He walked back to the buggy, leaped into the seat, and slapped the lines, grinning from ear to ear. “Henry, old boy—you’ll get her the next time!”
****
The next day Belle gave a humorous account of the opera to the captain and Lowell, who came to spend the afternoon with his grandfather. They both laughed at her account, and Lowell said, “I’m taking Grandfather down to the dock to see the newest warship, Belle. Would you like to join us?”
“No, thank you, Lowell. I have some shopping to do. But you can tell me about it when you come back.”
As soon as the two men left for the harbor, Belle went to her room and opened the blue case. She read the slip of paper retrieved from the compartment: “In case of emergency, you can contact Lillian at 405 Birch Street.” She replaced the note, closed the case, and left the house.
Her next meeting with her contact was not for four days, but she felt someone should be told about Vicksburg and about Colonel Wilder’s brown briefcase. She had no idea where Birch Street was, so she asked a cabbie if he could take her.
“Birch Street?” He seemed to be taken aback by the address, and said rather grudgingly, “Why, yes, ma’am, I can take ‘e there. Wot’s the number?”
“405.”
He peered at her, puzzled, asking again, “That’s 405 Birch Street, is it now?”
“Yes. And hurry please.”
She stepped into the cab, and he slapped the reins across the horse. Soon she was quite lost, for he had turned into a section of town she had never seen, mostly comprised of decaying old mansions and a smattering of small shops, none looking very prosperous. There seemed to be a great many idle people, and more saloons than one would expect.
“This is it, ma’am.” The driver did not get down at once, but twisted his head and asked, “Is this where you be wantin’ to go?”
Belle stared at the dilapidated brownstone house and almost told the cabbie to drive on. The house sat next to a saloon, with several men in rough dress lounging along the front, obviously already started on their day’s drinking. In one of the windows of the brownstone house, a woman with a brightly colored face leaned out and called loudly, “Bill—you there—Bill! Bring up a quart of beer for me and me gentleman friend!”
One of the loafers grinned, said something to the other men that brought forth a coarse laugh, then disappeared into the saloon.
Belle took a deep breath. “This is the place. How much?”
After taking the money he asked, “Want me to wait, ma’am?”
“No.”
Belle got down, feeling a sudden wave of fear at being so vulnerable. As she walked up the steps, one of the men called out, “Hey, sweetie, let’s you and me have a drink, okay?”
She did not turn, but knocked firmly on the door. When it opened, a hard-looking woman of indeterminate age stood before her. She might have been twenty-five, but hard use and abuse had erased the soft lines of youth, and beneath the heavy coat of rouge, there was a cynical look.
“I’m looking for Lillian,” Belle said.
“There ain’t no Lillian here!” the woman snapped, and almost slammed the door, but Belle spoke out quickly.
“Please—!”
Belle hesitated, not knowing how to explain. Finally she spoke up. “I was told I could come here—in case of emergency!”
The woman studied Belle for a moment, shrugged, and barked, “All right! Come in!”
Belle followed her into a parlor to the right of a narrow hall. There was an acrid smell in the air that Belle did not recognize, and fear tingled along her nerves.
“I’m Lillian,” the woman said brusquely. “Who are you and what do you want?” Her eyes swept over Belle’s expensive attire. “This ain’t the kind of place for you.”
“I’m Belle Wickham.”
The name meant something to the woman, for her eyes narrowed and she gave a slight nod. But she was not swayed enough to give anything away. “Well, what do you want?”
Belle stood there, uncertainly, and finally said, “I have—some news. Important news, but I don’t have an appointment with—my friend—until later this week.”
“And who is this ‘friend’?”
“I don’t know his name—but I usually meet him by leaving a blue case with a message in it.”
Lillian eyed her for a minute. “I guess you’re all right. But your ‘friend’ isn’t here.”
“Can you tell me where to find him?”
Lillian shrugged. “I can send for him—if you want to wait.”
“Oh yes—I’ll wait! Thank you.”
“But you can’t stay here. Come to my room.”
Belle followed her out of the parlor and up to the second floor. A burly man was weaving his way down the stairs, obviously drunk. As the two women passed, he grabbed Belle’s arm, saying, “Hey, Lillian, I ain’t never seen this one.”
“You’re drunk, Harry!” Lillian snapped, knocking his hand aside and putting herself between the pair. “Leave her alone, but you come back quick, you hear?” she ordered.
The drunk stumbled down the stairs, and with a beating heart and trembling knees, Belle followed the woman into a room at the top of the stairs. It was a large room, with a bed on one side, a couch on the other and several nice pieces of walnut furniture along the wall.
“Sit down and I’ll fix some coffee,” Lillian said, indicating a chair. She hurriedly fixed the coffee and set it in front of Belle before speaking. “I’ll have to send a message. Help yourself to the pie if you want.”
After the woman left, Belle rushed to the window. Lillian appeared on the steps and called to one of the men beside the saloon. She spoke to him briefly and slipped something into his hand. As the man took off down the street, Lillian turned back into the house.
Belle was on the couch when Lillian returned and took a cup from the cupboard. Sitting opposite Belle, she said, “He’ll be here pretty soon, I guess.”
“I appreciate your help.” Belle sipped at the coffee, trying to find something to say.
“I thought you’d be older,” Lillian commented. “You’re just a kid.”
Belle reddened and lifted her head. “I’m not! I’ve been married and I can look after myself.”
“Can you?” the woman laughed. She waved toward the street. “If you tried to make it through that street, I doubt you’d get a block. This ain’t your world, honey!”
Belle dropped her head and replied quietly, “No, it’s not—but I had to come.”
The woman’s hard face softened. “Well, take your coat off. It’ll be a while. I’ve got to go, but you’ll be safe here.”
She got up and left the room, and Belle began to pace the floor. The clock on the wall seemed frozen, and she went to the window again and again. She didn’t have the vaguest idea who her contact was.
The woman came back once, took something out of a drawer, and left, saying only, “He may not be at home. I’ll get a cab for you if you like.”
“No—I’ll wait.”
“All right.”
She was sitting on the chair, drinking a cup of cold coffee when the door opened. The woman entered and asked the man behind her, “This the woman?”
“Yes.”
Belle couldn’t believe her eyes. Ramsey Huger!
He shook his head in warning as she started to speak his name, and said, “Thank you, Lillian.”
She recognized her dismissal, so turned and closed the door behind her.
“Belle!” he whispered, coming to sit near her. “We must speak softly. Someone may hear us. But it’s so good to see you!”
“Ramsey!” Belle grabbed his hands, her voice quivering with joy. “I thought you were in Virginia.”
“I have been,” he smiled, his voice low. “I got in two days ago. I was going to meet you—but you’ve beaten me to it.”
He was dressed well—as she last saw him, and he still carried a self-assured air. He reached over and hugged her. “I’ve begged them t
o let me come and work with you, Belle. I guess they finally got sick of my persistence and here I am.”
She laughed. “I can’t believe it!”
“Well, it’s true. Now, what’s so important that you risked our cover?” He shook his head. “Lillian is well paid, but she’s no patriot. We’d better change your instructions. I don’t want either of us to come here again now that’s she’s seen us together.”
“All right—but listen to what I have . . .” He listened intently as she talked, and his eyes narrowed when she mentioned the papers in Wilder’s briefcase. Finally she said, “Ramsey, you must have someone who can get into his house. The papers are right there in the desk.”
He moved away and began to walk to and fro. Finally he shook his head. “We’ve known about Wilder’s habits for some time. And we’ve tried to get a man in to get at that desk—but it’s impossible.”
“But—!”
“You see, the only time Wilder lets that case leave his hand is when he’s asleep, or so it seems. He carries it with him when he goes to the office, and carries it home when he leaves.”
“But when he goes out at night, what about then?”
“Didn’t you know? He has a private guard, a soldier. It’s his job to watch the house when Wilder leaves.”
“Yes, he was there last night.”
“Belle, this is the best chance we’ve ever had!” Huger’s eyes gleamed with excitement, and he began to tell her the importance of the papers. “They contain troop movements—that much we know.”
“Is the information so important?”
“Think about it, Belle,” he persisted. “Lee’s armies are outnumbered three to one—sometimes much more. He has to shift his men around on short notice, trying to plug the gaps. If Lee could know for a certainty that the Union had moved a mass of troops from one place to another, he could ignore the place left thinly manned, and rush his men to meet the biggest danger.”
“I see, but . . . ?”
“Did you know that McClellan knew every move Lee was going to make at Antietam?”
“Impossible!”
“No, it happened! Lee’s Special Order No. 191 outlined the entire plan—and it fell into McClellan’s hands. What a golden opportunity for the North, Belle! If any other general had been in McClellan’s place, the North would have ended the war.”
“If that order hadn’t been in the hands of McClellan, my husband might not have died.”
“Entirely possible, Belle,” Huger nodded soberly. “A great many of our men died because of that.” He took her arms firmly and with more intensity than she had ever seen, said, “Now do you see why you must get that information!”
“But, Ramsey, if your agents can’t get it, how can I?”
He looked at her searchingly. “My agents aren’t beautiful women, Belle.”
With horror she grasped the implication, and whispered, “You warned me once it might come to that—but I—I just can’t do it, Ramsey!”
He nodded. “No one is going to force you. Nobody could. But give it some thought before you refuse. If we don’t get this information, it may mean the end, Belle, and I’m not being melodramatic. You’ve seen how strong the North is—and you know how we’re down to almost nothing at home. What we need is one good, solid victory, and England will recognize us. That’ll change everything.”
“Can that happen?”
“Yes. I have it on good authority that if we can hold out—just hold out, Belle—and win one solid battle, the Queen will favor our Cause. But we don’t have the men or the guns. We need something else—and I think you’re the only one who can get it for us.”
She sat transfixed, her eyes large, and a vulnerable look on her face. She could not doubt that he believed every word he was saying. She longed to see the South win the war. Everything in her wanted that. She thought of her brothers lying dead if the war continued on its interminable course.
Then she considered what he was asking, and was repelled by the very thought. “I—I can’t decide, Ramsey!”
She rose and walked to the window. The evening shadows were beginning to creep in. Her heart felt like ice. Finally she turned and asked, “What would you think of me—if I did such a thing? What would any man think?”
“I would never think of it at all, Belle,” he answered instantly. “Would you hold it against your brothers that they have killed men in this war? No. I can answer for you. You wouldn’t, for they do what they must do. What I am asking you to do is no different. Help your country, Belle! No man will think less of you.”
She answered slowly, her lips numb, “But I will think less of myself, Ramsey.”
He stood near her, a strong figure in the lamplight. “I can’t help you, Belle,” he said gently. “The decision must be yours.” Then he took a small box out of his pocket and opened it, revealing a small bottle. “This may help, Belle. If you put three drops in a drink, it’ll put a man to sleep in less than ten minutes.” He gave it to her, urging, “Use it, Belle! Get him drinking, then slip him this. He’ll be out, and then you can copy the papers. The next time you see him, tell him he passed out.”
She took the vial and said quietly, “I want to go home, Ramsey.”
“Of course.”
He led her down the stairs and out of the house, then got into a cab with her. No one seemed to notice them in the darkness. They said little on the way, and when he got out a few blocks from her house, he gave her a card. “If you need me, Belle, I’ll be at this address. Come alone and after dark.”
He stepped back, and spoke to the cabby, who lifted the reins and urged the horse on. After the cab had disappeared, Huger went back to the east side of town where he met a man in a shabby room. He told the story, and the agent had one question: “Will she do it?”
Huger replied slowly, “I don’t think she will, Jake. She’s too good a woman for this kind of work.”
But he was mistaken.
Three nights later, a knock sounded at his door, and he opened it to find Belle standing there, her face pale as paper.
“Belle! Come in!”
“No.” She pulled a sheaf of papers from her bag and handed them to Huger. “This was the best I could do,” she said wearily. “I copied those that seemed most important to me.”
He shuffled through them, then cried out, “Belle, you’ve done it! This is what we needed!” He took her arm, but she pulled back. He leaned forward and peered into her face, and was shocked at the emptiness in her eyes. She looked like a dead woman. “Belle, what’s wrong?”
Her eyes were blank. “Your drops—the ones you gave me?” she said in a hollow voice.
“Yes?”
“They didn’t work, Ramsey.” She looked at him emptily and said, “I got what we had to have—but it—”
Then she gave a small cry, and wheeling, turned and raced away.
“Belle!” he cried, and moved to go after her, but caught himself. He stared into the darkness, his handsome face lined with pain. As he peered into the night, he whispered, “She’s paid too much—too much!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
ARRESTED!
For Captain Whitfield Winslow, April 3, 1863, began as usual. He rose at six, read his Bible for thirty minutes, then limped down the hall for a breakfast of battered eggs, ham, biscuits and plum jelly. All through the meal he kept up the conversation—with little response from Belle. She had been quiet and subdued for two weeks, but insisted nothing was wrong. Now he looked at her pale face and wanted to suggest she see Dr. Mattox, but he knew she would refuse.
After breakfast he hobbled out to poke around in the flowers springing up through the warm earth. He had nearly recovered from his accident, but knew the doctor was right when he said, “You’ll always favor that leg.” He grinned as he moved across the lawn to check his roses, thinking, At eighty, I’m glad to be as spry as I am!
He enjoyed the morning, taking time out twice to drink the hot coffee Belle brought him. There was no portent
in the bright sunshine, nor hint of evil tidings in the scarlet buds that peeped out of their tidy green cloaks. Later he would wonder at it, thinking how that which we fear does not always come when the clouds are cloaked with black, but often when the heavens are a delicate blue and the air cheerful with the songs of birds.
Even when his good friend Colonel Charles Taylor rode up and dismounted at Whitfield’s gate, there was no premonition. He had served with Taylor’s father aboard the Ranger in the War of 1812, and for several years had followed the career of his old friend’s son with pride. Colonel Taylor and Whitfield served under Sherman, which gave the colonel and the captain a common bond in the person of Lowell Winslow, who was part of Taylor’s Cavalry Troop.
Whitfield walked to the gate and smiled. “Get down, Charles, and come in!” Winslow looked at his soiled hands, saying, “Can’t shake hands now—but come in and have some coffee—and I’ll beat you at chess again.”
Taylor was a thin man of forty-six with a pair of steady gray eyes and a firm mouth. He was an inveterate chess player, but had beaten the captain only three times in their many games. He had a strong affection for the elderly man, and the two had had many pleasant evenings together over the past few years.
“How’s your leg?” Taylor asked as they went into the kitchen, where he pumped water while Winslow scrubbed his hands with a bar of strong yellow soap. “You seem to navigate pretty well.”
“Oh, fine—fine!” He wiped his hands on a rough towel, turned and said, “Well, let’s set up the board.”
At that moment Belle entered, saw the visitor, and would have turned to leave, but the captain spoke up. “Now, Charles, I have someone for you to meet. This is one of my relatives from Virginia—Mrs. Belle Wickham. Belle, one of my best friends—Colonel Charles Taylor.”
Taylor bowed slightly. “We met once, Mrs. Wickham—at the party for the Satterfields. But in that crowd, I doubt you remember me.”
She smiled. “Oh, but I do, Colonel.” She shook his hand and would have left the two men had not the officer spoken. The sober look on his face made her uneasy, though she didn’t know why.
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