he rasped, grimacing in obvious pain. “Bella.”

  Recognition sliced through her. “Abe!” Sorrow and relief churned through her veins as Sophie appeared on his other side. Tears coursed down her cheeks before she swiped them away. “Sophie Kent, meet my husband, Abraham. Abe, this is Sophie. And you’re going to be fine.”

  Without another word, Bella and Sophie helped Abraham to his feet, and supported his weight as they led him into the house. As she closed and locked the door behind them, a shadow fleeted in the periphery of Bella’s vision. Otto Fischer had seen it all. She pushed it firmly out of her mind.

  “I need light,” Bella said as they laid him on the floor, and Sophie scurried to bring a kerosene lamp to his side. A torrent of memories unleashed, and images from tending the Confederate wounded at Liberty’s Gettysburg farm surged. This time, she did not thrust those grisly flashes away. She needed them, in all their heart-rending clarity.

  As Sophie tore strips from the hem of her nightgown for a tourniquet, Bella rushed to collect the surgical tools she’d need. A leather belt rather than chloroform or opium. Sewing scissors. Lois’s narrowest knitting needles rather than a probe. A small sugar spoon, a pickle fork with tiny prongs rather than a forceps to remove the ball. A ghastly collection on a silver tea service tray. But if she didn’t extract the bullet, it would turn her husband’s body septic.

  “Pray,” Bella muttered to Sophie, returning to his side, and cut the trousers off his leg.

  Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia

  Tuesday, February 9, 1864, 3:00 a.m.

  Harrison’s lean shoulders and biceps burned as he fanned air into Tunnel Four. The only sound in Rat Hell was the occasional scrape of the cuspidor being dragged through the tunnel by Hamilton and the intermittent squeals of rodents in a vicious fight. Lord, Harrison prayed, but his thoughts could dig no further along that track. He was bone-weary, sore, and secretly frightened that Rose had gone mad.

  After the tunnel had come to the surface too soon, Rose had engineered its repair, and vowed they would all be free—and soon. Since that time, he had never handed the chisel to another, but dug with the energy of one possessed. He was convinced that the time to escape was now or never. Harrison agreed.

  A rat scampered over Harrison’s splayed open shoe, and he kicked it into a heap of straw. He strained to hear some sign from Rose. His forehead ached with worry for his friend, the warrior schoolteacher from Pittsburgh. Last time he’d emerged from the portal, gulping for air, hair standing on end from his head and face, he was slick with sweat, and a visible tremor warned of imminent collapse. “The hour is at hand,” he had wheezed, eyes glassy. “I will break free or die trying.” Then he disappeared again into his narrow grave.

  Please Lord, bring him back. And bring us home. Perhaps it was the crushing isolation of Rat Hell during the last several days, but Harrison had started talking to the Almighty much more frequently. It felt a whole lot better than talking to himself, or to the rats or lice that kept him company.

  “He’s coming,” Hamilton whispered.

  Harrison dropped his fan and reached inside the tunnel, pulling Rose out by his sinewy arm. The colonel stood, his face practically alight, as if he were Moses and had seen God at Mount Sinai.

  “We’ve done it!” he whispered.

  Shock coursed through Harrison. He blinked, almost afraid to believe.

  “We come up under the tobacco shed, where the high fence shields us. I’ve been for a walk around Libby.”

  Harrison’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “How was it?”

  Rose grinned. “Heavenly.”

  “Come then! Alert the other tunnelers, let’s go!” Hamilton said, his voice low but intense. Rose nodded.

  “Wait—” Harrison held out his hands. “It’s three in the morning. How far do you want to get?” He paused. “Why not rest a little, trade and pack some extra food for your journey, and leave shortly after nightfall tonight.” The sun set at seven, which would give them fully eight more hours of darkness to get safely away than if they were to leave right now.

  At length, Rose and Hamilton reluctantly agreed. They would return upstairs and Harrison would stay in Rat Hell for one more day.

  The longest day of their lives.

  Kent House, Richmond, Virginia

  Tuesday, February 9, 1864, 7 p.m.

  “She did what? Why?” Lawrence Russell studied Mr. Fischer’s weary form as the steward hung his cloak and hat.

  “Dismissed me. For taking the upper hand with the slaves.” His brows slanted downward.

  “Why Fischer! Isn’t that your job?”

  “Used to be.” A scowl slashed on his face. “You watch her, Captain. She has secrets.”

  Footsteps whispered in the hall.

  “From me?”

  “Especially from you, sir,” he whispered. Fischer threw a glance over his shoulder then scurried away, leaving Lawrence, stunned, in his wake.

  “Oh!” Sophie said as she stepped into the main entrance hall. “Fischer must have let you in. I didn’t expect him to.”

  Lawrence bussed her cheek. “Yes, he told me you dismissed him.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “It’s true. But I’m allowing him to stay while he secures new housing arrangements.”

  “Good luck to him. There’s nary an inch of carpet to be spared in Richmond.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, and told himself for the thousandth time to be patient with her dowdy mourning garb. What was beneath the layers of clothing was worth waiting for. He allowed his hand to stroke up the curve of her waist and back down again, felt the cords of her corset beneath the crepe before they sat on the parlor sofa.

  “Well, I hope he finds something, and soon. He cannot stay here much longer, I simply won’t have it.”

  Rachel—or was that one Emiline?—came forward with the tea service, and poured steaming brew for each of them before receding from view. Sophie brought her cup to her rosebud lips, and blew across the rim to cool it.

  He smiled at the adorable pucker of her mouth, then forced himself to look instead at her eyes. “What was his offense?”

  “He questioned my authority, first of all, but then he slapped Emiline! For an imagined slight!”

  “Were you there?” He sipped his own tea. “Did you see it?”

  “I saw his handprint on
her face, Lawrence. And I will not have violence in this house.” A golden curl shook next to her face as she spoke.

  “But you were not there to hear what she said to cause the incident.”

  Sophie rattled her cup back onto its saucer. “Whatever the ‘cause,’ Fischer should have controlled his impulses!”

  “Yes, quite, darling. There now, don’t get upset.” He placed his hand on her knee to calm her. “And, I suppose, if he questioned your authority, that had to be dealt with decisively. Bravo. Only, what will you do without a man in the house?” He cocked his eyebrow, controlling his own impulses to an impressive degree.

  She slanted him a playful gaze. “I’ll manage.” Her green eyes flashed, not altogether innocently, Lawrence thought. Being the one and only man around her suited him just fine.

  She has secrets. Especially from you, sir. Fischer’s words froze the smile on Lawrence’s face. He drank his tea, considering.

  “You weren’t frightened Sunday morning, were you? With the artillery and the chaos in the streets? I do hope you stayed tucked in bed like a good little girl.”

  “It was madness, wasn’t it? But no, I didn’t venture out of doors. I could see plenty from the cupola. What happened? Do you know?”

  Lawrence leaned back, draped his arm over the back of the sofa. Twirled one of Sophie’s curls around his finger. “It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. A Union detachment tried to make a raid on Richmond.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes widened before she ducked back into her porcelain cup.

  Suddenly, his own words to her filtered back into his consciousness. If you ask me, we’ve let our guard down, he’d told her. We’re more vulnerable to a raid now than we’ve ever been. His fingers stilled for moment, her silken tresses caught between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Funny, isn’t it? Didn’t I just say now would be a good time for a raid?”

  “Did you, darling? Uncanny.” She looked at him, unblinking. Her face a blank slate.

  “Well, as it turns out, it wasn’t good for the Yankees after all. When they reached Bottom’s Bridge they had quite a surprise. The bridge was destroyed, and Rebel troops were already dug into defensive positions on the opposite riverbank. Trains were already bringing reinforcements from Richmond.”

  “Really? That’s remarkable! But how did they know they’d be needed?”

  He smiled. “Yankee deserter tipped us off.”

  Sophie’s eyebrows arched. “And just in time. My.” Were her hands shaking? She gripped her cup.

  “Indeed. But even if he hadn’t, we’d have given them a good wallop just the same. They came with only six thousand men.” He watched her closely. “Do you remember how many I told you they would have needed to make a go of it?”

  “I believe you said more than that, by far.” She smiled, inhaled deeply, as though relieved.

  “That’s right. Thirty thousand cavalry and fifteen thousand infantry. And they made a dash with only six thousand!”

  “Ill-advised.” Sophie’s lashes fluttered against her flushed cheeks as she smoothed down the pleats in her skirt.

  Lawrence grasped her hand and found it cold. “Are you unwell?”

  “Forgive me, Lawrence. I am only tired.” But no shadows ringed her eyes.

  Doubt flickered in Lawrence’s chest as she wrapped her slender fingers around his hand. Lawrence had been lied to before, manipulated by a woman not half so beautiful as Sophie Kent. He did not enjoy playing the fool.

  His smile grew stiff and cool.

  She has secrets, Fischer had warned. Especially from you.

  Libby Prison, Richmond, Virginia

  Tuesday, February 9, 1864, 7:00 p.m.

  At last, night fell, and darkness swaddled the city. Sweat filmed Harrison’s skin as he ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. This is it.

  Above him, the floor shook with the stomping, dancing feet of prisoners carousing in the kitchen. They were doing more than venting their pent-up energy. While the first half of escapees made their exit through the tunnel, the remaining tunnelers struck up some revelry, a farewell serenade of sorts, which doubled as a distraction for the guards.

  Here in Rat Hell, the stench, the rodents, the tomblike suffocation would soon be merely black blots on Harrison’s memory. Colonel Thomas Rose lined the men up to the tunnel entrance in order of rank, then shook each man’s hand before taking his place at the front, just ahead of Major Hamilton. With no rank at all, Harrison fell to the end of the line. He was grateful to be included in the first batch of escapees at all.

  Rose grasped his hand, pumping it heartily. “Thank you, soldier.”

  Harrison’s eyes misted at the warmth in Rose’s voice.

  “You’ve proven yourself to be one of us—an observer no more.” Rose continued, “Now onward, to finish the race set before us, yes? Godspeed and farewell.” He returned to the tunnel’s mouth and disappeared inside its throat.

  Harrison’s limbs twitched in anticipation of his turn. One by one, the men were swallowed up by the damp hole in the wall, until he found himself next in line. Muscles taut, his body propelled him blindly along the narrow path toward freedom. This is not a grave, he told himself. It is a rebirth.

  After worming and wriggling for three minutes through more than fifty feet of dead air, Harrison emerged on the heels of the man before him, under the roof of the tobacco shed. Free. At least, for the moment.

  Slipping outside, Harrison and three others skirted the brick building where the Rebels had stored the five thousand undelivered prisoner boxes. The two-day-old moon was barely a sliver in the sky, making conditions near perfect for escape. After reaching the arched wagonway through which deliveries were made to the prison, Harrison quietly opened the gate and peered into Canal Street, searching for the sentinels. When the way was clear, he stepped into the street, and the others followed suit by intervals. Blood rushing in his ears, Harrison adopted a purposeful stride, as did Major B. B. McDonald, beside him. They knew exactly where they were headed.

  The black prisoners who scrubbed the officers’ floors and emptied their chamber pots had told them about Elizabeth Van Lew and had given directions to her house. One could easily see it from Libby, sitting atop Church Hill as it did. She will be a friend to you, if ever you need one. As much as Harrison wanted to see Sophie and Bella—if she was still in Richmond—he was reluctant to endanger them with his presence. If they could get to Miss Van Lew’s house, a message could easily be sent. Perhaps Sophie and Bella could come to the Van Lew home or some other meeting place without arousing suspicion.

  Harrison drank in the cool night air as he clipped along the sidewalk. He was anxious to know how Bella fared. But it was Sophie’s face that lingered in his mind. Quiet pulsed between Harrison and McDonald for the rest of the way to the Van Lew house on Grace Street.

  Upon arriving, Harrison rapped the brass knocker against its plate on the door. A Negro man opened it.

  “Good evening,” McDonald said. “Is Miss Van Lew at home?”

  “No sir.” He shook his head, and began to close the door.

  Harrison thrust out his hand. “Pardon me. We don’t wish to intrude, but we were told we’d have a friend in Miss Van Lew. And we need one now, desperately.” His gaze shifted left and right before he leaned in, dropping his voice low. “We’ve just come from Libby. We need help.”

  “I don’t know what you heard, but we is faithful Confederates here.” The butler’s nostrils flared. “I’ll not turn you in, on account of your business not being any of mine, but you best take it on with you. Leave Miss Van Lew and her mother out of it.”

  “Please, you don’t understand, we have no other place to go!” McDonald’s quiet voice was full of fire. “We wouldn’t stay long, but we need food for the journey, some socks perhaps!”

  The butler’s eyebrows plowed downward. “Get yourself on outta here. Miss Lizzie didn’t tell me nothin’ bout you folks. So git!” He slammed the door.

  Harrison stared at t
he door and heard the click as it locked.

  “Plan B?” McDonald jerked his head toward the sidewalk, and the pair strolled back down to the street.

  “I know a place. Not far from here.” Harrison winced as he said it, loath to bring trouble to Sophie. But he did not have a Plan C.

  From the Van Lew mansion on Grace Street, Harrison led McDonald downhill for one block to Franklin Street, then uphill two blocks to Twenty-seventh. By the time they reached Sophie’s corner, both men were panting for breath.

  “Pitiful, aren’t we?” McDonald joked, but their condition was deadly serious. Union-held Williamsburg was fifty miles away. Getting there by foot in the winter would be a daunting task for the healthiest of men.

  “Kitchen house,” Harrison said, remembering the party he and Bella had walked in on last time.

  His spine tingled as he knocked on the door. It cracked open, and light and warmth spilled out.

  “Can I help—Get in here!” Bella pulled him in by his tattered collar, and McDonald after him before closing the door and locking it. For a long moment, she covered her mouth with her hand, with her other fist propped on her hip. Her eyes glistened, and Harrison wondered what he must look like after months in prison, denied the sun as well as food. Finally, she dropped her hand from her face. Pressed her lips together and inhaled. “You’re late.” A small, sad smile tilted on her face as she shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Harrison bowed to her, though he felt like pulling her into a fierce embrace. “You’ll never know how much.”

  McDonald cleared his throat. “B. B. McDonald, 101st Ohio.” He thrust out his hand, and Bella took it, introducing herself as well.

  “Land sakes, Bella, those two gentlemen gonna blow over with the next draft that comes whistling through here! Sit them down!” A ginger brown woman clucked her tongue.