Copyright © 1991 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7035-1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Danielle White
To Lynn
A man’s firstborn
is always a miracle—
a gift from God.
And you have always been,
are now,
and always shall be
a treasure to me.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE
THE AGENT
1. A Cause to Die for
2. Just Another Soldier
3. Agent in Place
4. Belle Meets Stanton
5. An Encounter at Church
6. “She’s Paid Too Much!”
7. Arrested!
8. Home to Richmond
PART TWO
THE PRISONER
9. “He’s All We Have Left!”
10. Little Round Top
11. Chimborazo
12. Libby Prison
13. A Prophecy for Thad
14. A Slight Case of Bribery
15. A New Patient
PART THREE
THE MASQUERADE
16. Back to the World
17. Hospital Visit
18. Death in the Night
19. Love Never Changes
20. Two Meetings
21. The End of the Masquerade
22. The Homecoming
23. The End of It All
PART FOUR
THE PREACHER
24. The New Banker
25. New Preacher
26. On the Way Home
27. The White Knights
28. Davis Gets a Shave
29. The Wedding Supper
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
A CAUSE TO DIE FOR
Belle Wickham glanced quickly over her shoulder. The footsteps, faint but distinct, were coming closer. At first she thought it was the wind shuffling the crisp October leaves along the cobblestone street. Her heart raced as she peered into the darkness, but only the faint, bulky outline of the Confederate Chimborazo Hospital loomed behind her.
Belle had stopped to look at the bright yellow moon just perched above the First Congregational Church. The hour was late and she was on her way to the hotel where her father sometimes stayed. It had been midmorning when she had gone to help with the wounded, and the time had slipped away.
She hesitated, then remembered the warning her father had given that afternoon: “Better get back home before dark, Belle. Richmond’s not as safe as it used to be—too many drunken soldiers and riff-raff roaming the streets.”
Now, thinking of his words, she wheeled and walked rapidly down Cherry Street. The air seemed charged with danger as she hurried along the darkened sidewalk. Only the moonlight illuminated the center of the cobblestone street, casting deep shadows over the area. Because of the shortage of lamp oil—and everything else—in Richmond in 1862, street lights were reserved for special occasions.
Suddenly a man’s bulky form appeared out of the darkness on the opposite side of the street. Belle stopped abruptly, frightened, then moved back into the shadows, her back pressing against the cold window of a shop. Fear gripped her as the man lurched across the street toward her. Her mind raced. What should she do? The police station! But that was five blocks down—on a side street! She could run or scream, but who would hear? Who would answer a cry for help?
The man moved unsteadily in her direction, mumbling in a rough, drunken voice. He stumbled, cursed loudly, then seemed to look straight at her. In the moonlight she could clearly see the outline of his heavy face. She remained motionless, thankful that she was wearing black. But even in that moment as fear washed through her, the thought of her widow’s dress brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
A rising wind gave a keening note, and the drunk turned and lurched off, his muttering fading as he dissolved into the gloom. Belle sighed with relief and walked briskly, almost running, her shoes tapping a loud staccato on the sidewalk. As she reached Elm Street and moved across it, the town clock struck, sending its bass voice along the deserted streets.
She counted the brassy notes to herself until the eleventh sounded. In the silence that followed she heard the footsteps again. This time there was no mistake! It was not rustling leaves! It was the regular, crunching sound of heavy boots! She gave a gasp at the nearness of the sound and jerked her head around.
The tall outline of a man appeared not ten feet away! She began to run, but her heavy skirts and high-heeled shoes hindered her escape, and she stumbled, nearly falling. Catching herself, she heard the footsteps break into a run, and a voice called urgently, “Wait—!”
Belle’s heart was beating wildly as she lifted her voice to scream, but before she could utter a sound he grabbed her and jerked her around to face him.
“Oh—help—!” she managed.
His hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her words.
He was a large, powerful man, and pulled her into the recesses of a shop as easily as if she were a child. She tried to bite his hand, but his arms were like a vise. Stark fear clawed at her mind as he held her in the darkness. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and when she tried to kick him, he simply leaned against the wall, trapping her in an immobile position.
“Mrs. Wickham, please don’t be afraid.”
Mrs. Wickham! A flicker of hope raced along her nerves. He knows me!
The grip on her arms and the pressure on her mouth eased somewhat, and he said quietly, “If I release you, will you promise to hear what I have to say?”
She nodded quickly, and he slowly removed his hand from her mouth, pausing to see if she would scream. When she didn’t, he dropped his arms and stepped back, saying, “Thank you.”
She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and though she noted that he was dressed like a gentleman—not like a hoodlum—fear threaded her voice. “What do you want?”
“I must talk to you, Mrs. Wickham—but not here. Will you give me twenty minutes?”
His voice was soft, and even a few words revealed that he was educated. As she stood there regarding him, the fear turned to anger. “What is the meaning of this, sir!” she demanded. “If you want to talk to me, you can do so without attacking me on the street!”
“I can’t argue with you here, Mrs. Wickham,” he replied. “Give me the time, and I’ll be out of your way—but I must speak with you now!”
“Where?”
“Anywhere you say—but we must not be seen together.”
Belle stared at him, intrigued by his proposal. Now that she was fairly certain he would not attack her, she felt some assurance return, and said, “There is a place. Come with me.”
As the man followed her, he noted with approval her swift recovery. She walked quickly, saying nothing as
they covered two blocks, then turned off into a narrow side street. A single light threw out feeble rays in front of a two-story frame building with a sign PALACE HOTEL over the door.
“We’ll be seen in there,” he protested.
“There’s no clerk on after ten,” she answered, and without a pause entered the hotel. He followed, glancing around at the deserted lobby, then stepped beside her as she walked down a corridor dimly lit by a single lamp mounted on the wall. She stopped before a door near the end, fumbled in her small purse for a key, inserted it, and stepped in. “Light this candle from that lamp,” she ordered.
With a slight grin at her bossy command, he entered the room and lit the lamp on the table while she shut the door. She removed her short cloak and stood waiting.
“My name is Ramsey Huger,” he began, then paused. “I’ve been trying to see you for three days, Mrs. Wickham, but you’re never alone.”
Belle was examining him closely, noting his expensive attire. He wore a gray wool suit that accentuated his athletic figure, a pair of fine black boots, and a royal blue cloak, which he now removed, tossing it on a chair along with a rich-looking tan hat with a light brown band.
His face was square, and there was a bold look in his deep- set brown eyes. A small, thin moustache followed the contours of his lips, and when he smiled, as he did now, one side of his mouth rose higher than the other, giving him a sardonic look. His hair was carefully cut and brushed, and he had the air of a man secure in his good looks.
“Well, do I pass inspection?” he asked, noting her careful examination.
“Do I?” she shot back, her quick response bringing a slight flush to his broad cheeks.
He had seen her before, but always at a distance. Now he thought, She’s even better looking than they say. She was somewhat taller than average, and her figure was perfect. Even the plain black dress could not conceal the slender waist and swelling curves, and her face was no less striking. Many women had one good feature and achieved the reputation of beauty by emphasizing it—but Belle Wickham’s features were flawless, insofar as Ramsey Huger could tell. Her glossy black hair was coiled in a corona around her head, but would hang in a heavy weight if she let it down. Her skin was smooth and the coloring without cosmetics spectacular—cheeks that glowed with a rose tint, full red lips that curved softly, and large almond-shaped eyes. Her eyes were not black, as he had thought, but violet tinted and shaded by thick, inky black lashes that curved upward.
He smiled and said with some embarrassment, “Forgive me for staring, but—I suppose you’re used to it. A beautiful woman like you must be.”
She returned his gaze calmly, ignoring his compliment. “State your business, sir. Your twenty minutes are slipping away.”
He was boldly handsome, accustomed to easy conquests, and her abrupt manner grated on him. He needed more time. He took out a thin cigar from a gold case, lit it from the lamp, and asked, “Whose room is this?”
“My father’s.”
“Ah, Mr. Sky Winslow.” He puffed at the cigar thoughtfully, saying, “He’s a man I admire greatly, though we’ve never met.”
“Did you attack me on the street to tell me how much you like my family, Mr. Huger?”
He bit down on the cigar, took it out of his mouth and stared at her, still trying to find a way to gain her confidence. He knew this woman was almost as impulsive as he himself—that she might simply turn and walk out of the room. He was a gambler by choice, and now was the time for bold action. “I want you to be a spy for the Confederacy.”
His blunt words had done exactly as he hoped—shocked Belle Wickham out of her self-assurance. Her eyes widened and her lips parted in an involuntary expression of surprise.
“Ah, you’re not bored now, are you, Belle?” he said. “I had intended to give you a long speech, with patriotic references to our glorious Cause and a reverent tribute to your late husband, Captain Vance Wickham, the hero of Antietam. But with a woman like you, I think it’s best to get right to the matter.”
Belle was angry at her obvious reaction. She had always been able to control men, delighting at her ability to maneuver them. An impulse to whirl around and leave Huger rose in her. Instead, she squelched it and determined to drive that irritating gleam of self-confidence out of his eyes.
“That’s a most interesting proposal, Huger.” Belle half-smiled and commented, “I suppose we’re on a first-name basis now?” She walked over to the chair and sat down. “How did you happen to choose me for this position?”
“You’re a cool one!” Huger shook his head in admiration, then began to talk, at times pacing the floor, but coming several times to stand before her. “I know it sounds like something out of a bad French novel, but I’m being watched so closely that I had to come to you as I did tonight. If you do as I hope, you’ll be marked immediately if you’re ever seen with me.” He gave her a direct look and added, “It could mean your life.”
Belle stared at him. “Who’s watching you?”
“Sloan—Jeremy Sloan. The top agent of Allan Pinkerton, head of Union Intelligence.”
“I’ve heard of Pinkerton.”
“He has a large organization. We’ve caught up with three double agents already.”
“What’s a double agent?”
“A spy who comes over from their side and makes his way into our intelligence system. They’re deadly, of course, because we have to trust them with secret information.” He paused, his face intent. “That’s where you’d be most valuable.”
“You’re really serious about this thing?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“I’m serious about winning the war,” Huger replied, “and if you’re as smart as I think, you’ll realize we don’t have much hope. The Yankees have all the cards—an unending supply of men, munitions factories, food supplies.”
“But we’re beating them!”
“No, we’re only winning battles.” He shook his head sadly. “But their strategy is to wear us out. Every time we lose a man, he leaves a gap in our ranks that can’t be filled because we don’t have the manpower. When a Yankee soldier dies, all the Union has to do is reach into the big cities for a replacement.”
“I don’t believe that!”
“No? Your father does.”
“You’re lying! You already said you didn’t know him.”
“I don’t—but I know others who do. He’s one of the most sensible men in the government—but there are so many fools that your father can’t be heard.”
She thought about the past months. Her father had said some of the same things. For two years the war had been played out, and only a fool could ignore the decline that was slowly drawing the South down. Intuitively Belle knew this man was telling the truth.
“I’m not a spy.”
“Neither am I,” Huger shrugged. “Not by profession. I’m a lawyer. But I want to help my country.” He slapped his hands together angrily, adding, “Believe it or not, I’d rather be in the army! I get so sick of people staring at me with contempt because I’m not fighting!”
She was moved with compassion for him and said quietly, “It must be very difficult.” She felt an urge to reach out to him. Instead, she curbed the impulse and asked, “Is this your idea—my being a spy for the Confederacy?”
“Yes. Other women have done the same thing. You’ve heard of Mrs. Greenhow and Belle Boyd?”
“Of course!” Belle responded. Both women had been apprehended as spies and were in Federal prisons. “I admire them, but—”
“But you don’t believe you could do what they’ve done? Let me tell you what I think. Then you can make up your mind.” She nodded, and he continued. “Everyone in Richmond knows two things about you. First, they know how hard you’ve taken your husband’s death, and that you’ve sworn a vow to remain a widow until the Yankees are whipped.”
“It’s horrible to be on everyone’s lips,” Belle said bitterly. “They call me ‘The Dixie Widow.’ ”
/> Huger nodded. “So they do. They say you claim the South as your husband now, and that you never think of anything but seeing the Yankees ejected from our country.”
“That’s true,” Belle nodded. “When my husband was killed, I think I lost my mind for a little while.”
“You had so little time together. I—I am sorry,” he murmured kindly.
Belle looked up, tears in her eyes. She dashed them away and said quickly, “I usually save my tears until I’m alone. Now, what’s the other thing everyone knows about me?”
“That you have relatives in the North who are strongly for the Union.” He paused. “I think the court-martial of young Novak caught everybody’s attention. It was very dramatic, wasn’t it?”
Thad Novak had come from New York at the end of 1860 and had worked at Belle Maison, Belle’s home. He had become a favorite with them all—especially Patience Winslow, Belle’s sister. Belle thought of the young man and nodded. “He shocked us all when he joined the Confederate Army as a paid substitute—and used the money to buy a slave’s freedom.”
“That didn’t do him any good, I suppose,” Huger replied. “What did you think when he was charged with desertion and treason?”
Belle shook her head firmly. “We knew he didn’t do it—but the evidence was so strong.” A smile lit up her face. “My sister Pet rode into the Union lines to bring back the witness who saved Thad’s life.”
“I heard about that. A relative of yours—Captain Lowell Winslow. His grandfather is a retired naval officer, Captain Whitfield Winslow—who is now a frequent advisor for Gideon Welles, the Union Secretary of the Navy.”
“And you want—”
“Whitfield Winslow has a son, Robert, in the House of Representatives—whose wife is very close to many key political figures—including Mrs. Lincoln.”
He stopped, catching the guarded look in Belle’s eyes.
“And you want me to—to use these people?”
“Yes,” Huger admitted, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Belle, think of it! You could do something for your country that nobody else could. You’d be able to pick up information that gets batted around at parties where important people attend. Then, when you gained their confidence, you could give them information that would help us. You could say, ‘Oh, I’ve just heard from my cousin that General Lee’s army has built up to a hundred thousand men!’ When McClellan hears that, he’ll stop dead in his tracks!”
The Dixie Widow Page 1
