The still morning air hung over the city as Huger rode along a deserted country road. He was not surprised to see a carriage waiting in front of a burned-down house, for it was the spot he and Belle had agreed on the last time they met. He rode up, dismounted and quickly tied his horse to the rear of the buggy. As he got inside, she gave him a quick smile, and he almost kissed her—but not quite.
“Ramsey, I’ve got it—a letter from Captain Winslow!”
He took the envelope but kept his eyes fixed on her face. “Belle, I’ve been worried about you,” he said, putting his hand on hers. “It’s been hell on you—and I’ve been unable to do anything.”
She blinked at his obvious concern, gave a short laugh, and said, “Never mind. It was something that had to be done.”
“Your people—they all hate you, I suppose?”
“No. It’d be easier if they did.” She faltered, then pleaded, “Ramsey, let me tell them! Please!”
“You mustn’t, Belle!” he insisted. “They’re not actors, you know. And they’re being watched—carefully watched! If just one of them failed to keep up the deception, it’d bring great harm!”
She dropped her head, whispering, “I suppose—but they just—keep on loving me—and being so kind . . .”
He put his arm around her and tipped her face up. “Who could help that, Belle?” Impulsively he lowered his head and kissed her.
Belle knew it was wrong, but she had been alone for so long, cut off from her family and ostracized by almost the entire population. His caress was unexpected, and she let his lips rest on hers, savoring the moment of tenderness . . .
“Don’t do that again, please,” she said quietly, drawing back. “I’m lonely and you’re an attractive man. I have no doubt many women have found you so—but I didn’t agree to give up my life for a flirtation.”
He was wise enough to say at once, “I apologize—but at the same time, Belle, I promise you it was not that kind of kiss.”
“Oh, never mind, Ramsey,” she said wearily, adding, “The letter is from Captain Whitfield Winslow. It’s an invitation to visit him in Washington.”
“Great!” Huger cried excitedly as he removed the letter and scanned the contents.
Mrs. Belle Wickham
Richmond, Virginia
November 20, 1862
My Dear Mrs. Wickham:
Of course I remember you! My grandson Davis and I have spoken often of you since our visit to Richmond, and my other grandson, Captain Lowell Winslow, has mentioned you in his letters more than once.
I grieve over the loss of your husband. I remember him very well, though I met him only once, I believe. I am an old man, Mrs. Wickham, and have seen much death, but have never grown callous, I trust. When I say that I grieve with you, it is not an idle remark.
As to your present views on this terrible war, I can only say that you are not alone in being confused. Many of our people have great sympathy for the Confederacy, and now you seem to have changed your own view. I realize how uncomfortable it must be for you, holding such views, and I would like to help you.
If you feel that moving to the North would be better for you, I offer my help; however, you must understand that many will be suspicious of your motives. If that is clear, and if you feel that you must leave the South, I will do all in my power to help you—and my son Robert and his wife will, no doubt, feel the same way.
Come when you will. I am somewhat indisposed, but Davis is here and will be available to meet you and see you settled.
Sincerely,
Captain Whitfield Winslow
“What an opportunity!” Ramsey exclaimed with a broad smile as he gave it back to her. “When do you leave?”
“As soon as possible,” Belle replied. She held the envelope, hesitated, then gave him a strange look. “I am going to betray this old man’s confidence. How can I find it in my heart to do that?”
He knew she wanted assurance, but he was careful to say, “Belle, don’t you think I’ve had to do the same? All of us do in this work. It’s not a thing we’d do in peace time—but in a war a different set of morals come into play. Every soldier in the line tries to shoot the enemy—a thing most of them wouldn’t think of if they weren’t caught up in a war.”
She nodded, sadness in her voice. “You’re always saying we have to do a lot of wrong things in order to get one right thing.”
“That’s what war is, Belle—and you’re no different from any other soldier. If you’re caught, I guarantee they’ll execute you.”
“I’m not afraid of that,” she said, lifting her head proudly. “But I don’t want to become callous, Ramsey! I believe in our Cause, and I’ll do this job—but I’m afraid of what it will do to me.”
Thinking quickly, he knew it was time to give her the full story. “Belle, we’ve talked about what you’ll do when you get the confidence of the people there—but I don’t think you really understand it.”
“Why . . . ?”
“Belle, listen to me. You remember we’ve talked a lot about Colonel Henry Wilder?”
“Yes, of course. He’s the officer who’s known to be talkative about what he hears in meetings.”
“Yes, but do you understand that in order to get information from him, you may have to . . . do things that will seem wrong to you?”
She stared at him as the impact of his words sank in. A strong feeling of revulsion swept over her face. “Nothing was said about—about that!”
“Belle, I thought you understood.” The anger and distaste on her face was so strong, he knew she was on the verge of refusing the assignment. “Let’s not worry about that now,” he said hurriedly. “Just go to Washington and keep your ears open. You’ll be a help to us—you’ll see.”
The morning light coming through the window fell across the young woman, wrapping itself around her like a cocoon. Not a muscle moved as she watched the horizon turn pink. She was stirred in her heart, fearful of the consequences of this mad adventure she had agreed to. Finally she nodded slowly, “I’ll leave as soon as possible, Ramsey.”
“Fine! Fine!” he responded, and then they carefully went over the procedures she would use when she was in Washington. Finally he walked her to the buggy and paused, his eyes thoughtful. “Be careful, Belle,” he warned. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
She flashed a smile. “I’m just another soldier, Ramsey!”
CHAPTER THREE
AGENT IN PLACE
“If you’d only ask before you go off on these wild tangents!”
Robert Winslow stood over the elderly man on the couch, glaring at him with intense irritation. Robert had been an officer in the United States Navy, the leading criminal lawyer in the state of New York, and was presently a powerful member of the United States House of Representatives. All of his life he had, by the force of his personality, been able to overwhelm juries, legislatures, and even one president—but he had absolutely no power to sway the frail white-haired man who lay back looking at him with amusement.
“Why, Robert,” Captain Whitfield Winslow said, “I never thought of mentioning it to you.” He considered his son with a glint of humor. “You’re so busy running the House, I didn’t want to bother you with such a small thing.”
The “small thing” that had touched off the younger Winslow’s anger had been the captain’s announcement: “Oh, by the way, I’ve got a new housekeeper coming.” Robert had been agreeably surprised, for since his father’s accident, which resulted in a broken ankle, he had been trying to get him to hire a full-time housekeeper. But the elderly man had stubbornly insisted on getting along with the help of his grandson Davis and a cleaning woman who came to the small house close to the Capitol three times a week.
Davis, who had been listening to the lively exchange, spoke up, a covert grin on his face. “I’m sure you’ll like Mrs. Wick-ham. And, Mother, you’ll be able to embellish your parties with a most interesting guest—a fire-eating Southern belle from the heart o
f Richmond.”
Both Robert and his wife, Jewel, exploded simultaneously, “What! In no way and on no occasion will we have a Rebel working in any capacity!”
Davis winked at his grandfather, and they let the two protest vociferously. Robert based his outraged arguments on the ground that as a political leader, he could not allow his father to have such a woman in his house. Ever since the beginning of the rebellion, Robert had been an outspoken proponent of the hard-line policy against the South, and the very suggestion that one of those people be allowed to contaminate his father’s house was more than Robert could bear.
After his overflow of invective rhetoric slowed somewhat, Jewel took up the refrain. Jewel Winslow had been a Stanton before her marriage to Robert, and seldom terminated a conversation without a reference to the fact that Edwin M. Stanton, secretary of war and the most powerful man in government next to Lincoln, was her relative. She was, at fifty-five, still an attractive woman, though somewhat overweight. Inclined in some degree to hypochondria, she was actually in excellent health. She sat back in her chair, fanned herself rapidly, and protested, “Captain, surely you can’t be serious! After all, we must think of our position!”
Both Davis and his grandfather knew that Jewel rarely thought of anything else, but the old man said reasonably, “Why, my dear, I think Robert has put this thing in the wrong perspective.” He explained quietly that the young woman was a widow whose husband had been killed at Antietam, and added that his death had caused a change in her sympathies. “And since the poor girl is miserable in the South, I simply asked her to come and be my housekeeper. And, after all,” he said with a straight face, “the woman is a relative.”
Robert snorted and paced the floor. “That may be all you need to know, Father, but some of us will require a little more information.”
“I don’t feel at all well, Robert,” Jewel complained petulantly, and rose to her feet, saying, “Captain, I trust that you will not ask me to have this woman as a guest. Surely even you wouldn’t expect me to go through that with my nerves!”
“Father,” Robert pleaded in a plaintive voice, “can I say nothing that will change your mind?”
“I’m afraid so, Robert,” the captain replied without a trace of remorse. “Davis is picking her up this afternoon at two.”
Davis left the house with his parents, trying to soothe their ruffled feathers. “It’s not all that bad,” he said cheerfully as he helped his mother into the carriage. “She’s a very vivacious, attractive woman. I expect she’ll find a nice officer and marry now that she’s changed sides.”
His father stared at him, offended by the remark. His older son’s refusal to join in the war fever that gripped Washington was, to his mind, a mark of weakness. He had even less respect for Davis’s choice of a literary career—which to Robert Winslow seemed fit only for women and effeminate men!
“I’m sure you did nothing to talk him out of this madness!” he snapped. “If Lowell had been here, he might have been able to do something.”
Davis’s face fell. He was tired of having his younger broth-er’s virtues thrown at him. He could have hated Lowell, but he didn’t. He carried only genuine affection for Lowell, whose military career was a source of pride to Davis. However, he himself had no temperament for the life of an army officer. His only desire was to get back to England where a promising academic career at Oxford had been interrupted by the war.
He stepped back, ignoring his father’s barbed remark, saying evenly, “Perhaps, Father. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When he returned to the house, Davis’s sober expression caught the old man’s eye. Nearly eighty, Whitfield had lost none of his astute intelligence, and he had observed, with regret, that Robert frequently used the hard side of his tongue on Davis.
“Didn’t like my surprise, did they, Davis?”
“Did you expect them to?”
“No. I expected them to act just like they did—like a pair of fools.”
Davis looked up sharply, for he had never heard his grandfather speak so harshly about them. “That’s pretty hard, sir.”
Whitfield scowled. “Why, so it is.” He glared at the cast that encased his ankle, adding, “I’ll be snapping at the archangel Gabriel if that sorry excuse for a doctor doesn’t get me on my feet pretty soon.”
Davis glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It’s almost time to meet our new housekeeper. I’ll fix us something to eat.”
“I hope she can cook,” the captain grunted. “If we eat much more of that cold chicken, we’ll be sprouting pin feathers!”
They nibbled at the lunch, both lost in thought. Before leaving for the train, Davis assisted his grandfather to his room. When the old man was comfortable, Davis said, “I’ll bring her in when we get back.”
His grandfather kept a buggy at a livery stable only a block away, and by the time the stable hand brought the horse and buggy, it was almost half past one, and Davis rushed to the station. On the way he passed the still-unfinished Capitol, which rested on a small hill. The building did not dazzle the eye, and Capitol Hill itself was muddy, dreary, and desolate most of the time—like the rest of the city.
Davis hated Washington. He despised the raw buildings, many still unpainted. The devastation of the war was apparent by the numerous public buildings renovated into hospitals, and long ambulance trains were commonplace. He longed for the dignified structures of Oxford with the moss of centuries and the air of antiquity.
Guiding his way through the busy streets, Davis felt the rough vitality that pervaded everything. Washington was the funnel through which troops poured toward the Virginia fighting front. He had to pull over more than once to let freshly equipped regiments from Pennsylvania pass.
Passing by the Old Capitol, now a huge war prison, Davis recalled the time he had accompanied his grandfather on a visit to see Thad Novak. They had arranged for the young man to be exchanged, and the thought struck Davis that the same young man might well fire a musket ball that could take Lowell’s life! The bitter thought, to Davis, was a sample of the insanity of the war, and he tried to shake it from his mind as he drove toward the station.
The train was late, as he could have guessed. Timetables for trains were flexible, and when someone arrived on the same day scheduled, that was about the best a person could hope for. While he waited he talked with a wounded soldier on crutches who was waiting nearby. The boy’s name was Fred Hotchkins, from Maine. He was eighteen years old, and had just been released from the hospital. He was sick of war and longed to get home.
“Where were you wounded?” Davis asked.
“There was a hill we had to take—and we nearly did. We got our fill and we bled all the way up and down; then we broke and ran away.” He shook his head, vowing grimly, “No more for me!”
“What did you do before the war?” Davis asked.
“Lobster fishing—and lordy, will I be glad to get back at it!” For twenty minutes Hotchkins extolled the joys of catching lobsters. “There’s no place like the state of Maine—fishing and everything else.” According to his testimony, Maine put Eden to shame.
“You’ll be coming back to fight when you get well?”
Hotchkins stared at Davis as if he were crazy. “Comin’ back!” he exclaimed. “Not likely, mister!” When Davis gently pressed the point, he was given a list of the mistakes of the Union leadership—all the way from Lincoln down to his corporal. “I jined up ‘cause it ain’t right for one man to own another—but we ain’t goin’ to win this war, no, sir!”
Davis bought the boy a sack lunch when his train came in. They had talked for about two hours, and time had gone fast. After Hotchkins left, Davis let his mind wander, thinking how wonderful it would be to sit beside the quiet pool near Oxford—at a pub called the Trout Inn at Godstow. It was a place by a weir pool, a very old gray stone house beside a little bridge. There was a continuous sound of running water, fish swimming in the clear pool, and flowers everywhere. He leaned back a
nd closed his eyes, wishing he could soon leave the maelstrom of war and return to London.
He dozed off and awoke with a start when the noisy coal-burning engine arrived with a piercing whistle blast. The passengers streamed out of the cars, most of them soldiers, but here and there a few women and children. Twice he walked up and down the length of the train, and was beginning to think their guest had missed it when a voice at his elbow said, “Here I am, Davis.”
He whirled around and found her standing beside him. “Belle—I was afraid you’d changed your mind.” Actually he hadn’t recognized her, for he was subconsciously expecting a pretty young girl in bright clothing, not a grave woman in widow’s black.
“No,” she smiled. “Have you or the captain changed yours?”
“Of course not.” He felt embarrassed by the question, for he had tried to dissuade his grandfather, though he hadn’t said as much to his parents. “Let me help you into the buggy, and I’ll get your luggage.”
She had a trunk and three bags, and after the porter loaded them into the buggy, Davis climbed into the seat, asking Belle, “Is that all?”
“Yes. As you can see, I’ve come for a long stay.” The enigmatic remark matched the expression in her eyes, and she added, “I’m not sure it’s wise for me to stay at your grand-father’s house. I’ll be quite a problem for him.”
Davis grinned and spoke to the horse sharply, and they moved down the street. “As far as I know, an enemy fleet of warships didn’t bother my grandfather,” he said. “I doubt one small woman will cause him to lose any sleep.”
She said nothing, but looked out at the humming streets and the scurrying crowds along the way.
Finally he spoke up. “You’ll be a help to my grandfather. He’s not well.”
“He said he was somewhat indisposed.”
The Dixie Widow Page 3
