When he said, “Why, certainly not, Mrs. Wickham!” Robert breathed a sigh of relief, for he knew an arrest could have been possible.
“Captain Winslow,” Stanton continued, “you are fortunate to have such help.”
The captain nodded. “You are correct, sir. I met Belle when I was in Richmond some time ago—working on our family tree.”
Stanton gazed at Belle searchingly, desiring to know more about her, yet cautious. Finally he said, “I understand you lost your husband at Antietam, Mrs. Wickham. My condolences.” When she nodded, he added with a casual air that fooled nobody at the table, “It must be very difficult for you to be here—among your enemies.”
Belle recognized her opportunity and responded quietly, “I would have thought that not so long ago, Mr. Secretary. If you had asked me to come to this place right after my husband’s death—I would have died first, I think.” She paused, her face serene but marked with pain. Then she continued. “I was filled with hatred for the North—especially Abraham Lincoln and his Cabinet.”
Stanton blinked at the unexpected statement. “I suppose such hatred is widespread in the South.”
Belle nodded. “Yes, and it will destroy her—as it almost destroyed me. I found myself consumed with hate. I lived for nothing but revenge, and found myself gloating over every Union soldier who died.”
She dropped her head and sat silently. After a moment she lifted her eyes and went on. “One day I was at the hospital caring for our men, and for some reason they brought in several captured Union soldiers. I was bathing the face of one of them—not knowing he was a Yankee. Then someone whispered that he was a Union soldier—and I . . .” She brushed her hand across her eyes and murmured, “I spit in his face!”
A shock of revulsion swept over the table. “That sickens you, doesn’t it?” Belle said. “It should! I stood looking at him, and for the first time I saw that the poor Northerner was no different from the Southern boy in the next bed. I . . . wiped his face and begged him to forgive me. And he did. But I couldn’t get away from it—what the war had done to me. That was the turning point, Mr. Stanton.”
“The turning point?” Stanton asked, moved by her story.
“Yes. I began to see that every soldier who died or was wounded was the result of one thing.” She lifted her eyes to meet those of the secretary and said quietly, “The South’s mindless refusal to get rid of slavery. You must understand that this was not the first time I’d thought of it. My father is one of many who hates slavery—as Captain Winslow will tell you. But those of us who felt that way were weak, and went along with secession, losing our sons and husbands in the process. It took the death of my husband, and almost losing my mind with hate, to bring me to the realization that all of it was wrong.”
“Did you tell anyone how you felt?” Colonel Wilder asked.
She gave him a sad look, her lips trembling as she replied, “Why else would I be here, Colonel? Yes, I told them—and they turned on me. My family loves me, but they think I’ve gone crazy. The rest of Richmond who so loved me when I was faithful to the Cause rejected me as if I were a leper.”
“And that’s why you came to Washington?” Stanton prodded.
“I’m a woman without a country, Mr. Secretary,” Belle sighed. “I’ve been cast out by my own people—and I can expect little from you, since I have been your enemy and hated you so bitterly.”
Stanton had come to the table merely curious, but Belle Wickham was not just an object of curiosity. Though he was not swayed by her beauty, there was something in her youthful tragedy that moved him. He found his compassion reaching out to the girl, seeing her dilemma clearly. This woman was different from the large number of Southerners who came North, proclaiming they had seen the error of their ways.
He spoke to her gently. “I am sorry for your troubles, Mrs. Wickham—and I welcome you to Washington. If I can help you, please let me know.”
He rose, bowed, then returned to his table, with Robert and the colonel following.
Davis gave Belle an astonished look. “I don’t think you know what a conquest you’ve just made, Belle.”
The captain agreed. “Never saw the old lion so tamed!” He looked across the room at Jewel, who was listening intently to Stanton. “You’ve just been given the key to the city, my dear. Even my daughter-in-law won’t be able to turn her nose up at you now.”
He was correct, for as soon as the music began, Colonel Wilder was across the room immediately. “Mr. Stanton commands me to ask you for the first dance, Mrs. Wickham, as a welcome to our society.” He smiled broadly, adding, “And I must say, it was the most welcome command he ever gave this poor soldier!”
Belle rose and as they moved across the floor she said, “You are a brave man, sir, to dance with one so lately under the banner of your enemy.”
He answered her in the same light vein, and she studied him as the dance went on. He was a good-looking man, tall and on the slender side. Not over thirty, she guessed, and carefully groomed. His large brown eyes were bold, and she would have known, had she not already been informed, that he was fond of women. His thin face was highly intelligent, and she was well aware that he was not only pursuing her as a woman, but was studying her as a political being.
At the end of the dance, Davis was waiting, and she deftly changed partners. He was not as good a dancer as Wilder, nor as good looking. Belle’s first recollection of him in Richmond had been: He’d be nice looking if he weren’t so fat. But she brushed the thought aside and commented, “I hope this isn’t too much for the captain.”
“I can’t think of anything that would be too much for him,” he grinned. Then he remarked, “You’re a smashing success, Belle. Edwin Stanton is the weather vane of society in Washington, and he’s given you his approval.”
“I expect he’s not quite sure of me, Davis,” she replied. “Nor is Colonel Wilder.”
“Better watch him, Belle,” he returned quickly, adding with some hesitation, “He’s known to be quite a womanizer.”
“Are you worried about me?”
“In a way, I guess. I’ll be leaving next week, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you—for Grandfather’s sake, I mean.”
“I see.” She let her eyes rest on him a moment, considering his comment. “Don’t worry about me, Davis. I’ll not succumb to the colonel’s charm.”
But as the evening wore on, Davis noticed that Belle danced with the tall soldier several times, and from what he could tell there was more than casual interest in her face as she laughed in response to her partner.
“Better watch out for Belle after I leave,” he said to his grandfather. “I think Wilder’s got his eye on her.”
“So does every other man in the room,” the captain grunted. “They’re already calling her ‘The Dixie Widow,’ did you know? I think my foolish son let it slip—but Pinkerton will find that out anyway.”
“You think Stanton will have her investigated?”
“That fox? You can bet on it!”
The dance ended, and as Stanton left, he said to his aide, “I see you’re quite taken by the Dixie Widow.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Wilder responded. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Have Allan check on her, Henry. Her story sounds good—maybe too good. I don’t trust anybody from Richmond these days.”
****
When Belle undressed that night, her nerves still tingled from the excitement of the evening. But before retiring she removed the false bottom of the blue case and began to write a report: There is much talk that General Hooker will replace Burnside as commander . . . and a possibility that Grant will begin an assault on Vicksburg. . . . She wrote rapidly, put the sheet in the false compartment, turned off the light and crawled into bed.
The next morning, she went for a short walk down the snowy streets, entered a cafe and sat on a bench just inside the door. After a time she left, leaving the case behind. Twenty minutes later, she returned and
picked up the bag.
When she was in her room, she opened the compartment and eagerly read the note inside: Fine work! Your information will reach Richmond in two days. Next meeting at railroad station. Leave case beside front door. In emergency, contact Lillian at 405 Birch St. Do not use this contact except in extreme emergency!
She lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep, for the previous evening had been nerve-racking. It had been a struggle to keep up the facade, but she knew now that she could do it. She knew also that Colonel Wilder would be pursuing her as well as watching for any hint of disloyalty. As she drifted off, she thought, Oh, Vance, I miss you so much!
CHAPTER FIVE
AN ENCOUNTER AT CHURCH
By the middle of March, the bitter cold of winter retreated from Washington, leaving dirty patches of snow in the corners of fences. The war had grown stale, and although it was only a month away from the end of the second year, the old days of peace seemed lost in a blurred past. The armies had fought themselves into a stalemate, and after the massacre at Fredericksburg, the morale of the Army of the Potomac was shattered. Lincoln chose Major General Hooker, nicknamed “Fighting Joe,” the former commander of Burnside’s Center Grand Division, as the new commander. While Hooker rebuilt his army, the Confederate General Bragg met General Rose-crans and his army at Murfreesboro in the battle of Stone’s River, in the North. The Confederates almost crushed the Union troops in the first stage, but then faltered. The two armies fell back, neither side claiming a victory.
Davis had left for England a week after the Christmas party, so Belle had spent many hours with the captain. His kindness was a constant reminder of her deceit, and she subconsciously attempted to make up for it by giving him special care. He was off his crutches now, limping heavily; but with the use of a cane, he was able to make short trips around town, usually to a restaurant, so the pair became well known.
The first warm Sunday morning Whitfield took Belle to church. Though the service did not begin until ten, they left early and drove to the outskirts of town. As they passed beneath the spreading oaks sprouting with tiny emerald leaves, he took a deep breath of the fresh air and exclaimed, “What a wonderful change! This feels good, Belle! I’m sick of the house.”
“It is nice,” she smiled. “But you’d better keep covered up,” she admonished, adjusting the blanket over his knees. “I thought you’d never get over that last cold.”
“You treat me like a baby!” he complained, “but I like it!”
“You’re due for a little spoiling,” she answered, then asked, “You miss Davis, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. He’s a pest with all his literary talk, but he’s got sense.” Then he added defensively, “I’m enjoying Lowell, of course, but he’s too busy fighting off these Washington gals to pay any attention to me.”
Lowell had been in the city on leave for a week and had paid two visits to his grandfather. He loved the old man, but the officer was caught up, as Whitfield said, in parties and balls hungry mothers arranged almost daily for their maiden daughters. Lowell had been very kind to Belle, but she was aware that his older brother had a special place in the captain’s heart.
“I wish his parents wouldn’t show such partiality for Lowell,” Belle said hesitantly. She would not have dared make such a remark when she first arrived, but she had become at ease with Whitfield, knowing that he never broke a confidence. “I’m sure they’re disappointed in Davis’s decision to become a writer, but they make him feel rejected.”
“That’s true, though the boy never complains.” The captain looked at her, then shrugged. “Can’t do anything about it, Belle. Robert and Jewel have always favored Lowell—even before the war. Just like I’ve always favored Davis. I don’t know what it would do to them if Lowell were killed.”
“They’d have nothing at all, would they? They haven’t tried to build any kind of loving relationship with Davis.”
He nodded, then dropped the subject, saying, “Let’s have no gloom on a day like this! Tell me about the list of officers who are ready to marry you, Belle!” He laughed at her expression. “It’s become quite a feather in their cap to take the Dixie Widow out for an evening.”
“Now, Captain,” she countered crossly, “you’re exaggerating. I’ve been out only four or five times since I’ve been here—that is, alone with an officer.”
“I think they’re scared off by Colonel Wilder,” he said. “You know what happened to Lieutenant Hicks.” He referred to a young officer whom Belle had liked, and whom the captain always insisted had been abruptly transferred to the front by Colonel Wilder out of jealousy.
“That is just a fanciful idea of yours.”
“Think so? You don’t know the colonel.” He gave her a sharp look. “Or do you? You’ve been seeing him quite often.”
“Why, I can’t help it!” Belle protested. “He’s at every gathering in Washington. I wonder when he has time to do his job. And just to keep you from saying ‘I told you so,’ I’ll tell you now that I am going out with him tomorrow tonight.” She stared defiantly at the old man, adding, “He’s got two tickets to that Italian opera everyone’s dying to see.”
“Never been to one—nor want to,” Winslow snorted. “Bad enough to pretend there’s some kind of world where everyone sings everything they say—even pass the butter—but to sing it in Italian, why it’s against nature, woman!”
He slapped the reins across the horses, and the team broke into a brisk trot. “We better get to church.”
The Presbyterian church he attended was a white structure with an imposing steeple, located not far from the Capitol. As they pulled up, he stepped out of the buggy, moving very carefully, and handed the lines to a young black man. Belle stayed where she was, allowing him to come around and help her step down. Then she took his arm and matched her pace to his as they walked down the brick sidewalk. He had some difficulty ascending the steps, but with the aid of his cane and her arm he made it.
“Service started yet?” he asked the one-armed attendant who met them in the foyer.
“No, Captain, you’re just in time,” he smiled. “I have two seats in the section you like best.”
Belle felt uncomfortable as she walked down the hardwood aisle, sensing she was the target of many eyes. She kept her head high, but was relieved when she took her seat beside the captain in a pew close to the front. Fortunately she was seated at the end of the bench and wouldn’t have to converse with anyone. She glanced across the aisle and saw Mr. and Mrs. Seward. Both of them nodded, and she smiled back.
She let her eyes sweep over the audience, looking for someone else she might recognize when the captain nudged her. “There he is!” he whispered.
She turned her head, and a shock ran through her as she saw Abraham Lincoln, the President! His wife held his arm, and a young boy walked by his side.
So this is the man the people in Richmond call “The Gorilla”—and much worse. She had, of course, seen pictures of him, but mostly caricatures in the newspapers. He moved slowly past her, and turned to let his wife and son enter the pew two rows down and across the aisle.
Belle studied him closely. He seemed even taller than his actual height, which she had read was six feet four. The black suit he wore emphasized his lanky body, his narrow shoulders and lean chest. In spite of that, there was an air of strength about him, Belle thought. Much had been made in the Southern press and in the London Times of his awkward height, his too prominent ears, his shambling gait, his huge feet and hands, his too large mouth and too heavy lower lip.
Some of those characteristics seem true, Belle thought, but I’m sure there is more to the man than that. Despite her preconceived notion to hate him, she saw that his gray eyes were full, deep, penetrating and ineffably tender. Instantly she knew he was not the monster portrayed in the press. He had such infinite wisdom in his face that it would be impossible for the most indifferent observer to pass him on the street unnoticed.
“He’s got a
mighty heavy load to carry,” the captain whispered, interrupting her thoughts. “And not much help at home, if truth be told.”
Mary Lincoln’s reputation as a shrew in Washington was often documented by her public display of jealousy, but in appearance, she did not seem so. Belle had noticed in the quick glance she had that Mrs. Lincoln was less than medium height, and inclined to plumpness. She had fair skin and masses of brown hair braided about her well-shaped head. When she turned to whisper something to her husband, Belle noted that the lady’s forehead was full and high, her eyes large, and her mouth somewhat thin.
When the service began it was not what Belle expected. She had grown up in the Methodist church in the fires of revival. The religion of the slaves was embodied in an emotional release, and some of their spirited singing and loud “exhorting” had crept into the white church. Belle may also have been influenced by George Whitfield and John Wesley, who were better suited to the warm country than to the North.
In any case, Belle had a typical Methodist disdain for Presbyterian churches, having heard others dismiss them as “high church.” She joined in the singing, which, to her, seemed dull and listless after the lively worship she was used to at camp meetings. And when the pastor got up to preach, dressed in a robe and speaking in well-modulated tones, she felt that the reputation of the Presbyterians was well earned.
The pastor was not a large man, and he spoke quietly at first. He welcomed the guests to the services, not mentioning the President at all, then began his sermon by announcing his text.
“This morning, we will consider the words of Hagar in Genesis sixteen and focus on the thirteenth verse, which says, ‘Thou God seest me.’ ”
Belle followed the story in the Bible the captain shared with her, remembering more of the story as the preacher gave a brief summary. “You will recall,” he continued, “that Abraham and Sarah had been promised a child, though they were both old. Somehow they lost sight of God’s promise and Sarah proposed that Abraham have a child by Hagar, her handmaid. Abraham consented, and the child was born. But as we have read, Sarah grew to hate the young girl Hagar, and Abraham finally told her, ‘Behold, thy maid is in thy hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee. And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face. And the angel of the Lord found her by a fountain of water . . . in the way to Shur.’ ”
The Dixie Widow Page 5
