Spy of Richmond

by Jocelyn Green

  “So you’ve been adding laudanum to her drinks every day?”

  “Oh, yes, more than once a day. Whenever she’ll take it. That’s Massa’s orders.”

  Bella rounded on her, eyes wide. “She’s overdosed! It’s hurting her!” She’d watched both the Confederate surgeon and her own future son-in-law unwittingly do the same in Gettysburg. “The drug starts out innocently enough, an escape from pain. But use it too much, it’ll make you crazy. Kill you, even.”

  “What? Make you crazy? Massa says it’s supposed to fix the crazy!”

  “Did it work on Missus Eleanor?” she asked pointedly.

  “No, baby, she a bad case. Real bad case.”

  Bella cocked her head. Of course she was. “The laudanum stops now.”

  “Massa ordered it!”

  “Well, Mr. Kent isn’t here.” He and Harrison were both out with their battalions, somewhere outside the city.

  Pearl clucked her tongue and shuddered. “He gonna be vexed when he comes back and sees Missy not getting her medicine.”

  “He’ll be thrilled when he comes home and finds that Missy doesn’t need it.”

  Kent House, Richmond, Virginia

  Thursday, November 17, 1864

  Bone-tired, chilled, and stiff, Harrison Caldwell arrived back at the Kent House wrapped in dread. He could only guess as to whether there had been any change in Sophie’s condition. When he’d kissed her goodbye, she hadn’t even known he was there. She probably didn’t realize he’d been gone at all. Or that the world turns—and the war rages—without her.

  In truth, being away had been a reprieve. He was helpless to improve her condition, and he could not stand by and watch her slip from him. Releasing a pent-up sigh, he let himself in with the key and latched the door behind him.

  Voices drifted down the hall to him. Callers? At this hour? He was in no mood to be congenial. Then another thought struck him. Were they here because Sophie had taken a turn for the worse?

  Heedless of his unkempt appearance, he rushed into the parlor, and then the library. Two heads were bowed together over a book. One a mass of thick black hair, and one piled high with light. Sophie looked up. Her smile trembled as she rose.

  “Welcome home, darling.”

  In the next instant, he swept her into his arms and rained kisses upon her face before releasing her, suddenly mindful of the mud and slush on his clothes. “I prayed for you. Are you well?”

  She was thin, he noticed. Thinner than usual. But her eyes were bright, not vapid. She was dressed and standing, and—“Reading?”

  Her smile slipped.

  “She’s doing fine,” Bella answered for her, rising.

  “How euphemistic.” A half smile twisted on her face. “The fever—the one I can’t remember—was too high, is my guess. Something snapped in my brain, and I can’t make sense of the letters. They just look like random marks to me. So Bella is helping me to memorize the shapes of whole words, not just letters. When Susan isn’t around, anyway.” Susan still believed Bella was Daphne, an illiterate slave. “Maybe one day it’ll come back to me just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “But if I don’t relearn how to read and write I’ll go cra—I mean, I will be very frustrated and sad. Words are my life. Or they were before I met you.”

  Harrison smiled at her compliment, even as he ached with sympathy. She lost the capacity for the written language? How very, very hard. “We’ll get through this.”

  “Goldilocks?” Preston Kent walked into the library, apparently having just got in from home guard duty himself. In an instant, he folded Sophie into his embrace. “You’re going to be fine. Just fine.”

  “Daddy, you’re home?” Susan called from the hallway, then appeared in the doorway. In a flash, her face darkened and her lips cinched tighter than a miser’s purse as she watched Preston and Sophie’s reunion. “Welcome back,” she said coldly. “To both of you.” She turned and stormed away.

  Spotswood Hotel, Richmond, Virginia

  Monday, January 2, 1865

  The thick envelope grew damp in Susan’s hand. Heels clicking down the stairs, she carried it through swarms of government workers and civilians to the Confederate Post Office in the basement of the Spotswood. Rumors and news whirled in the air along with cheap perfume and the smell of wool in need of laundering. Susan had no taste for any of it.

  She had tried winning back her father’s affections and had failed. Truth be told, she hated that his acceptance of her was so important. But against her wishes, her happiness now hung upon it. And clearly, it could not be had as long as Sophie was his darling—which she was more than ever now that they almost lost her. His heart was not big enough for both his daughters. Never was. It was Susan’s turn to be loved.

  She didn’t need to pray, as Mrs. Blair had suggested, to know her next move. The only course left was to deliver it directly to the War Department herself. Susan simply couldn’t risk her father hating her even more for accusing his “Goldilocks” of disloyalty. Nor could she risk being seen at Mechanics Hall in person. Tongues would wag. Her betrayal of her sister might eclipse Sophie’s betrayal of the South in Preston’s mind. One never could tell about fathers.

  It is the right thing to do, Susan told herself as she stuffed the envelope into the slot for outgoing mail. For the South.

  Mechanics Hall, Richmond, Virginia

  Friday, January 6, 1865

  Harrison rubbed his eyes and tried again to focus on the correspondence in front of him. There had been a rash of accusations against Unionists lately, and he had been on high alert for further mentions of Sophie. Rather than allowing her fever-induced disability to end her activities in espionage, she had simply enlisted Bella’s help in coding the messages. She was just as much at risk as she ever was. All of them were.

  “Shaw.” A fellow clerk named Ainsley ambled over to his desk and spread some papers before him. The edges were curled, and they were creased down the middle, and they were absolutely crammed with script, some of which was crossed out by what looked to be an editor’s pen. “What do you make of this?”

  Harrison frowned. “Did this just come in the mail?”

  “Yes it did. But the envelope was already open. Any note of explanation or instructions there may have been must have fallen out in transit. Can you make out what it says? It’s so smudged.”

  “Let’s see here.” He began reading aloud, and then stopped abruptly.

  “Something wrong?”

  Harrison squinted. Swallowed. Marshalled his wits. “It’s just hard to decipher with these editor proofing marks all over it.”

  “But you used to be a newspaper man, right? So you ought to be just fine. Right?”

  “Mm-hmm. You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Especially since they were written in his own hand. These were Sophie’s first attempts at journalism, written six, seven years ago. But the themes were still relevant today. Unfortunately, here in Richmond, both Sophie and Harrison came down on the wrong side of the debate. Harrison’s jaw clamped. There, in the corner of the page, was scrawled S. Kent, Philadelphia Female Boarding School. He would not lose her again. He could not stomach the thought of her being thrown in prison.

  “All right.” Ainsley interrupted Harrison. “What about that right there?” He pointed to a large chunk of text where Harrison had rewritten the conclusion of Sophie’s article. “Can you read that for me?”

  The text was in block letters, easy enough for anyone to discern, Harrison thought. Still, he obliged.

  “I see. And now, can you read this?” Ainsley slid an envelope from Harrison’s “done” basket right under his nose. Pointed to the handwriting. “Because I’d sure as anything think that if you can read one, you can read the other. Am I right or am I right?”

  He knew. Harrison’s mind whirred. Ainsley knew that Harrison had written those things, which was certainly his ticket to Castle Thunder. But he didn’t seem concerned with the identity of S. Kent. Paired with the city of Philadelphia as
it was, it was unlikely Ainsley would make the mental leap that a citizen of Richmond was the writer. Harrison was the only person in question.

  He aimed to keep it that way. If he was put in Castle Thunder, those papers would be filed and promptly lost, for there simply was no uniform system for keeping track of Unionist inmates. The evidence against Sophie would just … disappear. She’d be safe, as long as he sacrificed himself on her behalf. Yes, he’d be in prison, but he’d done it before. He could do it again. Besides, he’d never been in Castle Thunder before. When he got out, he’d write a report about it. As much as he wanted to tell Sophie goodbye, and warn her to watch her step, the last thing he wanted was to lead any detectives straight to her house. The nagging thought that he would no longer be able to intercept additional accusations of her wormed through his middle. Lord, let this one be the last.

  “Shaw.” Ainsley prodded quietly.

  Harrison swallowed and raked his fingers through his hair, relishing the absence of lice. “Ready when you are.”

  Sophie reeled. “No,” she whispered.

  The waning afternoon light struggled through the doorway around Preston as he shut the door behind him. “I’m as shocked and disappointed as you are, my dear. But I saw him being brought to Castle Thunder under guard myself this afternoon.” Preston’s ashen face confirmed it was no falsehood.

  “What charge?” She braced herself. Spies hang.

  “Disloyalty,” Preston said. “Something about anti-slavery, anti-secession views.” He shrugged out of his cloak and hung it on the hall stand, along with his hat.

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s enough. They found it in writing, I learned. Sophie, I’m sorry. It’s a strict law, but necessary in these times. Richmond crawls with those who would destroy us from within our own capital. Not every Unionist is a spy, but you can bet your bottom shinplaster that every spy is a Unionist.”

  Passing between the statues of Mars and Venus, she followed him down the hall and into the library where he sat in his favorite leather armchair. “But Oliver worked in the War Department! He helped build the fortifications around Richmond and manned them himself! What other loyalty do they demand?” What proof do they have? She dared not ask.

  Shaking his head, Preston pinched tobacco from a paper bag and tamped it down into the bowl of his pipe. “I don’t agree with every law, but I abide by each one of them, and so should you. As much as I hate to admit it, Oliver Shaw may have more sinister designs on the Confederacy than we imagine. I know nothing of his family, after all. I was far too impetuous in inviting him to board with us. And allowing him to court you.” He poked a thin stick of kindling into the fire and lit his pipe with it. Smoke puffed from his mouth and billowed above his head, filling the library with its redolent scent. “We gave him quarter. I nearly gave him my daughter, for pity’s sake. If he’s so cunning he fooled the both of us, there’s no limit to the damage he may have done. He worked in the War Department with sensitive materials every day!”

  “Daddy, you’re speculating. It seems his only crime was having an opinion.”

  Preston shook his head, cradling his pipe in his hand, then chewed the stem once more. “I must atone. Let the clerks have the trenches, and let those who can read and write do the reporting. My eyesight may be weak, but I’m not colorblind. I can spot a blue coat as well as anyone. And I sure as heck can pull a trigger.”

  “What are you—”

  “I’m going to the front with my old regiment, the 21st Virginia. You can tell Mrs. Blair I’ll look out for her sons while I’m there. If Petersburg falls, so will Richmond. That’s the place for me.”

  Tears pooled in Sophie’s eyes. “Must you go?” Would he leave her now, when Harrison had just been taken from her, as well?

  “Tomorrow. I’m doing this for you, to preserve our way of life. You’ll stay away from Thunder. Understand?”

  She did.

  In a daze, she left the room and dragged heavily up the stairs.

  “Did someone die?” Susan, waiting at the top.

  “Oliver’s been thrown into Castle Thunder, and Daddy’s going to the front.”

  Hesitation ballooned in the space between the sisters, where Sophie had expected a snide remark instead. “Oliver? Why?”

  “Someone found something he wrote, and called it disloyal.” But what? She pressed her hands to her temples and tried to focus. Harrison was far too cautious and intelligent to put anything incriminating in writing! What on earth could anyone possibly find here, where Harrison had no history at all?

  Oh no. Heart thudding, Sophie brushed past her sister and into her chamber, pushing the door shut behind her. Hurrying to her bureau, she yanked open the top drawer. Slid her hand beneath the liner. And found nothing. Her trembling hands were empty. Had the articles she’d saved for sentiment condemned the man she loved to prison?

  “Looking for something?”

  Sophie jerked her head up, and met Susan’s piercing blue gaze in the doorway.

  “So am I.” Slowly, smiling, Susan turned away and sashayed down the stairs humming “Dixie.”

  Day melted into night, and night seeped into day, over and over, until two tenuous weeks trickled by. Until one day in late January, Susan dropped the newspaper on the dining room table next to Sophie’s modest breakfast.

  “Friends of yours?” she sneered. Sleet slashed the windows at her back, blurring frost-encrusted trees bending beneath their crystal weight.

  Apprehension barbed as Sophie set down her cup of coffee and squinted at the tiny columns, but the letters flipped and dipped impossibly. Forehead aching with concentration, she pinned each word to the paper as she tried to make it out.

  “Oh, that’s right. You forgot how to read.” Susan snatched the paper from her and cleared her throat, while heat singed Sophie’s cheeks. “Allow me. ‘The public will be gratified to know that on January 20, Rebel authorities struck simultaneous blows at the secret Unionists, which resulted in the arrests of F. W. E. Lohmann, John Hancock, James Duke and his sons Moses, Thomas, and William, all Richmond residents, as well as Isaac Silver and John H. Timberlake of Spotsylvania County.’”

  Sophie’s palms grew damp. Eight men? In one day?

  “‘They now all reside in Castle Thunder. The editor of this paper would congratulate the detectives on this work if only it were not so tardy. One would hope more arrests of this nature will be made’ … et cetera. So many, all at once.” Susan’s bright words echoed Sophie’s considerably dimmer sentiments. “I do wonder who will be next. Perhaps a woman.”

  It wasn’t. On January 23, Samuel Ruth, the colored railroad superintendent who aided in the escape of Dr. Caleb Lansing and other Yankees, was arrested with the same charge: disloyalty. Ten Union agents now languished in Castle Thunder, including Harrison.

  Who is left? Abby Green, Lucy Rice, and Robert Ford, the former hostler for Warden Turner, had all fled North months ago. Elizabeth Van Lew had survived her own investigation, and her former slave Mary Bowser was still serving in the Confederate White House. William Rowley the farmer, Thomas McNiven the baker, Erasmus Ross the clerk at Libby Prison, Sophie and Bella—all of them were still active. Likely, there were more that even Sophie was not aware of. But surely it was only a matter of time until one of them—or more—disappeared as well.

  Castle Thunder, Richmond, Virginia

  Friday, February 3, 1865

  Winter’s frosty breath penetrated the clothing Harrison had been wearing ever since his arrest. The fog’s chill was a small price to pay, however, for a breath of fresh, if damp, air. Given no soap or water with which to bathe, and being confined to small rooms, the inmates at Castle Thunder quickly ripened with their own stench. It had been three weeks since the prison had last turned its inmates into the yard so the prison floors could be washed.

  Briskly, Harrison walked laps around the fenced-in prison yard, beneath a bleak, colorless sky. His pace slowed in embarrassingly short order, however. Littl
e wonder. He’d been surviving on half a loaf of corn bread a day, which was either rock-hard or alive with worms.

  “Watch it!” A swarthy fellow shouted, and Harrison jerked his head up just in time to avoid walking right into another prisoner.

  “I beg your pardon.” Harrison skirted the man, and kept going, paying closer attention this time to his surroundings. There were hundreds of prisoners at Castle Thunder. Unionists, Confederate deserters and stragglers, Union deserters, and overflow convicts from the local jails. Gentlemen whose only crime lay in their opinions mingled with hardened criminals. Likely, there were Rebel spies among them, too. It was a far cry from the camaraderie he’d enjoyed with the officers at Libby.

  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he paced the perimeter in silence. Even his tread was muffled by the fog.

  Then, “Don’t I know you, Freckles?”

  Harrison glanced up, surprised to find the prisoner in blue addressing him. Union deserter. And he looked familiar. “Sorry, no.” He kept walking.

  A hand on his arm whipped Harrison around again. “I think I do. My name’s Milo. And yours is …”

  “Oliver Shaw.”

  Milo tilted his head, squinting. “Nah. Doesn’t suit. But I remember you. That unmistakable hair. Your freckles. Your Northern accent.”

  “You must have me confused. This is my first stay here at Castle Thunder. Excuse me.”

  “Why? Got someplace better to be?” Milo smirked, greasy hair falling down into his eyes.

  Harrison grinned with an air of nonchalance he did not feel. “Don’t we all?” Laughter rippled through a small knot of men now gathering around them.

  Milo snapped his fingers. “Fortress Monroe. Right? It would have been … almost a year ago. You came in half-starved, stayed with us a while—heck, you interviewed me! That’s it, you were writing stories, right after you wrote the one about escaping from Libby Prison. But your name isn’t Oliver Shaw. Say, what are you in here for?”